Angela Cicero perfunctorily offered coffee. All politely refused.
“Mrs. Cicero,” Patrick observed, “you seem nervous.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” she responded. “It’s not every day a simple housewife gets a visit from a newspaper reporter, then two police officers—and,” she added almost as an afterthought, “a priest.”
Patrick exchanged glances with Lynch. So Cox—utilizing the diary—had already been here.
“Mrs. Cicero,” said Lynch, “we’re just trying to find Monsignor Thomas Thompson or find out what happened to him. We thought maybe you could help us.”
“How could I possibly help?” she protested. “What possible connection could I have with Monsignor Thompson? He’s not our parish priest. Never has been.”
“You mean the reporter did not mention the diary?” Patrick asked.
“What diary?” She seemed genuinely surprised.
“I’d like you to look at this,” said Lynch. He handed her several sheets on which had been copied only those passages in Thompson’s diary that had reference to her.
As she read them slowly and carefully, the color rose in her cheeks. She was angered that Thompson had written so pruriently of her and horrified that others had read it. Was there no evil foreign to that man?
“What has this to do with anything?”
“Well, ma’am,” said Patrick, “it indicates that there was a relationship of sorts between you and the Monsignor and, as far as he was concerned, it was a significant relationship.”
“Do you mean to imply that I had something to do with his disappearance? That I did something to him?”
“No, ma’am.” Patrick’s manner was that of a concerned friend, eager to clear up a mystery, but anxious not to offend his hostess. His blue eyes could be frighteningly penetrating on occasion. Now they were smiling, and crow’s-feet crinkled their corners.
“As you may have read in the papers or heard on the news, Monsignor Thompson disappeared last Saturday night under rather suspicious circumstances. We’re just trying to find out what happened. So we’re looking for anyone who might be able to help us. Since your name appeared in his diary…”
Patrick let the observation drift into a rather uneasy silence. The intent was that no one would break the silence until Angela did. Though Koesler was tempted.
“I don’t know how I can help you,” Angela Cicero said at length.
“Well, for one thing, ma’am, you can tell us about your contacts with Monsignor Thompson from your own point of view. Up to now, we have nothing but what he wrote.” Patrick smiled broadly. “We don’t even know what happened to your daughter’s wedding. The Monsignor’s diary reads like a mystery story without a conclusion. We’ve got him waiting for a phone call from Rome. But we don’t even know whether he got it.”
Koesler, of course, knew what had happened to Anna Maria Cicero’s wedding. It had been solemnized at his parish. But no one had asked him. He resolved at some future moment to get a word in edgewise. These two detectives ought to know that he could, occasionally, be of some help.
Angela shrugged and began an understated narrative of her daughter’s premarital canonical problems and the role played by Thompson. She omitted any reference to her emotional reaction to Thompson’s manipulation of the case. At the mention of Koesler’s critical role in the drama, Patrick glanced at the priest, suggesting a new appreciation of the reason he had been included in this investigation.
When Angela began her narrative, Bill Lynch had excused himself and let himself out the front door.
She concluded her story with a brief description of her daughter’s wedding at St. Anselm’s.
“Well,” said the smiling Patrick, “I guess all’s well that ends well.”
There was no comment. The three sat in silence while Patrick finished writing his account of Angela’s response.
“One thing more, ma’am,” said Patrick, “can you account for your time last Saturday night from about nine on?”
An odd expression crossed Angela’s face. “No, I don’t think I can. I got my husband off to his bowling league about 8:30. Then I got a phone call from someone who said my daughter Anna Maria had been in an auto accident at the corner of Jefferson and Grand Boulevard—that’s near the Belle Isle bridge…”
Patrick nodded.
“So I got in my car and drove over there.”
“Did you find the accident, ma’am?”
“No. No sign of one. I drove all around the area and asked several people, but no one knew anything about any accident.”
“Did you get the name of the person who phoned?”
“No. He sounded as if he were a passer-by.”
“Did he sound like a black man?”
“No, white. But it was hard to tell. I was so upset.”
“There was no one at the site of the alleged accident who could identify you?”
“N… no.”
“What time did you return home, ma’am?”
“I don’t know. It must have been before 1:30 Sunday morning. That’s the time my husband got home from bowling, and I was here when he came in.”
“Did you tell your husband about the call and your wild-goose chase?”
“Yes.” The worried look on Angela’s face turned to one of indignation. “Should I call my lawyer?”
“Oh, no, ma’am.” Patrick’s smile returned. “As I said, we are merely asking questions to try to find out what happened to the Monsignor. No need for you to be concerned about a lawyer—unless you think you need one. As a matter of fact, we’re pretty well done for the day. We’ll just be going now.”
As Patrick stood, so did Koesler and Angela.
“Just in case we need to ask some more questions, ma’am,” said Patrick, “you hadn’t planned to leave town, had you?”
Angela felt as if a trap were tightening about her. “No. At least not till the end of this month. My husband and I had planned a short vacation.”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, thank you, ma’am.”
Koesler stayed behind for a few moments to offer Angela a few reassuring words.
As he prepared to leave, for the first time he noticed on the shelf beneath the coffee table an Edgar Allan Poe anthology. Himself a mystery buff, he suddenly felt a special kinship with Angela Cicero. He was about to ask which of Poe’s stories she was reading. But, with the seriousness of this visit, the question seemed inappropriate. He noticed a bookmark tucked into nearly the exact center of the volume. He resolved, just for kicks, to consult an identical volume he had at the rectory and see which story she was on.
Sergeant Lynch had that rare ability to fall asleep almost anywhere at almost any time, given half an opportunity. Thus, Sergeant Patrick was not surprised to find his partner in the passenger side of their unmarked police car, head resting against the seat back, mouth open, snoring.
Patrick got behind the wheel and slammed the door loudly enough to waken Lynch. Koesler got in the back.
Lynch yawned and stretched. “She must have told you the story of her life.”
“Not really.” Patrick laughed. “You haven’t been asleep that long.”
Lynch checked his watch. “Oh.”
“What did you get from the neighbors?” Patrick asked.
“Not very much,” said Lynch. “Sort of a mixed bag.” He took a notepad from his jacket pocket and consulted it. “Two ladies think they saw Mr. Cicero leave sometime before nine. One puts it at 8:30. One of them thinks she heard a car door slam about 1 or 1:30 Sunday morning. She assumes it was Mr. Cicero returning home.
“That’s about it.”
“Did anyone report seeing Mrs. Cicero leave that evening?”
“No. But a lady who lives five doors down thinks she saw a cab drive by. She says it could have stopped in front of the Cicero home. But she really doesn’t know for sure. She did think it was odd; they don’t get many cabs on this street. Everybody here drives.”
“We’ll check it out
with the cab companies,” Patrick said, “but Mrs. Cicero said she took her own car when she went out.”
“She claims to have gone out Saturday night?”
“So she says.”
“Doesn’t prove she didn’t go out, but none of the neighbors seems to have seen her… how’s her alibi?”
“From very poor to nonexistent. If she ever has to lean on that story of what she did Saturday night, she’ll fall flat on her face.”
“What do you think?”
“What do you mean?” Patrick bounced the question back.
“Plenty of motive and no alibi. Think she did it?”
“She’s sure a live one. We’ll undoubtedly be back checking out Mrs. Leo Cicero.”
“One thing, though,” observed Lynch.
“What’s that?”
“If she did away with Thompson, and if she didn’t leave the house, what did she do with the body?”
“Maybe,” said Patrick, “she’s building a Panama Canal in her basement like that crazy nephew in ‘Arsenic and Old Lace.’”
Both detectives laughed. Patrick turned to Koesler. “We’ve got to go ask some questions at Roma Hall, Father. This won’t involve anyone mentioned in the diary, so you won’t need to come along. We’ll drop you at headquarters, if that’s all right.” Until then, Koesler thought they had forgotten he was in the car.
He bit into a Superburger. He had a love-hate relationship with fast foods. On the one hand, Bob Ankenazy thought, it was some kind of crime to call this amalgam of thin beef, aging lettuce, gooey sauce, and casual condiments food. On the other hand, it was food.
Ankenazy had arrived at the Cicero house just before two. Parked in front of the house was an unmistakable—to the practiced eye— unmarked police car. A solid blue Plymouth four-door Fury One, police radio aerial in the back window, four black-wall tires and, providing the solemn oath that this was indeed an official vehicle, a 1978 license plate with no expiration date and a small ‘x’ dividing the numbers.
Ankenazy had not lost his practiced eye.
He drove in ever-widening circles, not wanting to return to the Cicero home too often or with any noticeable frequency. Finally, since he had skipped lunch, he decided to stop for some food.
Eventually, when he returned at about 4 P.M., the police car was gone. If there were no unforeseen difficulties, he should be able to finish his story by the 6 P.M. deadline for the State edition. Surely by the 7:30 P.M. deadline for the morning street edition.
When Angela Cicero answered his ring, Ankenazy exhibited his press credentials. She reacted as though she was going to slam the door. Then, apparently thinking better of it, she showed him in with a resigned air. All this Ankenazy took to be her reaction to being subjected to a reporter after having been grilled by the police.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cicero,” he began, “I know the police were here and their questions must have tired you, but I have a story to write. I’ll try to be as brief as possible.”
Angela Cicero slumped into a chair and pinched her forehead tightly between thumb and index finger. “It’s the whole darn thing. It’s… when is this going to end? First the reporter from the Free Press, then the police, now you.”
A cold feeling of dismay turned his stomach.
“Another reporter? From the Free Press? He was here? Before the police?”
Angela nodded.
“Do you remember his name?”
She shook her head.
He knew he soon would find out which Free Press reporter. He would need only to see the first edition, look for the story, and read the by-line.
But how, he wondered, did whoever it was manage to get there before the police? Could he have a source in Homicide? If so, who?
For the moment, Ankenazy knew he would have to put all such speculation out of mind and concentrate on this interview.
He did not promise her anonymity, as had Cox, as a ploy to win cooperation. Rather, he explained the simple fact that the News would withhold her name because, at least at this stage in the investigation, the paper could not violate her right to privacy.
It might not have worked. But she had told her story twice already this day. Once more could not hurt.
So, in an unemotional and uninvolved tone, she recounted again her contacts with Monsignor Thomas Thompson.
Without Thompson’s diary to guide him, Ankenazy could not ask the penetrating questions nor appreciate the ironic flavor of her statements, as had Cox and the police.
In fact, as he concluded the interview, Ankenazy wondered why the police had questioned Angela Cicero in connection with the disappearance of Monsignor Thompson.
Ankenazy decided he would develop this first installment describing this anonymous woman as being among the last to have had professional dealings with Thompson. Seemingly, these professional dealings were most unsatisfactory and perhaps even most unprofessional. He would lead the reader to speculate that it may have been someone similarly displeased with Thompson who may have “done him in.” Tune in tomorrow for more speculation.
But what, damn it, did whosit at the Free Press have that gave him an edge?
Whatever it was, Ankenazy would have to get it by hook or by crook.
Walter Koznicki did not approve of “marriages” between members of the Homicide Division.
“Marriage” was his term for steady partners. The lieutenants in charge of Homicide’s seven squads were supposed to guard against the formation of such partnerships. In practice, the ban was a policy the lieutenants seldom enforced.
To Koznicki, “marriages” encouraged sloppy work and a tendency to overlook mistakes, indiscretions, or worse, on the part of one’s partner.
To many officers, a partner became more dependable than the random officer, and it was more comfortable working with one whose habits and approach to an investigation were familiar.
As often as they could, Sergeants Dean Patrick and Bill Lynch teamed during an investigation. Although they seldom fraternized outside working hours, they found they worked well together. So, in an investigation such as this one involving a missing monsignor, which was assigned to two officers rather than an entire squad, Patrick and Lynch would maneuver themselves into position to work together.
Lieutenant Harris understood their game, but in his estimation, they were too good at their job to fall into any of the bad habits Koznicki foresaw.
Lynch was the taller of the two detectives, both of whom were slightly more than six feet. Lynch, the more slender, was quiet almost to the point of being laconic. His deep brown eyes usually appeared sleepy. This was deceptive. Actually, he was among the most alert, astute, and aggressive officers in Homicide. Criminals frequently took the image he created for reality. But they paid for that mistake.
Patrick, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, was the extrovert of the pair. He had a quick and engaging smile and expressive blue eyes. Not a flashy dresser, and occasionally fighting a slight weight problem, still he was a commanding figure. Whenever the two detectives interrogated a suspect, Patrick invariably made the greater impact.
Now, late Tuesday afternoon, they pulled into the parking lot of Roma Hall. It would be their final business of the day.
Roma employees were gearing up for the evening banquets and receptions.
The two officers waved off a parking attendant: Patrick, who was driving, flashed his badge, and parked near the entrance to the hall. Lynch observed that the attendant was Hispanic and that his eyes bulged with nervous alarm as he caught sight of the police badge.
They sought out the manager immediately. They found him, one Frank Trupiano, standing at the reservation desk, checking details of the evening’s schedule.
Trupiano, darkly handsome, appeared to be a suave, worldly-wise gentleman in his late fifties. Yet even his eyelashes flickered when the two identified themselves as homicide detectives. It was a not uncommon reaction to the mystique created by the nature of their work. Homicide was the ultimate crim
e. Homicide detectives, then, solved the ultimate puzzle: Who would dare take another’s life— and why.
Trupiano had read of the Monsignor’s disappearance, had been shocked that his hall had been the last known public place where Thompson had been seen, and had been expecting a visit from the police. But not from Homicide.
Trupiano showed them the area in the huge hall where the Van Patten wedding reception had been held.
“The guests mingled quite a bit before the meal was served?” Patrick repeated Trupiano’s statement in the form of a question.
“Yes.” Trupiano found himself replying to his own statement. “It’s very common. There was an open bar and, particularly at wedding banquets when families get together for one of their infrequent meetings, people tend to stand around and socialize. We do all we can, after a decent interval, to get them seated. The waitresses like to get home as soon as they can, you know.”
“I see,” said Patrick. “What time would you say the guests were seated?”
“About… sometime between 9:30 and 10. I think it was close to 9:40.”
“And then?”
Patrick was taking notes. Lynch, hands joined behind his back, was taking in the scene. He did not appear to be paying attention to the dialogue.
“Then,” Trupiano continued, “there was a prayer and a toast delivered by Monsignor Thompson. The salad course had just been served when the Monsignor was called to the phone.”
“Who was the waiter who overheard the Monsignor’s half of the phone conversation?”
“That would be Sanchez. He’s in the kitchen now. Do you want me to get him for you?”
“Later. What happened next?”
“Monsignor said something to the bride and groom; then he left the hall.
“What did he say to them? Do you know?”
“Just that he was sorry, but he had to leave to take care of an emergency.”
“He said nothing to anyone else?”
“Not that I know of.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “Unless he talked to the parking valet.”
“Fine. We’ll see that waiter now.”
Mind Over Murder Page 23