Mind Over Murder

by William X. Kienzle

  A brief conversation with Jesus Sanchez revealed nothing more than Thompson’s three responses. The detectives learned it had been Sanchez who had called Thompson to the phone. And, no, the waiter had been unable to tell whether the caller was male or female. The voice, he said, was muffled. He had had difficulty understanding who it was the caller wanted.

  Next, the detectives checked with the head of the parking attendants, a man with a preposterous beer belly and the stub of a cigar between his teeth.

  “Monsignor Thompson’s car? Sure I remember it. A black Eldorado, not a spot or wrinkle on it, and everything on the inside. You don’t forget a car like that, especially when a poor parish priest steps out of it. Lemme see, I think… yeah, Ruiz handled that.”

  Carlo Ruiz, it developed, was the young man Patrick had waved off when the detectives had driven into the lot.

  Carlo, eighteen years old, was not a wetback, but he had the frame of mind of one. He had been programmed to fear police. When white cops talk to a brown or black-skinned person, he had been taught, they are only one short step from putting that unfortunate-hued individual in jail, or breaking his skull.

  So when his boss called Carlo to the parking booth, the young man felt a stab of fear. It turned to panic when he saw the two white policemen waiting, one smiling, the other impassively studying him.

  “Hi, son,” Patrick opened. “Your boss here tells us you handled a black Cadillac last Saturday night.”

  “What Caddy? I park lots of Caddys.”

  “You know, Carlo,” said his boss from around the cigar, “the black Eldorado. We talked about how it was loaded, and a priest was driving it.”

  Ruiz’s eyes flicked nervously from one inquisitor to the other. Which was noted by Lynch.

  “Oh… oh, yeah. The Eldorado. So?”

  “Did you notice anything unusual about the car or the priest who was driving it? Did the priest say anything to you?” Patrick asked.

  “No, no, nuthin’.”

  “He didn’t say anything?” Lynch asked. “Not when he left his car with you or when you got it for him?”

  “No, he didn’t say nuthin’.” At least that part was true. It was unusual to find a cartridge in a car. And the fact that he had bled in a stranger’s car also was unusual. But Ruiz had no intention of volunteering that kind of information. All the police needed was to link a Chicano with a bullet and blood in a white man’s car and, Ruiz was positive, next came the cuffs, and then they’d lock him up and let him rot.

  “Did the priest give you anything?” asked Lynch. “A tip?”

  “A crummy quarter.”

  Not only nasty, but cheap too, thought both Lynch and Patrick.

  “O.K., son” said Patrick. “If you think of anything else that happened that night with respect to the priest, give me a call at this number.” Patrick handed Ruiz a calling card.

  The two detectives entered their car and left.

  It was a very attractive calling card. It gave Patrick’s name, rank and division, address, and phone number. Lightly imprinted in gold next to Patrick’s name was the official shield of the State of Michigan.

  The two officers were barely out of sight before Ruiz crumpled the card and tossed it in the waste receptacle.

  “Nervous,” said Lynch.

  “Yeah,” Patrick agreed. “Like lots of folks, he’s scared of the police.”

  “It was more than that, Dean. He knows something. I think if we give him a few days to stew—just enough time for him to get plenty spooked, then figure we’ve let him off the hook—then we pop back into his life.”

  “And when will that be, O great swami?”

  “I don’t know yet. But when the time comes, I’ll know. And I’ll let you know.” Lynch slouched and closed his eyes. The hint of a smile played at his lips.

  5

  The announcement was there in the Detroit News’s August 5 issue. It was there for everyone to see. Monsignor Thomas Thompson would be at a wedding reception at Roma Hall in East Detroit on the evening of August 11. It was unlikely that any of his cronies would be with him. He would be unguarded, unprotected, among strangers, virtually alone, vulnerable.

  Lee Brand read the announcement with mounting interest.

  He was seated in a lawn chair only a few yards from the softly lapping waters of Green Lake. On the ground around the chair were the littered sections of the Free Press, News, Chicago Tribune and New York Times. The scattered debris, particularly the Times, brought to mind the wag who claimed that New York’s pollution problem would be solved if anyone knew a way to dispose of discarded copies of the Sunday Times.

  Normally, Brand did not read wedding announcements. He supposed he was reading these because of his daughter’s recent wedding. An event about which he still had decidedly mixed emotions.

  Although he was a fierce and dedicated competitor in everything in which he was well-versed, from golf to big business, still Brand managed to be a good if infrequent loser at golf or tennis. Those, after all, were games that combined skill with youth, strength, physical endurance, and a healthy measure of luck. Brand realized he was no longer a kid. A younger man or one with a better run of luck might best him in sports. But Brand was unwilling to concede victory to anyone in the realm of wheeling and dealing.

  Monsignor Thompson had bested Brand at his own game. And the bastard had stood there in Brand’s presence and gloated. It did not matter that Brand had, perhaps, the last laugh. He had been bested. It was a sore spot at the center of his ego. Whenever Thompson came to mind, Brand’s soul ached.

  Thus, Brand was surprised when he became aware that, triggered by that announcement in Sunday’s paper, he’d been thinking about Thompson for several minutes without hurting.

  For the first time since that day of confrontation at the Tribunal a couple of weeks before, Brand was able to look upon Thompson as fair game once more. Until this moment, Brand had considered the Thompson affair an unfortunate, indefeasible stalemate.

  However, Brand found intriguing the fact that, with a full week’s warning, he could know precisely when and where Thompson could be found next Saturday evening. Suddenly, Thompson’s image became transformed from a burr under Brand’s saddle to that of a sitting duck.

  Brand let the News slip from his lap to the ground. Parallel vertical lines appeared in his forehead. His fingers formed a cathedral ceiling pressed against his pursed lips. He plotted.

  At first, he had been inclined to dismiss this opportunity to not only even the score, but win the whole enchilada. He and Sunny were scheduled to take a late-summer Alaskan cruise. They would be aboard the Alaskan Queen, which would be sailing just hours before Thompson would arrive at the wedding reception.

  But then, as Brand’s fertile mind began working the facts against the possibilities, his presence aboard the ship began developing into an advantage rather than a liability.

  He entered the house and rummaged through the desk drawers in his study until he found the cruise schedule. Returning to his lawn chair, he pushed his sunglasses firmly against the bridge of his nose and carefully studied the itinerary.

  As Brand sat very still, he could envision the coming week forming.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 6, 9 A.M.

  “Cindy,” Brand spoke into his intercom, “get my travel agent on the phone, would you?”

  He fingered the stack of mail on his desk. Jackie, his secretary, had sorted and opened all but the personal letters. The intercom buzzed.

  “Rob Rix here, Mr. Brand. What can we do for you this morning?” The travel agent’s tone was the special bright, brisk one reserved for his very best customers.

  “Yeah, Rob. You know that Alaskan cruise Sunny and I are taking this week?”

  Rix did not have to consult his files. “Yes, sir. Two weeks. From Los Angeles, on the Alaskan Queen.”

  “I want another cabin.”

  There was silence as Rix caught his breath. He knew Brand was not joking. Brand never joked in serious
matters.

  “You mean instead of the one you have? Or in addition? You know there aren’t any more cabins, Mr. Brand. That cruise has been sold out for nearly a year. If Mrs. Brand hadn’t booked as early as she did, I doubt I could have gotten you anything at all.”

  It was as if Rix had not spoken.

  “We’re in cabin 424 on the Upper Deck. I’d like the neighboring cabin, 426.1 know it’s late in the game, Rob. But if you can’t get 426, make sure the one you get is either a Superior or Luxurious category.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mr. Brand. There are no cabins available. Perhaps on some future sailing…”

  “Rob, I am about to say four words. After that, I want you to take the ball and run with it.” He spoke deliberately: “Money is no object.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now, this is the game plan, Rob. Talk to the steamship company. Find a couple who is booked say, in an outside double. Make up whatever emergency comes to mind. Offer them three or four times the total ticket cost. By passing up this cruise, they’ll be able to go on three or four cruises. What could be fairer?”

  “Yes, Mr. Brand.” Rix was already planning his fabrication.

  “Then, Rob, find another couple who’ve booked over their heads. Somebody who is really stretching to be in a Superior or Luxurious. Somebody who has requested a cheaper cabin, but had to take a more expensive one because the cheaper cabins were already sold out. Talk them into accepting the cheaper accommodation for consideration of, say, half the fare.”

  “Yes, Mr. Brand.”

  “Think you can do that, Rob?”

  “I think your four magic words will enable me to do that.”

  “Good. Call me in a day or so when you get this set up, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.” A day or so. Lee Brand wants his miracles yesterday.

  Lee Brand sat at his desk smiling smugly. The remaining preparation this week would be easy coasting. He could even concentrate on bank business. He just loved wheeler-dealer plans that fell into place like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Only a few more arrangements needed to be made before Brand would be ready to make The Phone Call.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 6:30 P.M. P.D.T.

  With tugs pushing and pulling fore and aft, the Alaskan Queen was leaving its Los Angeles pier.

  Among those standing on Promenade Deck watching this busy and precise procedure of getting the luxury liner underway were Lee and Joan Brand.

  As often as they had observed the sailing or docking of giant ships, the Brands were always fascinated by the precision of movement of gigantic equipment, the very size of hawsers and anchors, the babble of tongues of the Eurasian or Indonesian crews, the nonchalant free-and-easy attitude of the average tug captain.

  The Alaskan Queen was approximately one hour late in weighing anchor. There was nothing extraordinary about this; only those unused to the leisurely cruise life would be anxious about the tardy departure.

  Dinner had just begun for those scheduled for the first sitting. They had just finished getting settled in their cabins, renewing acquaintances from previous cruises, or enjoying potent preprandial drinks.

  The Brands had chosen the later meal sitting. Thus, there was an hour and three-quarters before they would be seated at 8:15. They leaned against the railing absorbing the soft, warm, salty Pacific breeze.

  Joan Brand entwined her arm with her husband’s. “As often as we do this, I’m always surprised at how the cares slip away as the ship leaves the shore.”

  Lee smiled and nodded agreement.

  “And this time,” Joan continued, “we don’t have to take Bunny with us or worry about her either. She’s off on her honeymoon, a happily married woman.”

  “Yup, a happily married woman.” As he repeated his wife’s phrase, Brand remembered the canonical invalidity of his daughter’s marriage. If it doesn’t work out, he thought…

  “Lee,” Joan seemed suddenly concerned, “what will happen to that nice priest, that Father Shanley, who married Bunny?”

  “He’s being helped.”

  “Helped?”

  “He accepted the penalty of suspension. It’s no more than a slap on the wrist. It amounts to a month’s vacation. I’m making sure it is a month the likes of which he has never seen. For a change, he’ll live on our level instead of his.”

  She frowned. “I feel a little guilty about him. He’s a priest… maybe he chose not to live on our level. I mean, it’s just too bad he has to be penalized just for doing us a favor.”

  “That’s the choice he made. We have to live with the consequences of our choices. I am making it as easy for him as I can.”

  Brand checked his watch. He’d been doing this with increasing frequency during the past half-hour.

  Joan covered the dial with her hand. “C’mon now,” she scolded in jest, “this is vacation. We’re going to forget time and appointments and schedules. You’ve got to begin to relax.”

  Brand attempted a smile. However, he obviously was preoccupied. “Don’t mind me, Sunny. I’ve got just one more item of business, and then it’s school’s-out time. You just excuse me for a few minutes and wave good-bye to L.A. for me.”

  Giving her hand a brief squeeze, he slalomed his way through a disarray of deck chairs, past the salt water pool, into the interior of the ship to the elevators.

  He waited alone for an elevator. Half the ship’s passengers were eating. The other half were preparing for dinner. Few were traveling through the ship.

  He took the elevator up two levels to the Navigation Deck. He angled through a narrow corridor to the Wireless Room. He had already arranged for this ship-to-shore call. He checked his watch. It was exactly 7 P.M. Pacific Daylight Time. Ten P.M. Detroit time. He placed the call.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 10 P.M. E.D.T.

  “Monsignor Thompson.” His tone betrayed a mixture of pleasure—probably from the fun of the party—and annoyance— undoubtedly from being called away from the party to the phone.

  “Monsignor, this is Lee Brand. I can tell from your voice this is not too good a connection. You’re probably having difficulty hearing me. The reason is because this is a ship-to-shore call.”

  The quality of the call was indeed poor. Thompson had almost hung up the phone in disgust at the outset. Only the name Lee Brand had stayed an abrupt terminating action. Intrigued that Brand would be phoning, particularly ship-to-shore, Thompson pressed the receiver to one ear while covering the other with his free hand. He blocked the noise from the wedding feast. He wanted to hear whatever it was Brand had to say.

  “Well, Monsignor,” Brand continued, “I guess you could say we’ve had our rounds. You won a big one. And, in all candor, I’ve got to tip my hat to you. You beat me at the game I play best. However, my victory was not inconsiderable. I think at this point a referee might call our joust a draw.”

  “Uh…” He almost said something.

  “But listen…” Brand wanted no conversation; he wanted to complete an offer he was sure Thompson could not refuse. “I think it’s time we buried all the hatchets. Life is too short to carry a grudge forever. So I’m issuing an invitation—call it a command performance, if you will.”

  Brand’s tone was light and informal. He knew better than to sound as if he actually were demanding anything from Thompson.

  “Sunny and I are on a cruise,” Brand went on, “and we want you with us.”

  Thompson found that hard to believe.

  “You may find that hard to believe,” Brand correctly surmised, “but as proof”—Brand by now was so lighthearted he was nearly laughing—“just listen to what I’ve prepared for you.

  “As you can well imagine, cabins are about as scarce as dishonest bankers. But I’ve got one for you—in the luxury class. I’ll have aboard all the clothing and gear you’ll need for this Alaska cruise. And I’ll arrange with the diocese for your absence so you can be with us for the next couple of weeks. Now, how about that, Monsignor! What better way to let b
ygones be bygones than aboard a cruise through the Inside Passage? You could use a well-deserved vacation,” Brand’s week-long investigation had revealed the Costa Smeralda trip aborted when Thompson was compelled to await a call from Rome, “and Sunny and I really are eager for your company.

  “What do you say, Monsignor?”

  In his inner heart, Thompson told himself, he knew he had too much class not to win Brand over eventually.

  “You don’t mean it!” the Monsignor exclaimed, knowing full well Brand meant it. Several waiters glanced at Thompson.

  “But I do mean it.” Brand could tell that Thompson had taken the bait. “I had to wait till now to call you, because I wasn’t sure I could secure that extra cabin. But we’ve got it, and we were able to get you all you’ll need for your wardrobe.

  “We’ve just left port here in L.A. But we’ll dock in San Francisco tomorrow. We’ll be there from 5:30 P.M. till 2 A.M. Monday. That’s Pacific time. I’ve made arrangements for you to join us tomorrow after we dock. I have a Learjet waiting for you right now.”

  “Where?” By damn, Thompson thought, I’m going to make up for that canceled Costa Smeralda trip and then some.

  “The jet is waiting at City Airport. I’d advise you to get there immediately. We can get you to the coast in time for you to get a little rest before meeting the ship. I’ll have a car waiting at Frisco Airport and a suite for you at the St. Francis for tonight. How about it, Monsignor?”

  “I’ll be right there!”

  Two waiters looked at each other and shrugged as Monsignor Thompson hurried from the hall after murmuring an excuse to the bride and groom.

  Eager to begin this unexpected vacation, Thompson averaged about ten miles above the forty-miles-per-hour limit down Gratiot. Unusual for him. As he turned onto Conner, he remembered that City Airport parking was not completely supervised and that his car would be vulnerable to vandals if left unattended for two weeks. This was particularly true in the case of an Eldorado. He decided to leave it on De La Salle school property. The Brothers surely would keep an eye on it.

  He was about to exit the car when he became aware of a sticky substance on his hands. From what he could ascertain by the dim interior light, it appeared to be blood. Damn! It must have been that Spic attendant. Sonofabitch! What else did he mess up? Thompson grabbed several tissues and wiped the steering wheel, gearshift and rear-view mirror. He could see no other stains. If there were any, they would have to wait till he returned.