He was sure the killer must have followed him to Rogers Park, and since she was certain no one followed her, she thought so, too. But she didn’t say so. Nor did she tell him that even though in hindsight it seemed their silence may have aided the killer, she wondered if she wouldn’t do the same thing over again, given similar circumstances. She told Michael she was the one, not he, whom the FBI blamed for not telling the police where Father Ernest was hiding.
The two bodies had been discovered by the owner of the apartment building Thursday evening. He had been looking for Habi, who hadn’t shown his face all that day, despite repeated calls from tenants seeking services, tenants who then turned their ire on the owner.
According to media reports, which were sketchy, the homicide scene was a bloody one. Police verified that an Arab man had died of a gunshot wound to the head, and that the priest died of wounds “inflicted with a knife.” Reporters were speculating that the Arab had been killed quickly, to get him out of the way so that the real havoc could be worked on the priest, a known sex offender. Police, however, refused to join in that speculation or to describe more specifically the knife wounds.
Kirsten would have called Dugan, but there was no point in dragging him away from the trial competition. There was nothing he could do, other than try to convince her that she wasn’t personally responsible for the deaths of the two men … as she had tried to convince Michael.
By five-thirty she was back home. There was a phone message from the Illinois Department of Registration advising her that her private detective’s license had been placed on probationary status and giving a number she could call for further information. At least the license hadn’t been revoked … yet.
The only other call was from Dugan. “Call me,” he said, so she tried. But all she got was voice mail.
47.
It was Friday evening and Dugan sat at the bar with his second scotch on the rocks. He knew he shouldn’t be taking the loss so hard. His team members—four women from the Law Center at Georgetown—were being better sports about it than he was. “Hey,” one of them said, “this way we’ll have Saturday free. We can visit the Biltmore Estate.”
But litigation wasn’t about being a good sport. It was about winning. And they’d lost. In the semifinals. It was only a competition, but what the hell, his team was the best. Smart and aggressive, their cross-examinations were tough, their objections were incisive, and one of them ought to be right up there for “Best Final Argument.”
The team they’d lost to was just so-so. Two men and two women from Virginia State. Basically plodders, with smooth Southern drawls, who never rose above the ordinary. But they won, and so far two different people had suggested—without quite saying it—that the reason Dugan’s team lost was that they were all women. “They came off as a little too … well … bitchy,” was the way the lawyer from Denver put it.
“That’s bullshit,” Dugan said. “They were aggressive, and they’re better than either of those half-ass teams that made the finals.” He waved for another scotch, and Denver said he had to run. When he was gone, someone reminded Dugan that Denver’s team was one that made the finals.
Then, a little later, a similar comment. “I believe the judges thought your people were too much … well … in-your-face,” a lawyer from Kansas City explained.
“Fuck that,” Dugan said, surprised at how loud it came out. “They were just too damn good, and people didn’t like it.” Kansas City drifted away, too, and Dugan ordered another drink.
He’d called Kirsten about five. She hadn’t called back yet, and he realized he must have left his cell phone up in his room. He’d try again later. Meanwhile, time went by and people seemed to be avoiding him now. Maybe they knew his team flat out got a bad deal, and were tired of making up bullshit excuses. On the other hand he was taking this thing way too seriously. Plus, he hadn’t been away from Kirsten for this long since the day they met.
He struck up a conversation with anyone he could find who was part of the workshop, so he wouldn’t have to drink alone. Most of them had plans for dinner, but he didn’t feel much like eating … and no one invited him. He wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t know he wasn’t very good company.
By eight-thirty or so there was no one left in the bar that he recognized. He hadn’t eaten since lunch, and he hadn’t had this much to drink since—what?—college? He decided to have one more, then go up to bed. Maybe go home tomorrow. Fuck the damn finals. And fuck the awards banquet, too.
* * *
Kirsten could tell the woman on the phone was struggling not to lose patience. “I’m really sorry, ma’am,” the woman said, “but that’s the best I can do. The guest is not answering and we can’t—”
“For God’s sake,” Kirsten said, “he’s my husband. I’ve tried his cell phone and his room, and left two messages in both voice mails, and he hasn’t called back. That’s not like him. I mean … he’s still there, right? Surely you can tell me that much.”
“Um … would you mind holding a moment? For my manager?”
“Thank you.”
Under ordinary circumstances Dugan’s being suddenly unavailable might not have bothered her so much. He’d told her the final trial competition was Saturday, and that he knew his team would be a finalist. So maybe they were working late, getting ready. Or maybe he’d been overly optimistic and they’d been eliminated today, and he got pissed off and decided to come home early. But wouldn’t he—
“Hello?” It was the manager, who reluctantly admitted that Dugan was scheduled to depart the following day, and hadn’t checked out early. “But you must understand that we don’t track the whereabouts of our—”
“What if he’s unconscious in his room, for God’s sake?”
“Oh. Well … does he have a medical problem that might—”
“No,” she said. “I mean … yes!” Her mind raced. “He has … diabetes, and he has trouble controlling his blood sugar level. He could be in a diabetic coma right now. What’s the problem with knocking on his door, announcing yourself, and then going in if he doesn’t answer? At least we’d know that he isn’t … you know…” She let it hang there.
The manager agreed to send someone up. “You’re his wife? So can you verify the home number he gave us?”
Kirsten recited the number. “I’ll hang up and you can call and I’ll pick it up. Jesus!”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m going to put you on hold. Don’t go away.”
She had to admit that she was less worried about Dugan than pissed off at him. Why choose this particular time to suddenly become incommunicado? Of course she was the one who had talked him into going after he decided not to, and all week on the phone she’d kept assuring him everything was fine. Still, he ought to stay in touch. She waited, beating up on herself and Dugan alternately, until a man came on the line and said he was with hotel security.
“So,” she said, “is he there?”
“Three-oh-five is not in his room, ma’am.”
“Are you sure? Is everything all right?”
“I’m in the room now, ma’am. Everything’s fine here. From all the papers spread out everywhere, he’s probably been working real hard and went out for a snack. His cell phone’s on the table, and his room phone’s message light is blinking, so I’m sure he’ll call when he gets in.”
“Is the hotel pool still open?” He better not be splashing around with his goddamn team.
“Yes, ma’am. But I walked right by the pool area when I was on my way up here and there was nobody there at—”
“Thanks for all your trouble.”
“No problem.”
She hoped so. Worry was getting the upper hand over anger now, and she didn’t really know why.
* * *
Dugan had his billfold out. Concentrating, trying to figure out how much to tip the bartender. The bar was nearly empty. Just a woman down at the far end. Tall, attractive, but somehow hard-looking, too. She turned and caught hi
m eyeing her … and smiled. A wide phony smile. She swung off her stool and came his way, carrying her drink with her. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Christ, all he needed now was some damn woman thinking he was looking for fun.
He slammed a few bills onto the bar and turned away. He felt incredibly stupid. One more drink and he’d never have made it to his room without falling down. Even now, it was questionable. The bar had one exit leading directly into the hotel lobby, but he took the other one, the door that led outside. From there it was an easy walk back to the hotel entrance, and it was actually shorter this way to the elevators. Besides, the cool air felt—
“Hi there, big fella.” That damn woman from the bar. Shit. Right beside him.
“Beat it,” he said, and waved her away.
“Hey,” she said, “be nice. I’m not gonna hurt you.” She flashed the phony smile again. “I promise.”
* * *
The phone finally rang. And rang. The cell phone. It took Kirsten forever to climb out of her sleep and find the damn thing. It was almost five A.M. “Hello? Dugan?”
“It’s me,” he said. “You should—”
“Jesus, where’ve you been, for chrissake?” He didn’t answer, so she said, “Hey, sorry. I’m not mad. Just … worried. How’s it going?”
Still no answer.
“Dugan?”
“He can’t talk on the phone right now.” A woman’s voice. “You’ll hear from us again, though, in a few days.”
“What are—”
“And no cops, bitch. Got it? No cops. Or I skin this man alive.”
48.
Kirsten’s hands were shaking as she keyed in the number.
“Yeah? Who is it?” His voice was thick and it struck her that she’d never pictured him sleeping.
“Cuffs?”
“Chrissake, Kirsten,” he managed, “it’s kinda fucking early.”
“Yeah, but it’s important.” She’d barely moved in the fifteen minutes since the call from Dugan. “Look, I know you’re on another job. But I have … a problem.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Do you know the Tree Top?”
* * *
The Tree Top Grill was a twenty-four-hour restaurant on Irving Park Road, a busy, old-fashioned place with big comfortable booths. Cuffs had assured her it wouldn’t be crowded yet by six o’clock on a Saturday, which proved to be true. He waved aside the menu the waitress offered and said he’d have a pot of hot chocolate, two three-egg Southwestern omelets with sourdough toast, and two grapefruit halves. Kirsten ordered coffee and a toasted English muffin.
“Jesus,” Cuffs said when the waitress left, “you look like hell.”
“I feel worse than that,” she said. She told him about Dugan’s trial workshop in Asheville, how she couldn’t reach him the night before, and then the phone call that woke her up. She said she was sure it was Debra Morelli with him on the phone, and that Debra was behind the postcards and the target on her front door and her punctured tire. “And,” she added, “I think she’s the one killing the priests, too.”
Cuffs stared at her. “I guess you already know how crazy that sounds,” he said, “so I’ll just ask. What the hell’s your proof Debra’s killing pervert priests?”
“I don’t have real proof. But I talked to a homicide dick in Detroit, and it looks like when Debra was a kid she was abused by a priest. The priest got transferred to Cincinnati, and a few years later he was murdered. I don’t have the details, but he was slashed and cut, like the priests here, and—”
“And it still sounds crazy,” he said.
“Fine, but I didn’t call you so we could debate it. I called because of Dugan. He—” She stopped because the waitress was there with their food. When she was gone Kirsten looked down at her English muffin and wondered why she’d ordered it.
Cuffs dug into his grapefruit. “So … go on,” he said. “Tell me about Dugan.”
“Just before I left to come here,” she said, “I called his hotel again. This time they said he’d checked out during the night, and left nothing in his room.”
“Probably some kind of express checkout,” Cuffs said, “so nobody actually saw him.”
She nodded. “The thing is, I’ve been focusing on the killer spelling out my name, and on which priest would be the next victim. That’s what she wanted me to be thinking about, and then she went after Dugan. And it’s my fault.”
“That’s bullshit. He’s off some place in North Carolina … why would you have been worrying about him?”
“The thing is, I’m the one who made him go. He’d changed his mind and wanted to stay here, and—”
“Christ, that’s bullshit, too. He probably wanted to go, and just let you think you talked him into it.”
“What?”
“Jesus, he’s your husband. Don’t you know him well enough to—”
“That’s not important,” she said. “What’s important is what to do.”
“My point, exactly.” He squeezed the juice from his two empty grapefruit rinds into one bowl and drank from the bowl. “You sure it was Debra Morelli on the phone? Because if she’s around, the cops would like to know it. Plus, her uncle Polly would, too. Polly Morelli. Fucking sadistic creep. He’d love to watch her die a slow and painful death.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Cuffs said. “When Debra was a teenager her old man—Polly’s brother—got his brain splattered and—”
“I know about all that.”
“Yeah? Well, Polly believed her when she said she didn’t know anything about who did it. But when her and Carlo tried to screw him in that drug deal, that got him to thinking over the whole thing again and he decided it was her—and probably Carlo, too—that whacked his brother.”
“That’s what the Detroit cops think, too,” she said. “But how do you know all this?”
“I know … well, shit, it’s well-known. I hear stuff from people. I mean, Debra and Carlo’s old man was Polly’s twin brother, for chrissake, and Polly’s not gonna—”
“His twin? Jesus, I never heard they were twins.”
“Well, twins is what they were, and if Polly gets hold of her he’ll slice off both her—” He dropped it. “That’s her problem. You’re sure it was her who called? I mean, how would she even know Dugan went to Asheville?”
“I don’t know, but I know she’s been watching me. Or us, I guess.”
“If she’s doing all you say, she’s a busy woman. Asheville’s pretty far away. Could it have been someone else? Someone working with her?”
“It was Debra on the phone,” Kirsten insisted. “Besides, she’s a raging psycho. Who’d work with her?”
“Some other psycho, I guess. Back when you and her had your last run-in, she sure had a partner.”
“Yes, but that woman had no idea how crazy Debra was.”
“Jesus, not her law partner.” Cuffs spoke through a mouthful of toast. “I mean her goddamn brother.”
“Oh.” Her mind wasn’t working. “Well, it sure wasn’t a man on the phone. Plus, the Department of Corrections has a Web site, and I looked Carlo up on it. He’s still in prison, down in—”
“I know,” Cuffs said. “In Pontiac. I wasn’t saying it was him on the phone. Although he’s set to get out in a week or two.”
Kirsten had seen that on the DOC Web site, too, but she wondered again how Cuffs knew so much. “Carlo got a pretty short sentence,” she said. “Do you think he opened up to the feds about his uncle Polly?”
“Carlo’s so damn stupid he—” He shook his head. “How the hell would I know if he did?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “but even if he didn’t, he better have a plan for when he gets out. If Polly’s after Debra, he’ll be after Carlo, too. Even if it’s just to see if he knows where Debra is.”
“A plan? The guy’s not real bright, y’know? And he’s got no friends. Just a sister who’s got the hots for him.” He shook his head. “Jesus, doesn’t that tu
rn your stomach?” He crammed more toast into his mouth and poured more hot chocolate into his mug. “You know where we goin’ with this? I thought we were talking about Dugan, and what to do.”
“We are. I mean … I guess I’m just flailing around.” She leaned across the table toward Cuffs. “I’m scared to death,” she said, “of what she might do to Dugan.”
“Right.” He stirred up his hot chocolate. “I hate the way this shit separates out.” Then he looked at her and said, “You could call the cops, or the FBI. But…” He shrugged.
“I know. They’d say I have no proof that Debra kidnapped him. But I know it’s her, and I think I know where she might take him. It’s in Michigan.” She told Cuffs about Waterton, and the postmaster, and the farm she was sure was Debra’s. “The thing is,” she said, “wherever they are, if Dugan’s still alive and she smells cops closing in, she will keep her promise. She’ll peel off his skin. I know she will.”
“There’s always that,” he said. “So here’s what I think. A, she’ll keep him safe until she gets what she wants, because if she only wanted to kill him, she would have. B, she grabbed him last night and from Asheville it’s … what?… at least one long day to this place in Michigan if she’s driving. And she sure as shit isn’t gonna buy him a ticket on a plane.” He stopped and took a huge bite of toast.
“So … dammit,” she said, waiting, “what do I do?”
He took his time swallowing, and then said, “C, if you don’t wanna bring in the cops? All you can do is keep your cell phone on and wait for another call. See what she’s got in mind.” He returned to his meal, pushing a mountain of eggs onto his fork with his toast.
“I guess you’re right, except how can I—” But watching him stuff his mouth full, she finally couldn’t take it any more. “God damn it, Cuffs, how the hell can you sit there and shovel food in like that? I mean … while Dugan’s out there with—”
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