“Hold it.” He held his huge palm out to shut her up until he could finish chewing and swallowing. Then he said, “Dugan’s a decent guy. I like him. But I gotta tell ya.” He slurped hot chocolate from his mug. “My life doesn’t fucking revolve around his.”
49.
Kirsten was too full of anger at Cuffs and fear for Dugan to say anything for a long time. Cuffs finished his breakfast and while they waited for the check she suddenly remembered Michael, and she dug out her cell phone and called him to see how he was holding up. He was clearly still shaken. After all, he seemed to be next on the killer’s list, and he couldn’t get over feeling responsible for the most recent two killings. But there was something else, too.
“I probably shouldn’t even bother you with this,” he said, “but do you know one of the things I’m most scared of?”
“What?”
“That I’ll start drinking again. I’m so scared, and so guilty, and so … I don’t know … just so everything. Of course, I’m too frightened to go out and get some, but there’s liquor all over the place here, and—”
“Can’t you tell the others to keep it away from you?”
“I did that already,” he said. “Anyway, I’ll be okay. It just sometimes helps to tell someone.” He went on to say that the other priests were more afraid than ever. Even if he was next in line, no one thought the killing would stop there. “But one thing: security here is tighter than ever.”
Kirsten asked Cuffs and he agreed that the priests were all probably safer at Villa St. George than anywhere else. Harvey Wilson had gotten authority to hire extra help, and they were men Cuffs handpicked for him. “One thing’s clear, though,” Cuffs said. “Harvey sure isn’t gonna let me sneak back in. He’s worried about his fucking job.”
“That’s understandable,” Kirsten said, thinking Cuffs was offering to help. “So maybe you and I could—”
“Uh-uh. I told you I’m back on this other job, and I gotta finish it up. Fact is, things have kinda gotten outta hand, and the shit’s about to fly, and I have to go to Cleveland for a couple days.”
“Fine, go ahead,” she said. “Nothing important’s going on here. Not important to you. After all, Dugan’s life doesn’t revolve—”
“Hey! How the fuck did I know this was gonna happen? I told you what was up and you gave the okay. Now I swore I’d see this goddamn Cleveland thing through, and that’s what I’m gonna do. Other people got problems, too.”
“I said ‘fine,’ didn’t I?”
“Anyway, you don’t even know where Dugan is. She might be taking him where you said, but who knows? Right now she’s probably on the road somewhere. All you can do is wait. I should be finished in Cleveland … oh … Tuesday, I hope.”
* * *
Kirsten headed for home, and that early on a Saturday morning the drive was a quick one. On the way she concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths. She would not let herself get to where she couldn’t think straight.
At least Michael was being taken care of. She realized she should be grateful Cuffs knew the seminary security chief and was providing him with good people. She was pissed as hell at him for leaving town, but he had his own responsibilities. Right now there was someone in Cleveland who was as happy as she was mad that Cuffs didn’t let his feelings interfere with his work. Or rather, that he had no feelings.
She would control her own emotions and stay calm. Getting Dugan was all that mattered. If she went to the cops she’d bring an army of law enforcement into the picture and that scared her. On the other hand, she couldn’t just sit by and wait for another call from Debra. Why she had thought Cuffs might come up with a better idea she didn’t know.
Then again, he had given her something.
It was an idea, or at least the beginning of an idea. There was someone she had to talk to. But she knew this someone was, for all practical purposes, unreachable. She needed a contact, and she could think of only two possibilities.
* * *
“Hey, beautifolio,” Larry Candle said, once he finally woke up and answered his phone. “What’s up? Whaddaya hear from Doogie boy?”
“Uh … I couldn’t reach him last night. I guess it’s a pretty intense workshop.” She took a deep breath, then pushed on. “Listen, Larry, when I talked to Danny Wardell he told me what a great job you did for him, back there in Cicero. Said you had a way of getting through to the right people.”
“Yeah, well,” Larry said, “ya gotta know the territory.”
“I guess you know an awful lot of … uh … influential people, right?”
“Yeah, well, ya gotta stay in touch.” She didn’t need a videophone to know he was puffing up. “Why?” he said. “You need an intro?”
“Yes.”
“You can count on me, y’know? ‘Larry Candle, the lawyer for the little—’”
“Right. Okay, I want a meeting with Polly Morelli.”
“What?”
“I want a meet—”
“I heard you. Sorry, kiddo. No can do. I may know some guys, and they may know a few other guys. But I can’t get you that far up the food chain.”
Maybe she didn’t actually like Larry, but she knew he was telling the truth. If he had a way in, he wouldn’t have been able to resist showing it off. “Well,” she said, “thanks anyway.”
“Hey, Kirsten?” he said. “Whatever you’re up to? Believe me, you’re better off leaving Polly out of it. He’s a bad, bad—”
She hung up. One miss, one to go.
* * *
She got half a dozen busy signals, but kept trying until she finally got through.
“Jesus,” Cuffs said, “I been on the line since we left the Tree Top, making sure my guys don’t walk away from watching over your uncle and the rest of those creepy mopes they’d rather be kicking the shit out of. The seminary’s not paying ’em what they’re used to, either, so I’m having to add a little incentive myself.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll cover it.”
“You got that right,” he said. “Except that’s just the money part. The motivation, that’s the hard part. Anyway, what is it? I hope you didn’t hear from that crazy cun—woman—again already. ’Cause I told you. I can’t—”
“No, no. It’s just … there’s someone I need to talk to,” Kirsten said, “and from our conversation this morning I realized that you could … you know … be my contact.”
“Yeah? Contact with who?”
“Polly Morelli.”
“Try directory assistance,” he said, and hung up on her.
She redialed and asked him again. “Just get me a meeting. So I can tell him what I want. The worst he can do is say no.”
“Wrong. No way that’s the worst he can do. You roll around in the barnyard with Polly and what you get is covered with shit.”
“Look, I need him. It’s pretty clear you sometimes deal with him.”
“I do … different things … for lots of different people. I got nothing going with Polly.”
“But sometimes you do,” she said. “You know him; you’ve dealt with him. Why shouldn’t I do the same?”
“I’m not saying I ever have. But even if I did, there’s a hell of a difference between me and you. For one thing, I would never ask a fucker like Polly to do a favor for me. Not anything, not even just to meet with a friend of mine.”
“Why? He can tell you no if he wants to. What’s the downside?”
“The downside is he might fucking say yes. And then I owe him. And I don’t wanna owe Polly Morelli. Ever. For anything.”
“Cuffs, please. For my sake. For Dugan’s sake.”
“The answer’s no.”
“Damn you, Cuffs. You’re a selfish, heartless bastard. You don’t care about Dugan. Or me, or anybody. Everything’s just a job to you.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I gotta get back to my job twisting arms to keep my guys from walking away from your pervert uncle and his pervert friends. You just keep those fucking checks coming.” He
hung up.
50.
Kirsten put the phone down. She felt a ball of fear form deep in her belly, then felt it expanding like a tumor. And now the fear itself frightened her. She had to get rid of it before it got so big it made her explode. She wanted to scream … at Debra Morelli, at Cuffs, at Larry Candle. Even at Dugan, for God’s sake! How could he have been so—
The phone rang. It was their cable service, wanting to tell her how to save money by spending more. She listened, declined, and hung up.
Maybe it was the plainness of it, this unknown person out there spending his Saturday at his thankless job, but somehow the call calmed her. There was no ball growing inside her anymore. She was on her own and she was scared. That was all. And she still had her idea. She needed to talk to Polly Morelli, and she’d have to make her own introduction.
* * *
She drove down a street lined with large homes under a canopy of trees, in a suburb west of the city. She’d called a former crime reporter she did a favor for once, and he directed her here, to a world deceptively bright and early-autumn peaceful. It was Saturday afternoon and three boys chased each other on in-line skates down the sidewalk. A man ran beside a little girl on a bicycle with training wheels. Everyone was laughing. No one was thinking about monsters who would snatch up their loved ones and peel off their skins. No one but Kirsten.
Two blocks later the street dead-ended and she turned left into a cul-de-sac that led, some twenty yards ahead, to a tall iron gate set between brick pillars. She pulled close and parked. Beyond the gate an asphalt driveway, lined with evergreen trees, curved to the right, presumably toward a house that was hidden from view. Set into one of the pillars was a metal plate with a push button, and beside the button was a set of five horizontal slits.
She walked over and before she could press the button a man’s voice came from a speaker behind the slits. “State your business, miss.” Firm, not quite hostile.
She leaned toward the intercom and stated her name, then added, “I’m a private investigator and Mr. Morelli wants to talk to me.”
There was a pause, and then, “You don’t have an appointment. You can’t—”
“I didn’t say I had an appointment.” Not backing off. “I said he wants to talk to me. It’s about his nephew … and his niece. I know Carlo’s getting out, and I’m … I’m in contact with Debra. Mr. Morelli wants to hear what I have to say.”
“You can tell me, and I’ll—”
“You know what?” she said. “You’re absolutely right. I could tell anyone. You, or the FBI, or the Department of Homeland Security, or—”
“Hold on.”
“—or the cops, or Channel Nine, or Larry King, or Oprah, or—”
“Hey, shut up!”
“Just give him my goddamn message.”
“Yeah, well, wait there a minute.”
It was more like ten minutes, but finally she heard a small whirring noise, and a slip of paper came sliding out through the bottom of the five slits, like a receipt from a self-serve gas pump. She tore it off and read the computer-printed message: SEVEN O’CLOCK. HOLY NAME CATHEDRAL.
She leaned again toward the intercom. “Is that tonight, or tomorrow, or what?”
There was no answer.
* * *
It was a cool, clear evening so Kirsten chose a sweater, boot-cut jeans, and her brown suede jacket. Her cell phone had been on all day, and there’d been no further calls. Her cab headed west on Chicago Avenue from Michigan Avenue, and she got out at State Street at six-forty-five. On a Saturday night she was surprised to find limos lining the curbs in front of the cathedral on both sides of State for the whole block. There were lots of blue and white patrol cars around, too, and uniformed cops directing traffic, and a few in plainclothes standing around talking to one another.
People were arriving from every direction, the women in furs and ankle-length gowns and the men in tuxedos, heading up the cathedral steps toward the three sets of ornate bronze doors. Feeling more than a little conspicuous, she joined them. The vestibule was crowded, with guests maneuvering past whispering, primping bridesmaids and family. Kirsten went through another set of doors and into the church itself. It seemed a strange time for a wedding, seven o’clock in the evening, but whoever it was obviously had enough money and clout to write their own schedule.
It was a large event, certainly, but the cathedral could have held three or four times the number of guests, and they were all being ushered up to the pews in the front, near the altar. The place hadn’t been closed to the public, though, and there were maybe twenty other people—people not dressed for a wedding—scattered around the rear section, kneeling or sitting. Kirsten had been in here before, and she immediately noticed one group that was not present. Obviously evicted for this event was the usual assortment of shabbily dressed—often rather pungent—street people.
Now what? Was Polly Morelli a wedding guest? Did the note mean seven P.M. or seven A.M.? Or had it just been something to make her go away from his house? She moved to the wall on her left and then forward along the aisle. About five rows up from the back she slipped into an empty pew and sat down. She waited, listening to a gentle Bach cantata on the organ and watching elegant people be ushered forward to their seats. She had no idea what Polly Morelli looked like. No one looked back at her. No one paid any attention to her at all.
At five after seven the music faded and the sudden silence caused the murmuring crowd to grow still. A group of three priests came out from somewhere and stood at the front, facing down the center aisle. The one in the middle she recognized as the cardinal. Even from this distance he didn’t look especially happy, and she wondered how often he thought about the little flock of priests who had disgraced his church and now wouldn’t go away.
The priest to the cardinal’s right gave a nod and the organ, joined by a trumpet, launched into a ceremonial piece familiar to Kirsten from other weddings. She couldn’t have cared less about this event, but the bridal party was about to start down the aisle, and she automatically shifted around to watch.
“Come with me, miss.” The soft voice and the tap on her shoulder made her heart stop.
“What?” Twisting around.
“I said come with me.” It was a tall, black, female police officer.
“This is a public place of prayer,” Kirsten whispered, “and I’m not going anywhere.”
The uniformed woman glanced this way and that, obviously startled by the response, then leaned in. “If you came in here to pray, then fine. If you came for something else, let’s go.”
51.
Kirsten got up and followed the officer toward the rear of the church. Past the final pew and just short of the door out to the vestibule, the cop turned sharply to her left and headed to an open stairway—marble steps and brass bannisters—leading down. Kirsten walked behind her and when they reached the bottom she saw, about fifteen feet in front of her, an identical stairway that led back up to ground level on the opposite side of the church.
The cop turned and Kirsten followed her down a short, carpeted corridor, between the men’s and women’s restrooms, to a closed door. The cop opened the door and, when Kirsten passed through into a brightly lit room, she came in behind her and pulled the door closed. She did a thorough search of Kirsten, using an electronic wand that had been leaning against the wall just inside the door. Finally she went through Kirsten’s handbag—the Colt was safely back at home—and then turned and left, taking the wand with her.
Kirsten was alone in a carpeted classroom with fluorescent lights and no windows, set up as a day care or a Sunday School, with two teacher’s chairs sitting side by side, and about a dozen kid’s chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of them. There were a couple of tricycles and a plastic ride-around automobile, and shelves full of smaller toys and games and books and videos, and a TV set on a rolling cart.
She waited maybe a minute and, when nothing happened, turned to leave. The door she’d com
e in by was locked. There was another door at the other end of the room and just as she started that way it opened and two men in tuxedoes came in. One had to be the bodyguard, thin and young and slick-haired. His broad forehead sloped backward above nervous, bulging eyes, and he reminded her of a snake. No, she decided, a lizard.
The lizard closed the door the two had come through and stood with his back against it, the jacket of his tux hanging open to show the butt of his pistol. The other man was square-jawed and still handsome, though obviously into his seventies. Deeply tanned, five-ten, maybe thirty pounds overweight, he wore black-framed, amber-tinted glasses. His hair, combed straight back from his forehead without a part, was thick and too black to look natural for a man his age. A sign of human frailty, Kirsten thought. A sign she was happy to see.
His demeanor was calm, almost gentle, while at the same time his eyes were strangely cruel and menacing. He called her by her name and she shivered when he said he hoped Dugan’s law practice was flourishing, and hoped she was doing well and had finally found her niche since leaving the police department.
“You’re Polly Morelli?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, but busied himself arranging the two larger chairs to face each other. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing toward one of the chairs. She sat, and so did he.
“Must be a new day,” she said. “Trusting a woman to perform a search.”
He just stared at her, and when she didn’t say anything else for a few seconds he looked at his watch, then pointed upward. “The bride’s the granddaughter of a dear friend. So…” He stood up.
“Wait,” Kirsten said. “I have something to ask.”
He smiled. “Ah,” he said, and sat back down. It was a mean smile.
“Your nephew, Carlo, he gets out of Pontiac on Wednesday.”
The smile faded, but he said nothing and she decided that, despite the search that surely would have picked up any wire she was wearing, he meant to be careful about what he put into words.
All the Dead Fathers Page 22