He called Schwartz and told him what he found and that the space had been neat as a pin the day before.
“And don’t ask me if I have a lawyer,” he snapped.
“Wasn’t planning to, that goes without saying. No, what I want is for you get into your house and lock the door. I’ll come fetch you as soon as I get there.”
“What? Why should I do that?”
“Well, I’m thinking about that message on your machine. It seems pretty clear that someone is after those files. He or she obviously didn’t get them and will assume that if they were not at Bass’, and not in the office, you know where they are. He’ll come looking for them and you don’t want to be there when he does. The guy has a gun, remember?”
“I’ll be fine right here. I’ll just lock up and…he’s got a key, doesn’t he.”
“Everybody has a key.”
“I’ll wait for you in the house.”
“You do that. You can call that lady while you wait.”
“Call the lady…? Oh, yeah, I’ll do that. Oh, and Sheriff…?”
“Yeah?”
“You’d need a court order to do it, but what do you think about putting a tap on the phones? If I get another call, you might be able to trace it or at least identify the caller.”
Schwartz grunted something and agreed.
Blake locked the church and strode quickly toward his house, keys in hand. Then he remembered he had not locked the deadbolt on his front door. The killer could be waiting for him in the house. He hesitated halfway across the parking lot. He thought he would be safe outside. Suppose the killer had a rifle? He heard his phone ring. He decided to make a dash for it and raced the rest of the way to the house, went in and picked up the phone.
“Hello,” he barked, his eyes frantically scanning the room, ears alert for suspicious sounds.
“Blake?” The voice sounded small and frightened.
“Mary? I am so glad you called. I have been trying to reach you all day,” he said more softly, and sank into an armchair, all thoughts of killers, guns, and ambush evaporated.
“You have, really?”
“Really, truly.”
He was still on the phone when Schwartz slipped into the room, service revolver held two-handed.
“The door was wide open, I thought maybe….” He stopped talking when he saw the grin on Blake’s face. “That the lady?”
Blake nodded.
“What a jerk,” he said, but this time more kindly.
Chapter Thirty-two
Ike slipped out to the college for lunch. Ruth insisted he eat with her in the cafeteria.
“People are talking enough, Schwartz. I need to make you a little more public if I want to keep the private part.”
“I see. I think.”
She pushed a gift-wrapped box across the table at him.
“What’s this?”
“A gift.”
“It’s a box. Thank you. I can use a nice box.”
“Don’t start, Schwartz. Why is it men can’t just say ‘thank you,’ or ‘wow,’ like normal people. Why are you all so bad at showing gratitude?”
“Sorry. We’re no good at accepting compliments or help. It’s a guy thing. Keep up the good work, Ruth. You’ll make me a ‘sensitive man’ yet. Whatever happened to Phil Donahue, anyway?”
“Just open the box, smartass. Donahue’s being bronzed and set up in NOW headquarters’ lobby.”
He chuckled, fumbled with the ribbon, and opened the box.
“What is it?”
“Time to ditch the Old Spice, Sheriff, move into the new millennium. Join the now generation. It’s Hugo Boss.”
“But I like Old Spice. My father uses it. It’s our annual birthday present to each other.”
“I’ll bet your grandfather used it, too.”
“Bay Rum, I think. Old Spice came later. This is going to break the old man’s heart.” He twisted off the cap and sniffed. “Whoo. Just a dab, I take it.”
“The stuff costs, Ike. A dab is about right.”
“I can slosh on Old Spice.”
“That’s the problem. Sometimes I think you were born in another century.”
“I was born in another century. So were you.”
“You know what I mean.”
He put the box aside and thought a moment. “What’s your take on the Reverend?”
“Fisher? He’s okay, I guess. Not my sort, I’m afraid.”
“Why, not your sort?”
“I’m uncomfortable in the presence of public virtue and piety. He’s a little too good to be true. There has to be something wrong with him. Why is he here? He looks like he belongs on Wall Street.”
“He had some difficulties in Philadelphia.”
“Oh? What kind of…what did you say…difficulties?”
“I checked. Someone hung a frame around him…the kind that ruins clergymen’s lives.”
“You sure it was a frame? Priests and sex…lethal combination. What did he do?”
“You weren’t listening. He didn’t do anything.”
“Where there’s smoke—”
“Come on, Ruth, that’s a knee jerk reaction from the agnostic left. You, of all people, ought to reserve judgment. You folks tend to be modernists and humanists and tolerant of practically anything or anyone except someone like Fisher who wears his religion on his sleeve, or in his case, on his collar, I guess. You see the religion, not the man, and are eager to believe anything negative about him.”
“That’s not fair. You know as well as I that the papers are full of one messy bit after another among his genre and there’re government regs limiting the extent religion can play on campuses, so we naturally—”
“It’s not court rulings or media coverage. It’s an intellectual bias that lumps any display of, in this instance, Christian faith, with wrong thinking. Actually you all are far more tolerant of nearly every other faith group, their peculiarities and practices notwithstanding, than Christians, did you know that?”
“Rabbi Schwartz speaks. Is that it? Look, religion is just religion.”
“Not quite. There are shades of discrimination. I bet if a Native American group wanted to build a sweat lodge or someone else wanted to start a program in Hinduism or Buddhism, or maybe invite Tich Nat Hanh to your campus, you all wouldn’t bat an eyelash. But if a fundamentalist from Lynchburg asked to run a Bible study during lunch hour, you’d send him packing.”
“Schwartz, you are impossible. Impossible and contrary. Hugo Boss is wasted on you.”
“Hugo Boss is wasted on ninety percent of the male population. It’s right up there with fat guys in Speedos. Speedos are the Hugo Boss of swim trunks. No, I just think you should give Fisher a chance, that’s all. By the way, I may have a tenant for your vacant bomb shelter slash art storage facility.”
“Really? Who?”
“Not yet, but I’ve been talking around, calling some people I know. I’ll tell you when it’s a little more definite.”
“You’ll have to run any proposal through my Finance Department. If they okay it, it’s a done deal. I’m in no position to turn down anything short of the Mafia.”
“The Mafia—right.”
She scrutinized his face. “Why do I suddenly feel really uneasy?”
Chapter Thirty-three
Blake seated himself at the head of the table. At five minutes to eight all but one of the Mission Board members were assembled. Dan Quarles pulled at his mustache. He seemed lost in worried thought. The others read over a hastily put together agenda. It did not tell them much: Item one, Vicar’s Report; item two, Treasurer’s Report; item three, New Business; item four, Old Business. Marge Burk stared at the sheet and frowned. The rest merely glanced at
it and busied themselves with coffee cups, scratch pads, or glancing occasionally at Blake and murmuring. He counted heads. Everyone present except Bob Franks. They waited. At eight ten, he asked if Bob had said anything about being late. Dan came out of his reverie with a start.
“Sorry, Vicar,” he said. “Lost my train of thought. Yes, Bob called this morning and said he was taking Grace to the beach for a few days. He said they had some business to attend to or something like that. Grace hasn’t been herself lately.”
“Slipped out of gear again, probably,” Tom Graham muttered.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Amy Brandt said.
“I am not a very nice man,” Graham answered. Amy’s face turned a bright red.
Amy had been appointed to the Board as an afterthought. She was a “twofer.” The board lacked any representation from the newer families and, apart from Marge Burk, had no women. Except for Amy, the board was composed almost exclusively of “old-timers.” She attended meetings faithfully but contributed very little. Blake thought of her as their token airhead—nice, honest, but not all there. He looked forward to the day when the terms of this current board would end and he could find replacements for them. That would not happen for a year and a half, unfortunately. In the meantime, he had to work with this group.
“She got caught at her burn barrel again, I’ll bet. Every couple of weeks she goes out and torches a pile of trash. Neighbors call the police and Bob has to calm them down and then take care of Grace,” Lanny said. He and the Franks lived in the same community.
“Well, in that case,” Blake said, “I guess we can get started. You all know, of course, about Millie Bass.”
Silence and five blank stares.
“Do I take your silence to mean you have not heard about Millie?”
“You fired her, Vicar. Well, I guess we knew that was coming,” Lanny said and nodded his head in approval.
“Fired? Look here, Vicar, don’t you think you are being a little precipitous?” Dan said. “We are the board and it seems to me that we should have been appraised of the—”
“Put a sock in it, Danny,” Marge said. “If the vicar wants to sack Millie, he can. I’m glad I won’t be in your shoes, Vicar, when the rest of the congregation finds out. They’ll crucify you.” She seemed almost pleased at the prospect.
“Stop it,” Blake said angrily. “You really don’t know? What kind of people are you? Didn’t any one of you know Millie at all?”
“We knew she hooked out of work yesterday while you were away on your day off,” Dan said, and added, “and again today.”
“And you didn’t think to call to find out if anything might be wrong, if she was sick or anything?” Blake held on to his temper, eyes boring into each one of them.
“Why should we?” Graham said, inspecting his fingernails. “She was a difficult woman with a sharp tongue and a mean disposition. Why should I worry about her?”
“Graham, you are absolutely right—you are not a very nice man,” Blake snapped. “So none of you know?”
“You didn’t fire her?” Dan asked as if he dared not hope for a reprieve from what might become a major upheaval.
“No, Dan, I did not.” A look of relief spread across Quarles’ face.
“She is dead, people—murdered yesterday around noon—over twenty-four hours ago. Twenty-four hours, and not one of you knew, or cared to know, anything about her. A woman who served this mission for twenty years dies and the leadership, that’s you, is so distant and indifferent that it doesn’t even know?”
The Board sat in stunned silence as Blake filled them in on the circumstances surrounding Millie’s death. He announced a funeral service had been arranged for Friday and he expected them all to be there. A few protested and then looked away in embarrassment.
Blake put his elbows on the table and supported his chin with the heels of his hand. He let the silence build and then dropped his bombshell.
“There’s more,” he said quietly. “It appears that Millie had, or her killer thought she had, Dr. Taliaferro’s files.”
Dan Quarles exhaled so suddenly he sprayed most of the contents of his coffee cup on the table in front of him.
“I don’t know what the connection is,” Blake continued, “but I do know this—Millie had been reading them. I suppose, to add a little substance to her rumor mongering. You understand the significance of what I am telling you? Those files are still out there somewhere.”
A subdued Tom Graham said, “If any of his counselees finds out we were responsible for the loss of those files, and if they fall into the wrong hands, if a breach of confidentiality can be traced back to us, we could be sued.”
“Sued?” Marge Burks yelped. “What could they get? The church is broke.” Marge had the dubious job of treasurer and ought to know.
“Stonewall Jackson can be sued, Saint Anne’s can be sued, the Bishop can be sued, for crying out loud, and we, the board, can be sued as individuals. We are not bonded, remember? We decided we did not want to ‘waste the money,’ I think you said at the time purchasing a bond came up, Marge. If a jury finds even the hint of negligence, we can be held individually liable as well.”
“Dan, problem?” Blake said. Dan absently mopped at the coffee spill, his face livid.
“I’m fine,” he rasped. “Must be something I ate. If you will excuse me….” He stood and weaved his way to the door and disappeared. They listened as the outside door slammed shut.
“He left,” Marge said. “How can he walk out of here at a time like this?”
“I think he was one of Taliaferro’s patients, or counselees, or whatever you call them. Maybe he’s worried about someone reading his files,” Lanny said.
“Maybe he is calling his lawyer,” Graham added and looked distressed. Blake knew that Tom Graham had money, a lot of it. Of all the Board members, he had the most at risk.
“What do we do now, Vicar?” asked Lanny.
“I think if we can retrieve the files and get them sealed again, and if we can keep this ‘in the family,’ we have a chance of getting out of this mess. I have asked Sheriff Schwartz to help us, and…praying wouldn’t hurt.”
They sat in silence and Blake watched as the phenomenon of “foxhole faith” set in. Men in foxholes with bullets whizzing over their heads turned to God when nothing else could make them even acknowledge even the possibility of a Creator.
“Okay,” he said after a minute or two. “That’s about it. I will keep you all informed, and, please, what we have talked about tonight cannot leave this room. Not unless you want to face a judge. Lanny, will you call Dan and make sure he’s all right? Anything else?”
“Oh, one thing, Vicar. I know it doesn’t seem very important now, but I said I would ask,” Amy piped up. “Mary Miller wants Waldo’s keys to the organ.”
“I don’t have them,” he said. “Did you say keys—plural, keys, not key?”
“Yeah, he had a little key ring and there were two keys on it. One opened the organ.”
“What did the other one do, Amy?”
“No idea. But there were two little keys on a ring and he always had them. Mary wants to be able to lock up the organ. Kids have been getting into it.”
“I’ll look for a duplicate and ask the police if they were with Waldo’s things.” He dismissed them with a prayer and sent them on their way considerably more subdued and quieter than usual.
Two keys.
Chapter Thirty-four
Harry Grafton called Ike at six in the morning on his home line. Ike didn’t have to ask how Grafton got it. The Agency has its own phone book.
“Sorry to wake you, Sheriff. Call this number,” Grafton said. He recited the number. Ike thanked him, hung up and dialed the number. The person on the other end picked up immediately.
“This is Ike Schwartz. Harry Grafton said I could call you.”
“Harry’s a good man. He got screwed over by my guys and he said you helped him out. That so?”
“Something like that. Right time and place…that sort of thing.”
“Okay. You don’t know me and you never will. By the way, you are not the most popular guy in the Bureau, Sheriff. You’ve rubbed a lot of people the wrong way up here.”
“I missed the Dale Carnegie session on how to make friends with FBI agents.”
“Obviously. Well, here’s the situation. Krueger had been placed in the Witness Protection Program. Somehow we lost him—slipped the net. Big suits downtown are afraid you’ll find that out and cause further embarrassment to the Bureau. Will you?”
“You guys aren’t my enemies. You just get in the way sometimes. Look, I have a job to do. I don’t want to do it and have to play games with the people you send down here at the same time. Cooperate with me—I cooperate with you. Simple.”
“Right. Understood. Just to let you know, we all aren’t that way. Maybe we’ll have a chance to work a case together someday.”
“I hope not. No offense, but I’m not looking for more high-profile crime in my town.”
“Okay. Moving right along, Section Chief Bullock has his you-know-whats in a vise with the big dogs upstairs for letting it happen. Special Agent Hedrick is now the Agent in Place. He’s supposed to grab your killer and bring him in. He will do whatever he has to do to find out where you are and get there first. That’s it. I gotta go. Good luck.”
Ike held the phone and stared out the window. After a while, a friendly voice told him what to do if he wanted to make a call. He hung up. Poor Sam.
***
Sylvia Parks’ Mercedes drove up and parked as Blake turned the corner and headed to the church. She waited for him by the office door.
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