by Susan Dunlap
Warren smiled. “Now that could have been a problem. But I was lucky. Sylvia Necri’s the architect for the archdiocese’s retreat. I’d be in a bind without her. The retreat’s got an informal agreement for rights to the Rattlesnake River water. She’s leased them to me for the next three years. That’s plenty of time for me. And she knows damned well she’ll never break ground before that. Not with the archdiocese involved.”
“But the water … how much are we talking about?”
“It’s not just the process itself that takes water, it’s the workers taking showers, flushing the heads, it’s watering down the dust so we don’t choke: the whole business of living.”
“So how much?”
“Half an acre-foot per day, more or less.”
Kiernan whistled. “You said Sylvia Necri leased you the allotment from the retreat, the retreat that Austin Vanderhooven had been in charge of building, right?”
“Yeah?”
“How come this little retreat had all that water alloted? That’s a lot of water for the desert.”
Warren laughed. “Little retreat? This isn’t like Austin’s little prayer dome in the desert with the pink glass window.”
“Prayer dome with a pink glass window?” she asked.
But Warren was not about to be stalled. “I don’t know how big-city you are, lady, but in these parts we don’t call a seventy-room building on the apex of a hill, with meeting rooms, chapel, and bar, little. That’s not to mention the tennis courts, putting green, saunas, and the piece de resistance—the Olympic-sized pool.”
“My God, that sounds like a palace.”
Warren laughed again. “Pretty much what it’ll look like, a Spanish-style cathedral-palace. You should see Sylvia’s sketches. It’s no wonder Austin was able to get financing.”
Kiernan put down her fork. “Wait. I need to assimilate this. I’ve been thinking of the retreat as something that would replace Hohokam Lodge, a place where two or three priests could go for the weekend.”
“Well, think about the Shrivers and the Kennedys and Cuomo and whoever else holds the purse and power on the U.S. Catholic scene. You don’t invite Teddy Kennedy and tell him to take a sponge bath. You don’t ask the cardinals of the Church to golf on Astroturf. You don’t—”
“I get your point. And the whole project is under the control of the priest at Mission San Leo, right?”
“Sure, and Austin was perfect. He had the connections to raise the kind of money a place like that would take, and he wasn’t beholden to anyone in the archdiocese.”
The waiter paused beside the table. Kiernan nodded at her nearly empty plate. Warren looked protectively at his nearly full one. “And now,” Kiernan said when the waiter left, “who inherits control?”
“Bishop Dowd. The parish is under his supervision.”
“Whew! How very rewarding for the bishop.”
Warren stopped his fork midair. “Do I catch a note of snide?”
Kiernan laughed.
Warren put down the fork. “Professional reticence, eh? Okay then, let’s talk about what you’d like to do now. Music? There’s a great jazz—”
Kiernan hesitated, remembering her rule against dating men involved in a case. But rules shouldn’t fence in their makers. There was something very attractive about this man who chose his game and played it all-out. Rules could be adjusted. Warren smiled, and those blue eyes of his, which had been so intense moments before, twinkled. Rules could … She took a breath, reminding herself why she had made the rule to begin with. “I’d love to, Bud. But I’m worn out, and I have to be sharp in the morning. Investigating is strenuous business.”
He ran his fingers over her hand. “I would like to see you again.”
She smiled. “Likewise. But talk to me next week, after this case is over. I don’t dare mix business and pleasure anymore. I got burned once early on, and I’ll tell you, it looks real bad to have to get up on the stand and testify that you found a key fact under the pillow of a guy who turned out to be one of the biggest money-launderers in the Caribbean.”
22
NORMALLY BISHOP RAYMOND DOWD would have enjoyed his companion’s unspoken speculation when the waiter called him to the phone. But this was hardly a day for enjoyment, what with not having had a decent night’s sleep all week, racing back and forth between the sheriff’s office and Sylvia Necri’s apartment, avoiding the detective, and now this dinner with Bishop William Harrington, the man some had begun touting as successor to the archbishop. Harrington had barely settled into his seat before he started nosing around about Vanderhooven’s death. Dowd’s thoughts ricocheted off his skull. He hadn’t dared to order a third drink, and he’d barely tasted his beef Wellington. He took the call in an alcove off the bar. “Bishop Dowd here.”
“Dowd, what the hell got into you taking pictures of my son?”
Dowd stiffened. It took him a moment to think what Vanderhooven was talking about. When he did, he smiled. “You could call it foresight. Those pictures convinced the detective Austin couldn’t have got himself into that position.”
“You mean to tell me that my son is hanging there with his prick sticking out, and you run to get your thirty-five millimeter like some goddamned tourist?”
How much had Vanderhooven had to drink? He sounded as if he could slip out of control any moment. Wired and exhausted himself, Dowd could nonetheless spot the signs. An apology, even an explanation, would have calmed Vanderhooven down. Another time Dowd would have given both. Now he was too tired to placate Vanderhooven. “She asked about the knots. It was a good thing I had those prints.”
“What’s the matter with you, are you some kind of pervert, Dowd? What’s going on in the Church here? Now look, Dowd, I want those photographs destroyed. I want them and the negatives here tonight. I’ll destroy them myself.”
The corners of Dowd’s mouth twitched. “The detective, Mr. Vanderhooven, she wants enlargements.” He paused as long as he dared. “To see the knots better, she said.”
“She’s seen enough, dammit. Now get that film over here.”
The smile took hold. “What shall I tell her then?”
“Think of something. Tell her the film was destroyed. Tell her anything.”
“Doesn’t matter, right? She won’t believe it anyway.” If he hadn’t been through so much he would have controlled himself. But now there was no concealing the delight in his voice. Even Vanderhooven caught it.
“Dowd! Are you forgetting what’s at stake here—pictures like that of a priest under your supervision? Pictures you took; if word of that got out, Dowd … You created this problem, you deal with it. You priests have plenty of practice convincing people. Think back to eating meat on Fridays. That was a mortal sin—straight road to Hell—for hundreds of years. Then all of a sudden it was fine. You guys pulled that off. Lying about the photos’ll be a piece of cake.”
Dowd winced. It was a sore point but not one he was going to defend now. “Mr. Vanderhooven, I share your concern about the film getting out. But as you mentioned, I am well aware of its potential. You can rest assured I’m taking good care of it.”
Dowd could hear Vanderhooven’s sharp intake of breath. “Dowd, maybe you think I won’t use my connections in the archdiocese—”
“You’re right. I don’t. Anyone you spoke to would want to know the content of the photos, and I would tell them. You’ll just have to trust me.”
When Philip Vanderhooven slammed down the phone, Bishop Raymond Dowd was still smiling.
23
KIERNAN HAD FORGOTTEN ABOUT her headache during dinner with Bud Warren. Now what exactly did that suggest? Whatever, the headache returned full force on the drive back.
She pulled the Jeep into the parking lot and jumped down, landing with a thud that reverberated throughout her head. “Dumb!” she muttered. She walked across the lot. Two more packages of Alka-Seltzer and a night’s sleep—that would do it.
The insistent ringing of the phone came th
rough the motel-room door. Jamming her key in the lock she opened the door and raced for the receiver. “Kiernan O’Shaughnessy here.”
“Ah, Dr. O’Shaughnessy, this is Elias Necri. I hate to disturb you …”
“What can I do for you?”
“It’s been a long day,” Necri said, “and Austin’s death, well, you can understand how I feel. We were close friends. It’s so sudden, so, well, you know how it is.”
She pictured his handsome face, the circles beneath his large, sad eyes. She sank onto the bed and waited for him to continue.
“After you left, I was thinking about Austin. I had patients, and that took my mind off him for a while, but whenever I was alone I kept coming back to the question of why he would kill himself, or be killed. And, well, Doctor, I realized that while we do want to present his affairs to the parish and the public at large, and even his family, in the best light, as his friend it is my duty to tell you everything I know, not to hold anything back. And besides,” he said, his voice just noticeably lighter, “I’m sure you’d find out soon enough.”
“Yes?” she prompted, ignoring his flattery. Pulling the receiver cord taut, she reached for the water glass on the desk.
“The thing is, well—I’m not making any accusations, you understand—but I just can’t dismiss the question of Joe Zekk.”
Me neither, Kiernan thought. In view of Philip Vanderhooven’s refusal to discuss Zekk and his proposition, Necri’s call could be a real boon. “Tell me about Joe Zekk. You said Austin called him a deadbeat.”
“Austin didn’t delude himself about Zekk. But he didn’t break off the friendship, either.” Necri sounded more relaxed, almost as if he was reciting a prepared speech. “They started seminary together. Zekk dropped out the next summer. That was years ago. But last year Zekk followed Austin here. He’s not a Westerner. The mountains of Arizona aren’t a place the average New Yorker elects to come.”
“Austin chose Phoenix.”
“There may have been professional reasons for that.”
She reached for the water carafe. Too far. Hell, let the head throb! She sprawled forward on the bed. Speaking louder, over the pain, she said, “But something did draw Austin to Arizona. So maybe he talked up the area to Zekk, his friend.”
“Perhaps,” Necri said slowly. “And of course we can’t always see what our friends see in their friends. But Joe Zekk, well, to be honest, he’s not a guy I’d want to leave near an unlocked drug cabinet.”
“You mean he’s an addict?” That could open a whole new avenue of possibilities.
“No, no. Just a figure of speech.”
“A crook?” she asked with less hope.
“Well, I don’t know if I’d say a crook, but I wouldn’t put money on his integrity either. That’s the point: What was it that drew the two of them together? Zekk just wasn’t the type Austin would seek out.”
Fighting to conceal her frustration with the noncommittal Necri, she said, “So what’s your conclusion?”
Necri sighed. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. Now that I tell you this, it doesn’t seem worth a call, does it?” He paused—giving her time to reassure him? Kiernan wondered. “Maybe,” he went on, “it’s just that Austin’s death has unhinged me. You know if I hadn’t seen his body hanging there … I don’t know. But whatever Austin did see in Zekk, it was enough for him to pay Zekk two hundred dollars a month.”
Amazed, Kiernan swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Her head pounded in response. “Austin paid Zekk two hundred a month! Why?”
“I have no idea,” Necri said.
“What do you mean you have no idea!” she shouted. “You’ve been thinking about this all day. You call me at ten P.M. Don’t ask me to believe you have no idea about Zekk and the two hundred dollars!”
If he was affronted, he gave no indication. “Maybe I’m just too tired to come up with an explanation. In honesty, I was hoping you would.”
Kiernan sighed. Clearly, Elias Necri was going to dribble out what facts or guesses he had at his own molasseslike pace. “How long had Vanderhooven been paying him?”
“Over a year. Maybe as long as Zekk lived out here.”
“Could it have been a business arrangement?”
She could hear Necri’s breath hitting the receiver. Then he said, “Not likely. Zekk’s only business, if you can call it that, is marketing some pottery for the locals up there. Even if he sold boxloads to Austin, it wouldn’t have come to two hundred dollars, not every single month.”
“Okay, so the two hundred wasn’t for the pottery. Then what?”
“I just don’t have any idea. The best I can do is let you know about it and hope it somehow helps to clear Austin’s name.”
Kiernan sighed. “Okay. I’ll give Zekk a go. Where can I find him?” she asked, hoping Necri might know of an in-town hangout of Zekk’s.
“That I don’t know. I don’t know where he lives. Sorry.”
His answer had come too quickly. If Elias Necri had been up to Bud Warren’s place in the mountains, he’d passed Zekk’s metal Z. He knew full well where Zekk lived. She had let him dribble out his bait long enough. Leaning back against the headboard, she said, “I guess this is a particularly hard time for you, Dr. Necri, this on top of your financial problems. And now there won’t be any job at the retreat for you to escape to. With Austin dead, who knows what will happen to the retreat, right?”
His breath came heavy against the receiver.
She waited, expecting Necri to recover and attempt a diversionary move. When he didn’t respond, she said, “So you’ve not only lost a friend, but your way out is gone, right?”
It was fully thirty seconds before he said, “I’ll work things out. I’ll just do it a different way.”
“How? Not by working on call in the mountains, that’s for sure.”
Was that a gasp from him?
“What did you get in return for signing the death certificate?” She waited. Necri might have been a pro, but he was definitely out of his league in this game.
He hung up.
Kiernan rolled onto her stomach, and dialed Stu Wiggins’s number. After the beep on his tape, she said, “First, Austin Vanderhooven’s retreat is no little cottage in the mountains. It was to be more like a sandstone Taj Mahal. Lots of money, lots of power.
“Second, Elias Necri just called and tried to aim me at Joe Zekk. Does he want me to hassle Zekk, or just get out of town and leave our Dr. Necri alone? Think about it, and come by at nine in the morning. Oh, and Stu—Listen, there’s someone at the door. I’ll call you back.”
She hung up the receiver; before she reached the door there was another knock.
“Who is it?” she called through the closed door.
“Sheriff’s office. Open up.”
She tensed. “Let me see some identification. Hold it up to the window.”
She pulled the drape. Parked by the window was a sheriff’s department car. A man, thirty-ish, in tan uniform, held a shield against the window. She opened the door.
“Dr. Kiernan O’Shaughnessy?”
“That’s right.”
“I have a warrant for your arrest.” He pulled out a card and began reading, “You have the right to remain …”
“Arrest! For what?”
Undaunted, he continued his Miranda recitation. When he finished, he pocketed the card and said, “Forgery and falsifying a public record.”
“What public record?”
“Sheriff’ll tell you that. He’s waiting for you at the station. Bring what you need for the night.”
“Wait. I have to make a phone call.”
“You can make your call from there.”
“At least let me take an Alka-Seltzer.”
He shook his head. “The sheriff’s waiting.”
24
THE TRIP TO HOHOKAM Lodge had taken well over two hours. They could have made it in an hour and a half if Patsy had been driving. Patsy’s throat actually hurt from
holding back; only once had she slipped and told Beth Landau to pass the goddamned—actually she hadn’t said “goddamned”; she hadn’t slipped that much—pickup that was going all of twenty miles an hour.
And the lodge! Patsy had pictured a lodge as a big stone country house where Rockefellers sprawled on leather couches under heads of moose and zebra, not a ratty, square wooden building with an oil heater in the fireplace and faded, stained sofas.
But she didn’t get to see the living room for long. One minute all the “guests” were in there listening to Beth tell them they would find cereal in the kitchen in the morning and a list of work assignments posted on the refrigerator door, and the next minute they were zonked out in the tiny unheated cells that passed for bedrooms. No showers, no nothing. The whole place was dark and silent, as if someone had plopped the hood on a bird cage.
Patsy’s cot almost filled all the space in the storeroom between the metal shelves and the windows. As soon as Patsy had seen the lodge, she’d known what her cot would be like: springs that poked out and squeaked every time she breathed; mattress rough as a dirt road after monsoon season, with a pissy smell. Still, she’d slept in worse places, plenty worse. For half an hour she investigated the contents of the metal shelves: generic-brand soap powder, paper plates, cartons of paper towels (white), cartons of toilet paper (single ply, white), a hundred-pound bag of rice, an equally big bag of potatoes, six packages of flour tortillas—what was with all this white? Was this some kind of social-work way to calm the guests? Or was it to save on food? No one was going to be asking for seconds here. Patsy reached into her purse, in the hope that she had thought to bring a chocolate bar. She hadn’t. Disgusted, she sat on the cot and leaned back, squeakily, against the wall.
Were those footsteps in the hall? She held herself dead still. Could it be the prowler Beth had told her about? Slowly, she got up. The springs squeaked. At the door she paused, listened. They were footsteps all right, but not the prowler’s. Too soft to be a man’s.