“Would tomorrow be soon enough, Brother?”
Brother Paul was smiling, but no one could tell. “Tomorrow . . . tomorrow morning?”
O’Brien nodded.
“That would be perfect, Mr. O’Brien. God bless you. Yes, indeed, God bless you.”
It was just 9:30 a.m. The banking day had officially begun. O’Brien ushered the two monks out through the gathering crowd. Both sides promised to do business again tomorrow.
Seldom could the atmosphere of the Homicide Division be described as euphoric. But the mood this morning came close to jubilation. They had solved the Morgans’ slaying.
The work was a monument to group dynamics. There were so many officers on this one case—nearly the entire section—that the perpetrator had stood little or no chance of getting away with it. A pity the Department couldn’t function that way in all the homicide cases. But with Detroit’s hundreds of homicides annually, it was absolutely impossible to invest that sort of manpower on each and every case.
In the Morgan case, there was added incentive. Criminals must understand that if they kill a cop, they have stirred up a very disturbed and fiery hornets’ nest. Killing a cop’s relative brings comparable consequences. In either case, in all probability the perpetrator is going to get caught.
And get caught he did. By tapping all available resources, calling in markers, squeezing informers, they got the guy. As was too often the case, it was a “friend” of the family.
Zoo Tully was as elated as anyone that the Morgan case was closed. He also felt pleased, if guardedly, that Alice had so far experienced no relapse. He was especially happy that she had agreed to see the doctor and have him check everything. He knew she’d agreed only to please him. Her argument analogized the wheel that was not squeaking: Don’t oil it . . . why should she see the doctor if she was feeling well?
Tully’s contention was that for many months, actually up to just yesterday, the wheel was about to fall off. It would be prudent to make certain the wheel had somehow repaired itself.
He had won partly because she felt too good to cloud their happiness by disappointing him.
At this moment, there was only one fly spoiling Tully’s ointment: the attempted murder of Pat Lennon. A crime that remained very much unsolved. Not only was it an unsolved puzzle—always a burr under his saddle—but the perpetrator was still out there. When he discovered he’d failed—which discovery should take place right about now—presumably he would try again. Not a happy thought.
Tully was in Walt Koznicki’s office, going over the Lennon case. From Koznicki’s intimate and longstanding association with Tully plus the inspector’s acquired knowledge of human behavior, he had convinced himself that Tully was no more than merely Lennon’s friend. Koznicki was able to be more relaxed in that belief.
“At that time of night, and with all that rain,” Koznicki said, “I suppose we are fortunate to have any eyewitness at all.”
“There was at least one more than the two we know of.”
Koznicki’s expression asked the question.
Tully answered the nonverbal query. “The guy who stole McPhee’s purse and, just maybe, her groceries.”
Koznicki sighed. In situations like that of last night, in accidents and injuries, it was not unusual to find bystanders who react generously, even heroically, and others who plumbed the bottom of human degradation.
“Do we have anything on her actions last night?” Koznicki asked.
“We canvassed the neighborhood. She stopped at Ye Olde Butcher Shoppe. She picked up a pork roast and some vegetables. She must have planned to eat late; pork takes a while to cook.
“That’s it. Far as we know, the market was her only stop between the newspaper and the apartment. The guy must have tailed her from the paper. If anything had been different . . .”
“Anything?”
“If she’d driven her own car, worn her own coat . . .”
Koznicki completed Tully’s thought, but not in the direction Tully was headed. “If she had not done all of that, Alonzo, the killer would have known she was not Miss Lennon and would have waited for his victim.”
Tully studied his hand. “Yeah.”
“And,” Koznicki continued, “if anything that happened last night had been changed, it would be Miss Lennon who would be in the hospital—or worse.”
“Yeah.”
“Any luck on the car?”
Tully shook his head. “I got Willie Moellmann out early this morning to check out that Hispanic woman—Mary Garcia, the one that was mangled by a car a few days ago. The tread marks don’t match at all.”
“Too bad. How about Mr. Parker . . . his full name escapes me.”
“Fred Parker. Nothing. He and his wife were at the Institute of Arts reception. Photos in this morning’s paper. Hundreds of people can testify he was at the DIA all last evening.”
Sergeant Moore walked by Koznicki’s open door, stopped, did a double take, and back-pedaled. “Zoo, I’ve been looking for you.”
Tully tilted his head upward, inviting her reason.
“They found the car,” Moore said.
“My hit-and-run?”
“That’s it. For once, a witness hit it on the bull’s-eye. It was an ‘87 Pontiac 6000, dark blue.”
“How do you know it’s the one?”
“When the guy spun out of the driveway last night, he creamed two parked cars. They traded paint. It matches perfectly. The front bumper’s dented where he hit the girl, and the top is stove in, probably where she hit headfirst. Forensics has it now.”
“Anything?”
“They just got it. And one thing more: It’s hot.”
Tully smiled at Koznicki. “Hear that, Walt? It’s hot. If the guy stole this car to get Lennon, he probably stole another car to get the Garcia woman.”
“So there may yet be a connection,” Koznicki observed.
Tully nodded once with assurance. “It’s the best we’ve got going for us just now. I’m going to follow it up. Come on, Moore, let’s move.”
If Koznicki could have given them his blessing, he would have.
Pat Lennon, having finished the basic story of what had happened to Pringle McPhee, had returned to her apartment just long enough to clean up, eat some cereal, and put on a fresh and more workplace-suitable outfit. Then she returned to the News.
She now sat at her desk lost in thought. Her most recent conscious visual image was Pringle McPhee’s desk and chair. That triggered her musing.
Pat had no idea how many times she had played the mental game of what-if. She’d gone over and over the details of last night. She had looked forward to spending the evening with Pringle. Pringle needed a shoulder and Pat was lonely. Pringle regularly needed a shoulder. Pat was rarely lonely.
Everything else had been settled at the last moment. It had all made sense. Pringle’s work was done. No reason she shouldn’t get dinner started. No reason she shouldn’t borrow Pat’s coat and car. It all made sense. Decisions made in an instant would change their lives, maybe forever.
So absorbed was she that it took her several minutes to realize that Bob Ankenazy was standing alongside her desk. Suddenly aware, she looked up, slightly embarrassed. “Oh, I didn’t see you.”
“It’s okay. Any word on Mac?”
“I phoned. She’s listed as ‘guarded.’ That’s one step in the right direction.”
“Good. That’s good. I’ll spread the word.” He paused, a smile threatening to break through. “You must be dead tired. Sure you don’t want to go home? You were here practically all night.”
“No. God, no. I’ve got to stay on this story. I’ve got to see if they start an investigation into our ‘miracle worker.’“ She looked at him quizzically. She sensed he had left something unsaid. “Why?” she demanded.
“There’s somebody downstairs to see you.”
“Who?”
“Why don’t you go find out?”
Wearily, she pulled herself to
her feet. She didn’t care for games, especially in her present state of exhaustion. “Okay.” She was too tired to argue or ask any further questions.
Halfway down to the main floor in the elevator it dawned on her who was waiting for her. When she got out of the elevator, she was not disappointed. “Joe.”
“Pat! You look terrible!”
“Thanks . . . thanks a lot.”
“Oh, God, I blew it! Here I had this great line worked up, and—you must have had a really ugly night.”
“What are you doing here, Joe?”
“Ankenazy got in touch. He told me about last night. But I had no idea it was this bad.”
“You’re really great for a gal’s self-image.”
“I didn’t mean that. You look great, as always. Just tired. More tired than I’ve ever seen you.”
“Back to the beginning: What are you doing here?”
“I told you: When Ankenazy called, I came right in.”
She didn’t bother to conceal her sarcasm. “What about your story?”
“Okay, it’s open season on me. I deserve it. I’ve been a jerk. That fact dawned on me shortly after I got to Port Huron. I should have turned it down and gone on our vacation.”
“So why didn’t you come home then?”
“It was too late to salvage the vacation by that time. And . . . well, I was sore at you. But if it makes you feel any better, I had a miserable time. Those goons I was with shouldn’t be let loose in a pond, let alone Lake Huron. And what you undoubtedly assumed didn’t happen. There wasn’t any hanky-panky. My intrepid crew was gay.”
Maybe it was because she was so exhausted. She started to laugh. As she laughed, she recalled the last few moments she’d spent with Zoo Tully. If she hadn’t applied the brakes, they could have made it beautifully last night.
So Joe Cox had experienced some forced chastity. She tended to believe him. It didn’t make a bit of difference. She had not resisted her strong emotions out of any sense of fidelity to Joe. She’d done it for Zoo. She had too much respect for Zoo to give him a one-nighter. Which, given the miraculous return to health of his woman, is undoubtedly what it would have been.
“Your adventures in the Mackinac Race don’t make me happy or sad, Joe. They don’t matter to me at all.”
“Don’t mention Mackinac. We got as far as Port Sanilac. I was able to convince them they were too sloshed to find Canada, let alone Mackinac.” He paused, clearly ill at ease. “Pat, we’ve got a lot going for us. I knew it when I was out on that crazy lake and I started worrying I’d lost you. I need you, Pat. Can’t we build together, again?”
All along, in her heart, she’d known the outcome. Living through his conciliatory speech was almost déjà vu. In her imagination, she’d lived through it already. But she wasn’t about to hop into bed just because he’d said the magic word. She merely murmured, “We can try.”
“Let’s go home.”
“I’ve got a story to cover.”
“Ankenazy told me you could have the rest of the day off.”
“That was nice of Bob, but I’ve got a story to cover.”
“You’re almost dead.”
“The story is very much alive. And it’s my story.”
For the first time since she’d gotten off the elevator, he became aware that they were standing in the middle of the lobby. The scene looked, and he felt, awkward. He led her to one of the upholstered benches.
“Look,” he began, after they’d sat down, “Ankenazy spelled it out for me. Somebody tried to kill you last night. Whoever he is, he’s still out there. It’s just possible you’re a sitting duck. I can’t let you do this.”
“You can’t stop me.”
Cox thought for a moment. He was tired of being on the defensive. It was time to turn things around. “Okay, you’re right: I can’t stop you. But I can join you. Whoever the son-of-a-bitch is, he’s going to have to go through me to get you.”
Once again, her intuition, which she had good reason to trust, told her he was sincere. She believed that there hadn’t been any hanky-panky during his Mackinac assignment. She also believed that he would sacrifice himself to protect her. Joe Cox had almost rehabilitated their relationship.
“But it’s my story!” she warned.
Cox smiled. “I’ve got a few sick days coming. Nelson Kane agreed I was sick. Of course, as my city editor, he would have done that any time of the year. No, I’m coming along just for the ride. It’s your story.”
Pat returned the smile. “Okay, lover. Let’s get going. Hungry?”
His smile turned into a lecherous grin. “For lots of things.”
“All in due time. Right now, I’m famished. Somehow I missed a meal or two. We’ve got time to get some food and—most of all—a lot of coffee. Then we’ve got to get over to that chapel and see what miracles our Father Robert can fashion.”
“You got it. Give us this day our daily circus!”
Pat returned to the city room to retrieve her tote bag, notes, and pad. Then she and Cox left together, with trust trying hard to reenter their relationship.
“Inspector,” Father Koesler said, “you’ll never guess what they’ve got me doing.”
“I would not argue with that,” Koznicki said. “What do they want you to do? And who is ‘they’?”
Koznicki wondered at this call. He did not mind a call from his priest friend at any time. But out of concern for the inspector’s extremely demanding work schedule, Koesler’s rule of thumb was never to call during business hours unless he had business to conduct. Otherwise Koesler phoned Koznicki at home after hours.
“‘They,’“ Koesler repeated. “That’s an interesting question. ‘They,’ I suppose, is the Archdiocese of Detroit. More specifically, ‘they’ is the Cardinal Archbishop of Detroit. And what ‘they’ want me to do is to conduct an examination into the business that’s been going on at St. Stephen’s Monastery. The alleged miracles.”
Koznicki couldn’t help smiling; over the phone, it didn’t hurt. “If memory serves, you spoke of that the other evening at dinner at the rectory. Again, if memory serves, it seems you expressed sympathy for whoever among your confreres was selected for that task. Now, it seems that person is yourself. I suppose I should be offering you my condolences.”
Left unspoken was Koznicki’s persisting puzzlement at Koesler’s call. There was still no clue as to why he had phoned Koznicki at work. Surely not merely to give him this news. It was an interesting bit of information but easily communicable after hours when he would have expected such a call from the priest.
“What I was wondering,” Koesler clarified, “is, do you have any suggestions?”
“Suggestions?”
“I’ve never conducted an investigation. Never been in charge of one. You do this sort of thing all the time. You’ve done it for years. So, any suggestions?”
Koznicki hesitated. Were there ten simple rules on how to conduct an investigation? Five? “I am at a bit of a loss, Father. What have they told you so far?”
“Nothing much. I got a call from Monsignor Iming, the Cardinal’s secretary. He said, ‘The boss wants to see you.’“
“ ‘The boss wants to see you’?”
“This is not the first time I’ve been summoned downtown. This is the standard way the secretary phrases it. He says the boss wants to see me. I ask why. He says it’s been a while since the boss talked to me and he’s grown lonesome. I say, ‘C’mon, why?’ Then he gets down to business.
“This morning, the business was that I was to conduct an investigation into the Congregation of St. Stephen and the so-called miracles.” Koesler explained no further. A few moments of silence followed.
“When is your appointment?” Koznicki asked, finally.
“Forty-five minutes from now.”
“Then perhaps when you get there, there will be some explanation of what exactly is expected of you.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. It’s not the Cardinal’s styl
e. Oh, he’s likely to explain the relevant law, details, and circumstances. Then he leaves it up to the individual as to how to get the job done.”
“That does not sound too distasteful. Many people would be most happy to have a superior who did not interfere with one’s work.”
“Granted! As long as you know what you’re doing. It’s not all that comforting when you haven’t the slightest idea of how to go about something.
“One last time, Inspector: Now that I’ve explained my predicament, got any suggestions?”
“Not really, Father. There was one thing you mentioned, however, that may give us something in common. You said something about the Cardinal explaining law. I find that helpful. Whenever I begin an investigation, I am conscious of the relevant law that may be violated in that case. By now, this is almost a reflex action. One measures what has happened in the given situation against the law. Perhaps that will be helpful to you.”
“Yes, maybe. I’ll give it a lot of thought on my drive downtown. Anyway, thanks for your help, Inspector. And sorry for having interrupted you at work.”
“Perfectly all right, Father. I wish I could have helped you more.”
“You were a big help. Thanks again.” As Koesler hung up, he clumsily brushed his hand over the desk, knocking over his half-filled cup of coffee. He had no time to clean up the mess. Embarrassed, he sheepishly asked Mary O’Connor to clean it up.
Mary reflected that it was Koesler who had made the coffee, so undoubtedly it was better that it had been spilled. But she said only that it would be no bother to sponge it up.
Koesler dragged himself into the garage, meditating on the likelihood that this did not promise to be one of his better days.
CHAPTER
17
Everything about the second floor of the Archdiocese of Detroit’s Chancery Building spoke to the personality of its principal occupant, Cardinal Mark Boyle, Archbishop of Detroit. Both the decor and the man were, in a word, classy.
Exiting the elevator on the second floor, possible only if one’s name had been given to the operator in advance, one was impressed by soft, indirect lighting and a most quiet, restrained atmosphere. The office space was laid out in an L-shape. The elongated foyer, just off the elevator, led to offices of two secretaries. At the end of the foyer was Monsignor Iming’s office. At that point, the office space took a ninety-degree turn to the left. Down that hall lay, first, the archbishop’s office and, finally, a meeting room.
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