A Priestly Affair (Jesse Thorpe Mysteries Book 2)

by Carl Schmidt

  • • •

  We had a leisurely breakfast. Xavier finally looked relaxed. He must have had a good night’s sleep. He said, “When we’re done here, let’s go back to my room and listen to the messages. I want to meet the day head-on.

  “I had a dream last night,” he continued. “Stephanie appeared to me and offered me some cocaine. I told her I was done with that—and her. Then, she drifted away. I think it’s a sign that things will work out. I feel emboldened.”

  “Good,” I said. “That’s exactly the kind of spirit we all will need going forward. There’s an old saying,” I added. “The truth shall set you free.”

  “Veritas vos liberabit,” he replied.

  “Exactly,” I said. “How is it that you know that phrase in Latin?”

  “Armando had that tattooed on his back, just below his neck. He’d yell that out loud in your face if you got wimpy during rehearsals. The stage was his church, and the actors either took his sermons to heart or hit the road. He was a rugged perfectionist.”

  Xavier paused briefly and then added, “You didn’t, by any chance, know about the tattoo, did you?”

  “No. I’ve done my homework, but I didn’t know about the tattoo.”

  We finished breakfast, walked back to the Plaza Hotel and returned to his room. I put his cell phone on the coffee table and replayed the messages from the unknown caller. As the three of us listened together, I watched Xavier closely to see how he’d respond. He appeared remarkably calm under the circumstances.

  “Well, I think he means business,” he said.

  “So do we,” Angele said forcefully.

  “There are a couple of approaches we can take,” I offered.

  “Right,” Xavier replied. “I can go to the police and come clean, or we can hear this guy out and deal with him directly.”

  “Those are the options,” I replied.

  “Let’s deal with him ourselves,” he said with determination and bounce. “Maybe he’ll slip up, and we’ll be able to hand him over to the authorities on a platter.”

  “You understand that it could get dangerous?” I said.

  “It already is dangerous, Jesse. Are you aware that possession of two ounces of cocaine in the state of Massachusetts carries a possible prison term of five to twenty years? I could also be arrested for making a false report to the police and obstructing justice—both of which are indisputable. They might even charge me with murder.”

  “Those are definitely things to consider,” I replied, in as understated a tone as I could muster.

  “No. The truth may set me free, eventually, but I would like to face this extortionist and outwit him at his own game. I have very little left to lose at this point.”

  “Just your life,” I thought, but I didn’t mention that. “OK,” is what I said.

  “I’m reasonably certain that you’re not in any immediate danger,” I added. “Whoever left those two messages wants your money, not your life. Tony may still be in the picture, but he probably will think long and hard about coming after you. He might be thickheaded, but he can’t be entirely stupid. He knows there are at least two of us who know his identity. He’d be a prime suspect if anything happened to you.”

  “I hope you’re right about that,” Xavier said. “At least it seems that way.”

  In the quiet space that followed, Xavier’s phone rang.

  I looked at the caller ID and said, “The number is unlisted; let’s pick it up, but not say anything. We’ll listen on the speakerphone while it’s recording.”

  The caller waited a few seconds for someone to say “hello” at our end. When that didn’t happen, he started talking. His voice was muffled just as it had been in the first two calls.

  “I take it you’re listening,” he said, with a sense of malicious glee. “I like that, because I have some interesting news to report. I have just received an offer from the National Enquirer. They have agreed to pay a half million dollars for my pictures, provided they show that a celebrity is involved in a capital crime. Of course, I didn’t mention your name or where the crime took place. All they know—at this point—is that someone was murdered, and I have two photographs placing a movie star at the scene with the victim, just prior to her death. They jumped at the opportunity when they heard that the deceased was a beautiful young woman.”

  The caller didn’t say anything for about fifteen seconds. He was either allowing his message to sink in, or he was waiting to hear how Xavier would respond. We didn’t say a word or drop any pins. We continued to give him the silent treatment.

  “OK,” he went on. “I guess you want to think about it. So, here’s the deal… First, I’m sure you would like to see the pictures. Naturally, I don’t want to send them in such a way that the public can get hold of them; that would spoil everything. The photograph of you at the Hilton is not the least bit incriminating; it’s an ordinary picture of a celebrity in a hotel lobby. I have posted it on a blog. I’ll give you a minute to grab a pen so that you can write down the address. If you are recording this message, as I suspect you are, you can just sit there and wait for me to continue.”

  We sat in silence for the next sixty seconds, and then he slowly announced the web address. I typed it into my iPhone as he spoke. When he had repeated it twice for good measure, he moved on to the next phase of his “deal.”

  “No doubt, you will want to see the second photograph taken at the Rutland Arms Hotel. That’s a bit more tricky. Here’s how we will work that. I’m going to call you back in exactly one hour. At that time, I expect you to be at a computer, ready to receive the photograph by email. I’ll give you my temporary email address over the phone at that time. You’ll have exactly two minutes to send me a blank message. Put ‘Portland Visit’ in the subject line. I’ll reply to your message immediately and attach the photo. After that, my email address will be deleted.”

  He gave us a moment to process that and then continued.

  “I’m quite sure the second picture will eliminate any hope you might have that I am just fuckin’ around with you. You’ll have five days to gather up five hundred thousand dollars. I’ll call you back on Wednesday evening, at precisely 6 PM Pacific time, with instructions. Keep your phone line free. If you don’t pick up my call at that time, I’ll assume you would prefer to see your mugshot at the grocery store checkout stand. I hope I have made myself perfectly clear. Good day, Mr. LaGrange.”

  “He seems to be well organized,” Xavier said, in a tone far more calm than I would have predicted.

  “He certainly does,” I replied. “Organized enough to have strangled Nicole Shepard and gotten away safely on Saturday evening. Clearly, he is cool under fire.”

  The blog was on my iPhone. I scrolled down to the picture of Xavier in the Hilton and enlarged it to fill the screen.

  “All right,” I said, “Here is the first photograph.”

  I turned the phone around so that Xavier and Angele could see it.

  The shot was taken at a 45° angle, halfway between a profile and a full-face view. Xavier was clearly recognizable. He was alone in the hotel lobby, heading toward the front door. He had not yet put on his scarf or his brown ushanka, but both of them were clearly in his hands. That was going to be significant, I thought, when we viewed the second photograph. Presumably, Xavier would be wearing the hat and the scarf when he met Nicole a short time later at the Rutland Arms Hotel.

  The time and date of the photo was printed in the lower right of the screen in orange letters: 3:42 PM, January 4.

  “One small thing in our favor is the time and date on the photograph,” I said. “It is exactly two minutes after the camera on the fourth floor of the Rutland Arms Hotel was being disabled with black paint. I don’t know if the killer is aware of that fact or not, but this photo provides you with a partial alibi. You couldn’t have been the one who put the camera out of commission unless the time printed on the photograph is incorrect. If the camera is a cell phone, the time would be accurate
because the provider’s signal sets it automatically.”

  “That’s some consolation, I guess,” Xavier said. “But I could have had an accomplice.”

  “That’s true,” I said.

  It suddenly occurred to me that this implied that Xavier would have needed two accomplices; one to paint the security camera, and another to snap the photograph we had just seen. It was almost impossible for me to imagine that the cameraman, or camerawoman, was not involved in the murder. The planning and execution of the photographs were too well synchronized to be coincidental, not to mention the morbid disposition of the caller we had just heard.

  I decided to keep that thought to myself. If I mentioned it, it might sound as if I were grabbing at straws to convince myself of Xavier’s innocence. I was beyond that point; I felt certain of it.

  “All right,” Xavier said. “I guess we wait an hour and then see the second photograph.”

  “I’ll have an outgoing email prepared on my phone,” I said. “When we get the call, I’ll enter his address and send it off.

  “That reminds me,” I added. “I have a photograph of my own that I’d like you to see.”

  I located the picture Billy had sent me of Tina and her boyfriend, and I showed it to Xavier.

  “Take a look at the guy. When we first spoke on Monday, you mentioned that you saw a man in the lobby of the Rutland Arms Hotel, sitting by the front door, talking on a cell phone. Could this be the same person?”

  Xavier looked closely at the picture and then shook his head.

  “I really couldn’t say. I barely noticed him at all.”

  “Well, it will be interesting to see the camera angle of the next picture. If it came from the direction of the guy in the chair, we’ll at least have a rough description of him.

  “Take another look at the picture our caller just sent,” I said, after I had retrieved it on my phone. “You can see that the person taking the picture was off to your right. Do you remember anyone standing there as you left the Hilton?”

  “No. Not really. To tell you the truth, I’m approached frequently in public, so I have grown accustomed to not looking at people when they get close to me. I guess it’s my way of shutting them out. It gives me a greater sense of privacy.”

  “Right,” I replied. “I even started doing that after the Lavoilette murder case was resolved. I was a local celebrity for a brief period. I didn’t care much for random publicity.

  “Have you spoken to your agent?” I asked.

  “Yes. You had my cell, so I called him on the room phone and asked if he had told anyone where I was staying in New York. He said that he had not mentioned it to a soul.”

  Xavier’s casting interview was scheduled for three o’clock in the afternoon. His flight would leave Newark airport at seven-forty. We had forty-five more minutes until we’d get our next call, so I used the time to purchase two tickets on a flight to Portland leaving Newark just after eight o’clock.

  I prepared an email on my iPhone and had it ready to send as soon as we received the mystery man’s address. The time crept along like traffic heading west through the Holland Tunnel at rush hour.

  Finally, the phone rang. We listened quietly on the speaker. The only words the caller spoke were, “The address is…” and then he spelled it out slowly two times. When he was done, he hung up.

  I fired off the email, and we waited. The reply came back in less than a minute.

  The attached photo was exactly as advertised. Xavier and Stephanie were facing each other. The position of the camera was from Xavier’s right side. He was wearing his brown ushanka. The scarf covered his nose and mouth.

  “It looks like the photograph was taken by the guy in the chair,” Xavier said. “He was sitting to my right as I came through the front door. I took a quick look around the room and noticed him at that point. Then, I walked about ten feet ahead to where Stephanie was standing. We stood together briefly before going to the room. That guy took the picture. There was no one else in the vicinity.”

  “We may have caught a break,” I said. “Our cameraman arrived at the hotel before you did, and waited. Obviously, he knew where you were going.”

  “He sure did,” Xavier replied.

  “By the way,” I added. “Where was the money?”

  “It was stuffed in an inside pocket of my overcoat. I had two wads of hundred-dollar bills, each about two inches thick. Seventy thousand dollars.”

  34

  Bullet Proof Vest

  “Are you considering giving this guy a half million dollars?” I asked, after the shockwaves of his call had subsided.

  “Not a chance,” he replied. “If he gets anything from me, it will be a sack with a bomb in it.”

  “As much as that sounds like an exciting way to square things,” I said, “I think we should forgo the use of explosives. We will, however, be fully armed at any rendezvous he sets up, and I like the fact that you won’t cave in and give him any money.

  “I have my doubts about the offer from the National Enquirer,” I added, “but it could be true. They’ve been known to pay small fortunes for sleazy photographs. On the other hand, the second photograph could implicate the photographer in a murder investigation. A grand jury would want to know how he happened to get both of those pictures. The first one could have been extemporaneous, but how did he get to the Rutland Arms before you and position himself to take the second picture—and why? Furthermore, it is very likely that he knew Stephanie. He’d have to explain that association, which might lead to other criminal proceedings.

  “Supplying those photographs anonymously to the police would be a more credible threat. The whole Enquirer offer seems to be a way to justify the half million. But if he sent the photographs to the police, he would no longer have any leverage with you. Anger might motivate him in that direction, but not money.

  “Tony appeared to be angry, but not this second caller. He is motivated by greed.”

  “Is there anything I should do before he calls on Wednesday?” Xavier asked.

  “The only thing I can think of at the moment is for us to be on Skype when he calls. I want to hear what he has to say. I might be able to give you some advice during the conversation. Have you used Skype before?”

  “A number of times,” he said. “I provided you with my Skype ID on our contract. I’ll be prepared to receive your call anytime after 5 PM.”

  “All right,” I said. “Angele and I would like to go for a walk. We’ll meet you in the lobby at twelve thirty for lunch. Our 2 PM checkout time will work out fine.”

  • • •

  Neither of us had been in Central Park before, so we began our trek there. We didn’t have the place completely to ourselves, but, by New York standards, it was almost deserted. The sun brightened the ground from behind our backs and made it shimmer. The pond in the southeast corner of the park was covered in ice, and the trees were bare except for snow on horizontal branches. Were it not for the occasional jogger in colored sweats, the landscape would have been utterly black and white.

  We avoided gazing south or east—where tall buildings contravened the forces of nature—and set our course single-mindedly. We’d steer clear of civilization to the extent that it was possible. When the Wollman Skating Rink appeared on our right, we veered left, across the light traffic on Center Drive and back into the forest.

  Angele took my cold left hand and stuffed it into her warm pocket. My other hand found its way inside my own overcoat, discontented that it had no mate. We approached a herd of wild painted horses headed very orderly in a circular direction, but going nowhere that day. In winter, the carousel opened only on weekends.

  We crossed the 65th Street Traverse, walked through a band of trees and found ourselves in Sheep Meadow, but there were no sheep. In the 80’s, it had been designated a Quiet Zone and was holding true to form. Fifteen acres of pure snow and silence spread around us in the middle of the most densely populated city in the country. It seemed apparent t
hat few New Yorkers were seeking tranquility on that particular Friday morning, and if they were, they were pursuing it in other places.

  “Have we bitten off more than we can chew, Jesse?” Angele asked when the stillness had lost its persuasion.

  “We’ll be as resolute as possible without being foolhardy. When the time comes to confront our nasty adversary, we’ll assemble the best team possible. Archie Lapointe and Holly Winters have been tested by fire. I hope to have them both with us when the moment of truth arrives. They’ll bring experience and toughness to the meeting. And one other thing.”

  “What’s that, Jesse?”

  “I’ll spend some time at the shooting range in Falmouth either Monday or Tuesday next week.”

  Angele didn’t say a word, but she nearly squeezed the life from my hand inside her pocket.

  We headed back to the Plaza in a more solemn mood than we had left it, and I regretted having mentioned the gun range. But it was an honest assessment of the preparation I needed to make.

  As we were crossing the Gapstow Bridge, Angele said, “Jesse, you’re getting a Kevlar vest before we leave the city.”

  “Do you think we have enough time?” I asked.

  “We’ll make time,” she replied forcefully.

  “OK. I’ll call Holly and see what she thinks,” I replied.

  “Do it now, Jesse. I don’t want you to get back to Maine and find that nothing is available.”

  We cleared the snow off a bench and sat down. Holly picked up my call on the first ring.

  “How’s everything, Jesse?” she asked.

  “The music last night was marvelous. Central Park is quiet, when you’re far enough from the streets and avenues.

  “I have a question for you,” I added.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Do you know anyplace in the city that sells body armor?”

  “Yes. I got my vest in Brooklyn,” she replied. “There’s a shop called En Guarde. It’s a couple of blocks from the intersection of Atlantic and Flatbush.”