Extreme Unction: A Lupa Schwartz Mystery

by J. David Core



  Extreme Unction

  J. David Core

  Copyright 2013 by J. David Core

  ISBN: 9781311532237

  Cover illustration by the author

  Other titles in this series:

  Common Sense

  Fair Play

  Shared Disbelief

  Five Secrets

  Download the series NOW!

  Info on all of these titles available at my website!

 

  This novel is dedicated to my wonderful family and friends for all of their patience and help. I particularly want to thank my beautiful girlfriend, Cheryl, and all of the people who read my manuscript and gave input.

  Contents

  Copyright info

  Chapter One

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Sample Chapter

  Notice

  Author Bio

  Chapter One

  Entering Pittsburgh, PA at night via the Ft. Pitt Tunnel is an awe inspiring sight. The sudden panorama headlined by a three story fountain shooting straight up into the sky below and to the left; the stadiums hunkering in the distance beyond the mist from the fountain’s spray seemingly huddled against the cool air blowing off of the rivers winging outward as they fork off to the right; then the city; a twinkling ornamented tannenbaum of glass and steel, a clustered architectural aggregation — simultaneously careful and arbitrary in its complex arrangement; like a peculiar structural bouquet of bau haus, deco and neuveau compositions. There’s even a crystal castle. It’s amazing.

  At least that is what I’m told. I arrived at 10:30 in the morning on a train. The first thing I saw of Pittsburgh was the inside of a refurbished train station, which I’m also told was once quite impressive. I’d come to force a meeting with a man whom I’d come to consider either the rudest person alive or a clever pretender to the title.

  Let me give you some background. My married name is Cattleya Hoskin (though I’m now divorced,) but everyone calls me Cat. My father named me after a flower — an orchid actually. My mother didn’t object. After all, she had a flower’s name herself.

  You may have heard of my parents. They are sort of well-known since I re-published my father’s memoirs of the days when he used to work in Manhattan with his equally famous employer (who shall — for reasons which will become obvious — remain nameless.) I guess I’m pretty well-known too; at least I am in the publishing circles I frequent. My notes and observations on the exploits of my heralded parents anteceded as foreword each of the various re-releases of my father’s accounts of his escapades; and a few critics said they were among the more informative elements of the books. At any rate, they were good enough to land me a plum writing gig on the staff of Gamut Magazine; which is what brought me to Pittsburgh in the first place.

  My current assignment was to connect with Lupa Schwartz, the adoptive grandson of my father’s famous employer. He had just completed a difficult case involving the city’s Port Authority and an incendiary device. His expertise in motors and his reputation for deduction had protected the municipality from a very embarrassing episode, and I’d been assigned to interview him about the similarities between his methods and his grandfather’s.

  Schwartz had been born in the Balkans, the son of a Jewish-American CIA operative named Solomon G. Schwartz and my father’s employer’s “adopted” daughter — hence our connection. During his formative years, Lupa had been instrumental in providing covert information to the C.I.A. during the collapse of Soviet Communism. He had also built up a tidy sum of money as a privateer; which he had invested wisely in technology stocks; and, to his credit, he later used his largesse to help retrieve several stranded Soviet Jews when the stuff started hitting the fan. Seriously, if you thought it was tough in the Balkans on the Christians and Muslims during the nineties, imagine how it was for the Hebrews.

  So Schwartz was now an American citizen, with a reputation for intelligence, humor, romanticism and charm. He loved women, cars, good food, and bad comedy. This was all known due to his intensive publicity campaign. Among his other attributes, he was a glory hawk. But do you think he’d grant an interview to an old family friend? Sure he’d come to the phone quick enough when I’d mentioned Gamut Magazine to whoever had answered the ring; yet, the minute I’d mentioned the name Hoskin, he made an excuse to be off the line, and I’d never been able to get him to the phone again. So I’d had to concoct this elaborate scheme to get him to talk with me.

  ***

  The cab brought me to Schwartz’s large Victorian at 812 Hazelwood Ave. in Pittsburgh’s largely Jewish Squirrel Hill section at roughly noon. His house sat at the intersection of Murray Ave. which climbed up a long hill, and ended at his door.

  I’d planned my timing this way as his daily schedule was as well known, and was as precisely peculiar as his grandfather’s had been before him. I thought it was probably an affected schedule for show when I’d first heard of it, but it had been so regularly repeated without variation that I decided that it was — in fact — his true daily routine. So I chose noon since it would be just about when he was finishing his lunch, but it would still be two hours before he went to the basement garage to tinker with his antique car collection.

  Before leaving the cab, I called the Gamut offices on my cell phone and told my friend Jana that I was at the destination. She knew the plan, and was ready for her part. I paid the driver, left the cab, and went up onto the large porch of Schwartz’s house. I smoothed my slacks and fluffed my short hair, rang the bell, and listened intently for the phone in Schwartz’s lobby, which should be about to ring. The door opened and the pleasantly plain face of an almost middle aged woman with nondescript blonde hair greeted me with a friendly smile. “Yes,” she said just as the phone began to sound. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, and I heard Schwartz shout from the dining area, “For crying out loud! Two interruptions at once!”

  The cook was glancing at the caller id, and she shouted back to Schwartz, “Don’t worry about the phone, Lupa. It’s just that woman from Gamut Magazine again.” She then returned her attention to me. “Yes,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m a reporter,” I said honestly. “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time. Is Mr. Schwartz leaving for his garage soon?”

  “Oh, no,” the pleasant cook said. “He has two hours set aside for callers and clients. This is the perfect time to call.”

  “But the phone-caller…,” I said.

  “That’s different,” the cook said. “Mr. Schwartz always has time for the press when it comes to his cars.” She escorted me past his study door and an open den and then into the kitchen. It was splendid. There was a walk-in freezer and a walk-in cooler. Cookware was suspended from the ceiling within easy arms’ reach of the preparation isla
nd with a built in sink and which faced the stove and inverted oven. Beyond the kitchen was the dining room (accessible by any of three doors,) where Schwartz still sat in his black jeans and forest green polo shirt, his thick dark hair brushed back and to one side, enjoying the last of a huge piece of cheese cake. “Mr. Schwartz, this is a reporter to see you about your cars. What did you say your name was, dear?”

  I smiled despite myself. “Hoskin,” I said. “Cattleya Hoskin, but I’m not here to talk about cars.”

  I had been hoping for the surprise to register on Schwartz’s smug face when he heard who had entered his house, but he just daubed at his corners, rolled his crinkled eyes, and said, “Tsk,” to his cook. “She probably gets that arrogance from her father and the impudence from her mother.”

  “Arrogance and impudence are the same thing,” I muttered, and Schwartz smiled at me with a long, unwavering, cock-sure smirk.

  “They’re subtly different,” he said. “Arrogance is a feeling of self-satisfaction that leads to disdain for others. Impudence is the disdain itself and the acting out of those disdainful impulses. You should know all of that if you’re going to be a writer.” He’d stood to his full six-plus feet height while speaking and had walked past me. The last word or so of his taunt had been spoken from the foyer.

  “Mr. Schwartz,” I called after him as I turned to follow, “All I wanted was the chance to speak with you about doing a story on our parents. Well my parents and your grandfather. People want to know…”

  “Yes,” Schwartz interrupted, “…but they don’t need to know.” He had made his way to the entrance and was opening the door for me, when he noticed another person was making his way onto the porch.

  “Are you Lupa Schwartz?” the man (who was dressed in priestly garb) inquired. “I need to speak with Lupa Schwartz.”

  “I am Lupa Schwartz,” the PI admitted. “And don’t bother introducing yourself. I saw your picture in the paper this morning. If you’re here to ask me to help you in your case, don’t bother. I’m not interested.”

  The priest had stopped on the second step. “But — why?” he’d asked haltingly. “Have you prejudged me?”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” Schwartz said. “It’s just that my services are very expensive. Presumably, you have taken a vow of poverty or some such ridiculous religious lie, and I’m not required to accept pro bono work.”

  “Lupa!” the cook shouted from the hallway. “He’s a priest. Show some respect, please.”

  “I am showing him respect, Bev” Lupa said coolly. “It is the respect of honesty and unwasted time. Good day, Mr. Coneely, and good day to you, Ms. Hoskin.”

  At that moment, a squad car could be seen making its way to the top of the facing street. Schwartz sighed heavily as he became resigned to the truth that his day was about to be blown. The car stopped, and a tall, handsome man in a tan coat with a badge on his belt, his sandy hair brushed back in a professional and casual style, stepped out. “Hello, Detective Johns,” Schwartz said, “how can I help you?”

  Johns had stepped past Fr. Coneely without recognition at first, but he turned as the recognition struck. “Fr. Coneely,” the police Detective said. “Hello, sir. I’ve just been speaking with the bishop. I need to speak with Schwartz, but could you wait here? I need to speak with you also.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned his attention to Schwartz. “Excuse me, Mr. Schwartz,” he said, “can I please have a few minutes of your time?”

  “Surely,” Schwartz said. “Step into my study.”

  The two men disappeared behind the door leaving me with the priest on the porch. “Hello,” I said feebly. “I’m Cat Hoskin.”

  Recognition slowly spread across his eyes. “The writer?” Fr. Coneely asked. “The daughter of that private detective who wrote all those crime stories?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “Oh, this is good,” Coneely said. “Suddenly my life is a dime novel.”

  “So,” I said fishing for anything to fill the dead spaces in the conversation. “You were in the paper this morning?”

  “You didn’t hear about it?” Coneely asked.

  “I just got into town,” I admitted. Then, as if this would explain everything, I added, “I’m from Ohio. If you don’t mind my asking, what do you need to see Schwartz about?”

  Coneely collapsed onto a wicker loveseat, his head buried in his hands. “I’ve got a problem because of my own big mouth. Politics, religion and alcohol; they should never be mixed. So you’ve never heard of me?” he asked.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I guess your celebrity hasn’t spread as far as Cleveland.”

  “Well, I’m well-known around here,” he said. “I’m sort of the Jack Kevorkian of Pittsburgh.”

  “Kevorkian?” I said. “The euthanasia guy? But I thought the church was against mercy killing.”

  “It is,” Coneely said, “but I’m not. That’s the whole point. I’m kind of vocal about it. I mean — I never preach it from the pulpit, but whenever I have a parishioner who’s suffering unnecessarily, I write letters to the press which I cc to the bishop and the legislators and whoever I think can help. So, anyway, I had just such a parishioner who was dying from cancer on whose behalf I wrote letters and even gave an interview. Then yesterday, I administered last rites on the request of his family. Well, before the doctors could get to him, he had an attack of some sort and died. His daughter insisted on an autopsy, even though the doctors wanted to call it a natural-causes death, and it was discovered that he had been poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” I said in the most clichéd of tones.

  “Yeah,” Coneely went on. “It seems that someone had pressed a neurological poison into the skin on his forehead just below the hair line. Which, coincidentally, is just where I had anointed him during his last rites shortly before. He also had poison on his feet, hands, nostrils and lips. Also, coincidentally, places anointed during the sacrament.”

  “Well,” I said in as reassuring a way as I could, “that’s hardly conclusive. Besides, wouldn’t you have had to touch the poison to press it into his skin? You would have been poisoned too.”

  Coneely reddened in discomfort. “Actually, that part is kind of embarrassing. The other night, I was with the family, and we were sharing drinks and consoling each other on our problems. I guess I had a little too much and started talking without thinking things through. I sort of came up with a plan where I could help the dying man and nobody would have to be the wiser.”

  “You conspired to commit murder?” I asked.

  “No, no,” Coneely insisted. “It was just talk, but basically what I said was that with all of the candles around, I could probably just coat my thumb with wax, dip my finger in a poison-laced oil and anoint him to a better world. Then I could just get rid of the wax, and nobody would suspect anything when he passed on.” His voice kept trailing off weakly. His head dropped, and his eyes refused to meet mine. “I guess somebody thought it was a good idea, huh?”

  “But you didn’t do it?” I said.

  “No,” he said calmly, “I wouldn’t even know where to get the poison.”

  The door pulled open behind us. Johns and Schwartz stepped out, and Lupa addressed Fr. Coneely. “Good news, Mr. Coneely. I’ve decided to take your case, but I have some conditions. The first is that you have to fire your Church-appointed lawyer and hire my friend, John Dachnewel.”

  Fr. Coneely was visibly relieved, but asked, “How — why — how can I pay you? I can’t afford both you and an expensive lawyer.”

  “Not to worry,” Schwartz said. “The city has agreed to pay for my services, and Mr. Dachnewel is due for a pro bono job.” He began to escort Coneely into the house past me, when he turned my way. He said, “Miss Hoskin, if you’ll agree not to inquire about my grandfather, I’ll agree to let you cover this case for your magazine.”

  That was how I came to document the case of Fr. Mike Coneely for Gamut Magazine, though I was yet to understand why.
<
br />   Chapter 2

  Schwartz showed me into his study, which was to the left past the coat-rack once you’d entered the house. The priest and the cop were already seated in the two seats facing Schwartz’s desk, so I positioned myself next to the plants on the small couch that braced the wall as we entered. From this vantage, Coneely was visible in profile, and I’d be able to see Schwartz full face behind his desk.

  Schwartz worked his way past the two men and the fireplace screen. He sat facing the priest across his desk to his right. “I don’t want you to tell me that you didn’t do it,” Schwartz said taking both Coneely and me by surprise. “Understand,” he continued, “that I am not taking a contract to prove that you didn’t kill Vincent Hanson. — That was his name, right? — I’m contracting to prove who did. If that’s you, it’s you. That’s why I want Mr. Dachnewel to be your lawyer. He and I have an understanding. Another lawyer would tell you not to talk with me since I’m not working for you.” Coneely started to speak, but Schwartz silenced him with a raised hand.

  “As I said before, I’m working for the city on this one. Mr. Dachnewel knows the law well enough to protect your rights should you be the one I peg as the murderer, but he knows me well enough to know that I won’t name anyone of whom I’m not 100 percent sure. Should I name you, he’ll recuse himself on the grounds of our friendship, but since I need to be able to speak freely with you, I need for Mr. Dachnewel to represent you for now. If you are — in fact — innocent, you should have no reason to object to this.”

  Schwartz abruptly stopped talking. He sat back and waited for Coneely to say something. The wait was brief. “I didn’t do it,” Coneely said. Schwartz shook his head and said, “As I said, that doesn’t matter to me. All I want to know is, given the situation I’ve outlined, will you allow Mr. Dachnewel to represent you at this time?”

  Coneely looked to the detective to his right for guidance, but Johns apparently kept a face of stone. Coneely steeled himself and nodded. “Of course,” the priest said. “It’s fine…” As he spoke, Schwartz lifted his telephone and punched a number on his speed-dial. “Mr. Dachnewel,” Schwartz said, “are you familiar with a priest named Michael Coneely? — And you know what he has been accused of? — I’m calling to ask if you’ll take him as a client on a pro bono basis as a personal favor to me? — Very good. He’s here speaking with me now. You should know that I have not yet formed an opinion as to his innocence or guilt. I’ll send him to speak with you as soon as we’ve finished. — Yes, John. — Thank you.” He hung up the receiver and turned his attention to Coneely. He handed the priest a card from a small stack on his desk. “This is Mr. Dachnewel’s business address. You should go to see him as soon as we’ve finished.”