Galileo

by Ann McMan

What Joey had just done took courage. Now it was Tim’s turn to step up.

  He grabbed his jacket and keys, and headed out to meet him.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Evan and Julia talked for the better part of an hour after they made their way upstairs to bed. Stevie was shut up in her room across the hall—probably on the phone gabbing with Desiree.

  She wondered if Ping had a clue about the two girls. The pair had spent a ton of time with her during school vacations—learning how to bake and sometimes helping her out when she had bigger catering jobs.

  That was a topic for another day.

  They finally were alone, and could discuss the photograph Julia had discovered in Evan’s office.

  The photo of Judge Cawley with Bishop Szymanski—and Lewis Donne . . .

  Julia had been mostly quiet while Evan tried to fill her in on everything she knew—and some, but not all, of what she suspected about Judge Cawley. To be fair, she knew next to nothing about the Judge’s actual involvement with Bishop Szymanski—other than the photographic evidence that the two men knew each other and that the Judge had some connection as a benefactor to the St. Rita’s basketball team. And she knew nothing about Julia’s father—except the new information that all three of the men were members of the same exclusive club. It made sense that Evan didn’t recognize Lewis Donne in the photo. She’d never had an opportunity to meet him before his death. And Julia said she likely wouldn’t have recognized him, anyway, because of the beard.

  “He only had it for about eighteen months,” she explained. “Mother despised it and made his life hell. She said it made him look like a hooligan. Finally, he shaved it off just to shut her up.”

  She went on to reveal that her father had been a member of the Galileo Club for more than forty years. The family made obligatory appearances there to attend formal dinners on occasional holidays, although Lewis Donne was a more frequent visitor. Julia surmised that his club membership and the close-knit fraternity of colleagues he had there were among the incentives that led him to spend so much of his time working out of D&H’s Philadelphia office.

  Her mother, Katherine Donne, all but despised the club—which always seemed strange to Julia, since her mother was such a social gadfly—and did her best to spend as little time there as possible.

  Julia surmised that this was another reason why her father loved his private retreat so much.

  Evan debated whether to share details of some of the things Edwin Miller had rambled on about when she visited him at the asylum. What she had earlier interpreted as nonsensical ravings now seemed to take on some greater, more ominous meaning. Was Eddie trying, in his broken way, to tell her something about Cawley? Were his comments intended to be symbolic?

  Or was he just plain crazy?

  Galileo, he’d said when she was leaving. Then he muttered something about Galileo studying the stars.

  No. That wasn’t right. He said Galileo found the stars.

  The stars. He called the children playing in the puzzle of the Homer painting “little stars.” And when he recognized Evan for a moment, he said, “You found out.” When Evan asked him what he meant, he’d looked up toward the sky and said, “The stars.”

  Had he been talking about the boys at the Church? Were they the “little stars” he meant? Or was he talking about his own victims?

  Shit. She was the one reaching for the stars on this one.

  They had taken the photograph showing Julia’s father upstairs with them so Julia could examine it more closely. Her inspection clarified one more thing: the Homer painting. Julia remembered it well—and what a big deal her father made of it when the club had it on loan.

  “Albert Lippincott was able to borrow it from some private museum in Ohio,” she explained. “Dad said he was on the board there. I don’t know why they were all in such a dither about getting it. That must’ve been in 2005 when this photo was taken.”

  “It took some digging to track that thing down,” Evan pointed out. “Apparently, Homer painted quite a few of these as studies before crafting the final version the club borrowed.”

  “I recall Albert being insufferable after he’d managed to arrange the loan. I think they used it as a prop in some fundraising campaign.”

  “Is that ‘Albert’ as in Binkie and Albert?” Evan asked.

  “The same. Father of the regrettable Gerald.”

  “Do you recognize any of the other men in this group?” Evan asked.

  “That’s Albert.” She pointed him out. He was a rather paunchy man with a big handlebar mustache. “And I think this is one of the Cadwaladers . . . maybe Bryce? I’m not really sure. This man, I’m pretty sure, was a former ambassador. To Belgium, if memory serves.” She examined the image another minute. “I don’t recognize anyone else—and I never met Judge Cawley or the bishop personally, that I recall. But that’s not really surprising. I only ever went there under duress about twice a year.”

  “Did Andy ever go there with your father?”

  Julia raised an eyebrow. “A few times, when we both lived in Delaware. It wasn’t his style.”

  That surprised Evan. “No?”

  “Oh, don’t misunderstand,” Julia clarified. “Andy loved his refinements and all connections to privilege. He just didn’t care for this club.”

  “Did he ever say why?”

  “You’re awfully curious about this.”

  Evan shrugged. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

  “As I recall, he said it wasn’t his taste. In fact, he said he found it creepy.”

  “Creepy? That seems like an odd observation.”

  “Not really. Most of the members are octogenarian men who subsist on diets of Cuban cigars and thirty-year-old scotch. They don their Harvard ties and caucus around those grand fireplaces to spread the gospel of supply-side economics.”

  Evan laughed. “What about the women?”

  “Women?” Julia asked.

  “Well, yeah. I assume there are some.”

  Julia laughed. “Expensive ones.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Galileo Club is very ‘traditional.’ Women are only admitted as guests or as chattels of their male sponsors.”

  Evan was disappointed by that revelation. “Well, that’s a pisser.”

  “I agree. Although I’d be hard-pressed to find any thinking woman who would wish to become a member.”

  “No,” Evan clarified. “That’s not what I meant. Now that I know what it is, I need to find a way to get in there.”

  “Seriously? Why?”

  Evan shrugged. “To do what I do. Ask questions. Chat up the staff. See what I can find out about the judge, and maybe what it is that makes the place ‘creepy.’ You know?”

  Julia looked dubious.

  “What is it?” Evan asked.

  “My father. Do you think he had any connection to Cawley and the bishop?”

  Evan answered carefully. “Do you mean other than the fact that they all were members of the same club?”

  “And the fact that they all appeared together in this photograph,” Julia added. “With Edwin Miller.”

  “Do you ever remember your father mentioning Judge Cawley? Or Bishop Szymanski?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “How about the St. Rita’s basketball team? Did he ever say anything about that—or about athletic programs at other schools?”

  “No. But since he wasn’t Catholic, that’s probably not significant. He loved sports, of course. But his tastes were always a bit more rarified. Cricket. Rowing.” She rolled her eyes. “Golf, of course. But basketball?” She thought about it. “Not that I can recall.”

  “What about philanthropy?” Evan asked. “Might he have contributed to any scholarship programs in the community—possibly ones favored by other club members?”

  “I suppose that’s possible. I really don’t know.” Julia took a moment to think more about it. “Why do you ask about sports teams?”

  “All of the
boys in this photo were on the St. Rita’s basketball team—with Tim. He recognized them.”

  “You showed this to Tim?”

  “Yes,” Evan said. “I got a second picture from another source. It showed Cawley and the bishop with the team at St. Rita’s. They were wearing their uniforms, and Tim was one of the players. It had been taken several years earlier than this one. I showed both photos to him to see if remembered Cawley or could identify any of the other boys in the pictures.”

  “Could he?”

  Evan nodded.

  “You haven’t answered my other question,” Julia said in a quiet voice.

  “What question?” Evan pretended to be clueless. She knew exactly what Julia had asked.

  “Do you think my father had any connection to Cawley or the bishop?”

  Evan was a shitty liar, and knew it. “I honestly have no idea.” She did her best to sound convincing.

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  Evan didn’t answer her right away. What could she say when she genuinely had no idea herself?

  They were sitting side by side on Evan’s bed, and Julia leaned toward her and rested a hand on her thigh.

  “Evan?”

  Evan met her eyes. “The truth?”

  Julia nodded.

  “I don’t know.”

  Julia sat back. But she didn’t remove her hand.

  “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

  “I’m sorry about this,” Evan said. She meant it, too—and tried to infuse the simple statement with everything she felt.

  “Me, too.”

  Evan took hold of her hand. “It might not mean anything,” she said.

  “Or it might mean everything.”

  Evan didn’t reply.

  Julia had made it a habit to always sit on Evan’s “good” side. That way, when the spirit moved, she could rest her head on Evan’s shoulder without causing her any discomfort from her persistent neuritis. Julia scooted closer now, and tucked her head beneath Evan’s chin. The two of them sat together in silence, listening to the faint murmurs of Stevie’s continuing conversation with Desiree, until Julia fell asleep.

  Evan stayed awake much longer, praying to any god who might be listening, to please not allow this nightmare revelation to terminate in the unholy place she suspected everything now was leading.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Tim was on his second cup of coffee—a decision he knew he’d live to regret. He’d been there for more than twenty minutes and Joey still hadn’t arrived.

  The cranky waitress lumbered by again and asked if he wanted to go ahead and order. For the third time, he assured her he was waiting on someone who should be there any minute.

  She tapped her pen against her fat order pad a few times, before walking off without saying anything.

  Hard to blame her.He didn’t imagine the tips were very good at 12:30 a.m. And maybe her feet hurt?

  He fought the impulse to keep checking his watch.

  The place actually had more patrons than he had thought it would. There were a couple of cops sitting at the counter, drinking coffee and eating big slices of pie. It looked like cherry. It also looked pretty good.

  What the hell was up with his appetite?He’d eaten like a horse at Evan’s, and now he was hungry again.

  Stress. He’d always been that way. He’d had a weight problem in high school.

  No mystery about that one . . .

  But Stevie had said he looked skinny to her.

  Maybe his metabolism was changing?

  He finished his coffee. This was getting weird. Where was Joey?

  Tim started to worry. Maybe he’d changed his mind? He’d sounded drunk when he called. And where had he been? And why was he out walking in the middle of the night?

  This time, he did check his watch. Joey was now half an hour late.

  Okay. What to do?

  Tim rolled the dice and got out his cell phone. He pulled up Joey’s number from his call log and punched the call button. The phone rang and rang. No answer, and no voicemail. He double-checked the number to be sure he’d pulled up the right one before trying the same number again.

  Same result.

  He put the phone down on the table and drummed his fingers on top of it.

  Ten more minutes.He’d wait ten more minutes. Maybe Joey had changed his mind and gone home?

  Tim didn’t want to wake up Mrs. Mazzetta at this hour to find out. But he could always try stopping by there tomorrow . . .

  The cranky waitress glared at him again—this time from the cash register.

  I should’ve worn my damn collar . . .

  He held up his mug and pointed at it.

  Why the hell not?

  At this point, one more cup of coffee couldn’t make things any worse . . .

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Tim finally gave up. He paid for his coffee and left the cranky waitress a ten-dollar tip. He figured it probably wouldn’t improve her disposition—in fact, he wasn’t sure if anything could—but he knew it was the least he could do after holding a table for so long and not ordering anything to eat.

  He drove home to try and get some sleep—or at least to lie down in the dark to try and keep his nightmares at bay. He tried calling Joey several more times. No answer. After an hour of tossing, he gave up on any idea of trying to rest and got in his car to head toward South Bouvier Street. He was pretty sure Joey wouldn’t still be out walking. It was now nearly 2 a.m., and nobody who was up to anything good would be out on the streets.

  Most of the stoplights were flashing red, so the drive to the Mazzettas was quick—only about four minutes. He didn’t know what he’d do when he got there—maybe just see if an upstairs light was on or look for any signs Joey was back at home. Maybe invent a plausible reason to wake his mother up?

  There was a little bit of traffic on West Passyunk, but Snyder Street was all but deserted. When he turned east on Mifflin Street, he saw the first dazzle of flashing blue and red lights.

  Great. Just what he needed . . . Probably somebody got stopped for a DWI.

  It was when he got to the turn for South Bouvier Street that he saw the police cars—several of them—pulled up in front of the Mazzettas’ row home.

  Oh, God. No . . .

  He parked at the end of the street and grabbed the satchel he always kept on the floorboard behind his seat. It contained his breviary, missal, stole, rosary and an extra collar and rabat that he could quickly don when needed. Once he’d put the garment on, he drove closer to the house and pulled over behind one of the police cars. A middle-aged, uniformed officer met him as he got out. Tim could see sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve as he approached. He held up a beefy hand to halt Tim’s progress.

  “You can’t park here, buddy,” the officer said. Then he noticed Tim’s collar. “Oh. Sorry, Father.”

  Tim held up a hand. “That’s fine, Sergeant. I’m here to see Joey Mazzetta. Is he at home?”

  The officer shot an anxious look toward the steps of the Mazzettas’ house, where a younger man in a tan-colored coat was talking on a cell phone. Tim could see the shiny badge hanging from his jacket pocket. Blinding flashes of blue and red reflected off it like strobe lights. Tim assumed he was a detective.

  “Wait right here, Father,” the sergeant said. “Somebody will be right with you, okay?”

  Tim felt his heart pounding. Something had happened—either to Joey or his mother. That much he was certain of.

  The detective lowered his phone while the uniformed officer spoke to him. He glanced over at Tim while he listened. Then he nodded at the officer and returned to his call.

  The sergeant called Tim over.

  The man in the suit finished his call and stashed his phone as Tim approached.

  “I’m Detective Ortiz,” he said. “You’re Father . . . who?”

  “Donovan. Tim Donovan. St. Margherita Parish.”

  “You know the Mazzettas?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Ti
m nodded. “I’m their priest. Well . . . one of them,” he added.

  “Kind of late for you to be making a pastoral visit, isn’t it, Father?”

  “That’s not why I’m here. Joey called me about two hours ago and asked me to meet him. When he didn’t show up, I came by here.”

  “Two hours ago?” Ortiz looked at his watch. “He called you at midnight and asked you to meet him? Is that typical?”

  “No . . .”

  “Did he say where he was when he called?”

  “No. He just asked me to meet him. I said I would.” Tim made an effort to maintain eye contact with the detective. “It’s what we do.”

  Ortiz seemed to accept that. “Where were you supposed to meet?”

  “The Melrose Diner. Look . . . what’s happened? It’s clear something’s wrong. Is he okay? Is Mrs. Mazzetta okay?”

  “Mrs. Mazzetta is inside with another officer. She’ll probably want to see you. Her son was killed tonight. Shot in an alley over off 15th Street.”

  Tim’s mind was spinning. Shot? Joey was dead? Killed tonight? Killed while he sat in the diner, drinking bad coffee?

  He felt the ground lurch beneath his feet.

  Ortiz quickly reached out a hand to steady him. “Hey—hey. Steady. You okay?”

  Tim gazed at him blankly. “Joey is dead?”

  “Yeah. He is.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know yet. Maybe a robbery. His wallet was on the ground beside him. Come over here. You still don’t look too steady.” Ortiz led Tim over to one of the iron railings flanking the steps so he could lean against it. “Lookit, Father. Take a minute to get your bearings, okay? And then if you wanna go inside and speak with Mrs. Mazzetta, I’m sure she’d appreciate it. After that, we’d appreciate it if you gave us a statement. Okay?”

  A statement? Tim wasn’t thinking clearly. Joey was dead . . .

  “Father?” Ortiz asked again. “You good with that?”

  “Yes.” Tim stared back at him through a fog. “Yes. I’m good with that.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  The soft dinging of Evan’s cell phone woke her up.

  She fumbled for it and tried not to wake Julia.