Mr. Margolis answered. “About a year ago. It was his choice, I should add. He was given permission by the archdiocese to start a new parish in East Lansing.”
“A wise decision on the archbishop’s part,” Dr. Boras said. “Father Daniel was beating his head against a wall here, and he’s certainly doing well with the university set over there.”
Worthy could sense all eyes on him as he brought out a notepad and wrote down the young priest’s name. The meeting moved to the matter of the more permanent memorial for Father Spiro, with the cardiologist, the two university professors, one of the restaurateurs, and two of the lawyers agreeing to serve on a planning committee.
That business finished, Father Fortis asked for the floor. “Before we leave, I want to give Lieutenant Worthy a chance to ask any questions he might have for this group.”
Worthy cast his eyes around the table. “First, I’ll ask a very typical police question. Lieutenant Sherrod probably asked it already, but I don’t see it in the file.”
If these people are as bright as they seem, they’ll see through that in a minute, Worthy thought. Sherrod had never asked the question he was going to ask, because he’d believed from the moment he heard the altarpiece was missing that he knew motive. “Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against Father Spiro, someone who’d maybe argued with him over the last few weeks.”
The reaction in the room caught Worthy by surprise. First, one parish council laughed, then several more, until finally everyone in the room, including Mrs. Filis and even Father Fortis, were laughing.
Mr. Margolis tapped him on the shoulder. “We’re laughing at ourselves, Lieutenant, not you. You see, we Greeks tend to argue. We argue at home, at work, but even more at church. We haven’t done much today because we’ve been on our best behavior with Father Fortis and you.”
“So you’re saying Father Fortis may have argued with many people in the last month or so?”
“Oh, yes, including nearly all of us,” Dr. Pappas confessed with a smile.
“I think what Lieutenant Worthy would like to know is whether there’s anyone in the parish whose problems with Father Spiro had gotten out of hand,” Father Fortis clarified.
“In the parish? Why are we talking about the parish?” Mr. Sanderson asked.
“That’s the way I always begin a case,” Worthy explained. “In an investigation such as this, my approach is to take the life of the victim very seriously. I want to know as much about Father Spiro as I can. Ever since I was assigned, I’ve been trying to understand what had Father Spiro worried or preoccupied. So, if anyone stands out as a person who might have been a particular concern to him, I need to know.”
“But what does that have to do with the robbery?” another of the lawyers asked.
“The thief was from the projects, which is precisely why St. Cosmas needs to move,” a restaurateur said.
“We’re still pursuing that line of questioning,” Worthy assured them. “To be more exact, Sergeant Henderson is doing that. He believes it will prove the most hopeful direction.”
“And you don’t agree?” Dr. Boras asked.
“Give me a few more days before I answer that. At least give me until we complete some interviews.”
“Now I’m a bit confused,” Dr. Stanos said. “Are there two separate investigations going on all of a sudden?”
Yes, these people do indeed like to argue, Worthy thought. They had met him only thirty minutes ago and had already taken off the gloves. How hard would they have been on the old priest? “There is only one investigation, and I’m in charge,” he stated, looking around the room.
“But you just said that you’re not looking into the projects,” Mr. Sanderson added.
“I intend to look into everything. But I’m also trying not to narrow the investigation too early.”
“That seems fair enough,” Dr. Pappas said.
“So, back to Lieutenant Worthy’s question,” Father Fortis said. “Can you think of anyone who posed more than the usual challenge for Father Spiro?”
“Please understand that I’m not accusing anyone, but wouldn’t you agree,” Dr. Boras began, looking around the room sheepishly, “that Lloyd Hartunian might have been someone who troubled Father Spiro?”
“Lloyd Hartunian?” Dr. Stanos said. “Do you honestly consider him dangerous?”
The female professor shrugged and looked down.
“Now, now,” Dr. Pappas said, “I think Lydia has a good point. I saw Hartunian corner Father after liturgy on more than one occasion. I’d say you should talk with him. Again, we’re not accusing anyone, of course.”
“You can find his address in the church directory,” Mr. Margolis added, “though I’m not sure Mr. Hartunian’s picture—and that of the woman he sometimes comes with—is in there. By the way, was he in church this morning?”
The restaurateur who’d advocated for the parish to move shook his head. “I was working the candle stand in the narthex, Lieutenant, and he didn’t come through.”
“Hartunian,” Worthy repeated, jotting down the name. “There’s just one more thing. Father Fortis brought it to my attention.” He passed out the first of the photos, the one of Father Spiro caught off guard by the church photographer. “Mr. Bagios took this a few days before your priest’s death.”
Worthy studied the faces in the room as the photo was passed around the table. He caught a few grimaces, while others quickly looked away.
“You might have noticed a book on Father Spiro’s desk in that photo. We’d like to find that book. Here’s a close-up.” He passed the enlargement around the room and watched as each person on the council studied the photo and shook his or her head.
“It looks like one of those old accounting books, but Father Spiro, bless his memory, was not a man who understood figures. Why is it so important?” Mr. Angelo, the oldest man in the room, asked.
“It may not be important at all,” Worthy said, “but in the other photos taken by Mr. Bagios that day, the book is missing. We find that interesting.”
“I guess we can assume the case isn’t as close to being solved as we thought,” Dr. Pappas said.
“It’s somebody from the projects,” Mr. Angelo muttered. Others began to talk with those next to them.
“One at a time, please,” Dr. Pappas said. “The parish isn’t going to want to hear that the investigation is starting over, Lieutenant.”
“So don’t tell them that,” Worthy replied. “We’re not starting over, just looking into everything. The book in the photo may mean nothing, but as I said, I don’t want to narrow the investigation at this point. Father Fortis and I are just starting to get to know Father Spiro.”
“God bless both of you on that front, Lieutenant,” Mr. Margolis said. “Your task won’t be easy. I don’t believe I’m breaking any confidences when I say that many of us in this room were worried about dear Spiro. We’d tried for some months to have a candid discussion with him about retirement.”
“Tried?” Father Fortis asked.
“Yes, tried. I went to see him privately only two weeks ago to broach the subject. He put me off, just as he had so many times before.”
“He didn’t want to retire?”
“That’s what’s so odd,” Mr. Margolis said. “Six months ago, he approached me to talk about it. But when I brought it up recently, he changed the subject. Two weeks ago, he said he had some matters to settle. But then he had that embarrassing lapse during liturgy. How could we put it off any longer?”
“And he never offered an explanation for what happened that Sunday?” Father Fortis asked.
“I talked to him right after the liturgy,” Dr. Stanos said. “He acted like nothing had happened.”
Mr. Margolis, the parish council president, reached for his handkerchief and dabbed his brow. His voice was clouded with emotion when he spoke. “I just remembered what he said the last time we talked. He said he’d explain everything to the parish council at our n
ext meeting. He said he would tell us in confidence. That would have been today.”
“So, what do you think of the council?” Father Fortis asked, taking a bite out of his hamburger.
“The parish council? Very bright, I’d say, and lots of people used to getting their way.”
“Amen to that, my friend.”
“I don’t envy you, Nick. No wonder Father Spiro had bags under his eyes.”
“We Greeks are fond of saying we treat everyone like family. The problem is we don’t treat our families very well. Love, yes, but not respect.”
“Which makes it all the more interesting that Father Spiro was holding off retirement,” Worthy commented. “Mr. Margolis said the old man was waiting to finish something, but nobody in that room seemed to know what it was.”
“And if the parish council doesn’t know,” Father Fortis mused, “who does?”
Chapter Six
Worthy drove to Denny’s in a foul mood. Everyone who knew Father Spiro well had a vivid impression of him. It just wasn’t the same impression. For some, like the majority on the parish council, the old priest was drifting into senility but couldn’t see it, while others, such as Rabbi Milkin, saw him as an old knight intent on retirement after one final battle. Which view did the photos of Father Spiro and the missing leather-trimmed book support?
The rest of the Sunday afternoon hadn’t gone any better. He’d called his old house to say he would stop by to see his daughters, but when he arrived he found Allyson again conveniently out. His ex-wife Susan had repeated the same tired words, that he had to be patient and not push her. In the end, he’d taken his younger daughter out for pizza and then sat alone in his apartment.
And now he had to face this McCarty woman over lunch on Monday. He remembered the standard mantra from training about not alienating the press, but this woman wasn’t press. She was an intruder, a verbal paparazzo.
He walked into the diner precisely at noon and spotted a woman looking at him from a booth as if she knew him. She waved at him as some women can do, not embarrassed by standing out. Her dark auburn hair was pulled back to reveal the sculpted curves of her elegant cheekbones, and the large, oversized glasses, together with the business suit, completed the message—intelligent, attractive, on my way.
“So nice to meet you, Lieutenant,” she said, looking him over before passing a piece of paper across the table. “That’s a peace offering. It’s an upbeat article about how St. Cosmas is moving ahead after their tragedy. You’ll see that the investigation is mentioned just once.”
“Where’s that?”
She leaned over, pointing to a sentence in the fourth paragraph, the barest hint of perfume filling the space between them. “It’s here. ‘Mr. Margolis, the parish council president, said the presence of the new team has given the parish an assurance that everything possible is being done.’ ”
“I’d like you to strike that,” he said, passing the paper back.
Kenna McCarty sat back in the booth and eyed him. “You know, Lieutenant, you don’t seem to realize what a lucky man you are. You have friends in high places, and now you’ve been handed a very high-profile case.”
“Let’s not confuse my friends in the department with yours.”
The waitress poured two cups of coffee and took their orders, then departed.
“What should I say?” she asked. “It’s my job to make friends, and so, yes, I do see your superintendent sometimes at social gatherings.”
“And I’ve only met him once,” Worthy replied. “He wouldn’t even know my name.”
She smiled as she leaned forward as if to share a secret. “Oh, you and I both know that’s not true. That one meeting you mention happened to be your last commendation for solving that monk’s murder in Ohio.”
Worthy felt his face burning. “What I don’t understand is why your paper assigned a society writer to a murder investigation.”
She took a sip of her coffee and offered a tight smile. “I’m past the society column, Lieutenant. I’ve been assigned to the city beat, and that covers everything.”
“Sounds like a fancy way of saying the Free Press is downsizing.”
“You know, Lieutenant, I’m going to let that pass. Why don’t we change the subject until our food comes.” She produced a small notebook from her purse. “I understand your older daughter is back home. How’s that going?”
Worthy stared at his coffee and said nothing.
“That must have put quite a strain on your marriage.”
“It might have, except I was already divorced,” he said, not looking up.
She laughed. “Finally. Something makes sense about you. I should have guessed from your record that you’d have tired of the little wife and kiddies.”
He looked up, his hatred of this woman settling his head. “Then you’d have guessed wrong. I wasn’t the one who wanted the divorce.”
Her tongue darted to the corner of her mouth. “So why’d she leave a guy like you?”
“And this is your proof you’re not a society writer?”
She raised an eyebrow and studied his face. “You think you’re being rude, Lieutenant, but I find you very compelling. Very believable. Frankly, most men I know, especially the married ones, hate marriage. My ex-husband did. Of course, that didn’t stop him hating it all over again with a twenty-two-year-old.”
The food came, and Kenna McCarty let him eat in peace. She was holding something back, he knew, but she hid her cards well. When the waitress came to clear the table, she asked for another cup of coffee.
“Now, down to business,” she said. “I have something to offer you on this case.”
“If you have evidence, then you should have turned it over right away.”
“Oh, give it a rest, Lieutenant. I have an offer, not evidence,” she said, crumpling her napkin in her hand. “And it happens to be something Superintendent Livorno likes. In fact, he likes it very much. It’s legal and benefits both your department and my paper.”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
“It is good. I want to shadow you during your investigation and write articles as we go. It will help readers understand the difficulties and challenges even the great Christopher Worthy has to deal with. Given the opinion polls, the police of this city need a human face.”
“And I’m that face?”
“Superintendent Livorno thinks so.”
“What about Henderson?”
“Who?”
“You see, that’s my point,” he said, leaning forward. “Forget about how crazy your scheme is, and I don’t care if the FBI thinks it’s a good idea. You’d contaminate the investigation just by being there. Witnesses would watch what they say or wouldn’t say anything at all, not to mention what you’d think of the way we cops tend to talk about a case. But here’s the worst part of all of this. All you’d do is isolate me in my own department, and I don’t need help there. And I sure don’t need to be turned into a media cartoon just to help your career.”
“Henderson is your partner, right?” she asked.
“If you have to ask, then you already have your answer. You’re going to have to cover this investigation the same way everyone else does. You can piece together your story from police updates and what comes out at trial.”
“Tell me, Lieutenant, you find those stories based on what you call departmental ‘updates’ reliable?”
“Not particularly.”
“That’s my point,” she said, both hands reaching across the table toward him. “If we get fifty percent of it right, which would be about average, that’s fifty percent we get wrong. And what we get wrong usually makes you guys look bad. All I want to do is humanize your work. I want my readers to see the case through your eyes. All right, through your eyes and your partner’s.”
He scanned the diner, half expected to see Superintendent Livorno smiling at him. “No. Not a chance.”
“Why you?” she said, shaking her head. “I thought from your r
ecord that you’d understand. Of course I’m trying to isolate you. That’s what I’m trying to do in my own career. Creative work does that, Lieutenant. I guess I was stupid enough to think you’d see this for what it is—an opportunity to give your career a boost.”
He snapped up the check when the waitress put it between them. “It’s not my style to step over others.”
She stabbed across the booth at him with her finger. “But that’s exactly what you do, Lieutenant. Spare me the tender picture of your buddies throwing you a party after your last two cases here in Detroit, the ones they couldn’t do diddly-squat with.” Her voice was loud enough for those at neighboring tables to look their way. “Isn’t your fondest desire on this case to win and make Sherrod look like a two-bit asshole?”
She smiled knowingly as she got up, gathered her things, and walked out. He sat alone for a minute with his coffee, feeling the quiet in the diner. Even the cashier seemed shocked into silence. They probably think they just saw a wife walk out on her husband, he thought.
As he finished his coffee, Worthy felt none too proud of himself. The truth was that the reporter, in trying to shine the spotlight on him, threatened him. The “previous successes” Kenna McCarty referenced had come at a steep price. His gift or specialty was closing cold cases, and that meant that when he succeeded, his police colleagues resented him even as the media lauded him. And when he failed miserably, as he had not long ago, his colleagues rejoiced.
Sherrod wasn’t the only one who resented his notoriety. But his red face was the one that Worthy saw waiting for him regardless of the outcome of this case. He’ll hate me if I solve the case—his case—and he’ll dance on my grave if I fail, he thought.
Chapter Seven
The same morning, in the church’s office, Father Fortis was fighting off a headache as he tried, with Mrs. Hazelton’s help, to make sense of the parish’s finances.
“It looks like the parish can barely pay its bills,” he said.
Mrs. Hazelton pointed at one of the columns. “And that’s with the help of the fall festival.”
Let the Dead Bury the Dead Page 8
