Stopping the car, Mary Helen checked in the rear view mirror. “Eileen, how could you possibly see someone in the bushes over the side of the hill? We can hardly even see the road.”
Carefully, she backed up and pulled over to the side.
“When you put on that high beam, I know I saw a head in that clump of pampas grass.”
Both nuns climbed out of the brown car. “I know I saw a head,” Eileen repeated, scrutinizing the mound of bluish-green grass. Its long, silvery-white plumes fluttered as cars passed on the opposite side of the road.
“I don’t see a blasted thing,” Mary Helen said. And it’s just as well, she thought, because I don’t know what I’d do if I did.
Eileen shrugged. “Well, I surely don’t see anyone now.” She stomped her feet to keep warm. “Maybe I’m just imagining things because of all that’s gone on. Besides, what in the world would we do if we actually saw someone?”
“I guess we’d be accused of more pluck than prudence.”
“How does the old saying go—‘Pluck makes luck’?”
Mary Helen pointed to one silky plume growing just above the grade. “It was probably the headlights hitting that.”
“You could be right. Come on in, old dear, before you freeze,” Eileen said, rubbing her hands together and climbing into the passenger seat.
After a final look, Sister Mary Helen slipped behind the steering wheel. She carefully rechecked the rear view mirror, then inched along down the driveway.
The two nuns were silent as they approached the downtown area. From the James Lick Freeway, they could see the dense morning fog beginning to lift. Ahead of them, the large antenna dominating the roof of the Hall of Justice had begun to penetrate the fog.
“Now, look at that.” Eileen pointed to the lone beam of sunlight reflecting off the antenna’s metal disc. “That has to be a good omen.”
“I surely hope you’re right.” Mary Helen was thinking about Leonel. Jailed in a strange country, with a strange language—how frightened and despondent the young man must feel.
After parking their car behind the large, gray building, the pair hurried along the walkway. Passing the Coroner’s Office, Mary Helen felt queasy. The coroner! The words “felony” and “penitentiary” jumped into her mind. She wondered when or if the man would notice the slit in his seal on the professor’s door. Through the glass she noticed a hurriedly dressed family huddled on the wooden bench. One older woman, her hair still in curlers, cried softly into a wad of Kleenex. Beside her, Mary Helen could feel Eileen begin to pucker.
“Those poor, dear people,” she muttered. “I wonder if there is something we can do to help?”
“Probably not,” Mary Helen said. “Let’s get upstairs and see if we can help poor, dear Leonel.”
A lanky patrolman in a dark-blue serge uniform held the lobby door open for them.
“Coming in, Sisters?” he asked.
“How ever does he know we’re nuns?” Eileen whispered.
“Maybe it has something to do with no makeup, no jewelry, conservative blue suits, and the cross we each have in our lapels.”
Inside, the lobby of the Hall of Justice was a thick stew of people: detectives, patrolmen, visitors, vendors criss-crossed the marble floor. A baby’s shrill cry pierced the din.
Along the far wall, a lonely line of men and women queued behind a cagelike window. “Over there,” Eileen said. Above the small window a sign read JAIL VISITING HOURS, 11 to 2.
“What in heaven’s name do you think we do?”
“Beats me.” Mary Helen checked her wristwatch. “We have plenty of time and absolutely no ‘know-how.’ “She shrugged. “Maybe we should drop in on Inspectors Gallagher and Murphy. They’ll help us out. All we have to do is play a little dumb.”
“And we won’t be fooling, old dear,” Eileen mumbled, following her friend to the large, black wall directory by the elevators.
“Going up?” A clean-cut young man held the elevator door open for them. Once inside, Mary Helen felt dwarfed. She had never realized how tall policemen were. Poor Eileen! Her nose must be a foot below everyone else’s. Eileen, wedged in the corner behind several erect backs, was rolling her eyes toward a peculiar bulge on the side of the conservative gray tweed suit in front of her.
“Gun,” she mouthed.
Mary Helen nodded.
The elevator came to a smooth stop. The two nuns zig-zagged their way out. Turning right, they followed the fourth-floor corridor to room 450.
From the doorway, Mary Helen scanned the cluttered room. It looked nothing like what she had imagined. Brightly colored phones, gray filing cabinets, and computer screens were scattered throughout. Fourteen wooden desks were pushed front to front into seven crowded groups. At each, two neatly groomed detectives faced one another. In dress shirts and ties, with jackets slung over the backs of chairs, they looked, Mary Helen thought, like insurance agents or realtors. That is, except for the shoulder holster and gun each man wore.
At the far end she spotted one desk with the flag of Ireland stuck in an empty Guinness bottle. On the facing desk was a lovely ceramic dish-garden full of healthy plants: piggy-back, philodendron, a touch of creeping charlie. Mary Helen knew, before she looked at the chairs, that the desk combination must belong to Inspectors Gallagher and Murphy.
Across the room, the inspectors were doing some spotting of their own.
“Oh, oh. Don’t look now!” Gallagher ran his hand over his bald crown.
“What’s up, Denny?” Kate looked across at her partner. He was cocking his head toward the doorway. When he did that, it always reminded her of a sparrow in search for worms.
“Who is it?” she whispered. She knew Denny well enough not to turn around.
Without answering, Gallagher sprang to his feet. She watched, fascinated, as he tucked in his shirt, hiked up his pants, straightened his loosened tie, and dropped his cigar stub into the already-filled ashtray. His mouth looked naked without the cigar.
It’s either the Mayor or the nuns, Kate thought, swiveling her chair toward the doorway.
“I’ll go get them, but then you handle it,” Gallagher muttered. Crossing the Homicide Detail room, he ushered in the two nuns.
A strange silence followed the trio across the room. Gallagher introduced them to the others in the room as he went. Detectives half-rose, stiffly shook hands, and nodded. “How do, Sister.”
These fellows can get used to crooks and criminals, Mary Helen observed, as she and Eileen smiled and shook hands. But they never seem to get used to nuns.
“Coffee?” Kate asked. Gallagher had seated the sisters on two stiff-backed chairs he pulled close to his desk.
“Please. Black.” Mary Helen answered for both of them. She was delighted that even in the midst of crisis the Homicide Detail revered a coffee break. It gave her a sense of confidence in the system.
“Well, what can we do for you today?” Kate set two Styrofoam cups on the desk.
“Sister Eileen and I would like to visit Leonel.”
“You’re a bit early,” Kate said.
Mary Helen cleared her throat and stole a glance at Eileen. This was the time Eileen should have jumped in with a bit of her blarney and saved the day. One glance at her friend told Mary Helen that Eileen’s mind was definitely not on the conversation. Eileen was minutely studying Kate’s beige, tailored suit. Mary Helen realized Eileen was looking for the gun bulge.
Adjusting her glasses with one hand, Mary Helen tapped Eileen’s knee with the other. “I guess we are early . . .” She let the sentence dangle.
“But how could we ever be too early to give that poor, dear lad a little support?” Good old Eileen was coming through!
Mary Helen could feel Kate’s blue eyes studying them, deciding what to do. She picked an imaginary speck of dust from her navy skirt.
“Just imagine yourself, Kate, an exile in a strange country,” Eileen began with a lilt. This time Mary Helen crossed her fingers. “Imagine
yourself jailed, bewildered . . .” Eileen did not have to go any further.
“I’ll call upstairs and see if Bucky O’Donnell can arrange something.” Removing one gold earring, Kate picked up the phone and dialed.
“Bucky’s a graduate of St. Ignatius,” Gallagher explained, as if the man’s alma mater justified his bending the rules. “And I don’t know why she wears those things.” He pointed to Kate’s gold loop on the desk. “She must take that one off twenty times a day.”
Kate, her back turned toward the nuns, was talking quietly into the mouth of the phone. Gallagher covered any conversation they may have heard with more loud, harmless chatter.
Sister Mary Helen could not distinguish the words, but Kate’s tone was unmistakable. Kate was conning Bucky O’Donnell. She hung up, then dialed a second time.
“Everything’s fixed!” Kate turned toward the nuns with a look of triumph. “I’ve asked Jack Bassetti from Vice to take you up.” She replaced her earring.
Gallagher’s face clearly registered a nonplus. “Bassetti?”
“Yes,” Kate answered.
Without a word, Gallagher picked up his cigar and rolled it into the corner of his mouth.
I wonder what that was all about, Mary Helen thought. “Before we go,” she said, “there is something else I thought you should both know.” She paused. “I know why Leonel can’t be guilty.”
“His eyes?” Kate asked, a note of impatience creeping into her voice. Gallagher sank back into his swivel chair and laid down his pencil.
“No,” Mary Helen answered primly. “The motive.”
“Motive?” Gallagher perked up. “You know the motive?”
“Not exactly, but I am an avid mystery fan and I read recently, in one of my books, that there are only four basic reasons why anyone murders. Interestingly enough, they all begin with the letter ‘L.’ ” Holding up her hand, she counted off on her fingers, “Lust, love, lucre, and . . .” She stopped. “I can’t remember the fourth, but I know Leonel has none of these reasons.”
Kate and Gallagher stared open-mouthed. Even Eileen frowned.
Before anyone could speak, Jack Bassetti arrived. He flashed Kate a love look that Mary Helen did not miss. Kate flashed one right back.
“Sisters,” he said, “it’s my pleasure.” He motioned for them to lead the way.
Nice face, wide, generous mouth, Mary Helen thought, stepping in front of him. Altogether a handsome hunk. Kate and Bassetti? There certainly was some chemistry between them. The idea pleased her. She turned sideways to avoid hitting the desks on her way out of Homicide Detail.
Eileen followed closely behind. “I’ll bet the fourth ‘L’ is lunacy,” she whispered, “and, I swear by all that is holy, old dear, you are getting a touch of it.” Turning, Eileen smiled sweetly at a sinewy, young detective who stepped back to let her pass.
Gallagher watched the trio maneuver their way out of room 450.
“Why Bassetti?” he asked.
“Wanted him to get a look at her. I can hardly wait to see what he thinks.”
“What I’d be interested in is what she thinks.” Gallagher stared absently out at the James Lick Freeway.
“Fill out, partner.” Kate pushed a pile of forms toward his desk.
“What do you figure the fourth ‘L’ is?”
“I know, and I’m pretty sure she does, too.”
“What is it?”
“Loathing.”
“Loathing! How the hell do you know that?” Gallagher loosened his tie.
Looking up, Kate smiled wickedly. “Because I read the same mystery books she does.”
Jack Bassetti punched the elevator button. The three watched the red light crawl toward the fourth floor.
“So, Sisters,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets and nervously jingling some change. “So, you’re from Kate’s alma mater?”
Smiling, he waited for one of the nuns to pick up the conversation.
“Yes, we surely are.” Sister Eileen jumped right in, raving about Kate and how proud the college was of her. Mary Helen was relieved. This would be the perfect opportunity for her to just smile pleasantly and take a long, hard look at Jack Bassetti. So far she liked what she saw. Bassetti was a very personable young man who laughed and smiled easily. He was impeccably dressed, she noted. The creases in his gray flannels were razor sharp. The navy jacket fit perfectly, with just enough tailoring to emphasize his broad shoulders and narrow hips.
Trying not to stare, Mary Helen felt sure his tie, which picked up both the gray and blue, must have designer’s initials on it somewhere. Probably doesn’t have that thick head of hair merely cut, she thought, I’ll bet he has it styled! Yes, Kate and he would make a very good-looking couple. The young man was full of Italian charm, yet she sensed a little uneasiness in him. Maybe he wasn’t used to nuns, or maybe there was something else. Maybe a little hanky-panky between him and Kate? Unexpectedly, her eyes met his. She could feel her face flush.
Well, actually, she reminded herself, looking away, if that’s what it is, it is really none of your concern. Right now, you have your hands full with murder.
The door of the elevator opened noiselessly. Bassetti held it while the two nuns edged into the crowd. His back to them, he pushed the button for the sixth floor.
O’Donnell met them outside the elevator. Bassetti quickly turned over his charges. Mary Helen thought she caught a look of relief on his face as he pushed the elevator’s down button.
Hot damn! Bassetti thought, stepping into the elevator. The inspector has definitely been inspected! He hoped Kate and Gallagher would still be in Homicide when he got there. He relished telling Kate she’d been outfoxed. Kate had wanted him to look the nun over, size her up. On the contrary, he had been the one looked over and very definitely sized up. Those old hazel eyes hadn’t missed a trick.
Bassetti knew Gallagher would enjoy the irony. The big Irishman would loosen his tie, throw back his bald head, and let his horse laugh rock the Detail. He liked Gallagher. He sensed the older man’s disapproval of his and Kate’s living together. Although they had never talked about it, Bassetti knew Gallagher wanted them to marry. Hell, so did he! What could he do? The days of hitting a woman over her red head and dragging her into your cave were definitely over.
Perhaps it was time for a new tack. Something about the little nun with the touch of brogue thinking Kate was such a lovely young woman, a credit to the college. Maybe he’d mention Sister Mary Helen picking up on their attraction for one another. He was sure he was right about that. There must be some good, old-fashioned Catholic guilt in Kate somewhere. He’d hit upon it.
Unfortunately, when Bassetti arrived back at Homicide, both Gallagher and Murphy were out.
Stiff-backed and precise, O’Donnell led the two nuns into a narrow, battleship-gray visiting room. Its only decoration was a No Smoking sign in both English and Spanish. A long counter and a glass wall reinforced with chicken wire divided the room in two, making it look even narrower.
“Sit here, Sisters.” Unsmiling, O’Donnell pulled out two worn chairs near a set of phones. There was a phone on either side of the glass wall. “I’ll get da Silva,” he said. The heavy keys hanging from his wide leather belt jangled as he walked.
“If this doesn’t look like something straight out of a Humphrey Bogart movie,” Eileen said, fidgeting uneasily, “I don’t know what does.”
Before Mary Helen could answer, “You said it, sweetheart,” the heavy iron door clanged open. Reluctantly, Leonel entered the visiting room and sank into the hard chair opposite the nuns. His appearance shocked Mary Helen. The tall, muscular body looked almost caved in. The shadow of unshaven whiskers emphasized the blue-black circles puffed under his eyes. His clothes were wrinkled. Even that curly head of hair was matted.
Leonel looked as if he hadn’t slept all night. Mary Helen searched his drawn face for a hint of his usual sunny disposition. At this point, she would even have settled for finding a touch o
f anger. What she couldn’t stand was the look she saw—one of a man who had all but given up hope.
Sullenly, Leonel picked up the phone.
“Hello, Leonel.” Mary Helen pressed the cold receiver to her ear. “How are you?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound cheerful.
“Fine, Sister,” Leonel answered, without raising his eyes.
“Can we do anything for you?” No response. “Is there anything you need or want?” Still, no response, although this time Leonel raised his eyes briefly. Mary Helen caught the hint of tears in his large, dark eyes. Her hand touched the cold glass wall. She wanted so badly to hug him.
“How is my Marina?” he asked, after a long pause.
“She’s fine. Upset, of course.” Although Mary Helen had not spoken to Marina herself, she had seen the young woman walking around the campus with Sister Anne just before supper last evening.
Anne hadn’t taken the time to change her jeans, but had just thrown her corduroy car coat over them. Her hands had been thrust deep into her pockets. Even from a distance, Mary Helen could see a grim expression shrouding the young nun’s usually peaceful face.
Marina had hovered close to her, a fur-collared coat enveloping her thin, straight body. The turned-up collar hid her face. Everything about the pair said “upset.” “Upset” was probably a classic understatement of what Marina was feeling. Poor kid! Who wouldn’t be upset? First finding the professor’s body, then learning her sister was missing, and now her boyfriend being held for questioning.
“She’s upset,” Mary Helen repeated. Leonel raised his brown eyes and studied her face. “But she knows you’re innocent.” That should make him feel better.
“Did she say I am-a innocent?” Leonel’s dark eyes snapped. Mary Helen caught what she thought might be a hint of fear. That was strange. Obviously, he had misunderstood her.
“I didn’t really talk to Marina.” Mary Helen spoke slowly and distinctly.
“You needn’t shout.” Eileen touched Mary Helen’s forearm. “He may not understand English very well, but he’s not deaf.”
A Novena for Murder Page 6
