“Not the widow?” the lieutenant asked.
“I don’t know for sure. She may just have been numb. Actually, she just didn’t seem to really be there.”
“Not there?” Anne Marie had almost finished the dinner preparations.
“I don’t know; she just seemed to be in her own little world. Maybe it’ll hit her later on. Sometimes it works that way—especially when it’s a spouse. When the other partner is gone, the tendency is to expect him to show up for supper. Or for her to be the first one up in the morning. There’s just a huge hole in a person’s life when someone whose presence is really important isn’t there as he or she always was. Maybe that will happen with Mrs. Ulrich.”
“So,” Anne Marie said, “there weren’t many real mourners at your wake service.”
“Not as such, no. Mr. Adams, as I said. But there seemed to be a pretty general kindred feeling.” Father Tully set his glass on the table. He didn’t want too much alcohol on an empty stomach.
“What I sensed was a feeling of bitter defeat. Most of those at the wake appeared to be discouraged that a much needed program had gotten off to such a tragic start. I mean, just about everyone at least wishes the city good luck. And branching into the inner city is a tangible step toward redevelopment. I think a lot of people were counting on this move by Adams Bank and Trust to be a success. Instead, they end up with a murdered bank manager.
“It hurt the city as well as the city’s image. I think most of the people at this morning’s wake shared that feeling.”
“Here it comes, boys.” Anne Marie brought serving dishes to the table. Neither brother needed to move; they were already at their dining places.
Father Tully led them in a preprandial prayer—a formality his brother thought would not outlive the priest’s visit.
Anne Marie began to fill their plates. “Did you have a chance to talk much with the widow?”
Father Tully hardly knew where to begin. All the food looked so appetizing. “Yes, I did. I thought I’d at least try to console her. But she just seemed to want to talk about her husband’s death and what caused it.”
Anne Marie looked at her brother-in-law inquiringly. “I thought that was open and shut—what Zoo calls a platter case.”
Before Father Tully could reply, Zoo, smiling, said, “It’s something like the Kennedy assassination. There’s the school of thought that Lee Oswald alone killed the President: one shooter, one killer. Then there are the conspiracy theories: it was a CIA plot. Or maybe FBI. Or maybe Cuban. Or maybe a mob hit. Two shooters. More than two shooters. An army!”
“Come on!” The priest winced.
“Okay,” Zoo relented. “So this one doesn’t have that many theories. But my brother here has been worrying over one like a dog with a bone.”
“What’s that?” Anne Marie was genuinely interested.
“It involves three executive vice presidents of the Adams Bank,” Father Tully said.
“Why three?” Anne Marie pursued.
“The way I understand it,” the priest explained, “there is no set ruling on the part of any governmental agency, state or federal, with regard to this. But most banks, especially small banks, segregate the hierarchical duties. And that usually spells out to business loans, mortgages, and financial control—in other words, a comptroller.”
“The employee who gets to manage the new Detroit branch,” Zoo said, “eventually gets rewarded for being so civic-minded. He—or she—gets to leapfrog to right next to the top: an executive vice presidency.
“By simple math, if there are only three VPs at the top, one of them gets displaced. So—and this seems to be the bottom line—find the present VP who is most likely to get bounced and you find the man who took out a contract on Al Ulrich … that about it, bro?”
Zachary chuckled. “Every time you tell that story, it sounds more humorous. I could give it a far more serious delivery. But I gotta admit: that’s the essence.”
The two men laughed. Anne Marie didn’t. “If that theory were true, what about whoever was appointed to take Ulrich’s place as manager?”
“Yes,” Father Tully said, “the new manager—and the only other candidate who was considered for the job—is Nancy Groggins.”
“Well, if there’s any substance to your theory, Zachary, then wouldn’t the same reward system apply for her?” Anne Marie pressed. “And in that case, wouldn’t she be the target for another contract killing?”
“Now, wait a minute,” Zoo said. “The next thing you’ll be saying is that the manager of that bank needs round-the-clock protection!”
“I’ll tell you the same thing that Al Smith is supposed to have cabled the Pope after losing the election: unpack.” Father Tully was chuckling.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Zoo asked.
“Two things really,” Father Tully replied. “First, I was surprised to find that the widow, Barbara Ulrich, is maybe the only one in the world who agrees with my theory about a contract murder.
“And second, she feels very strongly that none of the executives would bother with a contract on Nancy Groggins.”
“Why’s that?” Anne Marie asked.
“Because Nancy Groggins is a woman. And, according to Mrs. Ulrich, in Tom Adams’s M.O., no women need apply.”
“What!” Anne Marie exclaimed.
“I have that on Barbara Ulrich’s testimony alone. I’ve got nothing to back it up. But she seemed convinced that her theory was incontrovertible. According to the widow, Mr. Adams believes there is a place for women—and that place is anywhere in his organization except near the upper echelon.”
“So,” Anne Marie clarified, “none of the executives would need to have her killed: she’s no threat to their position because she’s a woman.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Seems to me,” Anne Marie said, “you gave an award to a man unworthy of it!”
Father Tully shrugged and dug into the vegetables. “No one’s perfect. Tom Adams has done a lot for our missions, there’s no doubt of that. Besides, I have reason—plenty of good reason—to believe that Tom Adams lives his life closely patterned on the Bible. And remember: women do not fare all that well in Scripture.”
“Not too badly though,” Anne Marie pointed out.
Father Tully studied the ceiling for a moment. “True enough,” he admitted. “There were some heroic women in the Old Testament: Esther, Ruth ….”
“And in the New Testament,” Anne Marie added. “Mary Magdalene, Martha and Mary, the Blessed Mother, the women to whom Jesus appeared after His resurrection … and so on.”
“Right you are, Anne,” Father Tully said. “But, by and large, it is a man’s story. And besides, Tom Adams is, or seems to be, an extremely faithful son of the Catholic Church. And we all know where women stand in the Church: absolute equality except where it counts—the priesthood … bishops. So he’s got a lot of heavy example there.”
“Conceded,” Anne Marie said.
“I didn’t know this wrinkle, about women not being allowed in the upper echelon of Adams Bank,” Zoo said. “Interesting, but a detour. So Nancy Groggins is not in danger as manager of the bank—not from any of the execs, that is. But you two are overlooking the point that neither was Al Ulrich in danger from the execs. He was in danger from his new neighbors. One of them, stoned on dope, killed him. End of case!”
“Easy, easy, brother.” Father Tully laughed. “If my short-term memory serves, you were the one who brought up my theory a few minutes ago. But you see, I’ve abandoned that theory; I agree with you. In fact, when I talked to Barbara Ulrich about it, I went out of my way to try to convince her to let the police handle it. I told her not to meddle or get involved in something that is distinctly and exclusively police business.
“Now, I ask you, brother, have you ever heard that sentiment before?”
Zoo chuckled as he dug into some pasta. “My very own words. I wasn’t sure you were paying me any mind.”<
br />
“Case closed.” Father Tully stabbed an asparagus spear, dabbed it in hollandaise sauce, and nibbled on it.
He noticed that Anne Marie seemed to be toying with her food rather than eating it. “Something wrong, Anne?”
She smiled briefly. “Oh, I was just thinking … your visit with us is almost over. That makes me sad. We’ve had so much fun together. Isn’t there some way you can extend your visit? Maybe you could get a Detroit parish? They seem to be short of priests around here ….”
“Hey,” Zoo said, “that’s a great idea. How much longer can you stay?”
“Until Bob Koesler returns. That’s open-ended, sort of. He could be gone a month. But I’m betting he’ll show up any day now. And I don’t know about getting a Detroit parish. By the way, Anne, is the coffee done?”
She glanced at the counter. “I think so. Let me get you some.”
She poured the coffee. He tasted it. Hot. And good. He had yet to divine Father Koesler’s technique that turned out such unpotable brew. “The major problem with my staying in Detroit on a permanent basis is that I’m a Josephite—an order priest. The Josephites don’t have any benefice in this part of the country. Not a parish, a seminary, or any other operation.
“So, as a Josephite, I’ve got no reason to be here full time. I guess when my time’s up, I’ll just have to return to Dallas.”
“Wait a minute,” Zoo said. “It seems to me we’ve been through this before. A couple of years ago there was this priest who belonged to some missionary outfit … can’t think of the name just now …”
“Maryknoll,” Anne Marie supplied.
“That’s a foreign missionary order,” Father Tully said.
“You know about them?” Zoo asked.
“Sure. They’re distinctively an American order—as are we. Except that they aim at evangelizing in places like China and Africa and South America. What was a Maryknoller doing here? If he found a way to stay, maybe there’s hope for a transient Josephite.”
“I’m not sure how that worked,” Zoo said. “You’d have to ask Father Koesler.”
“Or me.” Anne Marie smiled. “I remember the priest. He was on sort of a sick leave from his Latin American assignment. He got mixed up in a homicide case. He was cleared, of course, and then he decided to stay here. He went through some sort of Church process. He’s still here, so I guess he was successful in becoming a regular fixture. Now he’s pastor of a southwest Detroit parish.”
Father Tully had emptied his plate. “He must’ve gone through excardination and incardination. I assume that when he came to Detroit, he still belonged to Maryknoll. He was incardinated in that religious order. Evidently he wanted to belong to Detroit, for whatever reason. In effect, he had to belong to somebody—in this case, either Maryknoll or the Detroit archdiocese.
“It’s something like passing the baton from one runner to the next in a relay race. Only in this case it’s a priest who’s being passed from one organization to a diocese. Maryknoll agrees to free up this priest—and excardinates him. The Archdiocese of Detroit agrees to take him and authorizes him to function as a priest here—incardination. That must be what happened in the Maryknoller’s case.”
“So,” Zoo said, “what’s stopping you? Get on the stick and start the process going.”
“There’s only one problem with that, Zoo: I like being a Josephite.”
Silence.
Clearly, neither Anne Marie nor her husband had considered that there could be a contest between keeping this newly formed family together and their brother’s religious, order. “You mean you’d rather belong to your order than stay with us? At least within visiting distance of us?” Zoo asked.
Father Tully compressed his lips in concentration. “That’s a tough one. I’ve been wrestling with this the whole time I’ve been here.
“It was one thing to learn about your existence from Aunt May. That was exciting. And I couldn’t wait to meet you. But the reality of being with you has been so much more than this. In no time at all, I’ve come to love you—twice as much because we’ve missed so much of each other’s life.
“All I can tell you is … I’ve been thinking and praying about this. I haven’t reached a decision yet. But I’m trying to. And it’s not that I don’t love you … or even that I love you more—or less. It’s that I loved my order before you came along.
“But when I do decide you’ll be the first to know.”
“We appreciate that.” Anne Marie wiped away a tear.
Father Tully grinned. “But I still think there’s something fishy about those three execs ….”
“Leave it, brother,” Zoo said. “Intuition fits better on the womenfolk.”
They laughed and started stacking dishes.
Twenty-One
It was just after ten Tuesday morning—time to start the day.
Barbara Ulrich groaned inwardly. She looked several times at the clock on the nightstand. She never slept in. But then she also never had as much to drink as she’d had last night.
Simply, she had tried to drown a disastrous day.
The funeral had taken much more out of her than she’d bargained for. That was followed by two consecutive strikeouts: Martin Whitston and Jack Fradet.
Definitely a bad news day. Today had a lot of catching up to do.
Lou Durocher was expected at eleven, less than an hour from now.
She sat up and quickly clutched her temple. Uhhhh!
Coffee might help. Slowly she made her way into the kitchen, where she started things percolating.
Next, a shower. She padded back into the bedroom. She let her nightgown slip to the floor and turned to study her body in the full-length mirror. Flawless. But one of these days … one of these days the new one would begin to show. Long before that, this would all have to be straightened out.
The shower seemed to help. She absorbed its pulsation and forced herself to think about good old Lou Durocher.
He wasn’t really all that “old.” Somewhere in his early fifties, she guessed. Although she and Lou had been intimate, they’d never gotten personal. While she was familiar with the others’ backgrounds, she’d never delved into Lou’s. She had always assumed it wouldn’t prove to be fascinating—after all, he wasn’t. Hell, she could probably get him to admit he was her baby’s father even if she’d never had intercourse with him! She laughed and blew water away from her face.
She began to take stock: what did she know about Lou and what could she speculate about with reasonable certainty?
Lou Durocher was walking proof of the Peter Principle: He had risen to the level of his incompetence. He would have made a good … what? Golf pro—though not under tournament pressure. No, just about competent to instruct men and women who wanted to improve enough to qualify as duffers.
He was good at glad-handing, acquaintances and strangers alike. He was good at meetings, as long as he didn’t have to chair them. He was trim and fit, blond and usually bland. He was enthusiastic once he knew that was the appropriate response. Hell, he even looked like Dan Quayle.
But most of all, Lou was Catholic. She was convinced that was what had triggered “the grand experiment.” At first, Tom Adams had been willing to let nature take its course. Greed, ambition, backbiting, backstabbing, dirty dealing—the natural selection of those who were aggressively proficient at these enterprises composed most of the hierarchy of Adams Bank and Trust.
For no rationally sound reason—was it that so few Catholics were really good at these capitalistic, winner-take-all games?—Adams set out to place a fellow Catholic into a position of power.
Why he had selected Lou Durocher as the guinea pig was unclear. But select him and stick with him Adams had. Adams also took the blue ribbon for bullheadedness in believing-—as no one else did—that Durocher one day would make it.
Of course Barbara saw through all this from the beginning. Except that Lou Durocher was one of the three execs, Barbara would never have given him a
second look. She needed him to fill out her hand.
The doorbell! He must be more nervous than usual; he was almost half an hour early.
It wouldn’t do to go the door nude. Lou became confused too easily as it was. She threw on an opaque white robe. With that, she could go in any number of directions.
She opened the door to a visibly shaken Lou Durocher. “Barbara! Barbara!” he exclaimed before even entering the apartment.
“Get in here,” she said in a peevish tone.
He did, depositing his hat and coat on a nearby chair.
“Sit down,” Barbara commanded, “and get hold of yourself. This isn’t the end of the world.”
“It could be the end of my world.” It was an overstatement to be expected from this emotionally slight man. “Are you sure … I mean, are you certain you’re pregnant?”
“Yes. The doctor and I are certain I’m pregnant. Not just a little pregnant—completely pregnant, and a bit more than seven months till delivery.”
“That’s all the time we’ve got!” He was breathing heavily and perspiring profusely.
“What do you want? The most you can have is nine months for gestation. Given that, we’ve got about as much time as we could possibly have.”
He slumped into a chair and began wringing his hands.
This not unexpected behavior she could handle coming from Lou. Now that she was dealing with a distraught weakling, she contrasted his reaction with that of Martin Whitston and Jack Fradet.
Both the latter had been cool from the outset. And why not? Each knew he could not be the father. Now near to hyperventilating, Lou certainly hadn’t even considered that he might not be the father.
She decided not to wait any longer to settle this matter. Her recent experience with Martin and Jack had taught her not to waste time on secondary issues. Cut to the chase: somebody was the goddamn father of her baby! It wasn’t Martin or Jack. And it wasn’t the presently deceased Al. It had to be either Lou or Tom.
My God, she thought, what a lineup! Could she have overstocked her pool of lovers?
Man Who Loved God Page 21
