“You know,” he said, pensively, “at one time Klaus Krieg had everything he needed to lead an exemplary life. His father cared enough to go through all the rules and regulations and conquer all the obstacles for a Catholic marriage. His mother showed her love and devotion for her Jewish heritage as she taught him to respect noble Jewish traditions. He had the best of two great faiths. He became a respected religious leader. But none of that made him a good or holy person. Greed became his god.
“Oh, and that brings up one last question I meant to ask: What about Marie and David and Augustine? What about the skeletons in their closets?”
Koznicki hesitated for a moment. “I think they will be safe. Yes, I think they will. The writers and their secrets are no longer of any value whatsoever to Krieg.
“And perhaps—just perhaps—he may feel that his holding back might carry some needed weight when and if he applies for his hoped-for pardon. As we know—and the writers found out—his kind never stops manipulating—and never gives up.”
“And,” Koesler pressed, “was what he did to them—the blackmail—a crime? I heard one of your officers mention that if they hadn’t nailed him for murder, at least they could have gotten him for extortion. And all the time, I thought money had to be involved in such cases.”
“The officer was correct, at least technically. The crime of extortion is one of compulsion. The victim is compelled to do something he or she would not ordinarily do because of the threat made. It is a felony punishable by up to five years in prison. But it is easy to understand why the crime is not frequently prosecuted. In this case, which of these writers would have felt strongly enough about the blackmail to voluntarily reveal the secret in order to prosecute the case?”
There was another brief silence.
“Well,” Koznicki observed finally, “it was a short week.”
Koesler nodded. “Not quite two full days. Marygrove refunded the students’ tuition. Which I thought was more than generous, seeing the students got more instruction and information from the real-life events than they ever would have gotten from all the classes we might have conducted.”
Wanda reentered the den, carrying a tray with three small glasses and an attractive bottle of liqueur. “Anyone care for an after-dinner drink?”
Both Koznicki and Koesler were caught off-guard. For a few seconds they were frozen. Then they began to laugh.
“Sorry,” Wanda said, joining in their laughter, “but all we seem to have in the house is this Frangelico.” She poured three drinks. “I do read the papers, you know!”
Koznicki and Koesler raised their glasses to toast Wanda and each other. Simultaneously, they saluted, “Praise God!”
Acknowledgments
Gratitude for technical advice to:
Ramon Betanzos, Ph.D., Professor of Humanities, Wayne State University
Father William Dowell, Pastor, Prince of Peace Parish, West Bloomfield, Michigan
Jim Grace, Detective, Kalamazoo Police Department
Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M., Samaritan Health Care Center, Detroit
Timothy Kenny, attorney-at-law, Larson, Harms & Wright, P.C.
Sister Patricia Lamb, R.S.M., Pastoral Associate, St. Joseph the Worker Parish, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Irma Macy, Religious Education Coordinator, Prince of Peace Parish, West Bloomfield, Michigan
Gerald P. Maloney, Chief Substance Abuse Therapist, Heritage Hospital, Taylor, Michigan
Sergeant Mary Marcantonio, Office of Executive Deputy Chief, Detroit Police Department
Donna Martin, Vice President and Editorial Director, Andrews and McMeel
Thomas J. Petinga, Jr., DO., FACEP, Chairman, Department of Emergency Medicine, Mt. Carmel Mercy Hospital, Detroit
Walter D Pool, M.D., Medical Consultant
Noreen Rooney, TV Book Editor, Detroit Free Press (Retired)
Joseph G. Schulte, Executive Vice President, Ross Roy Communications
John E. Shay, Jr., Ph.D., President, Marygrove College
Sister Jan Soleau, I.H.M., Director, Alumni Relations, Marygrove College
John Sommerfeldt, Ph.D., Professor of History, University of Dallas
Werner U. Spitz, M.D., Professor of Forensic Pathology, Wayne State University
Inspector Barbara Weide, Youth Section, Detroit Police Department
Rabbi and Mrs. R.W. Weiss
The Reverend Canon and Mrs. C. George Widdifield, Pastoral Associate, Christ Church Cranbrook, Bloomfield Hills, Michigan
Any technical error is the author's
Masquerade copyright © 1990, 2012 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.
Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC
an Andrews McMeel Universal company,
1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106
This is a work of fiction and, as such, events described herein are creations of the author’s imagination. Any relation to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental and accidental.
ISBN 978-1-4494-2369-8
www.andrewsmcmeel.com
William X. Kienzle died in December 2001. He was a Detroit parish priest for twenty years before leaving the priesthood. He began writing his popular mystery series after serving as an editor and director at the Center for Contemplative Studies at the University of Dallas.
The Father Koesler Mysteries
1. The Rosary Murders
2. Death Wears a Red Hat
3. Mind Over Murder
4. Assault with Intent
5. Shadow of Death
6. Kill and Tell
7. Sudden Death
8. Deathbed
9. Deadline for a Critic
10. Marked for Murder
11. Eminence
12. Masquerade
13. Chameleon
14. Body Count
15. Dead Wrong
16. Bishop as Pawn
17. Call No Man Father
18. Requiem for Moses
19. The Man Who Loved God
20. The Greatest Evil
21. No Greater Love
22. Till Death
23. The Sacrifice
24. The Gathering
Here is a special preview of
Chameleon
The Father Koesler Mysteries: Book 13
1
“Why would a nun be on the make?”
“Wait a minute, I think I heard this one. But the way I heard it, the nun leaves the—whaddya call it?—the convent, the order, whatever. It’s the middle of the school year, the wrong time for the job market, her being a teacher and everything. So, to tide her over, she gets a job as a hooker. And she does fantastic business.
“Her pimp can’t figure it out. She isn’t that great a looker, but she’s bringing in twice the trade of any of his other girls. So, to learn how she does it, the pimp bugs her room. He hears her, usin’ that tone of voice kindergarten teachers use—only she’s talkin’ to a John. And she’s sayin’, ‘No, no! You’re doing it all wrong. You’re going to have to do it over and over again until you get it right!’ ”
“Very funny. But I wasn’t joking.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Over there . . .” Under cover of his newspaper he gestured toward the far side of the lobby of the Pontchartrain.
“What?” The other man’s eyes followed the direction of the gesture, but he could detect nothing out of the ordinary.
“Over there, Fred: sitting on the couch . . . near the lamp. She’s doing her nails.”
Fred pinpointed her. “Oh, yeah. What gives you the idea she’s a nun?”
“That’s about as uniformed as they get nowadays. It’s called a modified habit.”
“That’s a nun?” Fred was not buying it. Not yet. “Go on! I’ve seen pictures of them!”
“Lately?”
“Sure! On TV. Ingrid Bergman. LorettaYoung.”
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“Fred, those are old movies. You find a nun dressed in an old-fashioned habit from head to toe now, she’s in a nursing home or she’s wacko or senile.”
“Well, pardon me, Al; we can’t all be good Catholics like you.”
“Just read a paper once in a while, willya, Fred.”
“Why? You can get all the news you need in a half hour on TV.”
“Even so, you musta seen nuns on the news. They’re always protesting nuclear power plants or war or they’re feeding the poor or something.”
“Oh, yeah, there’s Mother Teresa. I know her. But she wears the habit.”
“That’s a sari. But I’ll give you it looks like a habit. Haven’t you seen any of the other nuns?”
“Al, if they’re not wearin’ a habit, how would I know?”
“Well, for one thing, the TV reporter identifies them.”
“I guess I haven’t been payin’ that much attention.” Fred sounded repentant. “But take that little lady over there. How’d you know she’s a nun?”
“The veil mostly.”
“That’s a veil? Don’t look like a veil to me. Not a nun-type veil. Where’s that stuff they used to wear around their faces mat pinched their cheeks and mouth?”
Al sighed deeply. He would not have made a patient teacher. “That’s why I called it a modified habit. The veil sits back on her head, lets her hair show. It’s supposed to remind you of what the wimple—the old veil—was like. Same with the rest of the habit . . . uniform would be a better name for it.” His tone made it clear he intended the term to be derogatory. Continuing the comparison, he added, “And that starched white collar is what’s left of the . . . you know, the bib. There’s even a scapular.”
“A what?”
“That strip of cloth mat hangs down fore and aft. It covers her shoulders. That’s why they call it a scapular.”
Fred was impressed. “God, Al, I had no idea you knew so much about nuns. I didn’t know anybody knew that much.” Fred mulled over his newfound respect for the religious insight of his companion. “Okay, so she’s a nun. But what makes you mink she’s a hooker? I mean, I got a problem with that. A nun a hustler? Sheesh! That almost makes me sick to my stomach. Maybe you’re wrong, Al.” Fred sounded as if he were praying that his otherwise knowledgeable friend was mistaken.
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. When was the last time you saw a nun who looked like that?”
“Geez, I don’t know. The last time I can remember seeing nuns, all they had was faces and hands. Everything else was covered up.”
“Okay, well, take my word for it: Nuns—even today’s nuns— don’t look like that. Doing her nails in public? Come on! And look at the makeup: That’s practically professional!”
“Yeah!” As Fred studied the woman in earnest, he began to appreciate her less as a possible nun and more as a desirable object.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Al continued, “nuns today may dress like everybody else or with a hint of a uniform like that one, but they’re usually kind of . . . well . . . plain. Maybe a little makeup, but nothing like that.”
“Nuns don’t necessarily prefer Hanes, huh?” Fred smiled. He enjoyed women more than just about everything else in life. He felt a growing excitement in the possibility that this fantastic-looking female might be a nun and a hooker as well.
“So, Fred, I may be wrong, but I think she’s here to turn a trick. You and I, we travel the country often enough as sales reps to know what a hooker looks like, how she acts.”
Fred was grinning. “Hey, Al, whaddya say we hit on her? I mean, if she’s really selling, I’d be glad to do a little buying. Whaddya say?”
Al shook his head. “Frankly, Fred, I don’t think we could afford her.”
She held up her hand, examined the tips of the spread fingers approvingly, tucked the emery board into her purse, and checked her watch.
She tapped her fingers against her knee. Time was not a significant consideration. Her basic charge was computed by the hour, and she had no other business on her schedule tonight. Nevertheless, waiting, killing time, made her fidgety.
As she glanced around the lobby she spotted the two men obviously studying her. They were seated far across the room, but there was no mistaking their interest.
She was used to this sort of reaction. She was a strikingly beautiful woman and she knew it.
But there was something out of the ordinary about those two across the room. At least about one of them. One was looking at her with that familiar lust to which she had grown accustomed. But the other one wore an expression that could best be described as disgust. Now why would—then she remembered: She was wearing the habit.
She almost smiled. Instead, she carefully curled a lip.
It worked. In a few seconds the two men exchanged a few words and then left the lobby. She had it all to herself. Just right.
One of the problems with being unoccupied, as she was now, was that it gave one time to think. She didn’t want time on her hands. She didn’t want to think.
That guy—the one who had been regarding her with such distaste—he reminded her of someone. Who?
Her memory searched the distant past. Way back to the days when she’d been a student at Sacred Heart school in Dearborn. Yes, that was it: Monsignor Hardy. He’d always reminded her of someone who had just smelled something repugnant.
More man once, no, frequently, she had been marched into Monsignor Hardy’s office in the rectory. Little Helen Donovan had been bad, had broken some rule, had violated some rule not yet legislated, had given scandal. Little Helen Donovan needed to be lectured, and then, after what passed for a fair trial in the parochial school of old, punished.
But that was it: old Monsignor Hardy used to look at her just the way that stranger had tonight.
It didn’t matter. She was not going to continue this line of work forever. For one thing, it was far too dangerous. You never knew what sort of client you were going to entertain. Often enough it was just an insecure guy after some variety or a thrill that he thought only a pro could deliver.
But there were the other times when the John was a certifiable sicko. She shuddered. Those dicey episodes were only too easy to recall and too painful to ponder voluntarily.
Then too, she had done well—very well—financially. She felt sure she was on the verge of a secure future no matter what happened. Then—when that magic moment arrived—she could quit. She wasn’t certain when it would happen. But she’d know when it did.
He was walking across the lobby in her direction. Even if he had not been headed straight for her, she would have known. Moderate height, moderate build, balding, dark hair clipped tight to the scalp. But it was his expression that identified him. It was a singular mixture of self-confidence, embarrassment, bravado, and ingenuousness. She’d seen it all too many times.
He stood before her chair, looked down at her and asked, “Are you . . . ?” He seemed unable to complete the question; what if he were mistaken?
“ . . . Helen? Yes, of course I’m Helen. How many women did you think you’d find in the lobby wearing a religious habit?” She was peevish, but she tried to make the putdown sound lighthearted.
“Well, good,” he said. “And I’m . . .” He hesitated. “ . . . John.”
“Of course you are.”
“Well, shall we go up to my room or would you like a drink first?”
“No, no drink.” She didn’t want one at the moment and, for her own protection, she was doubly concerned that he not start drinking. Sometimes the meekest, mildest men became mean drunks.
They said nothing on the elevator. But after entering his room, she turned to him, smiled, and said, “Well, John, is there anything special you’d like?”
“What do you mean?” He came close to blushing.
“I’m not a mind reader, John. We’ve got only this three hours together. I don’t want you to feel anything but perfectly satisfied. So I’ve got to know just what you have in mind. I
mean, in addition to the basics.”
He fidgeted with his tie, pulling it loose from his collar.
She stepped close to him, undid the tie, and began unbuttoning his shirt. “It’s like a menu, John,” she said. “You’ve got to place your order before the meal.” She felt him quiver slightly.
“I . . . I knew I wouldn’t be able to tell you,” he said, “so I wrote it out.” He fumbled in a pocket, brought out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to her.
She quickly scanned the paper, then looked at him. “This sounds like it could be a lot of fun, John. But it’s going to cost three hundred dollars more.”
He stepped back abruptly. “What? Three hundred bucks! I’m just a haberdasher from Toledo. That’s heavy! Heavier, lots heavier, than I expected.”
She moved close to him again and fiddled with buttons. “John, you’re already paying two hundred dollars for the religious habit. You want a memorable evening. And you can have one. But everything costs, John. You know that. You’re a successful businessman.
“But, it’s up to you, John.”
It was clear she was not going to negotiate. If he wanted it, he would have to pay for it. He shrugged and helped her with the buttons.
Another satisfied customer. She seldom disappointed. In fact, all things considered and since everyone had different expectations and levels of enjoyment, she might well claim that she never disappointed. Not only was each success a personal satisfaction, it was good for referral business.
It was near midnight as she exited the Pontchartrain. It was snowing. Long since, the streets of downtown Detroit, as well as most of the rest of the city, had been abandoned by nearly everyone except drug dealers and users, the homeless, drifters, and muggers.
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