by Lily Gardner
You could always count on Ham to find the juicy parts in someone’s financial records.
“Each of Bill Pike’s apartment buildings is its own financial entity.” He took a sip of his beer. “Those properties he held in partnership with Father McMahon, including their Hunter’s Ridge subdivision, were set up with a cross-purchase plan.”
“Meaning what?” Lennox said.
“In the partnership agreement, the surviving partner agrees in advance to buy the deceased partner’s share of the company. You want to know how they would fund the buyout?” He raised his eyebrows. “Each partner takes out a life insurance policy on the other.”
Lennox rocked back in her chair. Katy brought drinks and exited with their chowder bowls. Tony Bennett singing “Snowflakes.”
“How much are we talking here?”
“A lot.”
“Ten thousand is a lot to Alice,” she said.
He turned the pages in his notebook. “I’ve only glanced at his books. I’d say thirteen million?”
Just hearing a figure like that made her head buzz. “That’s a big bunch of motive. No wonder Delia’s unhappy about it,” she said. “I’ve got an interview with the priest tomorrow morning. Can you fax me the numbers?”
“Can’t have it by tomorrow. The earliest would be the end of the week. So first, finish up with the priest. Second, the doc,” Ham said. “Third?”
“Both brothers.”
“Priscilla I told you about.” Ham looked up from his notebook. “Does our client know that we’ve zeroed in on her family?”
“Not exactly.”
“Doesn’t she need to be informed?”
“We’ll leave that up to Kline,” Lennox said. “How many hours is he giving you?”
“Open-ended.” Ham jotted notes in his black notebook. The look on his face, intent, the way he got when he was in the accounting zone.
Her first homicide case in over a year and she got to work with Ham. Lennox was just filled to the brim with how good life could be. The gold garland, the Christmas lights, the warm, sweet feeling the Blitzen gave her.
“Oh, Hammy.” She squeezed his writing hand so that he had to look at her. “They’re playing our song.”
“‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?’” he said.
Chapter 13
The next morning at ten to eight, Lennox had just enough light to appreciate the gardens that stretched across Saint Mary’s courtyard. Rain bounced off the baldpate of Saint Francis, who anchored the north end of the grounds. Lennox walked to the back of the courtyard where she saw a brass sign indicating the office. When no one answered her knock, she tried the door.
The reception area was unlit except for feeble daylight coming from the lead-paned windows. An abandoned office desk stood before a lit room, its door open, a loud, jolly voice shouting from within. Father Mac broke into an Irish brogue. Lennox heard a gust of laughter.
“One minute, Jack.” Father Mac called, “Miss Cooper?”
She stepped across the threshold into a large and sumptuous office paneled in dark wood. Basketball jerseys draped over the sofa and a canvas bag, lumpy with basketballs, had partially disgorged onto the rug. A pile of lacrosse sticks lay in a heap beneath the windows. Over the marble fireplace hung a giant oil painting of saints and angels.
Still on the phone, Father McMahon motioned her to an upholstered chair that faced his desk. From the sounds of the conversation, he was fund-raising. He laughed, a fruity baritone.
She turned and walked the perimeter of the room, studying the paintings, the statue of the Virgin in an alcove by a wall of books, the framed photos of class sports teams. If he was concerned about her perusing his office, he didn’t let on. He nodded, said uh-huh and doodled in his notebook, the whole time selling the snot out of the fellow on the other end of the line. “You’re a good man, Jackie,” he said. “I don’t know what the school would do without you.”
He hung up and jumped to his feet, at the same time extending a large, red hand. She walked across the room and shook it. He held the handshake a rather long time. His hands were very warm. He looked into her eyes, first one then the other.
Despite the fact he’d turned seventy last year and was nearly bald, he was a handsome man. His face was ruddy, his jaw firm, his nose beaky and fine. His blue eyes came as close to royal as you’d find.
“Call me Father Mac,” he said. “You have very pretty eyes. Hazel, right?” Like he knew she was admiring his. He let go of her hand. “Do you want coffee? I have a thermos here.”
She didn’t. She sat down. And eventually he settled himself behind his desk and clasped his hands. “I’m sorry for the reception. Mrs. Abendroth is out with the grippe—or the vapors. Something Victorian sounding.”
Then his face dropped all trace of bonhomie. The creases around his eyes deepened.
“This whole business with Bill,” he said. “I’m still having a hard time believing it. Who’d want to kill him?”
“Someone he trusted,” Lennox said.
He flinched. “That can’t be. Everybody that knew Bill loved him.”
“The evidence indicates it was someone close,” she said.
“What evidence?” His blue eyes fastened on her. “There has to be another explanation.”
“Do you have one?”
“This isn’t exactly my area of expertise,” he said.
“Father, the two men you hired as parking valets for Bill’s party: did you realize they are convicted felons?”
“They had nothing to do with Bill’s death, I assure you. They never even set foot in the house.”
“That may be, but it’s strange. We’re talking high-end Mercedes here and you hire thieves to drive them?”
“Both John and Emory paid their debt to society. Ms. Cooper, I know these boys personally. They served Mass with me back when they were in grade school.”
“They were altar boys?”
He nodded. “From troubled homes. I did what I could for them.”
Whatever he did, it was obviously not enough to keep “the boys” out of a whole lot of trouble. Which begged the question, what had he done for “the girls”?
“Father, did you recognize Alice Stapely at the party?”
His face looked blank for a brief moment. Lennox watched him decide how much to admit.
“Not at first.” He absently rubbed his priest’s collar. “But when the police arrested her and she protested her innocence, it all came back. What a tragedy.”
“Tragedy,” he said again like he enjoyed how the word felt rolling out of his mouth.
“She said you had her expelled.”
“I work with children; I don’t expel them.” He looked up to see what kind of effect he was having on Lennox. She gave him her best, most encouraging smile.
She wasn’t quite sure she’d sold it. His voice sounded relaxed but his shoulders stayed hiked up to his ears. “Alice was incorrigible. I did my best to counsel her.” He shook his head sadly. “In the end, I had to go with the well-being of the entire student body.”
“She claims she was set up,” Lennox said.
“I’m sorry? Do you mean the night Bill was killed? I don’t think so. What I’ve heard is she stole a large sum of money from Bill and Delia. Naturally, that news brought back the business all those years ago when she was still a student at Saint Mary’s.”
“Alice said your cousin, Bill, was her coach back when she attended your school.”
He rolled his eyes up as if he were trying to retrieve a distant memory. She wasn’t buying it.
“I don’t remember if Alice even played sports.”
“But Bill did coach the girls at Saint Mary’s?”
“For a time.”
“Why did he quit?”
His voice ruched in irritation. “Bill was a very busy man. We were lucky he coached a few seasons for us.”
“Then you never forced him to quit?”
“Of course not. Where are you
going with this?”
Lennox recounted how Bill had seduced Alice when she was fourteen. That they had sex for the next six months until she confessed the affair to Father Mac. She was expelled that very day. Lennox lined it out for him, watching his body for all its little tics and grimaces, the tension in his shoulders, his breathing. He was angry, that was obvious, maybe even outraged. What she was looking for was a shred of guilt. She couldn’t be sure.
He said, “All this time, how long has it been? Twelve years? Who did she tell? You?”
“You” tossed off like a sneer, like she and Alice were both members in the Stupid Women’s Alliance. Lennox decided to hold the thirteen million dollar question for another time, stick with the Alice stuff and see what Ham came up with.
“And she told the police,” Lennox said.
Father Mac didn’t blink. “They haven’t asked me about it. Probably because they don’t find her story credible.”
Lennox had to hand it to him, he was good, and then for a split second she had the niggling feeling maybe it was Alice who was good.
“My personal feeling about the young woman is she’s mentally ill,” Father Mac said. “I’d feel sorry for her if she wasn’t accusing my cousin of rape when he can’t defend his reputation.”
The interview was over; it was worth seeing if she could pull his cork. “Was it good?” she said. She waited a few seconds before she added, “His reputation?”
Father Mac did not disappoint. All the jolly, sanctimonious bullshit was out the window. He rose from the chair breathing out his nose like a Kerry bull. “I think we’re done here, Miss Cooper.”
Chapter 14
Lennox’s interview with Father Mac lasted less than an hour. As she walked down the slate path back to the street, she wondered what would happen to his post at Saint Mary’s if word got out. You could hardly open a newspaper without reading a story about sexual abuse in the Catholic Church. The question was: How had Father Mac played it back then and going forward? Had he felt vulnerable or did he use his knowledge of Bill to gain advantage in their financial dealings?
What had Delia said? Father Mac was like an older brother to Bill, so was he the dominant personality? What was he capable of?
Lennox made a mental note to have Ham look into their other partnerships. She needed to find out: Was this the first project they had set up with a cross-purchase plan? She reached the curb and waited for a Prius to whoosh past before she crossed the street. That’s when she saw her truck. The Bronco was listing to the left, the rear tire as flat as a tire can get.
Why did this shit always happen when she had on her good clothes? She unlocked the back of the truck cap, raised the top and dropped the tailgate, hauled out a blue plastic tarp and threw the tire iron and jack on it. By the time she’d wrestled the spare tire out of the wheel well, a diagonal stripe of oil and dirt had smeared across her raincoat. She swore again and reached for a couple of flares. Once she had them lit, she went back to the jack and braced it under the frame. Already the damp penetrated her shoes, her hands stiffened with the cold.
An occasional car splashed past. The crows in a nearby fir screamed their heads off. She pried the hubcap from the wheel and tore a fingernail trying to get a stubborn lug nut loosened. The rain had softened to an occasional drip. She crooked her knee and stomped the end of the tire iron. Twice. Again and finally it loosened.
“Hey there,” said an almost familiar voice.
She looked over her shoulder. His dark hair, the shit-eating grin, the angular face. Mr. Dolce & Gabanna, Prince of the Paupers, puppy love, Dan Pike.
He said, “I thought I recognized you.”
“From the back?”
He reddened. The grin turned bashful. “This your rig?” he said.
She liked his calling her truck a rig and, truth be told, she wasn’t exactly offended he’d checked out her backside. It was good they liked each other. It was a whole lot easier getting information from a suspect that wanted to please you, thought they had a chance with you, whatever.
“We’re still on for tomorrow?” she said.
“You bet. Eight o’clock at the office.” He walked towards her. “How about I give you a hand?”
Lennox hadn’t cranked up the jack yet and she was going to have to send her pants, jacket and coat to the dry cleaners. The shirt, she wasn’t sure would ever come clean. Still, pride dictated if she was going to drive a Bronco, she’d best know how to change a tire.
“I got it,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Whew,” he said. The faintest of smile lines fanned from the corners of his eyes. “Last time I tried to change a tire the car fell off the jack and busted it. I had to call AAA.”
Interesting play. The thing with guys, whether they wanted to bed you or not, eventually it came down to advantage, and they already had you beat when it came to strength. So that left money and competency. Dan Pike was showing her his soft underbelly. She had to admit: it was a little appealing.
She said, “Didn’t Bill teach you how to change a tire?”
“Naw. He taught me how to frame a house.” Dan stood by the back end of the Bronco, close enough she could see how his eyelashes made a fringe above his cheekbones. The tip of his nose was red from the cold. Occasionally, a car splashed past. He was saying, “I can rock, I’m a half-assed electrician. I do minor plumbing.”
“Me, too,” she said. “The plumbing.”
“Al taught you?”
She crouched down and made sure the jack was positioned properly. “He was a great guy,” she said.
“He sure was.”
She realized she was talking to him like they were on a coffee date catching up on old times. Talking, not jacking up her truck.
She pumped the jack.
He said, “You mind if I watch you, pick up some pointers?”
She gestured with her chin in the direction of Saint Mary’s. “Won’t you miss Mass or whatever it is you do?” she said.
“Naw, I’m here on personal business. Mac won’t care if I’m a little late.”
Mac seemed the kind of man who would totally care. Lennox cranked the jack, her raincoat flapping behind her. The Bronco rose up from the pavement in little jerks. Thankfully, the rain stopped. She heard shouts of laughter from down the street while she finished loosening the lug nuts and set them clattering in the hubcap.
“Wow,” he said. “So that’s how it’s done.”
They heard more laughter. Lennox straightened and looked down the street in the direction of the noise.
“What the hell?” Dan said.
Down the block, a woman led a string of roughly thirty Santas. “Roughly” being the operative word. The woman leading the throng was dressed in a red bikini, red cowboy boots and an open red robe edged with fur. She wore a Santa hat pulled down to her eyebrows. Close behind her wobbled a chubby Santa in athletic shoes, a mailbag slung over his shoulder. Another Santa skipped crazily by in a red striped poncho, a red fur hat atop the crown of his sombrero. The Santas paraded past Lennox and Dan in groups of two or three: skinny Santas, Santas in sunglasses, Santas in drag. Two beardless Santas clung to each other as they staggered down the sidewalk. One Santa looked like a red and white caveman, his furry costume fastened on one shoulder. He sang “Silent Night,” sounding three drinks past tipsy.
“How many blocks to the Metropole?” called a Santa from across the street.
“Two,” she called back.
A Santa clad in red long johns pointed at Lennox’s truck. He said “Bummer.”
Yet another one in red furry shorts said to Dan, “Hey, man, aren’t you going to give the lady a hand?”
“See what your independence is doing to my manhood?” Dan said to Lennox. “Come on, give me that.”
Dan stood there waiting, a look on his face like this wasn’t his first encounter with an obstinate woman.
What the hell, let him save face. “Thanks,” she said.
Dan finished jacking the tr
uck up. He hauled the tire off the hub and hoisted it into her truck. He did fine. If she were to guess, she wouldn’t have pegged him as a stockbroker guy. She liked watching guys like him, how they reacted to manual labor. Take her dad, Al. He always had a project, laying rock for a patio, making a flowerbed. Then there was Ham. Two winters ago when they got all that snow? Lennox had to drive over and help him shovel his driveway. He bitched the whole time.
Dan picked up the spare off the pavement and positioned it on the wheel hub.
“Thanks,” she said. “Hold it right there. I got to line it with the bolts.” She racked the tire into place, reached for a nut and threaded it. Every so often when she looked over at Dan, she caught him looking at her with that particular expression. The one men get when they like what they see.
“It seems straightforward enough,” he said.
“The trick is not to tighten the nuts one at a time. Keep it balanced and finish tightening them when the truck is closer to the pavement.”
His face intent, you’d think he was watching a spinal surgery. She went back to the jack and began lowering the Bronco.
“Let me.”
Dan wrapped his hand around the jack, his hand brushing hers. Swear to God, she felt it. Don’t say it was a surprise; she’d spent her childhood being in love with him. Back then love meant happy ever after dressed up like a princess.
He was a suspect, for chrissake.
“So are you going to tell me who those people are?” he said.
She swallowed, trying to get her cool back. She said, “It’s Santacon. They follow a route of ten pubs or so. You could join them if you wanted to. All you need is a costume and a sturdy liver.”
Dan puffed air through his lips. “Man, Portland’s changed.” Then his eyes landed on hers. He gave a vibe he was talking more than Santacon.
She put the jack back into the wheel well and wiped her hands on a dirty rag in the back.
He said, “Mac’s got a washroom you could use.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. The way she said it was clear: the priest was not one of her fans.
