The Bad Kitty Lounge

by Michael Wiley

  The mailboxes in the entrance to the second faculty building included 1-H. SISTER JUDITH TERRANO. The door into the building was locked but it was like a toy lock. I slipped a card between the door and the frame, slid it upward, and eased the spring bolt into its housing. The door swung open into a hall carpeted with the thin, outdoor-grade stuff you find on the greens of miniature golf courses, but red, fading to pink. The wall sconces held dimly lighted bulbs.

  The fourth door on the right was 1-H. It opened more easily than the front door. It had no lock. The room measured about twice the size of a prison cell but had a closet and a separate bathroom. The bed was plain and institutional, and at the foot of it a white sink with old fixtures was attached to the wall, probably left over from a time when the room had no private bathroom. A medicine cabinet hung above the sink. A crucifix with a figure of Jesus looked over the sink and the bed. In front of a window, a steam radiator was propped up on one end with a brick. More bricks were stacked beside it. A plain wooden desk and chair stood in a corner. A telephone and a well-thumbed Bible rested on top. A thinly upholstered chair with a floral print stood in another corner with a dresser next to it.

  I was looking for evidence of who Sister Terrano was, the kind that wouldn’t appear in the news clipping files or the obituaries. If Greg Samuelson had killed her because his separation from his wife had driven him over the edge, I probably would find nothing. Same thing if someone else had gone nuts and killed her. But some people who kill aren’t nuts. They’re like everyone else, plus a weapon and a cause.

  I started with the desk. The top drawer contained blank stationery, a roll of tape, and pens. A side drawer held a stapler, rubber bands, paper clips, and another roll of tape. The drawer under it contained three books on theology, a loosely bound national report on teenage sexuality, and a book called A Short History of Medieval Architecture. The bottom drawer contained a pair of binoculars, which would have been good for watching birds and small animals outside the window in the courtyard garden, a Swiss Army knife, an unopened pack of AA batteries, a flashlight, matches, and a box of candles.

  I opened the closet door. The floor was a mess. Someone had pulled two cardboard boxes off the shelf and dumped them, rummaged through the contents, and then swept the mess back inside before closing the closet door.

  The stuff was the debris of an almost possession-free life. A little wooden model of a Swiss chalet lay on top. It could have sat on a bookshelf or hung in the window of a young girl’s room but now its roof was broken and attached to the rest of the building by a bent staple. Most of the rest had to do with Judy Terrano’s service as a nun. There were diplomas and testaments printed on heavy paper, some in Latin, some English.

  At the bottom of the pile three photographs were held together by a paper clip. The first two were black and white, and looked fifty or sixty years old. One showed a handsome-faced man wearing a hat. The other showed a serious-faced woman. Their faces had something of Judy Terrano’s, and I figured they were her parents.

  The third picture was in color and showed Judy Terrano when she was the age of the older teenagers who were watching the video in the undercroft. Everything about the picture amazed me. It looked like a dirty picture without the nakedness. She had an Afro, green eyes full of desire, and a wicked smile that said she was thinking darker thoughts than ever had crossed the minds of the girls she would later try to convince to remain virgins. She wore a blouse unbuttoned to show plenty of breast. A teenaged boy would be afraid to bring a girl like her home to his parents. She looked like an angel but an angel of sex. I slipped the photo into my jacket pocket, shoved the wooden chalet and the papers back into the closet, and closed the door.

  I glanced around the room.

  Who had dumped the boxes on the nun’s closet floor? Did she do it herself? Only if she was in a rush and only if she did it just before she died. Her office was cluttered, but, except for the closet, her bedroom was clean, down to the books stacked in the desk drawer. She wouldn’t have left the mess. If not her, who? Someone who’d come in after she died, looking for something she might have hidden in a box in the closet. I wondered what that person had found.

  Nothing unusual fell out of the dresser drawers when I emptied them onto the bed. Nothing was taped behind the drawers or behind the dresser. I checked under the bed and along the underside of the bed frame. I lifted the thin mattress and checked for rips where Sister Terrano might have stuffed a notebook or a small box. The medicine cabinet over the sink at the foot of the bed was empty except for a coat button.

  I crawled under the desk and glanced under the desk chair. The upholstered chair had nothing tucked into its cushions or springs. I went back to the desk and thumbed through the Bible and the books in the desk drawer. No secret letters fell from between the pages. Breaking the binding of A Short History of Medieval Architecture seemed like overkill. But I opened the cover.

  “Damn!” I said. Judy Terrano had cut out the inside of the book the way a kid might after reading an article on spy secrets in a magazine. A stack of twenty-dollar bills rested inside the cavity. The bills were as crisp as the ones Robert and Jarik had delivered to me. The elastic band wrapped around the bills was gold.

  William DuBuclet seemed to have been paying off Judy Terrano, too. For what?

  I left the money in the book and tucked it back in the drawer.

  The bathroom was next. In almost every way, it was a normal bathroom. It had a toilet, a sink with a medicine cabinet, and a bathtub. But when I flipped on the light, I stumbled back into the bedroom. A priest was lying in the tub. He was dressed all in black and was thin and bald with a little brown beard. Just over twenty-four hours earlier, he had sobbed in the hallway outside Judy Terrano’s door after the police and paramedics arrived.

  One of his thick black shoes hung over the side of the tub. He had a deep, almost bloodless gash in the side of his head. A brick was lying on top of the drain.

  I didn’t like touching the dead. But I made myself go to him and I put my hands on him. I patted him down from his shoulders to his feet. I found a wallet that had thirty-two dollars in it and a driver’s license that named him Jerold Terwicki. I found a half-spent roll of Lifesavers. I found nothing that looked as if it might have come from the boxes in Judy Terrano’s closet.

  I washed my hands in the bathroom sink, using the soap of a dead woman, then dried them against my pants. The vanilla smell of Judy Terrano’s soap caught in my nostrils and throat, and I ran from the bathroom.

  The bedroom closed in on me. Sweat broke inside my shirt and pants. I slipped into the hall. It was empty and I ran down it to the outside door, fought to keep myself to a casual walk as I crossed the courtyard garden, went through the gate, and climbed into my car.

  FOURTEEN

  WHEN I WAS TRYING to break my bad habits, Corrine convinced me to do Chinese breathing exercises. I would inhale three short breaths through my nose, lifting my arms in front of me on the first, sticking them out to the sides on the second, raising them above my head on the third. Next I would exhale long and slow, lowering my arms in a big arc. The exercises didn’t help much then and they didn’t help much now, probably because I was gripping the steering wheel like I hung from it over the edge of the world.

  When I relaxed enough to let blood flow back into my knuckles, I knew what I had to do. I called Stan Fleming at the District Thirteen station house. Calling him felt about as good as putting my hands on a dead priest.

  He answered the phone, cheery. “You’re gone, Joe. You’re out of the picture. You’re no longer my friend. I’m a reasonable guy. If you’d stuck around when I asked you to—Hell, if you’d called me back when I called you—”

  “I know. I’m gone. I’m water under the bridge. I’m yesterday’s news. I’m—”

  “Then why are you bothering me?”

  I inhaled three short breaths. “To tell you that you’ve got another body at Holy Trinity.”

  That quieted him. W
hen he found words, they weren’t much. “What are you talking about?”

  “A dead priest. His name’s Jerold Terwicki. You’ll find him in Judy Terrano’s bathtub.” Now when the police found my fingerprints in the nun’s apartment, Stan couldn’t say I hadn’t told him I was there.

  “How did he get there?”

  “Looks to me like he was dragged over the floor—not very gently.”

  “Jesus, Joe, you’re dangerous. You can’t go near that church without a body dying in front of you.”

  “They usually die before I arrive.” It was a minor point but it seemed worth making.

  “You in the room with the priest right now?”

  “I’m driving in my car.”

  “Turn around. Meet me there.”

  “Sorry, can’t do it. I’ve got an appointment.”

  “Don’t test me, Joe.”

  “There’s a book in the nun’s room that you might want to read, too.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s called A Short History of Medieval Architecture. I guarantee it’ll keep you up at night.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’ll find the book in her desk.”

  “You’re not going to meet me in Terrano’s room, are you?”

  I tried changing topics again. “Are you going to charge Greg Samuelson with her murder?”

  “I’m hanging up, Joe.”

  “Did Samuelson kill her?”

  “Who else?”

  “You talk to Eric Stone?” I said.

  “What’s his motive?”

  “Samuelson burned his car.”

  Stan sighed into the phone. “The man’s got insurance. And he’s got Samuelson’s wife. Why bother chasing him? Why kill a nun?”

  “What’s Samuelson’s motive?”

  “Why should I talk to you about it?”

  “I always call you when I find a body.”

  He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Samuelson’s home life is fucked, obviously. His professional life, too, apparently. A priest we’ve talked to says church accounting recently turned up some questionable money transfers involving the nun’s work—transfers that Samuelson controlled. He knows he’s about to be caught and, with his wife leaving him, he has nothing to live for outside work, so he takes out the nun and shoots himself in the head.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but I don’t think so.”

  “But it doesn’t really matter what you think, does it?” he said.

  I admitted, “Probably not.”

  Next I called Lucinda. She’d napped and sounded mostly sober. She was getting dressed and planned to head downtown to the library to look up Judy Terrano and William DuBuclet in the archives. I told her about the dead priest and she sounded more concerned about me than him. “Dangerous business working at that church,” Lucinda said.

  “Right up there with commercial fishing.”

  She said softly and bitterly, “Or becoming a drunk ex-cop.”

  “Drinking for a few days after you lose your job makes you human, not a drunk.”

  “Problem is, those were my best days.”

  “Just don’t make that kind of good day a habit.”

  “Mmm,” she said. She didn’t sound certain but she added, “Thanks for bringing me in, Joe.”

  “Not a lot of people would thank me for getting them into a mess like this.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. “But thanks.”

  I exited from the Kennedy at Ohio Street, drove to Orleans, and searched for a parking space. At the curb I looked at my watch. It was 3:35, and I was five minutes late for my date with Eric Stone.

  I dialed the phone once more.

  Corrine answered. The slight hoarseness of her voice tugged at me, though I’d heard it thousands of times. It relieved me in ways that three inhaled breaths didn’t.

  “Hey,” I said, “I tried you earlier.”

  “I got your message. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Stan Fleming’s leading the investigation.”

  “Yeah?” She sounded only vaguely interested.

  “Yeah. I’m supposed to stay out of it. He’s warned me.”

  She laughed. “That’ll make a difference.”

  “What are you up to?”

  “I’m teaching a class on winter mulching at the Botanical Garden. Nothing very exciting.” She ran a landscaping business and made things bloom while I worried about them dying.

  “It gets me excited,” I said.

  Her voice got warm. “What excites you about mulch?”

  I cradled the phone close to my neck. “It’s not the mulch. It’s you and the mulch. I fantasize about you and mulch.”

  “You’re kind of weird, Joe.”

  “You do that to me. You want to have dinner tonight?”

  She gave that a moment. “With you, or with you and the kid?”

  The kid. “With me and Jason. If you want to wait for the weekend, it could be just us.”

  “I’ve got plans tonight.”

  “Because I asked if you wanted to have dinner with Jason and me?”

  “No, because I’ve got plans.”

  “Okay.”

  “But this weekend?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll call.”

  Her voice softened again. “Take care of yourself until you do.”

  Hundreds of couples had conversations like that. The trouble was, we weren’t a couple anymore.

  I rode the elevator to Eric Stone’s office at 3:40. Lakeview Commercial and Residential Real Estate Development, or LCR as most people knew them, had an office suite on the twelfth floor of a white-faced office tower. The reception area had plush gray carpet and paneling that passed as teak. The receptionist buzzed Stone to tell him I was there.

  The corridor to Stone’s office took me past a glass-walled conference room. Inside, two women stood by a conference table and argued. One was in her late seventies at least, thin and dressed in a tight red skirt and jacket. Her hair was auburn, pointing at bronze, and she’d drawn on a thin line of red lipstick. The other was Greg Samuelson’s wife, Amy. The glass deadened the sound of their argument. The older woman felt my eyes on her, and she and Amy Samuelson stopped talking and stared at me. Amy Samuelson looked embarrassed, but the other woman’s gaze was hard, like she’d never experienced embarrassment in her life.

  I stepped close to the glass and exhaled steam on it. Amy Samuelson’s mouth fell open.

  Then, from behind me, a woman’s hand reached past my shoulder, and her index finger drew a little heart on the steamed glass.

  The skin on the woman’s hand was tan, though the sun hadn’t shined solid in Chicago since Labor Day. Her fingernails glittered like semiprecious gems. I turned and saw the rest of her. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties but with a lot of wear. She had wheat-brown hair, tinted blond, and wore tight jeans and a little shirt that showed belly on the bottom and breast on top. I’d seen her once before, as the passenger riding in the silver Mercedes that almost ran me down after Greg Samuelson burned Eric Stone’s car. She’d changed her clothes but she still looked like a fancy fishing lure.

  I held my hand to shake hers and smiled. “I’m Joe Kozmarski.”

  She smiled back with bleached teeth. “Pleased to meet you, Joe.”

  “And you are—?”

  “Cassie,” she said. “Cassie Stone.”

  “This is a family business,” I observed.

  “Family is everything,” she said. She didn’t sound happy about it. She turned and walked away.

  I called after her, “You ever go fishing?”

  She stopped without turning to look at me. “No, Joe, I’ve never gone fishing.”

  “You should try it. You look like you would be good.”

  “Give me a call,” she said. “I’ll try anything once.” She disappeared down the hall.

  Eric Stone’s office was next to the conference room. It had a large glass-topped de
sk and, on the walls, framed paintings of buildings that LCR had constructed—a mix of office and residential skyscrapers, all high-end.

  He stood when I came in, and we shook hands, friendly, and sat down together. He wore a tailored charcoal gray suit and a tie. His bald head showed the healthy pink skin of a man who spent time exercising outdoors.

  “Mr. Kozmarski,” he said, “you saw me yesterday at an embarrassing moment. I’d just left Amy’s house, and I was watching my car burn.” He gave me a wink that could sell real estate at a thousand dollars a square foot. “But you know all that.”

  I agreed that I did.

  “I apologize for my brusqueness. I don’t usually behave that way.”

  “You behaved understandably, considering everything.”

  “And you provoked me,” he said. “What happened later—to the nun at the church—was terrible. And I have a hard time believing Greg would do it. I’ve known him and, of course, Amy for over two years. He’s a gentle man”—he gave an ironic smile—“if you keep him away from gasoline and matches.”

  I showed him my palms. “The police are convinced he did it.”

  “I can’t believe that’s true,” he said.

  “Did you do it?”

  The ironic smile. “If I understand the sequence of events, I was sitting at my desk when Sister Terrano died and Greg shot himself. My brother and his daughter picked me up at Amy’s condo and we came straight here.”

  “I’m sure that others saw you here and can verify your story.”

  “I’ve given all of that information to the police.” He leaned back in his chair. “If they want to talk with me, my lawyer and I are available.”

  I nodded. “Did you know Judy Terrano?”

  “I did, but not well. Three months ago, before Amy and I started seeing each other, Greg introduced us. I don’t necessarily agree with her principles, but she seemed like a good woman. And tough, very tough.”

  I nodded some more. I would describe her as tough, too, though I didn’t know how good she was. “So why did you call me?” I asked. “What do you want?”

  His smile dropped and he leaned forward. “Do you know of a man named William DuBuclet?” He probably saw my surprise. He said, “Last summer, I had dinner with Greg and Amy. This was right before Amy and I got together. Something was bothering Greg that night, and it came out that DuBuclet had visited Judy Terrano’s office in the afternoon and threatened her. When Greg intervened, DuBuclet threatened him, too—‘him and his family’ was what Greg said. Apparently DuBuclet and the nun knew each other from way back—they met in the sixties on the South Side—but Greg took the threat seriously. He was scared that night.”