“Jesus, Larry, you could have spent just one hour looking up a couple of cases and filed the response today.”
“Not my area of expertise. I do court work and settle cases. You acquire the clients and—”
“And settle cases,” Dugan said.
“And I work all day,” Mollie said, “while Larry goes to court and gossips, and you take half the day off.” Mollie loved to complain, but she also loved the fact that Dugan paid her more than even some lawyers made—because she was worth it to him.
Her phone rang, and she picked it up and waved them on their way. Larry followed Dugan into his office. “What’s up?” he asked. “Taking the afternoon off?” Dugan sat at his desk and picked up the phone, but Larry stayed in the doorway. “That means Kirsten’s up to something, right?”
“I don’t know, Larry. Does it?”
“She’s looking into those priest murders, right?”
“I don’t know. Is she?” He waved the telephone receiver at Larry.
“You want me to get my ass outta here, right?”
“I’d like that,” Dugan said, “very much.”
* * *
Dugan knew better than to question Kirsten’s instincts because they were right so damn often, but he still had a hard time agreeing that the hole in her tire and the HERE I COME postcard from two weeks ago were related. She started talking about that the minute he was inside the apartment.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “First things first. You’re stressed out. You need a nap. Let’s go.” He pulled her toward the hall to the bedroom.
“I don’t need a nap, for God’s sake.” She yanked her arm away. “What I need is—” She stopped. “Oh. You must mean a nap nap.”
“Yeah, I suppose you could call it that. Anyway, that’s what I need. I’ve needed a … nap nap … ever since yesterday afternoon when you were nibbling on my ear ear.”
“Poor thing.” They started down the hall, she pulling him this time. “We better turn off the phone pho—”
“Please,” he said, and pressed his fingertips against her lips. “No more. Don’t we have some chablis in the kitchen?”
“It’s fume blanc,” she said. “But hurry.”
* * *
“So you think this guy was behind you all day.” It was two o’clock and Dugan sat at the kitchen table, savoring his corned beef and wondering, as always, whether anyone in the world but Kirsten ate radish sandwiches. “This, of course, after two weeks of doing nothing. But anyway, you think he follows you all the way to Rockford, just to poke a hole in a tire outside a Dunkin Donuts where police officers show up every five minutes.”
“I’m saying it feels that way to me,” she said. “I don’t really know that he’s been ‘doing nothing’ the whole time, and if I’m right he didn’t just poke a hole in a tire. What he did was announce that he’s watching me, and that not only can he walk right up to—or even inside—my office and steal a piece of my mail, but he has the balls to puncture my tire while I’m sitting just a few feet away, in a public place, talking to a police officer.”
“But a detective, right? Wasn’t this guy—Wardell, is it?—wasn’t he in civilian clothes? So nobody would know he was—”
“His car was a clearly marked sheriff’s patrol car, parked thirty feet from mine.”
“So the bottom line is…” He paused, knowing she didn’t want to hear it. “Whoever this guy is, he scares you.”
“Not at all,” she said. “He concerns me.” Then she explained how she’d been threatened by three punks outside a bar after she talked to Wardell, and that she’d handled it—she didn’t say how—and that that hadn’t scared her, either.
“Congratulations,” he said, “but I’d swear you told me you were gonna ‘find a motel and crash’ after you had the new tire put on.”
“That’s what I intended to do, but I couldn’t sleep. Anyway, the point is, even though I can handle these things, it doesn’t make sense to ignore a … a stalker.”
“If there really is a—”
“I can’t prove it, dammit. I just feel it.”
“Okay, okay.” He poured them each another mug of coffee and sat down again. “You know, I was just telling Mollie how long it’s been since you and I took a vacation. We could go to … I don’t know … how’s Spain sound? Three weeks?”
“No way. First of all, you’re already leaving this weekend for that trial seminar thing in—where is it?—Asheville? Second, if we went, we’d come back and—assuming there is a stalker—he’d still be here. Besides, this other wacko, this priest killer, he’s not gonna go on vacation. By then he might have struck a fourth time—or a fifth. And sooner or later, you know, he’ll be going after Michael.”
“Okay, no vacation,” he said, taking a pass on what he wanted to say about her damn uncle. “But I forgot about that trial workshop. I have to be there Friday night for orientation. Meanwhile, though, this is today, and Mollie graciously gave me the whole afternoon off. Maybe another nap nap?”
“I’m going to regret ever using that expression, I know,” she said. “But anyway, I have work to do. Did you see the morning news? Or the paper? Was there anything about the Regan murder?”
“To take them in order,” he said, “yes, yes, and not much.” He consulted an imaginary notebook he’d taken from his shirt pocket. “Here’s what I got, Boss. Victim found dead yesterday morning in his apartment, second floor of a two-flat. By a woman who comes in to clean every two weeks.” He licked his thumb and turned an invisible page. “Talk of slashing and lots of blood. Word’s out that the victim’s a priest from that list. Neighbors pissed as hell at the building owners—who live on the first floor and are out of town—for renting to a pervert and putting the kids on the block in jeopardy. Victim often seen going in and out, but kept to himself. Police not speculating as to motive or suspects.” He grinned and closed the invisible notebook. “How’m I doing so far, Mr. Wolfe?”
“Admirable work, Archie,” she said. “But it appears that you’ve omitted something.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. What about all the goddamn clues?”
18.
Kirsten drove and headed north to the seminary. She liked having Dugan along. She always did. She enjoyed his wondering out loud whether she’d ever get a real job, and she enjoyed reminding him she’d listed him with the state as an employee of Wild Onion, Ltd., and telling him she might one day make him a partner. But Dugan never seriously questioned her decision to follow her own path, and she never seriously entertained the idea of a partner, or anyone she’d have to answer to.
They had reached the seminary campus, and the drive to Villa St. George, when Dugan asked, “Is this an officially sanctioned meeting?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean … do the authorities even know about you? Don’t these priests have to ask permission or something to go out and hire someone like you?”
“Not as far as I know,” she said. “Anyway, Michael didn’t say anything about anyone’s permission. He just said he’d meet me and take me to his room to meet the others.”
“How many others?” Dugan asked.
“He’s got four or five signed on,” she said. “Of the eighteen listed in the paper, ten of them live here. The other eight—well, five now, with three already dead—are living on their own somewhere.”
“And all eighteen of them have, at one time or another, sexually abused children. Jesus.”
“Not quite true. All of them are alleged to have engaged in some sort of sexual misconduct with minors, and someone has decided the allegations are credible. Actual proof is another—” She gave up. “We’ve been through all this before.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You didn’t have to come along, you know.”
“I came along to be with you,” he said, “not to make friends with your clients.”
“Who said anything about making friends? Anyway, you can wait in the car. Or
go for a walk.” It was a beautiful fall evening. Cool and crisp.
“Are you kidding? Nothing but trees in every direction, and the sun going down any minute. God knows what’s creeping around out here in these woods.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s what Michael and the others are afraid of, too.”
“Yeah, well, that’s different. They brought it on themselves.” He was making her regret bringing him along, after all. “I mean, they deserve—”
“They deserve what? To be tortured and murdered?”
“Anyway,” he said, “I’m coming in.”
* * *
They followed Michael down a corridor on the ground floor of the building to his room, and Kirsten was surprised to find so many people there. Eight men—nine, including Michael—all in sport shirts and black pants, standing around chatting with each other. As they became aware of her presence, they turned her way and conversation gradually died out. Most of the men held glasses in their hands. It was six o’clock, cocktail hour.
It was hardly Bunko’s, but the room did smell of perspiration and alcohol; too many frightened men in too small a space. Luckily, there wasn’t much furniture: a chest of drawers—the top now a makeshift bar with bottles and glasses, and a foam plastic cooler—a desk and two chairs, and, in an alcove to her left, a narrow bed. No TV, no audio system.
Beyond the alcove were two doors: one closed, probably a closet; and one open just enough to show a tile floor—a bathroom. Floral drapes were wide open on two windows in the wall opposite her. They were huge old double-hung windows, with their sills just a couple of feet above the floor, looking out on evergreen bushes, then lawn, then woods. The view was to the west, and the evening sun sent plenty of gold-tinted light into the room.
A stack of metal folding chairs leaned against one wall, and a chalkboard was set up on the desktop. The eighteen names from the newspaper list were printed on the board in two columns headed VSG and OUT. The VSG column had ten names, Michael’s among them; the OUT column had eight. Both lists were in alphabetical order, with the names of the three murder victims—Immel, Kanowski, and Regan—crossed out.
Michael introduced her as his niece, the private investigator he’d told them about, and made a half-hearted joke about nepotism. He suggested they all sit down and the men milled around, replenishing drinks and setting up chairs. Finally, after they were all seated, Kirsten asked Dugan, who’d been leaning against the doorjamb, to open a window. He went across, unlocked one window, and tried to raise it, but he couldn’t get it open more than a few inches.
“I could never get the bottom parts of either window open at all,” Michael said. “But try the top half. It’s a little easier.”
Dugan ignored him and Kirsten smiled as he struggled with the window, knowing he’d tear every muscle in his back and shoulders before he’d take advice from any of these guys. He got it open another inch or two before he gave up, then he went and sat on the edge of the desk beside the chalkboard.
“Oh,” Michael said, “I forgot to introduce Dugan. He’s Kirsten’s—”
“He’s one of my operatives,” Kirsten said.
Michael nodded and sat down with the others, but she stayed standing—near the door so she could see out the windows—and they all adjusted their chairs to face her. The room was hushed now, and she felt a strange awkwardness in the air. Maybe because these priests, men who lived apart from women, found themselves suddenly this close to one, asking for help. Or maybe because they were outcasts who aroused nothing but disgust and hatred in just about everyone, and wondered why they should trust this woman to be any different.
Four of them seemed Michael’s age, sixty-something; the others in their fifties or late forties. Mostly gray-haired or balding. There was one light-skinned African-American and the rest were obviously of European ancestry. They were a bespectacled, bookish-looking group and, except for Michael and two others, they were overweight—one of them quite obese.
She gave them a rundown of her background and qualifications, and then gestured toward the chalkboard. “I take it,” she said, “that the people listed under VSG all live here.”
“Yes,” Michael said. “Five of the ten of us have decided for sure we want to hire you, and we’ll pay. One of that five is in the hospital in Waukegan with a kidney stone, but he wants to be a part of it. Three are undecided, and two aren’t interested. But—”
“Not interested in paying, I guess,” Dugan cut in, “but they’re here with the rest of you.”
“Some of us don’t have any money!” That came from the heaviest of the men, his voice high and shrill. “And we don’t even know yet what you’re promising.” That brought a sudden chorus of discussion and disagreement, mostly about how much it would cost.
“Hold it!” Kirsten glared at Dugan, who she wished would keep his damn mouth shut, and then at the priests. “I’m not here to sell myself, for God’s sake. My uncle says you all know my rate, and tells me he has commitments enough to meet the cost.” Which wasn’t really true. “So I’m on the case already, until I decide differently. It’s not my problem how much comes from any individual, or whether everybody pays. Someone wants a free ride, or thinks I’m not worth it, that’s up to him. So forget all the cost bull— All the cost stuff. Okay?”
“The thing is, we don’t really know you.” It was the fat guy with the shrill voice again. “You might make things worse and … well…” He paused, then said, “But you know what? We don’t have a lot of choices here. There’s a madman out there with our names on his mind. I mean … we have to trust someone. So, I guess, count me in.”
“Fine,” Kirsten said. “First, we’re assuming the three murders so far are connected, since all the victims were on the same list you’re on. Second, we’re assuming the killer isn’t finished.” No one said a thing, and she went on. “So far, he’s only gone after men that don’t live here at Villa St. George. That could be because he knows the seminary has a security force.”
“But only one man on patrol between midnight and eight A.M.,” somebody said, “and as far as I—”
“It could be the presence of security,” Kirsten went on, “or it could be that there’s some pattern, some system dictating the order the killer’s following, and that you’ve just been lucky so far.”
“Plus, we all go off the grounds on occasion,” Michael said, “some more than others. So we’re all vulnerable until they identify and catch whoever it is.”
“The police are working on that,” she said. “But just as important, until he’s caught, is for each of you to take whatever measures you can to avoid being the next victim.”
She went on to tell them there was safety in numbers, not to leave the building alone if possible, to be careful when they left the seminary grounds altogether, and to be especially cautious at night, wherever they were. “To the extent possible, you ought to stay right in this building at night. I understand your rooms are all on ground level, along this side of the building.”
They agreed and pointed out that they had an eleven o’clock curfew they were supposed to keep, and it struck her that even though they weren’t locked in, it was a little like being in jail. They said other groups used the facility during the day for retreats and conferences, so people came and went, and that made everyone feel safer. But nights were a different story. Even though some of the retreatants stayed overnight, they were housed in a separate wing of the building.
“Our corridor can be kept locked from the inside,” Michael explained, “but there are several entrances, and people are sometimes careless. Plus, we’re on the first floor and there are windows like these in all our rooms.” He gestured toward the window Dugan had struggled with.
“I understand, and I make no guarantees,” Kirsten said. “But I’ll tell you this, if I were you I’d feel very safe from sunset to sunrise inside this building.”
“I’m sorry, Kirsten,” Michael said, “but none of us feels that way.”
&n
bsp; “It’s true, though. Starting, actually, last night.” That got their attention, but she ignored their comments. She made a point of looking out the window. “I’d say it’s about sundown now, wouldn’t you, Michael?”
Along with all the others, Michael twisted around toward the windows. “Yes,” he said, “just about.” The sun had dropped below the trees, and it was getting pretty dark outside—and in the room, too.
Kirsten flipped up the wall switch beside her and a bright overhead fixture lit up, and all heads turned back to her. “I’ve arranged for additional security for this building at night. Did anyone notice anything last night?” They all said no, and she said, “Good. My man prefers it that way. But he was there.”
“If there was someone out there,” Michael said, “wouldn’t he be more effective in keeping someone away if he’s open and obvious?”
“Except,” Kirsten said, “there are two things I want to do here. One is to keep you safe. The other is to catch this maniac if he shows up. My people will stay hidden.”
“But how do we know anyone’s really out there?” someone asked. “You could just be—”
“Turn and look,” she said, and switched off the light again.
They all turned and of course saw nothing at first, until, rising up outside the slightly open window, the head of a man slowly appeared. As he stood up it was obvious he was a very large man. He put one black-gloved hand under the edge of the window to lift it higher and, like Dugan, ran into resistance.
“That’s as far as it’ll go,” Dugan called.
The man let out a sharp sound—Kirsten was sure it was “fuck,” but as though barked by a huge dog— and with both hands he raised the window all the way up. Then he stuck one huge, black-booted foot in over the sill, and came into the room with a smooth quickness that surprised even Kirsten.
All the Dead Fathers Page 8
