Eminence

by William X. Kienzle

  Pat nodded.

  “His picture’s in the papers all the time. Society columns. With his wife. They’re always together. Got a family, too. So, he and Pringle, eh? Were they having problems?”

  Pat shook her head. “They seemed to get along well enough . . . fine, I suppose. Just the normal triangle problems.”

  “His wife didn’t know.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Pringle have any enemies—besides a possible Mrs. Parker?”

  “No, none that I know of.”

  “Okay. We’ll put Parker and wife on the back burner for the moment. You agreed to meet tonight. Go on.”

  “It was Pringle’s idea. She didn’t want to be alone tonight. So I invited her over to my apartment. I’m alone there now.”

  She wanted Tully to know that. He caught the implication.

  “She was done with her work for today and I had some yet to do,” Pat continued. “She offered to go ahead to the apartment. She was going to pick up some groceries and start supper so it would be ready when I got home. She’d taken the bus into work this morning so she didn’t have her car. And since she was going to stop for some groceries, we decided she should take mine. Then I would get a taxi later on.”

  “She took your car?” Tully tensed.

  “Yes. And then the ID—well, she hadn’t brought her raincoat, so I let her take mine, because I would be picking up a taxi right outside the door and she had to cross the street and go a distance to get to my car. They must have identified her by the business cards I keep in the pocket. But why wouldn’t they search through her purse?”

  “Somebody stole it after she got hit. Probably the food, too. They searched the area; neither of those items turned up. But lemmee get this straight: She was wearing your coat and driving your car? Was she wearing any headgear?”

  “No, just the hood on my raincoat. I watched her from the office window as she crossed the street.” A pause. “Poor Pringle, she was . . .” Pat promptly corrected herself. “. . . she is going to make one hell of a reporter. But she’s not good at the simple things—like driving her car in and bringing raingear even on a day when all the forecasters agree there’s going to be a monsoon.”

  “Who knew you were going to do this? I mean, did anyone know she was going to your place? Or that she’d be driving your car and wearing your coat?”

  “I don’t see how. She might have told someone she was going to come to my place. I certainly didn’t tell anyone. But she couldn’t possibly have told anyone about the car and the coat; we decided that on the spur of the moment.”

  Tully contemplated all she’d told him. “The way I see it, we have three possibilities. One, it was a crazy, out for the thrill of wasting someone. Two, it was someone out to kill your friend. Three, someone wanted you.”

  Pat felt the hair on the back of her neck rise.

  “One is weak,” Tully continued. “There certainly are enough crazies to go around out there, but they don’t usually stick around after they make their hit. If they’re using a car, they hit and run. The longer they stay around, the stronger the possibility that someone will make the license or the driver.

  “Two is not much stronger. As you said, someone might have learned that your friend was going to stay with you. But no one knew she was going to wear your coat or drive your car. Which leaves us with . . .” He stopped short.

  “Three,” she murmured.

  “Three. Who would want to do that to you?”

  Pat recoiled from the theory. But, as Tully had implied, it was the logical conclusion. She began to roll her private dramatis personae through her mind. Looking for someone that vicious, that malicious, that brutal, tended to tint otherwise bland characters darkly.

  She thought of people she’d written about. The mental parade began: State legislators, judges, attorneys, bums, prostitutes, gangsters, cops, housewives, businessmen and women, the Mafia, dope pushers, users, priests, nuns, ministers, rabbis. With most rare exception, she had felt nothing personal, no particular animosity as she covered their stories. She was doing her job, and doing it well.

  Until this moment, she had given little or no thought to her subjects’ reaction. Many, if not most of them, seemed to thrive on the coverage. They seemed proud to have someone take seriously their opinion or what they had accomplished. A lot of them, through her, achieved the status of a “celebrity” by getting their names in the paper.

  But, now that she was forced to consider it, others had been most unwillingly dragged into print. Without doubt they must have resented what they deemed to be her intrusion on their privacy. There were so many of them!

  A new consideration. Whoever it was had bungled it. Tomorrow he will discover he ran down the wrong person. And, whoever he is, he’s still out there.

  Her thoughts returned to Pringle McPhee. Standing at Pringle’s bedside moments ago, all she could think was, “Poor Pringle.” Only hours before, they had chatted in the city room. Pringle had had a bad time with Fred. But she was young; she’d get over it.

  Then, in an instant of terror, she’d been hit by a car. Over and over again. It must have been horrible. Then, mercifully, unconsciousness. Now, if the best possible thing happens, and she does recover, she will face months, maybe years, of medical treatment, plastic surgery, further operations, rehabilitation therapy.

  In keeping with the brutally honest scenario suggested by Tully, Pat now had to put herself in Pringle’s place.

  If, if, if. If Pringle hadn’t decided to stay over. If Pringle had driven her own car to work. Even if she hadn’t borrowed Pat’s coat. Three very simple conditions contrary to fact. Three fortuitous conditions that had been easily changeable—but not reversible. Kismet?

  Suddenly Pat had a vision of herself in that hospital bed with all those tubes and wires invading her body. She shuddered.

  Tully felt it and put his arm around her shoulder. He held her firmly until the trembling quieted.

  At length, Tully said, “Can you think of anybody?”

  She was almost able to smile. “Until just a little while ago, no, I couldn’t. But now, just about everyone seems to qualify.”

  “The shock of all this is still too strong. Give it a little while. Your mind will become clearer. Give it a chance.”

  She nodded, bravely she hoped.

  “Your car is in the parking garage at the apartment,” Tully said. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Again, she nodded. She was grateful the car wasn’t here in the hospital lot. Just now, she didn’t trust herself to drive.

  Before leaving the hospital, Tully phoned Headquarters. He ordered a guard for Pringle McPhee’s room. Pringle’s inert body would have police protection until such time as Tully was sure such protection was unnecessary.

  They rode the short distance to the Towers in silence. He pulled up at the front door. She stiffened. This is where it had happened. She could almost see Pringle’s body—her body!—hurtling through the air.

  He pulled the car into one of the few open spaces curbside. Neither made a move to leave. “Want to come up for some coffee?” Pat said, finally.

  “Sure.”

  She turned on every light in the entry hall, living room, and kitchen area. For now at least, she feared the darkness. Even though her eyes were open, in the darkness she felt as if they were closed and perhaps she’d never be able to open them again.

  None of this was lost on Tully. He was most mindful that she would be alone tonight. He knew she was frightened. He knew she had reason. And he still felt that special spark between them that had ignited just a few evenings ago in a singles bar.

  She put the water on. She was overwhelmingly aware of his strong masculine presence. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in his arms, protected from all evil. She was also painfully aware that his woman had been sick and now was well and waiting for him at home. She could not recall a more ambivalent moment in all her experience.

  Then he was behind h
er in the narrow kitchen. She turned and was in his arms. They kissed tenderly. They backed away. They kissed again, each responding more passionately to the other.

  Pat pushed herself away from him. There was genuine love in her smile. “You’d better leave now.”

  “Pat . . .”

  “Zoo, we are about to slip over an edge that has no return. It would be so easy, and so easy to explain away later on. But not now. Maybe never. But definitely not now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “When you showed up at the hospital tonight, I was alone. I was frightened. Remember what I said to you?”

  He smiled. “‘When a fella needs a friend.’“

  “I still do. I think I just came close to losing my friend.”

  He wanted to ask once more if she was sure. But he knew she was.

  He cautioned her to lock and bolt the door. Just to be certain, he conducted a search of the entire apartment. Both were assured that all was secure.

  With one more, very chaste, kiss, he left.

  Pat finished making coffee and poured a cup. She remembered she hadn’t had dinner. That was to have been with Pringle. She looked in the fridge. Nothing looked appetizing. She just wasn’t hungry.

  The coffee tasted good. There was no concern about its keeping her awake; she knew there would be no sleep for her this night.

  With that realization, she decided to return to the News and write the Pringle McPhee story. Outside of the monster who had tried to kill Pringle, no one knew the story better than Pat did. There would be no further danger to her this night: That maniac didn’t know he had failed twice, that he’d hit the wrong person and that the one he’d hit wasn’t dead.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Tomorrow would be a different issue. He would know.

  Then what?

  She had not felt so alone and vulnerable since she was a small child. And not often then. At this moment, even Joe Cox looked good to her. How’s that for desperation, she thought. And, so much for wearing one’s best underwear!

  As he drove, Tully noticed the rain was letting up. He was headed in the general direction of home, but in a most roundabout route. He needed time to think, and he had to get his thinking done before he walked in the front door.

  He was sure Alice would still be on an emotional high. She would want to talk. He’d never be able to give her the attention she deserved unless his mind was clear of the thoughts that were now battering against it.

  They’d come so close. It would have been so natural to have made love to Pat Lennon. If it hadn’t been for her strong will power, he would be feeling guilty as hell now as he returned to Alice. Instead, he felt somewhat virtuous. Rare for him.

  So where did that leave him and Pat?

  They were friends. Another odd situation. The word evoked images of fellow officers, a few lifelong acquaintances. All of them men. No women. Not as friends. A new concept for him: to regard a beautiful, desirable woman as a friend.

  He suddenly felt sorry for his friend. Here he was, going home to a woman who loved him and whom, as long as she remained relatively healthy, he could love physically as well as emotionally. He wished for his friend the same good fortune. Then he realized that, in a very short time, he’d come to dislike Joe Cox, even though they’d never met. Now, he knew that he must see Cox through Pat’s perspective. If she liked Cox, well, then so would Tully.

  Pat Lennon would be dead—or dying—now if the perp hadn’t been misled by the unexpected switch in car and rain gear. Or, at best, she would be vegetating in that hospital bed instead of her friend.

  Even though the essence of his life was murder and death, Tully reserved particular loathing for perpetrators who tortured and overkilled in their murders. Like this guy tonight. What kind of fiend rolls over his victim with a car, over and over, tearing skin, crushing bones?

  With that question, an image, a memory that had been fluttering against his consciousness all evening, began taking shape. It was another woman. A victim of vehicular homicide. In his mind’s eye he could see the tread marks on her body.

  Of course! The woman on the slab next to David Powell in the morgue, just a few days ago! The same m.o. Coincidence? Not likely. This sort of m.o. doesn’t pop up with any frequency. Two identicals in just a few days? Not likely.

  What could be the connection?

  By damn, he’d find out. First thing tomorrow.

  THURSDAY

  JULY 27

  CHAPTER

  16

  William O’Brien was ready for them. Until just recently, the before-hours arrival of Father Robert and Brother Paul had always taken O’Brien off guard. But in the last couple of days, their daily deposits had become so substantial that the branch manager of the First Standard Bank and Trust had been anticipating the monks’ appearance shortly before opening time.

  And here they were. O’Brien checked his pocket watch: 9:10 a.m., twenty minutes before opening; for them, right on time. O’Brien unlocked and opened the front door, greeted them, then relocked the door.

  Brother Paul was carrying the large black satchel, which held today’s deposit. “Good morning, Mr. O’Brien. God bless you for being so kind to us. It really helps us get through our busy days.”

  Just about what he said every morning. But with all the media coverage, O’Brien had become a believer in the fact that their days were indeed busy.

  O’Brien led them behind the security gate, where a teller relieved Brother Paul of the satchel and immediately began to process the day’s deposit.

  As was his custom, O’Brien invited them into his office and offered them coffee. Brother Paul, as usual, did the talking for the pair. He politely refused the coffee. To drink it would be to chance revealing his features within the cowl.

  “However,” Brother Paul said, “I would like to talk to you just a moment, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “Surely.”

  “Suppose we just let Father Robert rest here while we talk. He has another taxing day ahead of him.”

  Brother Paul propped Father Robert in an upholstered chair off to the side. By this time, the bank employees were accustomed to leave the old man alone and to revere his presence as some sort of living relic. The Brother followed O’Brien into the manager’s office.

  “Well, Brother,” said O’Brien, when they were seated, “you’ve been busy.”

  “Indeed,” The cowl shook as Brother Paul nodded.

  “You wanted to discuss something?”

  “What’s been happening to us.”

  “It’s been miraculous.”

  “Literally. The crowds coming to us now are beyond belief. I fear we are tying up much of Detroit’s police force just in directing traffic and helping keep order at the chapel.”

  “My, my.”

  “We’ve been getting letters from young men. Letters from all over the country. Some from Canada. Young men who express interest in joining our group.”

  O’Brien smiled. “Isn’t that quite out of the ordinary?” He was Catholic enough to be aware of the religious vocation shortage that was becoming critical. He could appreciate that this was a reverse phenomenon.

  “It is indeed out of the ordinary. And the money keeps pouring in from all over the world.”

  “Isn’t that marvelous!” O’Brien could especially appreciate the financial contributions, particularly since the funds were being deposited in his bank.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. O’Brien. Our funds and our monastery.”

  “Oh?”

  “It is clear we can no longer expect to stay in our present building and do the work the Lord is directing us to do. The time has come to think of a permanent monastery. Things are moving so quickly now, such a move is overdue.”

  “You had no way of knowing, Brother. These miracles . . .” O’Brien’s voice trailed off in the implication that the miracles had happened unexpectedly and had changed everything.

  “Nonetheless, it is imperative
that we make our move. It is almost a sin to let another day go by without taking practical steps to equip us to provide the service to which God calls us.”

  “Do you have something specific in mind, Brother?”

  “Specifically? Yes, Mr. O’Brien. I thought a loan . . .”

  “A loan? That is well within the realm of possibility.”

  “Could you provide me with a figure? A maximum amount the bank would be comfortable with?”

  “Well, let’s see. Let me check something.” O’Brien contacted the assistant manager on the interoffice line, and requested the balance statement for the Congregation of St. Stephen. In just a few moments he had the amount. He looked particularly pleased as he turned back to Brother Paul. “We haven’t been able to check your cash deposits for today as yet, but $750,000 is a good ballpark figure for your balance.” His expression grew serious. “But, tell me, Brother, wouldn’t you prefer thinking of a mortgage?”

  “I’ve . . . that is, we, have given that serious consideration. But with all these funds coming in steadily, we should need this loan for no more than ninety days to six months.”

  O’Brien gnawed at his lip. He had no doubt why Brother Paul was the spokesman for this group. He knew what he wanted. Nor could O’Brien fault the Brother’s thinking. The bank would be able to service this loan easily. One fact was incontrovertible: the Congregation of St. Stephen had money pouring in. “I should think we would be able to talk of such a short-term loan as you suggest in terms of, say, $500,000.”

  “That sounds fine, Mr. O’Brien. Generous, in fact. To whom shall I talk about this? Someone downtown?”

  O’Brien smiled. “That won’t be necessary, Brother. It’s the policy of our bank to make our branch managers—in this case, myself—commercial lending officers with lending authority.”

  Brother Paul knew this fact well, but he affected to look surprised. “Isn’t that marvelous? That will be so convenient for us. Once again, I’m just convinced that we were led to you by the Lord Himself God bless you! Now, what kind of timetable are we talking about?”