And here it was, almost morning. The bedroom ceiling was dappled with rays of the sun glancing off leaves in the heavily wooded neighborhood.
Tully had awakened to find Alice snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder, her arm across his chest, and one of her legs draped over his. At this stage of the summer it might have been too warm for the close body heat. But it was a balmy morning with a gentle breeze stirring the lace curtains. Besides, he was so happy to have Alice back he wouldn’t have minded if the heat had been oppressive.
He hoped Pat Lennon had done her homework, although he didn’t envy her. If he had to compile a list of people who would be happy he was dead, or, better, people who would be happy to kill him, it would be almost a comprehensive directory of the local criminal scene. The only nice thing about his list was that a good majority of those on it were in prison. Tully had to believe that, given her type of work and given her competence at it, Pat’s list might well be close to as comprehensive as his.
Alice’s breath was gently stirring the hair on his chest. He looked down at her and smiled. She had returned. But he hadn’t forgotten how she’d done it.
The Mad Monks of Michigan Avenue.
Not for a moment did he believe it was a miracle. Like the rationalists, he philosophically denied the possibility of miracles. After that, it was a matter of finding a reasonable, natural cause for what had happened.
So, how did they do it? He ran the affair through his consciousness once more. The old monk, the priest: Hundreds came to him, all seeking something—a job, health, sight, peace of soul, whatever. After observing him at work, even briefly, the routine was clear: Listen to the problem, get a whatchamacallit—a relic—from the Big One, read from the card the Big One gave him, bless the client, and that’s it.
A simple enough scam. People feel they’re not alone anymore: God’s in their corner due to the priest’s prayer and the blessing with the relic. Maybe with that extra confidence, they go out and actually improve their chances. They feel better. They land the job. They patch things up at home.
And all the while, the money pours in.
But—and here was the tricky part—how in hell did the priest know when to try something extra?
From all he’d heard, the routine had been identical with the Whitehead woman. And with his own eyes he saw that the routine was the same for Al. Tully would have entertained the hypothesis that the Whitehead dame was set up for this—how, he couldn’t be sure. That would be the province of some expert—maybe in parapsychology. In cahoots with the doctor, maybe.
He would have been willing to entertain such a hypothesis if not for Al. He knew she had approached the priest out of the blue. There had been no setup. It was reasonable to assume, then, that Whitehead had been in the same boat as Al. She had come in, just like everyone else, hoping for something that would help her.
Obviously, the guy couldn’t pull this trick—whatever it was—on everybody. Nine-tenths of the people who came to him got the ecclesiastical version of a bum’s rush. Tell me your problem, I’ll give you my blessing, then scoot. There are boxes all over the church where you can leave your donation.
How did he know when to try for the big gamble? And a big gamble it seemed to be. What if the priest had encouraged Whitehead and Al to go for a healing—a miracle—and nothing had happened? If he had tried for a “miracle” and nothing happened, that could well have ruined the rest of his routine. If you can’t do the big one, maybe you can’t do the little one. And the line of clients dries up. And the donations stop. And the little band of monks pack up their belongings and get outta here. Maybe they go out of business altogether. An enormous gamble. How did he know when to try for it?
And the Big One—Brother Paul—something was definitely wrong there. He seemed to intimidate nearly everyone. Maybe it was just instinct, but after all these years on the force and being a student of human behavior, Tully was prone to trust his instincts. In fact, if it weren’t for Brother Paul, Tully would have been willing to write off the monks, forget about them and simply enjoy a healthy Alice. And to hell with how she got that way.
But Brother Paul bothered his police antennae. Tully wasn’t sure what to do about Brother Paul, but something.
“How did he know?” Pat Lennon said loudly as she sat bolt upright in bed. “How did he know!” she repeated, this time more as an exclamation than a question.
Her utterance happened to coincide with a crucial moment in Joe Cox’s dream. As he dashed from deck to deck, keeping his many girlfriends happy, complications festered on the Promenade Deck. Buffy’s husband turned up.
This was a classic example of a dream turning into a nightmare, with the hitherto peaceful sleeper transformed into a momentary maniac, crying out, and tearing at the bedclothes. Cox, in his dream-cum-nightmare, had just hurried down from the sun deck and Heather. He dashed into Buffy’s cabin and was ripping off his clothing, for the umpteenth time, when the unexpectedly fully clad Buffy announced that her husband was in the closet, loading his gun.
“Oh, Joey,” Buffy shrieked, “Oh, Joey, he’s here! He knows! He knows all about us! Oh, Joey, you’re dead meat! You’re history!”
Thus, when Pat exclaimed, “How did he know!” she took the words right out of Joe’s somnolent brain.
Limbs thrashing in search of traction to get the hell out of that stateroom, Cox was incoherent. He was babbling something like, “Oh, no! Please, don’t! I’ll be better! I’ll be good! No, please!”
Pat poked him. “Joe, wake up! You’re having a nightmare.”
“What! What? What!”
“Wake up!”
“What happened?”
“I figured it out, Joe!”
“What? Figured what out?”
“Who tried to run me down.”
“You mean the guy who got Pringle?”
“Yes. It’s got to be. It’s got to be him.”
Pat went on to explain, in some detail, her dealings over the past few days with the Congregation of St. Stephen and particularly with Brother Paul. “It was when I mentioned a Church investigation—that’s when a kind of subtle change came over him. He didn’t want that investigation.”
“Few people do,” Cox reasoned. “Banks don’t like investigations; neither do mayors or corporations or legislators, or the cops. And especially, nobody likes the IRS.”
“The point is, Joe: As far as I know, I was the first one to think of there being one. As soon as that priest told that woman to forget doctors and live by faith alone, I saw the possibility—no, the probability—of litigation. He tells that to enough people and one of them decides to believe in miracles instead of doctors and gets sicker and dies, and the Church gets sued out of its gourd.”
Cox pondered that for a moment. All right as far as it went, but . . . “Why pick on you?”
“Because it was my idea. I was going to write about it. I did write about it. Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence, Joe? This was not the first miracle; it was the second. How come the Church waits to begin its investigation until after I write that the priest advised this woman to abandon medicine?
“What if Brother Paul can see all this coming? He’s no dummy. Matter of fact, from all I’ve been able to see, he seems to be running that operation. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that when I write my piece the archdiocese is going to have to react. So he goes after me that night. It’s his first chance to get me. Either he’s lucky and gets me before I can write the piece or, by killing me, he gets the news media to turn in on itself: My murder is a bigger story than a Church investigation. And, in any case, I am no longer around anymore. You know as well as I, Joe, that it would take any other reporter several days to catch up with the story. I was just plain lucky to be prepared for this story and I’ve had an inside track from the very beginning.”
“Well, I can’t argue that that doesn’t give him a motive—and a pretty strong one. But do you think—”
“Wait, Joe.
I saved the best for last. Yesterday, when you went to get the car; when we were about to leave the monastery, when he was getting rid of me, he told me to retreat to my high-rise.”
The significance struck Cox immediately. “He said that!”
“He said that. And how did he know, Joe? How did he know? Our reclusive brother doesn’t stay home all the time. He’s a busy little rascal. And he plans ahead.
“From the beginning, I caused him more problems than any of the rest of the media ‘cause I was on top of the story. He had to have cased me. He knew what kind of car I drove. And he knew where I lived. The last person you’d think would be out casing somebody, planning a crime, would be a brother or a priest. But who’s to stop him if he’s top dog in that monastery? He can slip out whenever he needs to. And who knows him? Who can spot him? All anybody ever sees is the habit and that hood.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Without leaving the bed, Pat leaned over, picked up the phone, and began dialing. “This is the part, in the movies, where reporter goes after murderer and gets captured or worse. This is the part, in real life, where the reporter calls the cops, comes in one step after the police, gets the story, and also gets to live . . . uh, Sergeant Moore, this is Pat Lennon . . . that’s right, of the News. I’ve got to talk to Lieutenant Tully . . . when will he be in? No, now; I’ve got to talk to him now! . . . Okay, I’ll wait for his call, but get him now, please. I don’t know how much time we’ve got.”
Pat headed for the shower with a word for Cox to get her, no matter what, should Tully call.
Cox wondered about this Tully. Since when had he become the entire police force? Why did it have to be Tully? As an astute reporter himself, he felt questions flood his inquisitive mind. However, there was no time for them now.
Later.
CHAPTER
21
It had gotten so that William O’Brien automatically looked for the monks at twenty minutes before opening time. Although he didn’t, he could have set his watch by their arrival.
And here they were, right on time. But, no, it wasn’t “they”; only he. Only Brother Paul. Odd, but of no great consequence. Father Robert had become a presence—a revered presence—but nothing more. Brother Paul was the one with whom business was done. And if nothing had changed anyone’s mind, this was to be the day of the significant loan to the Congregation. Mr. O’Brien was ready for it. The next few moments would tell whether the Congregation was similarly ready.
O’Brien unlocked the door and greeted Brother Paul.
“It’s so kind of you. We really appreciate your courtesy.”
“Think nothing of it, Brother.” Truthfully, O’Brien had had just about enough of this obsequiousness. It also would be appreciated if the good Brother would pull that damn hood back so his face could be seen. With the exception of an occasional blind person wearing dark glasses, O’Brien could think of no one he did business with—besides this Brother, of course—whose eyes he could not read. And even with smoked glasses, a person’s features were discernible. With Father Robert and Brother Paul, their identities were ciphers. However, while he would give a lot to see some eyes sometime, O’Brien was a devout enough Catholic to go along with the peculiar demands of religious life.
After leaving the bag containing yesterday’s receipts with a teller, O’Brien ushered Brother Paul into his office. The manager, knowing well the outcome of such invitation, did not bother offering coffee.
After settling himself, Brother Paul said, “I’m almost afraid to ask, Mr. O’Brien, but . . . is it all right to arrange for the loan today? You know, the loan we spoke of?”
O’Brien smiled. Underneath it all, the good Brother was as naive as all the other religious who came seeking a loan. O’Brien guessed that religious men and women were so accustomed to receiving gifts that they felt the same sort of gratitude for a loan as for a gift. They did not advert to the fact that banks are in business to loan money at interest. And that one of the safer loans to make was precisely the one at hand. The Congregation of St. Stephen was one of the bank’s better accounts, with money coming in increasingly by the day. O’Brien had had no cause till now to give it much thought, but at this moment he’d be willing to state that miracles were one of life’s better collaterals.
“Yes, Brother, it’s all set and ready to go. Five-hundred thousand dollars.”
He laid out a series of legal documents on his desk. “If you’d care to read these and then sign them where I have marked Xs in red . . .”
“Oh, it won’t be necessary for me to go through them, Mr. O’Brien. It’s legal language I’d never understand. But I know I can trust you. I’ll just go ahead and sign them.”
As Brother Paul proceeded to do so, O’Brien said, “I hope Father Robert is all right. We sort of miss his presence.”
“Poor man.” Brother Paul shook his head. “This has been a trial for him. But he’s . . . well, just tired. The other Brothers and I felt he should get all the rest he can now. You understand.”
“Yes, of course. You’re undoubtedly correct.” O’Brien noted the final signature had been made. He retrieved the documents.
Brother Paul leaned back. “Now, Mr. O’Brien, I wonder if it would be convenient for you to find some way to get this money, plus another half-a-million from our account, to a Chicago construction firm?”
O’Brien inclined his head slightly and tried, again without success, to see into the cowl. “A Chicago firm?”
“Yes. Complo Builders of Chicago. You see, Mr. O’Brien, Mr. Complo has been a friend of the Congregation almost from our beginning. He is a fine Catholic gentleman, husband, and father—eight children. And, blessedly for us, he has expressed his willingness to supervise the architectural engineering and the erection—the entire construction of our new monastery—as well as to act as a consultant for no more than the overhead costs.
“You must know, Mr. O’Brien, that we know nothing about construction. But God has sent us Mr. Complo. As we trust you, so do we also trust Mr. Complo. He has promised to consult with us about the details of the new monastery. So we want to transfer the funds to Mr. Complo’s bank, and they will handle the whole thing.” Brother Paul sounded as though he was smiling. O’Brien had no way of knowing.
“Yes, of course we can do that, Brother.”
How like religious to fall into gravy like that, thought O’Brien. A construction firm that will handle a major building project for overhead costs because the CEO is a Catholic. Well, hell, even he had been bending a few rules for the sake of the “good” Father and Brothers.
“Well,” Brother Paul leaned forward, “how can we do this?”
O’Brien fell into a benign but didactic attitude. “Oh, it’s very easy, Brother. We simply wire-transfer Fed Funds—that’s Federal Reserve Funds, Brother. It’s the same thing as sending cash.”
“Can you do that? I mean, without involving anyone else?” Brother Paul knew the answer. Indeed Brother Paul knew all the details to this transaction at least as well as O’Brien.
“Yes, of course, Brother. I am authorized to have access to the wire transfer department. This whole transaction will be completed before . . . before you get back to your monastery.”
Brother Paul enveloped in both his hands O’Brien’s right hand, pen and all. “Thank you ever so much, Mr. O’Brien. We surely are grateful to you. And you can be assured that we will keep you and your good family in our prayers. Not only now, but when we move into our new monastery. Now, here, Mr. O’Brien”—Brother Paul extracted a piece of paper from deep inside one of the pockets of his habit and handed it to the banker—”is the address and phone number of Mr. Complo’s bank.”
O’Brien glanced at the paper, pursed his lips, and nodded. “Very good, Brother. I know this bank well. It’s one of the most prestigious in Chicago. You have nothing to worry about. Your money is in good hands.”
“I’m sure that’s true. Again, we can’t thank you enough. But you will neve
r be out of our prayers.”
A few more effusive expressions from both parties and the monk was gone. The banking day had now begun and William O’Brien, true to his word, got busy transferring funds.
Zoo Tully skidded his car into the bank’s parking lot, narrowly missing a sensible black Ford driven by an elderly blue-haired woman, who had a lot to say to this whippersnapper who had almost ended her life, though not prematurely. With all the street noise, Tully could not hear what the lady said. And he was just as glad he could not read lips. He screeched into the only empty parking place, which was reserved for the handicapped. Tully felt strongly about these spaces being used by anyone but the handicapped, but this was an emergency.
He half expected the bank to be in a state of pandemonium. He had convinced himself that Brother Paul had come here this morning to rob the place.
There did not seem to be an emergency. But, in fact, this entire morning had been an emergency.
It had started languorously enough with Al waking up cuddled in his arms. After their long abstinence, they enjoyed making love, as it turned out, night and morning.
He was shaving when the call came from Angie Moore with an urgent call-back for Pat Lennon. So, of course, he cut himself. And the day began snowballing from there.
He agreed with Pat all the way. It didn’t hurt that he already suspected Brother Paul of some sort of evil. When Pat got to Brother Paul’s admonition that she get back to her high-rise, she didn’t have to spell out the implications. By that time, Tully was well ahead of her.
After the call, he left home as expeditiously as possible and drove directly to the monastery. He had considerable difficulty gaining admittance but finally was able to convince the monks that (a) he was a police officer, and (b) this was an emergency.
The one he wanted—the Big One—was out and no one seemed to have any clue as to when he might return. Father Robert and the other monks were only slightly more communicative than sphinxes. Eventually, he was able to get one of them, Brother Francis—in Tully’s quick evaluation, the most guileless of the four—to check Brother Paul’s cell. Returning wide-eyed, Brother Francis announced that Brother Paul’s few belongings were gone. What could that mean?
Eminence Page 29
