Eminence

by William X. Kienzle

  Tully was pretty sure what it meant. And by the time he was able to drag out of them where it was Brother Paul had gone-to the bank—Tully was even more sure of what it meant.

  From the monastery, Tully sped to the bank. And now here he was, slightly more than an hour after Brother Paul had left this same spot.

  Proceedings were hectic at the bank. Everyone seemed busy and someone was in the office with the manager. Tully’s ID, his air of resolute authority, and his assurance that he was going to speak to the manager here and now or at police headquarters—also now—gained him immediate audience with William O’Brien.

  O’Brien’s greeting was affable, though he could not imagine why a police officer was so insistent on seeing him. His wonderment increased tenfold when he glanced at the calling card and read, under Tully’s name, Homicide Section. What in the world would homicide want with—

  “Did a Brother Paul come in here earlier this morning?”

  “Why, yes. About, oh . . .”—consulting his watch—“about an hour-and-a-half ago.”

  “What was his business?”

  O’Brien hesitated. “Really, Lieutenant, that does fall into the privileged information category.”

  “Mr. O’Brien, I can go get some papers that will ensure your cooperation. In the meantime, you—your bank—may be out some money. I’ve got a sneaky feeling a lot of money.”

  “There must be some misunderstanding. Brother Paul is a religious, a Roman Catholic Brother!”

  “And Rasputin was a monk.”

  “Oh, I fear you are badly mistaken, Lieutenant. In any case, there was nothing suspicious about today’s transaction. The bank merely made a short-term loan to the Congregation and transferred a sizable amount of money to the corporation that will be handling the contraction of a new monastery.”

  “How much money was transferred?”

  “The total came to one million dollars.”

  Tully whistled softly. “Want to check that out?”

  “No need, Lieutenant. The money is in one of the most reputable banks in Chicago.”

  “Do me—and yourself—a big favor: Check it out!” Tully’s tone made it considerably more than a suggestion.

  The Lieutenant’s self-assurance was beginning to shake O’Brien’s confidence in what was—even for a bank—a major transaction. But he tried to appear unruffled as he looked up the Chicago number and dialed it. He was put through promptly to the manager. They exchanged pleasantries. Then:

  “Frank, a little over an hour ago, I wired Fed Funds to one of your accounts. Could you check that for me? Yes; it was Complo Builders. Yes, that’s right.”

  O’Brien began to perspire, despite the fact that the bank’s air conditioning was working so well that Tully felt chilly.

  “Something wrong?” Tully asked.

  “What? No; no, of course not. It’s just that . . . well, I expected Complo Builders to be a rather significant account. It should have been familiar to Frank. It . . . it wasn’t.”

  “Hmmm.”

  After a short interval the Chicago manager returned to the phone.

  “Yes, Frank. You mean . . . But, I . . .” O’Brien was perspiring profusely. “But that would mean . . .” Now his color was not at all good. “It what! What was that, Frank? That’s . . . that’s . . . All right, Frank, thank you very much. What? Oh . . . yes, see you at the convention next month.” O’Brien hung up. He did not look as if he might still be living next month.

  But Tully could not afford to wait around to see if O’Brien would make it to the convention. “Well? Well!”

  O’Brien had lost his elasticity. He sagged. He was staring at the desktop but seemed to be seeing nothing. “It’s a shell corporation,” he muttered.

  “What?” Tully almost shouted. “Speak up, man!”

  O’Brien looked at Tully. “It’s a shell corporation,” he repeated. O’Brien’s transformation was remarkable. When Tully first met him just a few minutes ago, O’Brien had resembled a helium-filled balloon. Now, he was completely deflated.

  “It’s called a shell corporation,” O’Brien continued tonelessly, “because it’s empty inside. Anyone can incorporate. And, apparently, Brother Paul, a.k.a John Reid, did, d.b.a Complo Builders.”

  Tully wanted to make certain of every detail. He detected a spoor and he was eager for the pursuit and capture. “So, Brother Paul is also known as John Reid—they are one and the same person. And . . .”

  O’Brien took up the uncompleted thought. “. . . and d.b.a—he was doing business as Complo Builders. As I said, anyone can incorporate, and Brother Paul . . . that is, John Reid, did . . . as Complo Builders.”

  “That’s why your friend in Chicago—Frank—didn’t recognize the account when you gave him the name.”

  “Because it was a shell corporation consisting of just one person—John Reid. John Reid incorporated several months ago. Then he opened this account in the Chicago bank with a couple of thousand dollars in it. And that’s what’s in it now: a couple of thousand dollars.”

  “What!”

  “Shortly after I transferred the funds to Chicago, John Reid phoned Chicago, identified himself, and had all but two thousand transferred to a Swiss bank.”

  Once more, Tully whistled softly. “A million bucks!” There was awe there.

  “Such a simple plan,” O’Brien said. “But . . . a religious Brother! He and the priest—Father Robert—they seemed so sincere, so genuine! I suppose they’re all in this together?”

  “Uh . . . we don’t know. Probably just Brother Paul. . . uh, I guess we might just as well get used to calling him John Reid. We think he’s in it alone. That ought to restore some of your faith in mankind,” he added. “But Reid’s emptied out at the monastery. I think he took them, too. Either he’s history now or he’s trying to get out of town. Either way, we gotta get him. Fraud against a federal institution. Not bad for starters. Then we’ll see if we can’t nail him for attempted murder.”

  “Attempted—oh, my!”

  “I gotta use your phone.” Tully did not ask; he merely pulled the phone close and proceeded to dial. As he waited for an answer, he glanced at O’Brien, whose appearance continued to deteriorate. “You okay, man? You look really bad.”

  “I don’t feel . . .”

  “Why don’t you go home or go to the doctor or something.”

  “I won’t be needed . . . ?”

  “Not right away. We’ll need you later. But you go take care of yourself now.”

  “If you say . . .” O’Brien shook as he slowly rose from his chair. As he staggered from his office, his assistants gathered and supported him as if he were a dying elephant. They would get him to a doctor.

  Meanwhile, back in O’Brien’s office, Tully made phone contact. “Angie?”

  “Zoo?”

  “Angie, we gotta move!”

  The tone and the economy of words told Sergeant Moore that Tully wanted the ensuing done last week. She grabbed a notepad.

  “We got a guy wants to get outta town bad. Get this on the LEIN and NCIC. Now.”

  This ensured general broadcast over the police Teletype. The Law Enforcement Information Network carried police emergency news statewide. The National Crime Information Center went nationwide.

  Tully closed his eyes and concentrated. “‘Be on the lookout for John Reid, alias Brother Paul’—damn, Angie, you know I’ve never seen the guy without that goddam habit. Damn, damn, damn! Well, we gotta go with that; it’s all we’ve got. Let’s hope he’s still wearin’ the goddam habit. Then, it’s: ‘Be on the lookout for John Rei—a.k.a as above—approximately six-two, 220 pounds. May be dressed as religious order monk in gray habit. Wanted for bank fraud and suspicion of attempted murder.’”

  “The Lennon case?”

  “Yup.”

  “And bank fraud! He’s been busy!”

  “Angie, cover the tunnel and the bridge—and make sure there’s some uniforms checkin’ the Greyhound Terminal. Get somebod
y over there now. And don’t forget the Amtrak station in Dearborn and the Canadian Rail station in Windsor. And call what’s-his-name at Metro—Charlie—used to be with the Department; he’s head of security there now. He’ll get his deputies all over the airport.

  “And besides LEIN, give a personal call to the Wayne County Sheriff and the State Police. We gotta close up as many holes as possible.

  “And contact all the international air carriers; have them check their passenger lists for all flights leaving the country. Start with the flights to Switzerland; he’s got a Swiss bank account. And don’t forget the flights out of Toronto, just in case he’s already crossed the border.

  “Check the connecting flights to Kennedy, too. We don’t even know if Reid is his real name, and he may use another alias . . . but we gotta go with what we have. Of course he doesn’t know we’re on to him, so he may not try to hide his trail. In which case, he’ll just take a connecting flight to Kennedy and then a flight to Zurich.

  “And Angie, get on your horse and meet me at Metro. I’m cuttin’ out right now. Check out the best way of gettin’ to Switzerland from here about this time. I’ll be in touch with you on the road.”

  He did not wait for her response. He knew she’d do everything he asked and more.

  He started to leave O’Brien’s office, cursing his luck that he’d never seen Brother Paul well enough to make a positive ID, when he stopped abruptly. There was one man who might know, might have seen him. But what were the odds of reaching him right now?

  He had to try.

  He got the number from information and dialed.

  No one who knew Tully would have described him as a man of prayer. Although on rare occasions, he had come close to praying. He experienced one of those occasions as he dialed. He continued his own private form of prayer as the phone rang. It rang nine times before the receiver was picked up. “St. Anselm’s.”

  “Father Koesler?”

  “Speaking.”

  Tully smiled. Wow, he thought, it does work!

  CHAPTER

  22

  As she sped toward the airport, Sergeant Moore alternated keeping her eye on the traffic and giving flight information over the radio to Tully. She had taken I-94 toward Romulus; Tully had swung northwest to pick up Father Koesler, then south on Telegraph Road toward I-94 and Metro.

  Should they meet at the International Terminal? No; it wasn’t noon yet; Reid wouldn’t want to wait around for the Pan Am or British Airways flights to London; their departure wasn’t scheduled until this evening. He wants to be outta here.

  Let’s see: The connecting flights to Kennedy leave from the Northwest Terminal. But Pan Am and TWA have connecting flights from their terminals too . . . Which one? Wait: Something was buzzing through Tully’s mind.

  Chicago.

  Chicago? Yeah, Chicago. That tour to Europe that he and Alice had planned to take and then she got ill. It was a package deal, and . . . the flight had left from Chicago! With a connecting flight from Detroit on . . . American Airlines. “The L.C. Smith Terminal, Angie; we’ll try American!”

  It was just a hunch, but the more he thought about it, the more he was certain he was right. Sure, Reid—or whatever his name was—didn’t know they were on to him, but obviously, he had something planned. He would want to give himself as much lead time as possible to get out of the country ... get into international air space. He would take as few chances as possible. Instead of flying to New York and trying to make the 1:45 Concorde—which was an iffy connection in the time he had—or waiting around for the evening flights to Europe, he’d fly to O’Hare, catch a late afternoon flight: Zurich, or Brussels, Amsterdam, Paris, or Frankfurt, and be off and away long before anyone gave him—or that route—a second thought.

  He’d have to give his real name for any transatlantic flight, of course; you had to present your passport when checking in; but he could use any name on a domestic flight, thus obliterating that part of the trail. And he wouldn’t have to make a reservation in any case; if one flight out of Chicago happened to be sold out—which was doubtful in First Class, which he would certainly be traveling . . . or, maybe not; maybe he wouldn’t want to call attention to himself . . . but, it didn’t matter. The point was, if one of the international flights was sold out, he could take one of the others . . . or even, if worse came to worst, stay over and catch a flight the next day. After all, who’d be looking for him in Chicago?

  Yes, he’d bet on it—he was betting on it: the SOB was going to Chicago . . . if he hadn’t already gone.

  Tully had the door open before the car had screeched to a full stop in front of the terminal. Moore’s car was already there, the sergeant standing by the door, clutching the OAG . . . the huge guide that listed the flights of scheduled airlines all over the world. In times past, the OAG had been the travel agents’ bible; nowadays computer reservations systems had taken over.

  Tully introduced Koesler to Moore. En route, Tully had explained the situation to the incredulous priest. Tully had solemnly assured him that the bank fraud at least was a lead-pipe cinch. And the assault and attempted murder was the next best thing to a sure bet.

  Koesler, whose precious daily routine had been smashed to hell-and-gone, was very upset. Not only had his parochial schedule gone down the tube, but his almost-completed report on the Congregation of St. Stephen, which was due at the Chancery today, included no mention whatever of bank fraud or attempted murder.

  Tully, Moore, and Koesler now stood beneath the video terminal displaying departure times and gates for American Airlines.

  “Okay,” said Tully, “Flight 393 to Chicago, leaving at noon from Gate B-10, and it’s on time—or so it says.” He turned his wrist. “Twenty-five minutes. They should be just about ready to board. Let’s go.”

  The three started walking briskly through the terminal toward the passageway that would lead to Gate B-10.

  Koesler knew they were looking for Brother Paul. But it was all so confusing. Detroit’s airport terminals were by no means the largest in the world. But they were big and, even during morning hours, crowded. Koesler tried to be as vigilant as possible.

  As they walked, Tully explained, “This is pretty much guesswork. For sure, Reid will try to get out of the country. How he’s going to do it is up for grabs. We’re trying to block him in every possible way.”

  “See the security, Zoo?” Moore broke in. “Charlie came through for us.”

  “I knew he would,” Tully said. “I don’t know how often you’ve been to Metro, Father, but you may notice there are more than the usual number of airport security officers around. More sheriff’s deputies too. The State Police are specially watching the expressways for ground surveillance. We’re casing the bus and rail stations, and we’ve got the Windsor Tunnel and the Ambassador Bridge covered. But, in the end, the bottom line is, we’re lookin’ for a phantom. Outside of the other monks—and they are not cooperating at all—you’re the only one we know of who’s actually seen Reid’s face. Walt Koznicki told me about your investigation yesterday. You’re our ace. The problem is, where to play you.”

  “Play me? I don’t understand.”

  “To keep this tiny little advantage, we have to get you to the most likely spot where Reid is apt to try to make his escape. But where is it? That’s where the guesswork comes in.”

  Koesler, whose head was swiveling like a surveillance camera, said, “So, this is it. How come here?”

  “My guess,” Tully said. “Purely my guess. He could be anywhere, and he could be headed anywhere. But the money is in a Swiss bank. So, my guess is that’s where he’s headed.

  “Now, there are lots of ways to get to Switzerland. Angie’s travel agent says the best way of getting there is Swissair. But Swissair doesn’t fly out of Metro. So she checked on connecting flights. There are lots.

  “But there is one particularly lovely flight. It’ll take him from Chicago, where the money was, to Switzerland, where the money is, aboard
Swissair. And the American connecting flight is where I’m going to play my ace”—Tully pointed one elongated index finger at Koesler—“you, Father.”

  “What if he decided to wear his habit?” Koesler asked.

  “Makes the job easy for us,” Moore answered. “Everybody’s looking for a guy in a gray monk’s habit.”

  “But,” Tully said, “it’s not healthy to assume that bad guys are out to make our job easy. The big thing, far as I’m concerned, is he doesn’t know we’re onto him. And, come to think of it, if it weren’t for Pat Lennon, we wouldn’t be onto him yet. She’s the one who gave me the tip that put me on his trail. I didn’t expect to find bank fraud, but that was helpful.

  “Thing is, if he knew we were half a step behind him, he would be sorely tempted to just get the hell out of here. But he doesn’t know. That’s why I think we’ll get him . . . it’s just a hunch, but—”

  “But,” Moore said, “when Zoo Tully has a hunch, put good money on it.”

  Koesler was all but overwhelmed by the sheer number of people in this concourse. They were passing by more like fish in a tank rather than ships in the night. People meeting travelers; people deplaning, searching for loved ones or hurrying toward an exit; people almost at a run, obviously late for a flight or for meeting an arrival; hundreds of people just waiting—bored, bored, bored.

  Ahead, on the left, he could see the gate numbers jump by twos on the even side: 6, 8, and, their destination, 10.

  Tully, Moore, and Koesler slowed markedly as they neared Gate 10. Reid would not know Moore; he might conceivably recognize Tully; he almost certainly would identify Koesler after their meeting yesterday. If Tully’s guess proved correct and John Reid was indeed taking this flight, the next few minutes were crucial, and there was no predicting the outcome. Luck, now in making an arrest without anyone’s being hurt, was still very much needed.