by Joseph Flynn
“Where Etienne Burel works.”
“Oui. The owner is a friend, a henchman if you will, of Jean-Louis’ most serious political enemy. Only this fellow, the underling, was reported lost at sea, having fallen from a yacht sailing off Tahiti. A massive search was organized but his body was never found.”
“Could be he drowned,” McGill said with a shrug. “If nobody gets around to updating the deed on a strip club, that’s going to be a surprise?”
The magistrate opened the one drawer in his table, took out a photograph, slid it over to McGill. He saw a middle-aged man with thinning sandy brown hair, a sun-browned face, a prominent nose and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“That’s your guy, huh?” McGill asked. “And the picture’s current.”
“Odo took it yesterday.”
McGill had an insight. “A man who’s supposed to be dead could be your hardliner, the guy who sent The Undertaker to visit you and Durand. Why not? Who’s going to suspect someone who’s been lost at sea?”
Pruet nodded, finding McGill’s reasoning plausible.
“As soon as possible, I will send Odo to collect him.”
The door to Pruet’s office opened.
“Did I hear someone mention my name?” the Corsican asked.
Gabbi was a step behind him. She closed the door behind them.
“I was showing Mr. McGill your photo of Charlot Karel.”
Odo nodded and placed the tray with the drinks he carried on Pruet’s table.
McGill took the glass he was offered and sipped.
“So, in his own way, Glen Kinnard screwed up the bad guys’ plans,” he said. “A visiting American, here to scatter his French-born wife’s ashes in the Seine, couldn’t be portrayed as a street thug.”
Pruet sampled his own glass. “For which we are most grateful. As for those of us here today, we are left with the task of capturing and questioning not one but two villains without help from the police.”
“Because you really do fear the cops might kill Burel?” McGill asked.
Odo gave it away. “We are dealing with another interior minister.”
McGill thought maybe the French should reorganize that office.
Then something Pruet had said popped into McGill’s head.
It might explain how Thierry Duchamp had become the target for assassination.
“I bet the interior minister likes old-fashioned, low-scoring French football teams.”
Pruet sighed. “M’sieur McGill, you are coming to know us too well.”
St Magnus rectory, Annandale, VA
21
Sweetie slowed the Malibu as she approached the parking area adjacent to the rectory of St. Magnus Church. A flash of familiar red hair caught her eye. Kira Fahey was coming down the back steps of the rectory in tears — and smiling ear to ear. In her right hand, she clutched what looked like a white cloth to her chest. She ran in the direction of a Lexus SUV, but stopped halfway and looked at the cloth or something on it. Sweetie could hear the sob that came from Kira.
Sweetie pulled into a parking slot and put the car in neutral. Deciphering the sound she’d just heard coming from Kira was problematic. The mix of emotions it had contained was hard to read. There was a note of desperate loss, but also a distinct undertone of joy. Almost a laugh. That mitigating happiness was what kept Sweetie from rushing to Kira to see if she needed help.
Apparently, she didn’t. She continued on to the Lexus and after a moment of sitting behind the wheel — and holding the cloth up in front of her — she drove off. Waiting until Kira was out of sight, Sweetie shifted to park and shut down the engine.
She climbed the back steps of the rectory and rang the doorbell.
22
A frowning housekeeper admitted Sweetie to Father Francis Nguyen’s spartan office. The priest’s wooden desk and chairs looked like they might have come from the WPA. Adding to the early 20th century feel of the space was a portrait of Pius XII on the wall behind the priest. Sweetie wondered about that choice. Pius XII was the pope criticized — condemned, even — for his failure to take a stand against the Nazis. The Vatican had rationalized his conduct, but the pontiff remained a flashpoint of controversy to the present day.
Addressing the housekeeper, Father Nguyen said, “Thank you, Mrs. Crowther. That will be all.”
When Sweetie didn’t hear the woman leave, she turned to look at her. Gave Mrs. Crowther her best cop stare. Worked like a charm. She left forthwith.
When Sweetie heard the door click shut, she said to the priest, “Thank you for seeing me, Father.”
The priest raised his hands and let them fall: a gesture of conciliation not blessing.
“I came to your office unannounced,” he said.
“But never unwelcome. Jim and I can always use guidance.”
“As can we all.”
Sweetie didn’t want to get into a humility contest.
She was about to speak when the priest preempted her.
“Would you happen to know the young woman who just visited me? You may have crossed her path on your way in; her name is Kay.”
Having conducted many an interrogation in her day, Sweetie was familiar with the use of the unexpected question. She also knew how to answer one truthfully, if incompletely. Keeping the extent of her knowledge to herself and her sin of omission venial in nature.
“I saw her. She looked familiar. But the woman I know isn’t named Kay.”
All true, and she didn’t rat out Kira, Sweetie thought. But she was sure, despite her best efforts to live a good life, she would spend a long time explaining herself to Saint Peter. Assuming she made it as far as the Pearly Gates.
Father Nguyen wasn’t done with his inquiries.
“Do you believe in miracles, Margaret?”
“I do,” Sweetie said without hesitation.
“Have you ever been the beneficiary of one?”
She thought of her cousin Patrick coming home safely from the war, and she thought of walking among Reverend Burke Godfrey’s agitated followers with Caitie McGill and both of them coming away unharmed.
“More than once,” she said.
That got the good father’s attention.
“Would you mind if I told you a story then?”
“I’ll listen to yours,” Sweetie said, “if you’ll listen to mine.”
23
Sweetie had to admit Father Nguyen’s miracle was more impressive than either of hers. “Have you spoken to anyone in the hierarchy of this?” she asked the priest.
He shook his head. “I only confirmed with Kay just now that the image on the cloth is indeed that of her late father.”
Sweetie had a question on that point. “Did the young lady ever tell you how old she was when her father died?” Kira had never mentioned it to Sweetie.
“Quite young. Six years old.”
“That had to be some time ago. How could she recognize his likeness?”
“She told me she has been studying family photo albums as the date of her wedding approaches.”
Okay, Sweetie thought. She could buy that.
Father Nguyen continued, “She said the image of her father on the cloth is exactly the same as a picture in which he is standing next to Kay’s mother. It was taken on their honeymoon.”
“Whew,” Sweetie said. “If this is a miracle, it’s a good one. There’s no chance anyone with artistic talent could have spent some time working on the cloth?”
The priest didn’t take offense; he was looking for a critical point of view.
“What would an artist use as his model? I don’t even know Kay’s last name, much less where she lives or keeps her photo albums.”
“Maybe the artist saw Kay herself. Is there a resemblance between her and her father?”
“Yes. But not so strong as to be exact. She has promised to bring the picture in for me to compare. Then there is the question of which medium an artist might have used for his work.”
“Medium? You mean, oil,
tempera, fabric paint?”
The priest told Sweetie of Mrs. Crowther’s efforts to wash the image out of the cloth, including her use of bleach in a third attempt.
“She said laundering the image only made it more beautiful, to use her word. That was when she thought she should bring the cloth to me. Asked me if I had drawn it.”
“Had you?” Sweetie the ex-cop asked.
“No. It’s all I can do to write my name legibly.”
Sweetie sat back, folded her hands in her lap. Shrugged.
“I’m not an expert in the field, Father, but if it’s not a miracle, you’ve got me stumped.”
“It would have been helpful,” the priest said, “if the portrait had come with a signature.”
Sweetie laughed. “Not even with the Ten Commandments did He do that.”
Father Nguyen smiled broadly. Sweetie, as she did with most people, had won him over.
“Miracle or not,” she said, “you can’t take this story to Bishop O’Menehy.”
“No,” Father Nguyen said.
“It would look self-serving for a priest at odds with the hierarchy. There would be a big investigation, an ecclesiastical circus. The Vatican would demand to take possession of the cloth. Years of debate would follow. And in the end—”
“I would be denounced. The cloth would be burned or simply disappear.”
“Martin Luther can never be made a saint.”
“No, that would never do,” Francis Nguyen said. “And it would never do to ask Kay to part with the cloth.”
With that, the priest won Sweetie over, too.
“Now, what is your story, Margaret?” he asked.
She said, “Did you ever hear the one about the priest, the bishop, and the two gangsters?”
Father Nguyen clearly didn’t think a joke was about to follow.
“Don’t worry,” Sweetie told him. “I might have figured out a happy ending.”
Magistrate Pruet’s office, Paris
24
Gabbi was off on a shopping trip. Odo was out arresting Charlot Karel, the interior minister’s supposedly dead lieutenant. Pruet was off securing the use of some private dungeon in which to stash Karel, Diana Martel and eventually, they all hoped, The Undertaker. McGill was by himself in the magistrate’s office once again watching the DVD of The Undertaker doing in his victim. This time it was to find the mountainous thug’s weaknesses.
There were always some. McGill had a pad and pen to make notes.
Of course, the man who had died at The Undertaker’s hands had thought he could find weaknesses, too. Exploit them with his five free blows. End the fight and win ten thousand euros before he broke a sweat.
The setting for the fight was indoors. Harsh blue-white light created an illuminated square perhaps twenty feet on a side and showed a concrete floor speckled red. Not with blood, McGill thought, more like an automotive fluid of some sort. Some of the stains looked to be wet. McGill had the feeling the site was some sort of warehouse. The square of light was surrounded by deep shadows, but in an early frame McGill thought he caught a glimpse of a lowered overhead door, giving him the suggestion of a loading dock.
From his earlier viewings, he knew there were at least two eyewitnesses to the killing that was about to happen: the camera operator and a man with a handgun. If the video’s producers were smart, those were the only two spectators present. If there were dumb mutts behind the grisly exhibit, they had sold as many tickets as they could.
While the lighted square was still empty an opening title appeared.
Un combat à la mort. A fight to the death.
The challenger stepped out of the darkness.
Jean Martin was supered on the screen.
Gabbi had said the name was the French equivalent of John Smith.
McGill estimated the soon-to-be-dead Smith stood maybe six-three and weighed at least two-forty. Wearing only a wrestler’s singlet, Smith didn’t look the least bit fat; his musculature and supporting skeletal structure were round and dense. He was a brute power guy. In most cases, he probably got his way with one hard shove. Put a guy flat on his ass and stand over him glowering, daring the poor sap to get up.
The Undertaker stepped into the light, also in a singlet, and by comparison Smith suddenly looked slight. Smith didn’t have a face fashioned by kind thoughts and good deeds, but compared to the mug on The Undertaker, he looked like Truman Capote.
A new super appeared. Le champion final. The ultimate champion.
Having only visuals for reference, McGill couldn’t tell if The Undertaker’s trademark cloud of stench hung about — No, wait. Looking for a reaction now, he saw Smith’s nose wrinkle in disgust and his mouth fall open so he could breathe through it. Yeah, the big guy was doing his best impression of a 400-pound skunk.
McGill had a better understanding now of how terrified Arno Durand had been when The Undertaker had kicked in the reporter’s door and didn’t let a little thing like a cast iron skillet bouncing off his skull bother him. The president’s henchman didn’t see himself jumping out a window, but in the absence of having some major firepower in hand, he would try to beat feet rather than try to take the guy on alone.
Smith clearly saw that even with five free shots he was going to have his work cut out for him. Trying to shove this monster off his feet wasn’t going to work. The Undertaker stood unmoving, his hands at his sides, as Smith moved to one side of him and then the other, to see what he might see. From behind, the camera followed Smith, giving McGill the challenger’s point of view. The Undertaker looked completely unconcerned that Smith might launch a sneak attack on him.
Still, the monster kept watch. When Smith moved to The Undertaker’s left, he followed the movement with his eyes. When Smith moved to The Undertaker’s right, though, the monster had to turn his head to keep track of him.
McGill paused the disc and made a note. Limited, if any, peripheral vision on right side. He hit the play button.
Smith started to move behind The Undertaker, see what might be of interest back there, but a hand suddenly projected itself from shadow into the light. The hand, masculine and holding a gun, waved Smith off. He was not permitted to walk behind The Undertaker. The interdiction made McGill wonder if Smith might have seen an Achilles’ heel of some sort from that point of view or if the gunman simply didn’t want Smith getting too close to him.
Perhaps fearing Smith might knock the gunman on his ass and make a break for it.
Couldn’t have a fight to the death if one guy ran away.
Smith took the warning to heart and backed off. He went back to inspecting his target from permissible angles. Having gotten somewhat past the horror of what would soon happen, McGill now appreciated what Smith was up to: He was trying to wear out the monster’s patience. Get him to relax, maybe get exasperated and look away. Appeal to someone in the shadows to get the show on the road.
And that’s just what The Undertaker did, insofar as he turned his head to his left. The moment his eyes were off Smith, the smaller man attacked.
McGill hit the DVD control for slow motion and watched what followed closely. Smith threw a roundhouse left hand, real haymaker. McGill knew exactly the spot Smith was trying to hit: the hinge of The Undertaker’s jaw, the temporomandibular joint. The same spot McGill had hit to turn Glen Kinnard’s lights out.
Smith’s punched carried more than enough power to knock out anyone in his weight class; it might even have dropped The Undertaker to his knees where it might have been followed by a nice kick to the teeth that would have settled matters in Smith’s favor. Well, after Smith had stomped the giant’s head, as the promoter insisted on someone dying.
The problem for Smith wasn’t The Undertaker’s bulk, it was his height. Most likely, Smith had never thrown a punch at someone over seven feet tall. He overcompensated and missed the monster’s jaw, catching him flush on his right ear. The Undertaker stayed on his feet. In fact, he stood straighter than before, as if he’d been jolt
ed by electricity. His mouth opened wide in what must have been a nightmare-inspiring scream.
McGill paused the video. He looked at the monster’s teeth. Most of them were present and approximately in proper alignment but The Undertaker plainly didn’t brush after every meal. His tooth color ranged from gray to black. From decaying to dead.
McGill wrote: A good shot to the mouth will really hurt this guy.
He returned the player to slow motion. Like any good street fighter, Smith immediately pressed his advantage. He kicked The Undertaker in the crotch. Again, however, he hadn’t properly accounted for the monster’s height; the giant’s family jewels dangled a good foot higher than most men’s and it looked to McGill as if Smith’s foot just grazed his target rather than drove into it. And for all McGill knew The Undertaker was smart enough to wear a cup.
In any event, Smith’s kick was still enough to make the monster bellow in pain once more; it even drove him back a step or two. Smith did not relent, but he lowered his sights to more accessible targets. He kicked the beast smartly on his right knee and then his left knee.
McGill paused the video. Make this guy move as much as possible, especially try to make him pivot.
If The Undertaker were at all human, those knees would never be the same. Just carrying all his weight should make them sore. Get him to make a sudden change in direction and one of his legs might buckle. If he went down to his knees, they could throw a net over him.
He set the player back to slow motion. Smith still had one free shot left and what he hoped — or at least what McGill would have hoped in his place — was for the monster to lean forward and put a hand over each knee, to try to rub the pain out of them. That would present The Undertaker’s head like a football, the American kind, to be punted the length of the field.
The giant did bend forward, but either instinctively or as a result of experience, he knew enough to cover his face with his massive forearms, taking away a straight-on kick. McGill thought what he would have done in Smith’s place was to take another good shot at the monster’s jaw. Follow that up with a kick to the side of the knee. If the leg joint was unstable already, another kick should have collapsed it. But that was when Smith made his fatal mistake.
