by John Lutz
He thought Leland was going to snap the ballpoint pen in half when he signed a contract for Nudger's services. Leland's jaw muscles were working as if he were chewing raw leather, and when he leaned near, he smelled like desperation. It was tough, the tricks love played on some people.
The big man counted out the retainer in cash almost absently and left it on Nudger's desk, then buttoned his overcoat to the neck and left the office.
Beatrice Leland was middle-aged, plump, but still attractive, with a head of thick, wavy dark hair and pale blue, gentle eyes. There was a subtle sadness to her, even at first glance. She would appeal to those men who could sense a vague helplessness in women; predators who picked off the cripples.
At three o'clock on the afternoon of her husband's visit to Nudger's office, she got into her blue Toyota sedan and drove from the driveway of her comfortably plush home in Des Peres. She was wearing a gray dress and red high heels, carrying a large red purse. There was a jacket-length fur draped over her shoulders. Nudger classified her as dressed up, not just on her way to pick up some crackers and dip. She wasn't running errands; the lady was going somewhere that meant something.
He followed as she headed south, then as she turned east on Manchester, back toward Nudger's office. For a moment Nudger wondered inanely if she were on her way to hire him to follow her husband.
Her first stop surprised him. She parked on Sutton Avenue in Maplewood and crossed the street to enter a plumbing supply company. She had a graceful, alluring walk despite her extra ten or fifteen pounds. Nice ankles and proportioned curve of hip. Maybe she was having an extramarital affair with a plumber, Nudger mused, as he sat in his dented Volkswagen Beetle and shivered in the January cold.
But ten minutes later she came out of the plumbing supply place, carrying her purse as if it were heavier. She got back into the Toyota and U-turned to head north on Sutton. Nudger followed her as she made a left and drove west on Manchester, away from the city.
At the Holiday Inn on Craigshire, she parked and walked directly to a second-floor door. She knocked lightly twice, as if whoever was in the room was expecting her. The door opened almost immediately, and she disappeared inside. The number 201 was visible in a glint of sunlight when the door swung closed.
Keeping an eye on her parked car, Nudger left the Volkswagen nestled out of sight behind a van and walked into the office. He tried to slip the pimply-faced young desk clerk ten dollars of Arthur Leland's money to give him the name of whoever was in 201. The desk clerk was a guy who probably never went to the movies or read detective novels. He told Nudger to go to hell, the motel's guests were entitled to their privacy. Nudger shrugged and slunk back to his car. It was much colder there than in hell.
Beatrice Leland emerged from the room an hour later. She looked the same as when she'd entered; hair not mussed, clothes still unwrinkled. There were too many cars parked in the lot for Nudger to be able to tell which belonged with room 201, so he didn't write down a license number before following her out of the parking lot.
He expected her to go home. Instead, she drove for twenty minutes and made a left turn into the Howard Johnson's motel on South Lindbergh. She was staying with franchises.
Again she went directly to one of the rooms. This time the desk clerk was more cooperative because Nudger didn't discourage the impression that he was a policeman. The man in the room had registered an hour ago as James Smith. Actually Smith.
But this time there was little doubt which car went with the room. Business was slow today; the only car parked on that side of the lot was a dark gray Lincoln with black-tinted windows. Nudger jotted down its license plate number in his spiral pocket notebook.
Apparently Beatrice Leland had done enough of whatever it was she was doing. When she left Howard Johnson's and Mr. Smith, she drove straight home. She looked upset when she went into the house, and she didn't leave again that day. Nudger waited in the stifling little Volkswagen until he saw Arthur Leland arrive home from work, then he went home himself and had a high old time with a frozen turkey dinner and a cold beer.
After supper he watched a "Barney Miller" rerun on TV and thought about Beatrice Leland and the woman in his own life, Claudia Bettencourt, who was in Chicago for a week-long teachers' convention. If the husband was the last to know, could it be that the boyfriend never found out at all?
In the morning he phoned Lieutenant Jack Hammersmith at the Third District police station and asked him please, please if he'd run a check with the Department of Motor Vehicles to see who owned the gray Lincoln. Hammersmith didn't like it, or pretended he didn't like it, as he puffed and smacked his lips on his foul cigar over the phone and copied the license number Nudger read to him. Then Nudger went down to Danny's Donuts, directly below his second-floor office, and had a Dunker Delite, coffee, and an antacid tablet for breakfast.
Forced by Danny to accept a free second cup of acidic coffee, he sat at the stainless steel counter and wondered about Beatrice Leland. Was this a flare-up of middle-aged sexuality? He'd seen it before, in women as well as men. Maybe Beatrice Leland was having a final sexual fling, or maybe her daughter's death had inspired some sort of nymphomaniacal clinging to sex as a symbol of life. Nudger had seen that before, too, this compulsion for sex after having dealings with death; he'd felt that one and knew how powerful it might be to a lonely, bereaved woman like Beatrice Leland.
Danny looked at Nudger with his doleful brown eyes and nodded toward the grease-spotted frosty window beyond the low counter. "Looks like business, Nudge," he said.
Nudger swiveled on his stool just in time to see Arthur Leland open the door next to the doughnut shop; he heard the door swing shut and the heavy tramp of Leland's footfalls as he climbed the narrow stairs to the door to Nudger's office.
"I guess I'd better be in," Nudger said. He carried his coffee with him so as not to offend Danny and joined Leland on the second-floor landing outside the door.
"She left the house yesterday and lied to me about where she went," Leland said without preliminaries. "Where did she go?"
Nudger unlocked the door and ushered Leland inside. Leland stood with his arms crossed while Nudger opened the drapes to let in more winter gloom, then turned up the valve on the steam radiator and sat down behind his desk. "She drove to the Holiday Inn on Craigshire," Nudger said, "then to the Howard Johnson's motel on South Lindbergh. Both times she stayed in a room about an hour."
A sheen Nudger didn't like slid into Leland's hard eyes. Leland uncrossed his arms and unbuttoned his bulky overcoat. "Who did she see in these rooms?"
"I don't know yet. I'm finding out who she met at Howard Johnson's; I got the license number of his car."
"You saw him?" Leland asked, a sharp edge to his voice.
"No, I saw his name on the registration card. James Smith."
Leland grunted and began to pace.
"Don't jump to conclusions," Nudger cautioned, wondering at the value of that advice.
Leland grinned. It had nothing to do with humor. "My wife sees two men at motels in the middle of the afternoon and one of them registered under the name Smith, and you tell me not to draw any conclusion?"
"We don't even know if the person at the Holiday Inn was a man."
"Worse still," Leland said, his imagination really taking hold. "You know how to cheer up a client, Nudger."
"All I'm doing is passing on what I've learned," Nudger said. "That's why you hired me. I'm also advising you not to waste your anger and frustration yet, because we don't know the story."
"You telling me my wife is supplying these motels with Gideon Bibles, Nudger?"
"Somebody does."
"Don't smart off," Leland said. "That I didn't hire you for." He sighed and wiped a hand over his forehead, gazed at his fingers as if to see if they were soiled by his thoughts. "I'm not upset for the usual reason, Nudger. If my wife needs professional help, I want to see that she gets it. She's entering menopause, and she's suffering a terrible grief an
d strain." He looked at Nudger, his beefy face contorted by agony. "I can forgive her, whatever she's done."
"Do you want me off the case?" Nudger asked. "You get a refund. Maybe you don't want to learn anything more."
Leland shook his big head. "No, find out the rest of it." He walked heavily to the door, staring at the floor. "You have my work number; call me if anything urgent comes up."
"I'll phone you when I learn anything else," Nudger said, and watched Leland wedge his wide body through the doorframe. He listened to the big man's steps as Leland descended the stairs to the street. Cold air stirred briefly around Nudger's ankles a moment after he heard the outside door open and close. He picked up his foam coffee cup from the desk, took a sip, and was about to get up and pour the rest of the coffee down the washbasin in the office's half bath when the telephone rang.
It was Hammersmith. "What are you up to with this one, Nudge?" he asked around his cigar.
"Errant spouse case. Why?"
Hammersmith chuckled and slurped at the cigar. "You might be a bit errant yourself this time."
Nudger knew Hammersmith relished the dramatic pause. He waited patiently, silently, listening to the wheeze of the cigar being smoked, glad he was talking to Hammersmith by phone and not in person in Hammersmith's clouded office.
He'd expected only a name and address out of this conversation, and Hammersmith knew it. Nudger thought about the big, fancy Lincoln. It crossed his mind that James Smith might be a known pimp, and Beatrice Leland was working for him, turning over her share of the profits. Arthur Leland would be thrilled to learn that.
"That license plate you asked me to run for you," Hammersmith said, "it belongs to a new Lincoln, gray on gray, registered to the Archdiocese of St. Louis."
"The Church," Hammersmith said. "A priest drives it. Father Adam Tooley of St. Luke's Parish; the address is St. Luke's Cathedral over on Hanley." Hammersmith wheezed and chuckled again around the fat cigar. "I think you got the wrong car, Nudge."
He hung up, still chuckling.
But Nudger wasn't even smiling.
He followed Beatrice Leland again that afternoon. This time she was wearing jeans and a red quilted ski jacket. She appeared nervous; maybe she'd had a talk with her husband and suspected she was being followed. She drove around most of the afternoon, going nowhere, stopping only once, to buy gas.
When Nudger reported that to Arthur Leland that evening, Leland seemed relieved. He shouldn't have been; Beatrice surely was hiding something from him.
Nudger slept uneasily that night, nagged by his subconscious. He was up at 1:00 a.m. with heartburn and didn't fall asleep again until almost 2:30, an antacid tablet dissolving on his tongue.
He felt better at 8:30 after a shower and shave. As he sat eating the leathery omelet he'd prepared for breakfast, sipping coffee, he watched the morning local news on the black and white portable Sony in his apartment kitchen. Another mugging in the West End, the pretty blonde anchorwoman said disconsolately, as a shot of some buildings that might have been anywhere in town came on the screen. She was happier about the mayor's new cleanup campaign to get unemployed youths off the Street. There was a piece of videotape of a surly kid spearing a crumpled paper bag with a spiked pole. Nudger wondered if he might be the one doing the mugging in the West End.
After a commercial the news came back on with tape of a group of people picketing an abortion clinic and tying up yesterday evening's downtown rush-hour traffic. A concerned-looking doctor inside the clinic was interviewed and said that tomorrow was the thirteenth anniversary of the Supreme Court's decision to legalize abortion, and he feared there might be violence. The right-to-lifers outside didn't look violent to Nudger. The newsman was talking to a fiftyish, balding man in a trench coat now. One of the picketers. His gentle gaze was firm, and he didn't blink once as he spoke. The wintry breeze blew his coat partly open and revealed a white clerical collar. After the interview, which Nudger didn't bother listening to, the newsman referred to the man as "Father Tooley, the militant priest."
Nudger dropped the piece of toast he was buttering. Then he realized the "tomorrow" the clinic doctor had referred to was today.
He went into the living room and picked up the phone.
Arthur Leland sounded as if he'd been awakened by the call. Nudger didn't care. He quickly identified himself and said, "Mr. Leland, this question might not make much sense to you, but are you having plumbing problems?"
"Is this a joke, Nudger?"
"All right, then. No. No plumbing problems—of any kind."
"Is your wife home?"
"No. She went shopping with her sister, early, before the stores get crowded. At least, that's what I was told."
"Did you see your sister-in-law?"
"No, Bea took our car and picked her up. Listen, Nudger—!"
Nudger hung up the phone, then lifted the receiver again and dialed Hammersmith at the Third.
Then he left the apartment. Fast.
He tried to sort things out as he drove along Manchester in the bouncing Volkswagen, hoping he was wrong, knowing he wasn't. The first person Beatrice Leland had met was probably a demolitions expert—or more likely an amateur who thought he was an expert—a member of a violent antiabortion organization. The second person, Father Tooley, possibly gave her exact instructions, or simply fortified her with faith.
There was nothing Nudger could do. Or Hammersmith and the power of the law. It had been too late when Nudger phoned.
Ten minutes from the apartment the news came over the car radio. The Woman's Clinic Downtown had been destroyed by a bomb blast. Apparently it was assumed that the building would be empty, but staff members had early abortions and consultations scheduled. Two staff members were killed, and three patients. Along with a woman thought to be carrying the bomb, who was seen entering the clinic with a large red purse a few minutes before the explosion. Police speculated that something had gone wrong with the explosive device. They were still trying to determine the identity of the woman with the purse, and what kind of explosive device was used.
Nudger knew who the woman was: Beatrice Leland. And he knew what kind of explosive device had been in her purse: a pipe bomb. Assembled at the Holiday Inn on Craigshire.
The bomb was supposed to stop abortions at the clinic and to draw attention to the anti-abortion cause. No one was supposed to die. Right-to-life groups didn't stand for death. Priests didn't stand for death. Six people were dead.
Nudger pulled the Volkswagen to the curb and sat still for a long time, staring out the windshield at nothing beyond the car's sloping, dented hood. He felt angry, guilty for not having figured out everything sooner. That guilt was unreasonable, maybe, but there it was, resting heavily on him like a pall, and he couldn't do anything about it.
Eventually he realized he was cold.
He started the engine, jammed the car into gear, and drove on toward St. Luke's Cathedral.
The massive church's parking lot was almost empty when Nudger left the Volkswagen in a No Parking area near the front entrance. He hurried up veined marble steps and through ornate doors, then down the wide, carpeted center aisle of the cavernous cathedral. Above him towered ancient Gothic arches, carved stone, and softly glowing stained glass. Statuary was set in the walls on each side of the wide rows of dark-stained wooden pews; St. Luke himself on Nudger's right, on Nudger's left a stone Holy Mother and Child. Spiraling organ pipes rose on one side of the pulpit, where a young altar boy stood near wooden stairs. Except for half a dozen worshipers seated or kneeling in the vastness of the church, the altar boy seemed to be the only one around.
"Where can I find Father Tooley?" Nudger asked.
"In the rectory," the boy stammered, seeing the intensity in Nudger's face.
An elderly, gray man Nudger hadn't noticed stood up from the organ bench and said, "He's in his office, I believe. I saw him go in there earlier this morning." He pointed to a door behind the pulpit. "You'll have to check with Miss H
ammond."
Nudger nodded and walked through the door, then down a richly paneled hall to a tall, closed oak door.
He opened the door to find himself in a large outer office. The walls were lined with books and paintings. Behind a massive carved-wood desk sat a dark, fiftyish woman with stern eyes and a severe skinned-back hairdo. Miss Hammond, no doubt.
"I want to see Father Tooley," Nudger said.
Miss Hammond didn't like the way he'd asked. Her sharp eyes darted to a closed door on her left, back to Nudger. "He's preparing for Mass. I'm afraid—"
She stood up as Nudger ignored her and strode to the office door, his rage building. He wasn't sure what he was going to say once he got in to see Father Tooley. He figured that would take care of itself. Before the capable Miss Hammond could stop him, he opened the door and stepped inside.
Behind him Miss Hammond gasped. Then her harsh intake of air exploded outward in a scream.
Father Tooley was hanging motionless by a red sash looped around his distended neck. He was in his full and colorful priest's vestments, eyes bulging and grotesquely swollen purple tongue protruding. He resembled a huge, exotic tropical bird that had been garroted; bird of paradise profaned.
Miss Hammond seemed to be screaming from far away, though she was standing right next to Nudger. He turned and left her, and with that slight distance her shrieks became almost deafeningly loud. The altar boy and the gray old organist rushed past Nudger at exactly the same pace, as if drawn magnetically by the screams; several people who had joined the worshipers in the church passed him indistinctly, moving more slowly, hesitantly, sensing the worst, shadow figures in a dark dream.
Nudger's stomach was kicking around violently. He staggered up the wide center aisle toward the doors. The Holy Mother's calm stone eyes seemed to follow him as he passed. From high on the cross behind the altar, a crucified Christ gazed down on the scene through His suffering.
The echoing wails and cries of the parishioners racketed off the high arches and stone and stained glass of the great cathedral as Nudger found his way outside. He felt the stinging coldness of tears on his cheeks as he slumped on the marble steps.
