Private Lies

by T. E. Woods

  This time it was Sydney and Horst who exchanged looks. Rick had no idea that the letter her birth mother sent her on her thirtieth birthday came with a check attached.

  A fifteen-million-dollar check.

  “I’m doing okay,” Sydney answered steadily. “Moran seemed to know that.”

  “What do you think he wanted?” Rick asked.

  She mentally reviewed the encounter. “He wanted to have dessert with me.”

  “What?” Horst and Rick asked in unison.

  “I had the impression he wanted to spend more time with me, maybe figuring I might reveal something that would endanger the Fitzgeralds or something. But I cut the meeting short. Showed him the door.”

  “Good girl, Kitz,” Horst said. “If somebody’s sniffing, best to steer clear so they don’t find something by accident.”

  “Maybe not,” Rick said.

  “What are you thinking?” Sydney asked him.

  “You said this Moran was a priest back in the day. Gave Prairie Construction a lot of business as he climbed the church’s ladder.”

  “Every Fitzgerald seems to think he’s a saint,” Sydney offered. “I guess he even arranged for their eldest daughter to study in Ireland. She’s a nun now.”

  “And Moran’s the head of the U.S. Vatican Bank,” Rick said.

  “Big job,” Horst offered.

  “Big money,” Rick added. “Think of how much money must flow into churches every day. Mass…prayer offerings…building funds…wedding fees…burial fees.”

  “What’s your point?” Sydney pressed.

  “I’m remembering the collection plates that used to pass my nose when my folks dragged me to church as a kid,” Rick answered. “The overwhelming majority of it was cash.”

  His thinking became clear to Sydney.

  “And that was only one church,” she mused. “Imagine all the cash in all the dioceses in all the country…”

  “That’s a lot,” Rick agreed.

  “And if somebody wanted to take just a slice of it…” Sydney suggested.

  Horst nodded. “It sure would be enough to fill a couple of duffel bags. Each and every week.”

  “Could be Moran’s more wanting to assess the threat you pose to him than to the Fitzgeralds,” Rick offered.

  “That’s a leap, don’t you think?” Sydney demanded. “Why would he think he’d have anything to worry about with me?”

  Rick tapped his fingers on the table. “I don’t know. But it seems too coincidental that we discover big money moving through Madison at the exact moment someone whose job it is to move big money comes for a visit. And if Moran is concerned that you might be a threat to the Fitzgeralds, why would he be doing the background check on you? A guy like that should have minions to do that kind of thing.”

  “Maybe he did it as a favor to Ted Fitzgerald,” Sydney suggested. “Or Elaina. Moran told me she sent him to see me.”

  Rick’s brow furrowed. “A guy that high up does personal favors only when there’s something in it for him.”

  “Have you always been such a cynic?”

  “Hey. I’ll be the first to admit I’m wrong if this comes to nothing,” Rick replied. “But we don’t have a whole lot of other leads to follow up on at the moment. I think it’s worth a second look. What do you think, Syd?”

  She thought about her father. He always warned her to look hard at coincidences. “I think I owe the good Father Moran an apology for rushing him out of my place. Maybe he’ll accept my dinner invitation tonight.”

  Chapter 38

  Sydney was surprised at how easy it was to reach Ian Moran. One call to Leslie, after she’d left Horst and Rick and driven back to her condo, and she had his personal cellphone number. Leslie hadn’t even seemed curious as to why Sydney would want it.

  “He makes quite the impression, doesn’t he?” Leslie asked when Sydney called. “If you talk to him, let him know I expect to see him again before he leaves Madison. And let’s you and I schedule a time together soon. How’s a spa day sound?”

  Sydney told her it sounded like heaven and promised they’d plan a time soon. Then she hung up and immediately called Father Moran.

  “How did you get my number?” he asked.

  She explained that Leslie had given it to her.

  “I didn’t have the heart to tell her how rude I was to you when you came by Hush Money,” Sydney told him. “I hope it’s all right that I’m calling. I want to apologize for my behavior.”

  “I took no offense last night.” Moran’s voice had been as smooth and warm as a fifty-dollar glass of brandy. “It was I who barged in on you. Unannounced.”

  “Still, I could have behaved more courteously. May I ask if you’re free for dinner this evening? I’d love the opportunity to show you that I’m not always that ill-mannered.”

  She felt a wave of disappointment when Moran told her he already had plans for the evening. But it dissipated when he asked if she was currently free.

  “You mean now?”

  “Yes, my dear. I’m staying at St. Paul’s Center. On campus at the university. Do you know it?”

  She pictured the looming stone church at the heart of campus, made even more imposing by the recent unveiling of a massive and stunningly beautiful mosaic wall.

  “I know exactly where that is,” she said.

  “I was thinking about walking over to the student union building. It’s such a lovely day. And every memory I have of Madison is always accented by recalling long summer days on the terrace. Perhaps you’d like to join me.”

  Sydney glanced at the clock on her kitchen wall. “It’s just past eleven now. Shall we say noon? I could meet you in front of the ice cream counter.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  * * *

  —

  Sydney took her bowl of cookies-n-cream ice cream, thanked the young man behind the freezer, and turned toward Ian Moran. He’d arrived promptly at noon, looking neither like a priest nor the immensely powerful financier he was. He’d entered the massive doors of the union wearing cargo shorts, sandals, and a polo shirt. When he took off his sunglasses to greet her, she wondered if he realized his shirt was the exact color of his eyes.

  “What will you have?” the kid with a scoop asked.

  Ian scanned the posted list of flavors. “I think I have no choice but to try the Berry Alvarez. Two scoops, waffle cone, please.” He turned toward Sydney while the server prepared his treat. “This place has changed since my time here.”

  “Total remodel,” Sydney remarked.

  Disappointment clouded Moran’s handsome face. “Tell me they’ve not changed the Rathskeller.” He took his cone and paid for their ice creams.

  “Come see for yourself.” Sydney led him down the hall. They turned right and entered a massive room. With several shoulder-high fireplaces, heavy plaster moldings, and hand-carved friezes on the walls, the space looked more suited to an ancient castle on the Rhine than to a bustling major university.

  “God is merciful!” Moran teased as they walked past oak tables populated by students and tourists. He nodded to the bar running along the side wall. “Those beer taps have, I’m sure, been a major recruiting tool for this school.”

  Sydney agreed as she led him through the room and out onto the enormous terrace that made this student union the loveliest in the nation. Flagstones and bricks paved the ground between fully mature oak and maple trees. Orange, green, and yellow chairs, all designed with the identical sunburst pattern, were clustered around scores of tables. Two long piers jutted out into the lake. Hundreds of people, from toddlers to gray-haired, sat in the dappled sunlight. Some read. Most chatted. All seemed to revel in the unique spot where top-tiered academics met waterside relaxation.

  “Madison’s front porch,” Moran commented as he looked out o
nto the lake. “No memory could do justice to how lovely this place really is.”

  “There’s a table over there.” Sydney pointed. He followed her, then pulled out a chair for her to sit before settling in across from her. Neither said anything as they ate their ice cream and took in the bustling scene around them.

  “You went to school here,” he said.

  “I did.” Sydney wondered if his statement was born of assumption or research. “Majored in English.”

  “Ah! Plans to write the great American novel?”

  “I’m afraid it was nothing as grand as that.” Sydney took one last spoonful of ice cream, then set her empty bowl on the table. “I’ve always been a reader. I didn’t have a lot of focus at that time. One class led to another, and before I knew it I had enough for a major.”

  Moran kept his smile steady. “Did that prepare you for the restaurant business?”

  She shook her head. “My mom ran a diner for years. She and Dad opened it before I was born. I worked there a few years after college. Then I bummed around a bit.”

  “Traveling?”

  “Yes. But then it was time to come home. I needed a job. Opening a restaurant seemed like the thing to do.”

  “You opened two,” he observed. “That tells me you somehow managed to find your focus.”

  “Perhaps. Maybe it’s not so much focus as busyness. There’s little rest in my line of work.” Sydney shifted gears. “How about you? Are you from Madison?”

  Moran shook his head and gave her a thumbnail sketch of his history. He said he was born in Maine. His parents owned a dairy farm.

  “Pretty hardscrabble life. I was the youngest of nine children. Always too many mouths to feed.”

  Sydney thought that was an odd comment from a Catholic priest, but she said nothing. Rick and Horst had encouraged her to let Moran talk. It was her job to listen, remember, and bring it back to them.

  “We were scholarship kids,” he continued. “My brothers, my sisters, and finally me. All the way through private school.”

  Sydney wondered if a childhood scarred with such poverty fueled Moran’s current taste for European clothing.

  “When it came time for college, there was really only one option for me. I joined the seminary. It was decided I’d be a teacher.”

  “You didn’t want to be?”

  “It didn’t matter what I wanted. The church needed teachers and I was there to serve the church.” He looked again to the lake. “Fortunately for me, I was assigned to Madison.”

  “Blessed Sacrament.”

  “I did my best. But it wasn’t for me. Oh, I loved the children. But the tedium of lesson plans and parent-teacher conferences.” He scowled. “When the opportunity came along to oversee the school’s expansion, I volunteered.”

  “Is that when you met Ted Fitzgerald?”

  He nodded. “It was a simple addition. Six classrooms and a few offices. But I loved overseeing its construction. Ted made it easy, I must say.”

  “Did that lead to more buildings?”

  “It did. Turned out I was pretty good at contract negotiations and project management. It wasn’t long before I was on the bishop’s staff.”

  “Did you keep using Prairie?”

  “I did. Ted’s company did—does—good work. He made me look good.”

  “And you made him lots of money.”

  The look on Moran’s face shifted, nearly imperceptibly, but enough to make Sydney wonder if she’d set off an alarm.

  “Prairie does excellent work. It should be compensated.” He blinked and the pleasant openness he’d presented earlier was back.

  “You became friends with the entire family.”

  “They’re a fun bunch.” He chuckled. “Even Barney. He can be a bit of a pompous ass, but scratch the surface and he’s a decent enough fellow. And hasn’t Leslie done a terrific job running the company? I think it’s time for old Ted to back away entirely and let her run loose.”

  “Do you still have dealings with Prairie?” she asked. “I mean, Leslie told me you’re in New York now, doing big things. Do you still use them?”

  Again, a hint of a cloud shaded Moran’s eyes. And again, it was gone in a blink.

  “My job is quite different these days. Mostly meetings, phone calls, and dull interactions with people who expect too much while offering too little.” He placed his half-finished cone in Sydney’s empty bowl. “I often long for the simpler time of dealing with contractors and unions.”

  “But you stay close…still, I mean…to the Fitzgerald family. Leslie tells me you were instrumental in her sister’s decision to become a nun.”

  This time the cloud lingered long enough for Sydney to get a feel for its content. “Cecilia is a bride of Christ, Sydney. There’s nothing any human can do to influence that. One either receives the call or one doesn’t.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…”

  The smile returned to Moran’s lips. “No need to be sorry, my dear. Perhaps I’m too sensitive to people’s imaginings of what power I may or may not have. Cecilia is happy in her work. As am I.” He leaned back, studying her face. “What I want to hear about is you. Are you happy in your work?”

  * * *

  —

  Sydney parked her car in front of Rick’s apartment a few minutes past four. Jocko greeted her with a raised paw as soon as Rick opened his front door.

  “Is Horst here?” she asked as she walked past him to enter the living room.

  “No.” Rick came in behind her. “I left for the station at noon. Horst said he was going home.”

  “Did you learn anything down at the station?”

  He put his hands on his hips. “I just got back. Today was just settling in and letting everyone razz me about the easy time I’m going to have riding a desk for a while. Too many people crowding me to get anything done. It’ll come. Don’t worry. How about you? How’d your meeting with Moran go?”

  She told him about their conversation. She tried to relate as many details as possible, right down to their choices of ice cream.

  “Sounds like he was too interested in you to let his guard down,” Rick observed after she’d finished describing the encounter she’d had with Moran.

  “I agree. But there was something. I saw it a couple of times.”

  “What do you mean, something?”

  “A look. Fleeting. But it came over him when I talked about his relationship with the Fitzgeralds.”

  “What kind of look?”

  She winced. “Like I said, they were fleeting. I can’t say for sure.”

  “But…” he encouraged.

  “But if I had to guess, I’d say it was fear.”

  Chapter 39

  It was nine-thirty by the time Sydney freed herself long enough to go see what was happening at The Ten-Ten. Windy was still maintaining excellent control over the kitchen. It had been the customers who had kept the fires burning at, and therefore her attention focused on, Hush Money. At 5:22, a man she’d never seen at the restaurant before insisted the gin in his martini wasn’t top-shelf. She’d intervened when he demanded to speak to the owner. When Sydney suggested her bartender make him another, this time with the gin bottle in full view, the man was still not convinced.

  “I know what you’re doing,” he growled. “You’re saving the top-shelf bottles and refilling them with swill.”

  Sydney suggested he leave immediately.

  At 6:00 a party of four, who had reservations for 8:00, requested they be seated early. When the hostess told them the dining room was full, one of the women demanded Sydney be called over. Sydney recognized her as a frequent diner.

  “There’s been a little misunderstanding,” the matronly woman told her. “Doris here”—the woman indicated another standing next to her—“specificall
y told me to make reservations for eight.”

  “I said the play started at eight,” the woman identified as Doris protested. “Any half-wit would know dinner would have to come before. Why do you think we said we’d pick you up at 5:30?”

  The woman turned to face Doris while two men, who Sydney could only assume were the husbands, stood idly by, obviously accustomed to the bickering between their wives. “You said 8:00!”

  “For the show!” Doris insisted. “I get Clive here to agree to three plays a year. Three! That’s it. Now you’ve ruined this one. What are we supposed to do? Listen to our stomachs growl all through the first act?”

  “There’ll be no growling stomachs,” Sydney assured them smoothly. She asked the hostess to bring linens and cutlery to a corner table in the bar. “We’ll call it an adventure,” she said to the two women. Then she turned to the man standing behind Doris. “Clive, you strike me as a scotch man. Am I right?”

  “You are.”

  “First round on me,” Sydney announced. “How about it, Clive? Are you up for a picnic-in-the-bar type of adventure?”

  “Make it last past intermission and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  And so the evening went. Between being called to various tables to accept the good wishes of diners who wanted to express appreciation for their meals, two underage young men at the bar who thought dressing up in Daddy’s suits would make them less likely to be carded, and a table of six who lingered so long over coffee and dessert that it threatened to back up the next seating, Sydney was kept on her toes. When a diner, again, unknown to Sydney, waved her over to his table to ask for ketchup for his filet, Nancy had glided in beside her before Sydney had a chance to tell him what he could do with his condiment.

  “Why don’t you go see how Roscoe and the crew are doing?” Nancy suggested in her sweetest tone. “I’ve got this.”

  When she opened the hallway door and stepped into her first-responders joint, Sydney took a deep breath and felt relaxed for the first time that evening. She leaned against the wall and allowed herself a few moments to take in the scene.