Truth Beat

by Brenda Buchanan

Theo waved him off and cut through the living room to the front foyer. Rufe jumped out of his own chair a minute later when he heard a man’s voice talking over Theo’s.

  “What do you mean she’s not home? She’s not at the diner.”

  “She’s not here.” Theo’s voice was steady, and he didn’t volunteer any further information. He didn’t volunteer that Christie was his mother, or say a word about Christie and Joe’s whereabouts. When Rufe absorbed the energy of the man on the porch he was glad Theo had responded so minimally. Five feet ten inches of raw sinew, the man was coiled like a spring, dark eyes sparking with anger verging on fury. Rufe’s instinct was to take over the situation, move Theo to safety behind him and block the door with his big body. But there was a screen door between the sixteen-year-old and the unknown man, and Theo had smartly braced his hands on either side of the doorframe. He was handling himself, so Rufe stood behind Theo’s left shoulder instead, his powerful arms crossed.

  “Who the hell are you?” The visitor spoke like the words had a foul taste.

  Theo shot back before Rufe could. “Why is that your business? I don’t know your name, or why you’re standing on my front porch.”

  “Name’s Bozco, and I’m here see Christie Pappas.”

  “Like I said. She’s not here.”

  “Probably off with Gale, right? That hypocrite.”

  Theo bit. “Joe Gale a hypocrite? I don’t think so.”

  “Then you’re a fool. He’s a fraud, just like his hero, Father Patrick Doherty. Joe holds himself out as the conscience of the community, but when he thinks nobody’s looking he’s just another dog in heat.” Bozco paused. “He’s screwing your mother, you know.”

  Rufe saw Theo’s shoulder’s bunch, but to his credit the kid didn’t react. But Rufe well remembered the elusiveness of teenage boy self-control, so he eased Theo aside, stepped onto the porch and closed the screen door behind him. He had six inches of height and probably forty pounds on the wiry Bozco, who stepped back when Rufe got in his face.

  “Leave. Now. If you know what’s good for you.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m telling you to leave. You are not welcome here.” He took another step, which caused Bozco to retreat the very edge of the steps. “I have no idea who you are and why you think you have a right to come here and spit out insults. Shut your ugly mouth and get off this porch, and don’t come back.”

  Bozco walked backward down the steps, but the ferocity had not left his eyes. “You’re another one with your head up your ass. Mark my words—the truth is coming, and it ain’t going to set you free.”

  * * *

  Rufe found Theo sitting at the table, face buried in his arms.

  “You okay, bud?”

  Theo didn’t lift his head. “Yup.”

  “You did a good job out there.”

  Theo sat up. “I was holding my own until he took that cheap shot.”

  “You mean what he said about your mom?’

  “You think?” Theo averted his eyes. “I know she and Joe are giving it a go. I’m not stupid. But it’s not like that asshole implied. My mother’s no whore.”

  Rufe sat down on the other side of the table. “Look at me.” He softened his voice, aware Theo was on the verge of angry tears, and that crying was the last thing the boy wanted to do. “Your mother is a wonderful woman, a class act from start to finish. Arn Giroux didn’t make her happy. You know that. God knows why she stuck with him as long as she did. It was a great day when she gave him the boot last winter. Now she and Joe are trying to take their friendship to the next level. That Bozco jerkoff had no business saying what he did.”

  “I know.” Theo swallowed hard. “Never in my whole life has anyone said something like that about my mother. I wanted to kill the guy. It makes me crazy that he came here looking for her. What if she’d been here and I wasn’t home?”

  “She would have handled it.”

  “But I don’t want her to have to deal with a guy like that.”

  “Don’t obsess on what could have happened,” Rufe said. “You handled yourself well and the situation was defused. But you’re right—we all need to look after each other, especially until all the recent craziness in town is resolved. Both the bombings and the priest’s death seem to be bringing the nuts out of the woods.”

  When Rufe stood up Theo did too, and walked with him to the kitchen door. For a split second Rufe thought the kid wanted a hug, but he put out his hand instead.

  “Thanks, Rufe.” They shook.

  “Take care of yourself.”

  Rufe noticed that even though Theo’s grip was as strong as a man’s, his hand was still a boy’s.

  * * *

  At home in the little den he used as his office, Rufe sifted through a stack of old notepads. He always kept at least one on his desk to jot the bits and pieces of information he needed to run his business. Miracle of all miracles, he found the one that had been at his elbow the Sunday he and Pat set up the SecretsSafe account. A series of notes was scrawled in pencil, between a list of part numbers and a customer’s phone number.

  First the account number: 400062117575DR00XWE

  Then the login: PSD1974NDBA

  * * *

  Rufe cross-referenced it to Pat’s obituary. Patrick Seamus Doherty. Graduated 1974. Notre Dame Boys Academy. He had no idea what the two asterisks were about.

  Finally the computer-generated password: 6whb#gph2!

  Rufe remembered telling Pat to create a mnemonic phrase to easily remember the password, joking that he’d written the password down just in case Pat’s memory failed him.

  Eighteen months later, Rufe used that very key to unlock Pat’s door.

  The information was as organized as a neatnik’s underwear drawer. On the same day in April, 2014, the dead priest had established accounts at two online banks. He alternated his deposits between them. The names of the banks, account numbers, passwords for online access and security questions were listed on one document. On another, the dates and amounts of deposits were laid out in neat rows.

  One account had a balance of $56,922.16 when the last entry was made, a few days before Pat died. The other held $91,622.80. What the heck had been sold off that netted Pat nearly a hundred and fifty thousand bucks in a year and a half?

  Rufe closed the SecretsSafe summary and logged into both bank accounts to confirm there’d been no new activity in the days since Pat died. He was afraid to change the account passwords—that almost certainly would generate a text or email that would be seen by whoever had Pat’s phone. So he backed his way out as soon as he verified the account balances, then sat back and pondered the situation.

  If he told the police about the bank accounts, the money would go back to the diocese—the “victim” of Pat’s crime. Rufe had no doubt it would be sucked into the maw of the institutional general fund. Knowing what he now knew about Pat’s disillusionment with the Church, he rejected that idea out of hand.

  Doug said Pat’s intention had been to devote the money to the common good. Rufe decided to sit tight and think about what causes or organizations Pat would have donated it to were he alive to do so. Until then, Rufe would keep his knowledge of the accounts to himself.

  * * *

  By dinnertime he was hungrier than he’d been in days. At the fish market he found a swordfish steak with his name on it. He was prepping it for the grill when Joe called his cell.

  “Bangor? What the hell are you doing in Bangor? I thought you were headed over toward Bethel.”

  “In the middle of our hike I got a call that Kathleen Hazelwood—Patrick’s sister—was in the hospital here, the victim of an apparent home invasion.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yes, shit. She has no memory of what happened, so they’re hol
ding her here, partly because she suffered a concussion but also to keep her safe. I’ve managed to speak with her a couple of times but now the cops are clamping down on who gets to visit.”

  “Do they think it’s connected to her brother’s death?”

  “From the way the cops are acting, I’d say definitely. But they won’t say word one to me and they’ve posted a guard at the door to her room. There’s nothing more to do here, so Christie and I are heading home.”

  “Christie’s been with you the whole time?”

  “What do you think, I left her on the side of the mountain?”

  “Even on your most news-obsessed day I can’t imagine you doing that.”

  “It’s my job to be news-obsessed.”

  “I know, but today was your day off, and it sounded like you might get out of your own way and romance the poor woman before she gives up on you.”

  “A call from my boss saying Kathleen had been assaulted forced a change in plans.”

  “What time did this possible home invasion happen?”

  “Late morning. When she no-showed for lunch the friend went to her house and found her on the floor.”

  It takes about two hours and fifteen minutes to drive from Bangor to Riverside, Rufe thought. Bozco showed up at Christie’s house about 3:30. After a moment’s internal debate he decided he had to spill the Riverside news.

  “I stopped by Christie’s house to see Theo midafternoon and got to meet a real piece of work named Bozco.”

  “J.C. Bozco? Was at Christie’s? Why?”

  “He mentioned your name, but said he was looking for Christie. He was full of piss and vinegar, and not in the good way that people sometimes use that expression.”

  “Did he cause a scene?”

  “Nothing Theo and I couldn’t handle easily, but Bozco is one angry dude.”

  “I want all the details, but Christie’s coming down the corridor and I don’t want to freak her out. We’ll probably catch a bite on the way home and I’ll come by your house after I drop her off, okay?”

  “Sure, I’ll be up.” He paused. “As much as it pains me to say this, don’t linger over dinner. There’s a lot of weird shit going on around here.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I didn’t tell Christie right away what Rufe had reported, wanting to believe it was still possible to recapture the sweetness of those few minutes sitting against the boulders on the side of the mountain. But I must have been emitting tension like an old-fashioned radio tower because Christie demanded I fess up as I merged onto the interstate.

  “Were you talking with Leah when I was down the hall?”

  I shook my head. “She knows everything we know. No need to call her again unless there’s an update.”

  “Then who was it, Roz?”

  “Rufe, actually. Wondering how our day was going.”

  “Did you tell him mostly we looked at foliage through the windows of Eastern Maine Medical Center?”

  I glanced sideways. “I’m so sorry. I feel awful that my work got in the way of our date.” I paused. “Once again.”

  Christie turned her body to face me and leaned her head against the passenger side window, her long dark hair fanning against the glass. I couldn’t decipher the look in her dark eyes.

  “I don’t begrudge you your work.” Her voice was quiet, the words measured. “You have an important job, especially when something terrible happens, like Patrick’s murder.”

  I couldn’t tell where she was going, so I kept quiet.

  “I have the sense there’s something you know that you’re not telling me. Like it or not, I’m hip deep in this situation too, and I don’t feel good about you holding back.”

  I was coming up fast on a pokey pickup truck so I signaled and slid into the fast lane. “Rufe told me he stopped by your house today, to see Theo. While he was there, a hothead named J.C. Bozco—he’s one of the anti-church-closing protestors, though I think he probably has a larger agenda—showed up.”

  “Looking for you?”

  “Rufe said it was unclear. I’ll get the full story from him later. But last night when I was working late, Bozco came to the paper—angry and mouthy—looking for me.”

  “And today he showed up at my house.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Have you had run-ins with this guy? Written critical stuff about him?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever written a story that mentioned his name. But I’ve seen him around plenty at the churchyard protests. He’s hard to miss. He stands up on a folding ladder and hollers through a bullhorn, riles everybody up and keeps the neighbors awake.”

  “I’ve heard some bitching about him at the diner. They call him the bullhorn guy.”

  “That’d be Bozco.”

  “You said he mouthed off at you last night. What was he saying?”

  “He had quite a cynical take on Patrick. Called him an apologist for the institutional Church, and basically said I was aiding and abetting him with uncritical coverage.”

  Christie thought about that for a minute then pulled out her phone. “I’m calling Theo to find out what happened when the bullhorn guy showed up at my house.”

  Christie put her cell on speaker so we both could hear Theo’s description of the confrontation with Bozco. From the tone of Theo’s voice I could tell he was shaking off a combination of anger and fear. It was clear he didn’t want us to pick up on the fear part, but I heard it. Bozco had spooky eyes, and even though the door knock came in the middle of a sunny afternoon and Rufe was right there to back Theo up, it made all kinds of sense that the kid was scared.

  “He knew I wasn’t at the Rambler? That means he went there first.”

  “It sounded that way,” Theo said. “It was after three thirty by the time he left here, so there was nobody at the diner I could call to ask.”

  I told Theo it sounded like he did a good job handling a difficult situation. He flicked aside the compliment.

  “I go to school with plenty of mouthy guys like him. They’re all talk.”

  Not true of Bozco, I thought. Not true at all.

  * * *

  By tacit agreement Christie and I abandoned any thought of stopping for dinner. When we’d rolled out of Riverside that morning, the plan was to hike for a while and then goof off. I hadn’t been able to find an inn or other suitable place with vacancy for an overnight stay but figured we’d pick out a nice restaurant, enjoy a good bottle of wine, maybe even score a table in front of a fireplace. Instead we stopped at an Augusta sub shop for meatball sandwiches and ate them in the car.

  As the miles passed our conversation bounced between the day’s two mysteries—why J.C. Bozco might have shown up at Christie’s house and what Kathleen Hazelwood was hiding. I wondered aloud if Bozco had visited Kathleen midmorning, then sped back to Riverside to rattle Christie herself.

  “But Kathleen claims the man who came to her house was a friend, and unless she’s got a side you haven’t even glimpsed, he sounds too rough around the edges to be the kind of man she’d call a friend.”

  “Agreed, but Kathleen plays fast and loose with the truth. I don’t know if her entire story was bullshit or she made up only a part of it, but she was spinning, for sure. And while J.C. Bozco seems to move in a different world from Kathleen, who the hell knows? Sure, she’s got a good job and a nice house, but I’ve watched her guzzle booze like a sailor on shore leave. For all we know she met Bozco in a bar when she was smarting over her husband’s infidelity, and they hooked up.”

  Christie looked sideways at me. “Kathleen’s got issues, but hooking up with a guy she met in a bar? At her age? I doubt it.”

  “You live a sheltered life.”

  “Happily,” Christie said. “How about this? Maybe Kathleen and Bozco are
n’t friends at all. If Bozco’s cynicism toward Patrick is based on dirt he dug up, he might have gone to Bangor this morning to threaten to ruin the priest’s good name if Kathleen didn’t buy his silence.”

  I rolled that theory around inside my brain. Holding Patrick’s memory hostage. Blackmailing his affluent sister. It had a certain plausibility. “If she refused to give him money, he may have hit her.”

  “Or if she’d been drinking as much as she claimed, maybe she hit him.”

  “Do you mind if I call Barb Wyatt? Maybe she can get the Bangor chief to have his too-cool-for-school detectives run a fingerprint match on Bozco. He did time, so his prints will be in the system.”

  It was nearly eight o’clock so I called the Riverside police chief’s cell. It was a number she’d provided grudgingly, and I only used it in emergencies. It was Saturday night and she was off duty, so I had to do a better-than-usual dance before she agreed to make a call to Bangor.

  “If you’re off base and I look like an idiot, it’ll be the last favor I do for you.”

  “You won’t be doing me a favor. I told you Bozco’s got a sheet.”

  “You did, and that someone overheard him talking about kidnapping Patrick. For what it’s worth, his probation officer said Bozco’s been a model client since he found religion. When I confronted him about plotting to kidnap Patrick he admitted he said it, but claimed he and some others who are upset about the plan to close St. Jerome’s were simply blowing off steam by trying to one-up each other, spinning out ideas about how they might get the bishop to listen to their grievances.”

  “You interviewed him?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. He was tense but cooperative enough.”

  “Good actor, I guess, because he’s been hassling people ever since. Me last night. Christie’s son this afternoon.”

  “Acting like a jerk is not a criminal offense.”

  “True. But if he’s been on a tear, it wouldn’t be difficult to track down Kathleen Hazelwood. She’s the only family member listed in the obituary who lives in Maine, and two clicks on the internet gets him directions to her house.”