Body Count

by William Kienzle

  “I think so,” Pat agreed. “My guess, since the last we saw of DeVere was yesterday, is that she’s long gone. Probably she and Keating are busy enjoying millions of bucks—somewhere—either together or separately.”

  “Yeah, somewhere. But where?”

  After a moment, Koesler spoke. “I have a thought,” he said tentatively.

  Everyone looked at him with a mixture of hope and encouragement.

  “Mr. Dunstable …”

  “Eric,” Dunstable insisted. He was really beginning to like Father Koesler.

  “Very well then, Eric … when Father Keating used to accompany you on vacations, were there any places—was there any one place-that he seemed to prize more than the others?”

  Dunstable gave that some thought. He chuckled ironically. “I can’t think of a vacation he didn’t enjoy to the hilt.”

  “Any one more than the others, though?”

  Dunstable thought some more. “Maui, the French Riviera, Costa del Sol, a cruise to Bali, golf at St. Andrews, Troon, Pebble Beach … there were so many. But I think I may be listing my favorites as well as his.”

  Another pause.

  “Wait,” Koesler said, “maybe I’m going at this the wrong way. Lieutenant, is there any way of finding out which countries have no extradition treaties with the U.S.?”

  Tully brightened. “Of course! He had to figure that eventually his game would probably be uncovered. Possibly in the audit. Maybe a year or more away. He’d want to be somewhere where we couldn’t get him back to stand trial. Wait a second.”

  Tully dialed a number, exchanged a few pro forma pleasantries, requested the information, and waited while drumming his fingers on the desk. The fax machine clicked. Tully scanned the incoming info, then grunted. “This doesn’t look so good. I had no idea there were so many countries that have no extradition treaty with us. There are,” he counted, “more than sixty countries on this list. Here …” He handed the list to Dunstable. “… see if any of these look good.”

  Dunstable scanned the list. “There are a lot, aren’t there … I would never have guessed. Some of these countries are interesting, but mostly from an intellectual aspect—wait! Here’s one … here’s the one! It slipped my mind entirely. But of course: About five years ago we came across this fabulous resort. The climate that Father Ja— uh, Keating enjoyed. A bit pricey but worth every penny. So exclusive that practically no one knows about it. Father Jack” —he couldn’t break himself of the habit of tacking the title onto Keating’s name— “just loved it. I remember now. It seemed at the time that he was inordinately fond of the place. Now I know why: He was planning to retire there, safe and snug and beyond justice. Bahrain!”

  Tully’s brow was knit. “Where in hell’s Bahrain?”

  “The Persian Gulf,” Dunstable said.

  “The gulf!”

  “I know it doesn’t sound like much. But it’s just off the coast of Saudi Arabia. And believe me, it’s perfect. For Father Jack, it’s more than perfect.”

  “But,” Koesler cautioned, “it’s still only a theory. How can we know for sure?”

  “I’ll be glad to go there now, at my own expense—today—and flush out the bastard,” Dunstable offered.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary—or even the quickest way to do this. I can ask the authorities there for verification. We may not be able to get Keating out of there, but at least we can locate him. And I’ll run a LEIN on Lacy DeVere. We may just be able to sew this thing up. Maybe not to everybody’s satisfaction … but not all endings are happy.”

  Tully got busy on the phone. Koesler, reminded again that his stamina wasn’t what it had been before the shooting, dropped wearily to the couch. The cook and the secretary, having been admonished to keep mum on everything they’d heard, returned to their work with newfound confidence: Not only would they not be fired, but without Father Keating around they might just enjoy extended employment.

  Dunstable and Father Mitchell, suddenly on a more congenial basis, huddled to arrange a speedy audit for St. Waldo of the Hills. Pringle McPhee and Pat Lennon quickly mapped their battle plan for last minute interviews prior to filing this story under their joint byline.

  If all this speculation became fact, Lacy DeVere would deservedly suffer an ultimate discreditation. That item linking Tully and Lennon would go down the tube along with the rest of DeVere’s irresponsible gossip.

  Lennon understood this outcome in the split second before she got busy pulling her side of the story together. And she realized that if they had not patched things up before, Tully and his Alice would be back together now.

  As Tully himself had just remarked, not all endings are happy.

  26

  The British Airways jetliner touched down flawlessly at Bahrain International Airport. It was 1:30 P.M. in Detroit where the meeting at St. Waldo’s had just broken up. It was 8:30 P.M. in Bahrain.

  In the first-class cabin, Lacy DeVere gathered up her carry-on luggage. No baggage claim delays for her. She had packed hurriedly, little more than the necessities. It didn’t much matter. They had more money than they’d ever be able to spend.

  Lacy was certain that fate had conspired against her back in Detroit. She’d held the fort above and beyond the agreement she’d made with Jack Keating. But yesterday when she tried to get into Hal Salden’s basket, she began to see the handwriting on the wall. After Lennon in effect threw her out, she’d lingered outside the News. When she spotted Tully and Koesler entering, she knew it was time to leave.

  That goddam priest! It had been Jack’s idea to keep him out of the picture. She hadn’t agreed at all. But Jack insisted. He had been certain that the police would call on Koesler to look into the disappearance. Koesler had built up an excellent track record in assisting the cops. And besides, Jack pointed out, in view of the fact that he and Koesler had been buddies once upon a time, Koesler might even be motivated to volunteer his expertise.

  She still thought she’d been right. Koesler never would have caught on. The plan was too good. Keep it simple, she had argued. The more people involved, the more likely that excellent scheme would unravel.

  But Jack had won out. After all, it was his money. Or rather, the money he’d embezzled.

  In just a short while now, she’d remind Jack that he was the one who’d selected Guido Vespa. Even though she was the one who had negotiated the contract.

  Vespa very definitely was the weak link. It might have worked had Vespa stuck to the contract and simply gone to Koesler and confessed murder. Though she still believed it had been unnecessary to “neutralize” the meddlesome priest, it would have worked if Vespa had just done what he contracted to do. Easiest money he ever earned. Nothing to do but tell a fable to a priest.

  But no! He had to invent that cockamamy story of Jack’s burial with another priest. It would have been ludicrous had it not led to the collapse of her house of cards.

  As long as she lived she would never forget that phone call. When Vespa told her what he had “added” to the confession, she was speechless. When he told her he was going to meet Koesler and make a clean breast of the whole thing, she had the presence of mind to ascertain that the meeting would take place that evening.

  It hadn’t been difficult to park unobtrusively near Koesler’s rectory to await Vespa’s arrival. She assumed he would be armed; it was vital to take him by surprise. But instead of Vespa’s arriving, Koesler had departed. It really hadn’t been that challenging to follow him by car up Gratiot and then on foot into the Eastern Market. And it was no problem to stay in the shadows as she approached the two men.

  Lacy wasn’t sure whether love was better the second time around, but she discovered that killing was easier the second time around. Vespa hadn’t had time to tell the priest the whole story before she fired. Still, she was relieved to see Koesler go down from one of the slugs she pumped into Vespa. If Koesler had not been knocked to the ground he might have been able to see and identify her and s
he would have had to kill him. No use multiplying murders needlessly.

  It had been much harder to psych herself up to kill Hal Salden. But after a few of Salden’s inquiring phone calls to St. Waldo’s, Jack was certain the astute and perspicacious reporter was beginning to suspect the “imaginative bookkeeping” that was going on.

  That’s when Lacy learned that Jack was no good in an emergency. Oh, he was cool-headed enough when it came to setting up a scam, operating in the abstract. But present him with a crisis and he crumbled. So as usual, it was up to the little woman.

  Still, it was difficult to kill for the first time. She’d had to tell herself over and over that it had to happen or she wouldn’t get what she wanted.

  Necessity being the mother of invention, she learned from research and investigation that the way to do this, she being no markswoman, was to get close, be part of the crowd—or, at Eastern Market, part of the shadows. If she set the machine pistol to fire in bursts, two simple trigger squeezes would be more than enough firepower. That’s what the crackhead who sold her the pistol advised her to do. And his advice had been free as well as accurate.

  But … that was the past.

  Now she and Jack could reap the wealth, the comfort, the soft life they’d earned from all that planning, patience, and risk.

  She would take a cab to that little piece of paradise they’d christened The Wheels after St. Waldo’s—the mother of it all. No sense in renting a car; at last count there were three luxury autos stabled at The Wheels. And by the time she called Jack and he got here she could already be there.

  Once the cab pulled away from the curb, she really started to unwind. She was headed toward retirement, many enjoyable years of all that a considerable fortune could guarantee.

  Jack’s brilliant inspiration to skim millions from the fat cats of St, Waldo’s was equally matched by his selection of Bahrain as their golden hideaway. The little island had long ago abandoned oil as its most important product. Now the streets were lined with banks—banks and hotels. And a private patch of turf known to an intimate few as The Wheels.

  Try as anyone might, there was nobody who could force them from their sanctuary. It was time to kick off her shoes. Lacy DeVere had arrived in The Promised Land.

  She paid the cabbie, picked up her luggage, and paused before going up the steps. It was gorgeous to the point of being breathtaking. This—dusk settling in—was her favorite time of day, and this—The Wheels—was her dream come true.

  Actually, it was well beyond her dreams. If, years ago, someone had told her she’d have a love affair with a Catholic priest, she’d have denied it out of hand. If anyone had told her that she and her lover would live out their lives in a never-never land where money was no object, she’d have laughed herself silly.

  But here it was and here she was.

  As she started up the marble steps, she felt as if her feet were hardly touching them. In the past couple of years, she and Jack had visited The Wheels on several occasions when he could absent himself from the parish for a few days. Sometimes when he had to hurry back she had stayed on to supervise construction. Thus she knew the mansion even better than he.

  Now, never again would they have to take exquisite precautions not to be identified as being together. This was paradise, and no one, not even an avenging angel, would be able to drive them from it.

  Upstairs, in the master bedroom of The Wheels, things were cooling down.

  There was no mistaking the priorities of this room. The bed! Round, of Homeric size, it was mounted on a marble platform that could remind one of an altar. Except that instead of a baldachino, it was canopied by an overhead mirror of equally Homeric dimensions.

  Then there was the imposing entertainment center, offering a large-screen TV with VCR, a compact disc player, and a short wave radio. But beyond doubt the bed was the undeniable focus of the room.

  The bedding was mussed. The bed had been used recently and left disheveled. Its erstwhile occupants were now enjoying the Jacuzzi.

  John Keating had all the servants he needed and then some. Soraya, a seductive Egyptian girl, was not an afterthought, but a confection he found irresistible. She would, he assured himself, make him young. And she wasn’t doing badly. Just a few minutes earlier he had been as frisky as a man half his age or better. And now she ministered to him in the Jacuzzi where he could not think of being aroused again. Not for a while, anyway.

  Keating, wearing nothing but a beatific smile and with an ample glass of fine wine within reach, looked about with deep appreciation. “Not bad for a simple parish priest,” he commented aloud.

  Soraya smiled broadly. Outside of a few words, and those often jumbled, she neither spoke nor understood English. Conversation, of course, was not why she’d been hired.

  Keating’s smile broadened. “Soraya, my dear,” he said to her uncomprehending grin, “we could just as well be back in, say, 25 B.C. I could be a senator of imperial Rome. You know, ‘Senatus Populusque Romanus.’ And you could be … well … not a vestal virgin. Ah, yes, the Romans knew how to live. But before I’m done, I’ll be able to teach them a thing or two.”

  He seemed pleased. She giggled,

  He crooked a finger under her chin and lifted her head. Their eyes locked. He liked her. That was all that mattered.

  “Well, m’dear,” he said, “you are very definitely not Lacy and, God knows, she is not you. I’ve just got to figure out some place to stash you after she gets here. I haven’t tested her jealousy threshhold. But I’ll bet it’s not very high. Anyway, whatever happens, you’re going to be better off than you were. It is a far, far better thing I do …” He paused. “This is a rather extended monologue. I can’t quite decide whether to teach you some English or not.”

  “Henglish?” she adapted happily.

  “Henglish,” he repeated. “No, on further thought, it’s better this way. I’ll have Lacy to talk to and physically satisfy from time to time. And you will be my love mate.”

  “Love!” she said with certainty.

  “Yes, love. I ask you … no … I ask myself, what further need have we for words? Love will do nicely. But this is a big house—a very big house. There’s got to be plenty of room for a couple of women who will scarcely if ever meet.”

  Soraya seemed to have lost interest in his as far as she was concerned incomprehensible babblings. She was concentrating on a segment of his anatomy.

  “Well, I’ll be …” he commented in wonder, “I didn’t think I’d get up again for days. Soraya, you are a marvel!”

  Lacy DeVere couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was wrong. Perhaps it was intuition. But over the years she had learned to trust her sixth sense.

  She dropped her luggage in the foyer. Quietly, deliberately, she ascended the winding staircase.

  On the second floor landing she came upon Jack’s black silk trousers. A little further on toward the bedroom, his favorite kimono had been discarded.

  Had Jack been drinking? He had a history of that—just short of, he assured her, alcoholism. But usually his heaviest drinking occurred at times of stress. And God knows the pressure was off now. Lacy grew uneasy.

  As she followed the trail of abandoned clothing, she came upon a lengthy and beautifully decorated width of watered silk. She recognized the sari Jack had given her. That was followed by female underclothing, a bra and panties of a size to fit a petite but well-endowed female.

  Any lingering doubt was dispelled as she reached the bedroom doorway. She could clearly hear the sounds emanating from the Jacuzzi.

  Rational thought surrendered to consuming anger as she advanced to the nightstand. She recalled how she had argued against keeping a weapon in the house. They had installed a state-of-the-art security system and they could hire as many security people as they wanted. But Jack had insisted on keeping the loaded gun at hand.

  Now, recalling his insistence in the face of her objections, she smiled as she drew the weapon from the drawer.
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  Soundlessly she moved to the arched doorway and stood motionless there. The tan-skinned girl’s shapely back was to the door, and Jack was too physically engaged to notice Lacy.

  But something—possibly the hatred that flowed from Lacy’s core—reached him. He looked up and saw her. And the gun in her hand. The sight dampened the excitement he had been enjoying. In the face of his manifest distraction, Soraya looked up, concerned she was doing something wrong. Seeing the fear in his eyes, she turned to look over her shoulder. At the sight of Lacy and the gun, she let out a small shriek and slipped, scrambled, and clambered out of the Jacuzzi.

  Lacy had to give Jack credit. The girl seemed without physical flaw. And it was good; now she had a clean shot at him. The second killing had been easier than the first. The third was going to be pure pleasure.

  “Lacy, no!” Jack held a hand up defensively in front of his face. “You don’t know what you’re doing! We’ve got it made. Finally got it made. Don’t! This was nothing. I was lonesome for you, that’s all. I can explain this whole thing. Don’t ruin what we’ve got now.”

  Lacy slowly, methodically, raised the gun until it was aimed directly at the hand that shielded his face.

  He knew her. He realized that nothing he could do or say would dissuade her. “Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry …” He began the traditional Catholic Act of Contrition.

  Lacy, afraid his pronouncement of sorrow might work and save him from hell, pressed the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Taking that as divine reprieve, Jack cried out, “Lacy, give it up! It’s God’s will!”

  She had forgotten the safety catch. She flipped the lever and fired.

  The first slug tore through his extended hand to embed itself in the wall behind the Jacuzzi. The next four buried themselves in his head—or what was left of it. Jack Keating slumped and slid down into the rapidly reddening water.

  Lacy DeVere lowered the gun as the police, weapons drawn, entered the room.