‘Where’d you get that?’
‘From the Three-Eight’s report. They sent us their paper soon as Ballistics confirmed.’
‘Sure,’ Parker said knowingly.
‘What kind of dog was it?’ Genero asked.
‘We already went by the dog, Richard.’
‘I’m curious.’
‘A golden,’ Byrnes told him.
‘That’s a nice dog, a golden.’
‘Some people get very offended when dogs are killed,’ Hawes said. He was sitting by the window, his red hair touched by sunlight, looking on fire. ‘You can kill all the cats in the world, they don’t care. But kill a dog? They march on City Hall.’
‘Goldens?’ Genero asked. ‘Or all dogs?’
‘Point is we’re overwhelmed here,’ Byrnes said. ‘Five homicides now…”
‘Plus the dog, don’t forget,’ Genero said.
‘Fuck the dog,’ Parker said.
‘Eileen, Hal? What are you guys working?’
‘The liquor store holdups on Culver.’
‘Can you take on the dog lady?’
‘Don’t see how,’ Willis said. ‘We’re sitting four stores alternately.’
‘Me and Andy’ll take the dog lady,’ Genero said.
‘We’ve already got the cosmetics lady,’ Parker reminded him.
‘I like dogs,’ Genero explained.
‘How’re you doing with your professor?’ Byrnes asked.
‘Getting nowhere fast,’ Brown said.
‘Where’s Kling, anyway?’ Byrnes said.
Brown shrugged.
Everyone looked up at the clock.
‘So what do we do here?’ Byrnes asked. ‘Cotton? You want to fly solo on this one?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Who caught it up the Three-Eight?’
‘Guy named Anderson. We’ve got all his paper.’
‘I’ll give him a call.’
‘Ask him what the dog’s name was,’ Genero said.
* * * *
According to Helen Reilly’s neighbors, the dog’s name was Pavarotti. A female. Go figure. Apparently, Helen was single when she was killed, but she’d been married twice before. This from several sources in her building, but primarily from her closest friend, a woman who lived across the street at 324 South Waverly. Hawes didn’t get to her until almost three that Saturday afternoon.
Her name was Paula Wellington, and she was in her early fifties, he guessed, some twenty years younger than the dog lady. Good-looking woman with a thick head of white hair she wore loose around her face. Blue eyes. She told Hawes almost at once that three months ago she’d weighed two hundred pounds. Right now, she looked fit and trim.
‘Helen and I used to walk a lot together,’ she said. “We were friends for a long time.’
‘How long would that have been?’ Hawes asked.
‘She moved into the neighborhood, must’ve been three years ago. She was a lovely woman.’
‘Where’d she live before this, would you know?’
‘In Calm’s Point. She was a recent widow when she moved here.’
‘Oh?’ Hawes said.
‘Yes. Her husband was killed in a drive-by shooting.’
‘Oh?’ he said again.
‘Gang stuff. He was coming home from work, just coming down to the street from the train station, when these teenagers drove by shooting at someone from another gang. Martin was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the right time.’
‘Would you know his last name?’
‘It was a gang thing,’ Paula said.
I’d like to check it, anyway.’
‘Martin Reilly. Well,
‘Of course,’ Hawes said, but he wrote down the name, anyway.
‘They were very happily married, too. Unlike the first time around.’
‘When was that, would you know?’
‘Had to’ve been at least fifty years ago. Her first marriage. Two kids. She finally walked out after twelve years of misery.’
‘Walked out?’
‘So long, it’s been good to know you.’
‘Were they ever divorced?’
‘Oh, I’m sure. Well, she remarried, right?’
‘Right. What was her first husband’s name, would you know?’
‘No, I’m sorry. Luke Something?’
‘Ever meet him?’
‘No.’
‘He wouldn’t have tried to contact her ever, would he?’
‘I don’t think so. No. I’m sure she would’ve told me. It was strictly good riddance to bad rubbish.’
‘The children? Would you know their names?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘Were they boys or girls?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’
‘Well, thank you, Ms. Wellington, I appreciate your time.’
‘You wouldn’t care for a cup of tea, would you?’ she said. ‘It’s about that time of day, you know.’
Hawes hesitated a moment.
Then he said, ‘I have to get back.. Maybe some other time.’
Paula nodded.
* * * *
Fat Ollie Weeks did not like religion in general and priests in particular, but he hoped no one would write him letters on the subject because he simply would not answer them. He could not say he particularly disliked Father Joseph Santoro, except that the man appeared to be in his late seventies, and Ollie had no particular fondness for old people, either.
Why a man at such an advanced age hadn’t yet tipped to the fact that wearing a long black dress and a gold necklace and cross might be considered somewhat effeminate was beyond Ollie. But he was not here to discuss sexual proclivities or the peculiar dress habits of the Catholic priesthood. He was here to learn what Father Joseph Santoro had seen or heard on the night Father Michael Hopwell was shot twice in the face, he being the last person to have seen his dead colleague alive, ah yes, except for the killer.
The retirement center at six P.M. that Saturday was just serving dinner to its fifty or so resident retired priests and nuns. Ollie knew these religious people had all taken vows of chastity and poverty, which he surmised included not eating too terribly much, or screwing around at all after hours, wherever it was they slept. Hence the somewhat gaunt and hungry appearance of many of the men and women seated around long wooden tables in the center’s dining room. He was not expecting any kind of decent dinner, and was surprised to find the food both plentiful and quite delicious.
Sitting opposite Father Joseph, grateful that Patricia Gomez was not present to scold him about breaking his diet, Ollie dug into a roast beef cooked a little too well for his taste, string beans steamed to crispy perfection, and small roasted potatoes browned on the outside and flaky white on the inside. It was several moments before he
