Tully didn’t quite see the point of the story, but he chuckled anyway.
The point was blunted because that anecdote was only roughly half of what Koesler had originally intended to tell Tully. Which was how Jake and the much older pastor had become friends and the results of that friendship. While the pastor took a somewhat casual approach to a double collection, he was far more meticulous about his own assets. He had, over the years, amassed an enviable portfolio of blue-ribbon stocks. And he had encouraged Jake to follow his example.
And Jake had, indeed, begun to invest. But he was too stubborn to listen to what turned out to be the pastor’s excellent advice. And Jake had lost a bundle.
Halfway through his relation of the collection incident, Koesler had decided not to tell the remainder of the story: The conclusion would have implied that Keating was a gambler-and a not very successful one at that.
Too close-much too close to that unexposable secret. Koesler couldn’t chance connecting the two. The story was innocent enough. But if the police had followed Koesler’s lead, they could have walked right into the information Keating’s killer had revealed. The killer would have concluded that Koesler had violated the seal of confession. And that simply would not do. It would not do at all.
As Tully pulled up in front of the rectory, Koesler beheld one of the busier scenes he had ever seen at a Catholic church on a weekday.
There were people all over the place, on the sidewalks, in the driveways, talking on car radios, walking across lawns clearly posted “Keep Off the Grass.” Many wore police uniforms. But the uniforms definitely were not uniform. Koesler could not read the sleeve patches from this distance but they appeared to identify different municipalities. He was impressed with the scope of this investigation.
Tully turned the ignition off but made no move to leave the car, so neither did Koesler.
Without turning to Koesler, Tully said, “You did a good job filling me in on our missing priest. Now I’d like you to help in another way.”
“If I can.”
“So far, the interrogation of the parish personnel has left a lot to be desired. These people are plenty uptight-at least with the police. I think they may open up a bit with a priest-you. Are you aware, for instance, that people don’t seem to stay employed here for very long stretches?”
“Now that you mention it,” Koesler paused a moment in thought, “now that you mention it, I was vaguely aware that the associate pastors moved in and out of here with some frequency. I wouldn’t have any occasion to know about people like the housekeeper, secretary, or janitor. The priest assignments are usually listed in our Catholic paper. So I’d read about the associates’ moves. What those frequent moves mean is something else again. What with the drastic shortage of priests, there’s a bit more movement of priests than there used to be. So it could be quite naturally understandable. Or it could mean some friction with the pastor. I suppose that would more likely be the case if the other personnel move in and out a lot.”
Tully nodded. “I think it’s a problem with the pastor. I think they expect him back any minute and they’re afraid if they bad-mouth him to us-even if it’s the truth-it might get back to him and they’d be looking for another job. There’s a good chance they’ll be more willing to talk freely to a priest than to a cop.”
Koesler agreed. “I think that might be especially true of the associate pastor. One priest to another. But I must confess I don’t know who’s here.”
Tully took a notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket and began looking for the associate’s name. While he did not find it odd that Koesler could not have known where all of Detroit’s priests were living, Tully would have been somewhat surprised had he realized how little the older priests knew about younger priests. “Father Mitchell- Father Fred Mitchell.”
Koesler smiled. “Now that’s a lucky break. I do happen to know Fred. That will make this a bit easier.”
“Then,” Tully said, “let’s have at ’im.”
“Lead on,” said Koesler as he unfolded from the car.
9
“Uh-oh,” Tully said with feeling.
Koesler turned sharply to face the officer. But Tully was looking past him toward the rectory.
Following Tully’s line of vision, Koesler about-faced to see a woman heading determinedly toward them. His first impression was of a mannequin whose paint had not quite dried. She wore a gray business suit, but no hat. As she cantered, a double string of pearls bounced against her ample bosom. There was something wrong, not necessarily with her figure. But her headlong dash seemed entirely out of character.
As she drew closer, Koesler realized what had made him think of wet paint: Her lips were well overglazed with bright red, and she was wearing far too much rouge, eyeliner, and mascara. An overcharged mannequin whose paint had not dried.
Koesler breathed a sigh when the woman zeroed in on Tully. “Zoo!” she half gushed, half shrieked, “you’re in charge here, or so they say. And they won’t let me in the rectory!”
“Who won’t?” Tully was ambivalent about his nickname. Normally he was unconcerned as to what people called him. Almost the sole exception was this woman. He shuddered inwardly anytime she waxed familiar.
“The cops!
“Maybe they don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Who?”
“The people who live in the rectory.”
“The priests?”
“Well …”
“You’re kidding! They’re supposed to be available all the time. Where do they get off not wanting to be disturbed?!” She seemed to notice for the first timethat Tully was not alone. “And whom have we here?” Her face was only inches from Koesler’s. That made him uncomfortable.
“Lacy De Vere,” Tully said, “meet Father Koesler.”
She had her notebook out and was scribbling in it. “Is that K-e-s-s-1-e-r?”
“K-o-e-s-l-e-r,” Koesler corrected.
“Who are you?” Lacy asked. “I mean, what are you doing here? Did the archdiocese send you? Are you the new pastor?”
“Hold on,” Tully said. “We’re just consulting with Father. He’s providing us with a little background information.”
“That’s it,” Koesler said. “I’m a consulting adult.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he regretted them.
A peculiar expression crossed Lacy’s face. “Just what we needed-a priest who does one-liners. Okay, then, Father Koesler, why you? How did you get to be the sourceperson?”
“Well,” Koesler said, “if it comes to that, who are you?”
“Lacy’s got a column in the
“A priest-detective? Father Brown lives again?”
“We’re investigating a missing priest, Lacy,” Tully said.
Lacy’s attention was once again focused completely on Tully. “Is he dead?”
“Who?”
“The missing priest-Keating.”
“Lacy! Right now it’s a missing persons case.”
“Then what’s Detroit Homicide doing on it? Out in Bloomfield Hills?”
“Just cooperating with the ’burb departments.”
Lacy did not look convinced. “Maybe, maybe not. But if I don’t get in that rectory to ask some questions, I’m going to see that somebody’s ass gets burned.”
“I’ll see what I can do about it, Lacy.” Tully motioned Koesler on toward the rectory.
When the two reached the front door, Tully leaned close to the uniformed officer standing guard. “See that
