lady with the paint job?”
“Yes, sir.” The officer hooked his thumbs under his belt.
“She doesn’t get in here even if she has the Pope with her.”
“Yes, sir!” He had tangled with her earlier, and based on that skirmish alone he had hoped that someone would make his life easier by countermanding the order excluding media people from the rectory. Now he knew that if that woman got by him, he’d be sweeping out the police barns. At this moment, it was difficult to decide which would be worse: fighting her off or cleaning up after the horses.
Tully and Koesler were met at the door by a very nervous, impressed, and-once Tully had shown her his badge-deferential housekeeper, who led them into a large, rather cluttered room. There, seated in an overstuffed leather office chair behind a king-sized desk, was a young man wearing an open-necked brown shirt, under an orange cardigan.
“Hello, Fred,” said Koesler.
The young man’s eyes widened. He smiled broadly. “Bob! Fancy meeting you here. How many times have I invited you over? And now that you’ve finally come, the pastor isn’t here.”
Tully realized that he had a lot to absorb here. He had seldom been in a house whose furnishings and decor were as opulent, almost to the point of garishness, as this rectory. The one and only priest he knew to any extent was Father Koesler, who lived a Spartan existence. Tully had assumed that all priests lived more or less at that level. Evidently not Father Keating. Then there was the associate priest-for that surely was who “Fred” was. Not only completely out of uniform, but joking about the pastor’s unaccountable absence. Interesting. “We haven’t met,” Tully said.
“I’m sorry,” Koesler apologized. “Father Fred Mitchell, this is Lieutenant Tully. He’s in charge of the Police Department’s investigation of Father Keating’s disappearance.”
Tully and Mitchell nodded at each other. Mitchell made no move to stand. Nor did he invite his visitors to sit. So Tully took the initiative and the chair closest to the desk. Koesler, noting that he now stood alone, also seated himself.
There was a moment’s silence while Tully continued to take in the details of the room. Mitchell studied Tully. Koesler was uncertain just what he should do. Then Mitchell spoke. “This case should be solved any minute, now that you’re on it, Bob.”
Koesler reddened. “The lieutenant asked me to come along. I’m trying to help him get some insight into Jake’s life.”
“Good luck,” Mitchell said.
“What is this room?” Tully asked. “A study?”
“
“
“Definitely,” Mitchell said. “I’m not allowed in here. Far as I know, none of my predecessors was allowed in. No one comes in without an invitation. Leave your money at the door.”
“When the cat’s away …?” Koesler smiled.
“Exactly,” Mitchell said. “This mouse is going to play in the master’s den.” He pushed the chair back, drew his legs up, and deposited his feet on a desk top that undoubtedly had never before experienced shoes.
Koesler had never lived in a rectory where any room was declared off-limits to any priest, resident or visitor. He knew such rectories had existed, but he was surprised to find one in this day when there were so few available clergy that priests could pretty well pick and choose where they would live and serve.
Such arbitrary and arrogant exercise of authority had to be one reason why Keating couldn’t keep an associate pastor more than a comparatively short time. At a different period-not all that long ago-priests simply went where they were sent and remained until they were ordered elsewhere. A system that generated a number of pastors who were notorious as tyrants.
But, no more.
Koesler knew that Jake Keating would not return to St. Waldo’s. Perhaps, he thought, depending on who would take Keating’s place, Fred Mitchell just might set a new record for longevity here.
Tully had been studying a painting hanging on the wall facing the pastor’s chair. He inclined his head. “Who’s that?”
“The master,” Mitchell responded.
“The pastor? Father Keating?” Tully was surprised. The portrait had been expertly executed by some gifted artist. It showed a man in a clerical collar and a black suit whose folds suggested soft and expensive silk. The man was leaning forward. His jet black hair flowed in gentle waves. The face was sharply masculine-handsome in the same sense that Humphrey Bogart could have been considered handsome.
“That’s something, eh?” Mitchell said. “The old man sits here-as often as he’s here-and eyeballs himself.”
Koesler did not appreciate having Keating, several years his junior, being referred to as “the old man.” “Come on, Fred, it’s not unique that someone has a picture of himself in his own office.”
“A portrait? In oil? With professional lighting? Painted by Alfredo Pomponi? That’s not exactly a framed Polaroid!”
Tully thought of all the pictures of cops on the walls of the various corridors at headquarters. Most of Detroit’s top brass were there. So Koesler’s point that it was not unusual to find pictures of individuals exhibited where they work seemed valid. But … an expensive portrait? The only one Tully could recall was of the mayor, and it hung in Maynard Cobb’s office. Maybe there was something to be said for arrogance. The more Tully learned about Father John Keating, the less likable he appeared.
“You don’t like him very much.” Tully’s inflection made it a question.
“It shows?” Mitchell said sarcastically.
“Look,” said Tully, “it doesn’t make any difference to me whether you get along with him or not. We’ve got to find him. The sooner the better. Up till now, so my officers tell me, nobody here-housekeeper, secretary, janitor, everybody-including you-none of you have knocked yourselves out being cooperative.”
“That’s probably true,” Mitchell said. “But what you’ve got to understand, Lieutenant, is that nobody who works for our pastor likes him. Oh, maybe at first, but he doesn’t wear well at all. Not with employees. Only nobody but me is going to come right out and say it. Keating will return and you can bet your bottom dollar he’ll find out what people have said about him. For Nancy and Mary and Sam and the rest of them, that means if they tell you the truth they’ll be unemployed. Me? I won’t be unemployed. I’ll just be shipped to another parish. And that will be fine with me.”
“Then why didn’t you say all this to the other officers?”
“I wasn’t all that keen on finding him. But now, I understand: It’s your job. So ask away and I’ll try to be helpful.”
“Okay.” Tully took out his notepad and pen. “After all you’ve just said, this may seem silly, but did Father Keating have any enemies?”
Mitchell snorted. “All right. I get your drift: By ‘enemies,’ you mean anyone who would-like-kill him.”
It was evident that, even taking into account the way Mitchell felt, he was unwilling seriously to consider Keating dead, let alone murdered.
Tully nodded. That is what he had in mind.
“No,” Mitchell said, “I wouldn’t say that. Not to my knowledge anyway. On the one hand, he certainly has left a trail of unhappy people in his wake. All the people he has fired over the years-for no serious cause, as far as I know. Then there are the priests who have been assigned here, and left as soon as they decently could. But I can’t think that any of these people could hate him enough to … do that.”
“How about parishioners?”
“No way! Especially not parishioners. He got along famously with them. To give the devil his due he was a forceful preacher. I mean by that … uh … pro forma. He had a great voice, partially seasoned by large quantities of very good scotch. But a great voice anyway. He knew when to dish out hellfire and brimstone, I think they used to call it-and when to assure everyone that all was well.”
“But,” Tully said, “it doesn’t seem he was here much. Gone part of Sunday, all day Monday and Wednesday. They put up with that kind of part-time service here?”
Mitchell chuckled. “These people out here know what the score is. They’re not only wealthy, they’re well
