Body Count

informed. They know that someday-and not that far down the road-there will be priestless parishes. And while Waldo’s is not going to be among the first of those, this place will take its turn-eventually. They’ve got a pastor they like; they want to hold on to him.

“And don’t let that ‘out of town’ schedule fool you. If a parishioner wants to see him, it doesn’t matter when, Keating will meet Monday, Wednesday, whenever. If somebody’s in the hospital or there’s a death in the family- Keating’s there.”

“That sounds more like it,” Tully said, “There had to be something to balance this picture.”

“I don’t want to spoil this image of pastoral service,” Mitchell said, “but to be perfectly honest, there’s a fringe benefit to all Keating’s availability: He lives his parishioners’ lifestyle,”

“Oh?”

“I mean tickets to plays, the opera, ballgames; tickets to events that are sold out, tickets when there aren’t any tickets. Trips in company planes. Trips around the world. Trips to play golf with Palmer, Trevino. Vacations with the incredibly rich and brain-dead.”

No wonder, thought Koesler, that the gang hadn’t seen Keating on any of their rather modest outings lately- not to mention days off. But why hasn’t Mitchell mentioned Keating’s gambling? Is it possible that Keating could have hidden a vice for which he’d been murdered from a priest who lived with him?

“Then,” Tully said, “if you can’t think of anyone who would or could physically harm him, how about the man himself? As far as you know, has he had any personal problems? Blackouts? Serious forgetfulness? Has his health been okay?”

“Keating? Healthy as a horse, far as I know. And where would he go? He’s found the promised land right here.”

“You mentioned scotch. Not a drinking problem?”

“Amazing! Built up a tolerance, I guess. Doesn’t seem to affect him … not seriously, at any rate.”

“Okay, Father. Anything else you want to say?”

“No, I don’t think so. Just that if he’s off on a wingding, I hope he doesn’t hurry back just for my sake.”

Tully rose. He handed Mitchell a card. “If you think of anything else-anything at all-call me at this number. If I’m not there, they’ll know how to reach me.”

As Tully and Koesler reached the door of the den, they were met by the substantial figure of Sergeant Mangiapane. “Zoo, we just got done tossing Father Keating’s room.”

“And?”

“Nothing-oh, hi, Father Koesler.”

“Hello,” Koesler said. Now what was his name? Something Italian …

“Nothing, Manj? Nothing that would give us any idea where he might have gone?”

Manj. Manj. Of course: Mangiapane. But don’t tell me there were no betting slips! Nothing that would tip the police that the guy had, to be a compulsive gambler?

“No,” Mangiapane repeated. “We did come up with a private phone and address book. A lot of entries. We’re gonna check ’em out. But as far as we were able to tell, Father Keating was planning on coming back here Friday night. All his clothes are here-pretty expensive stuff-his shaving gear; everything’s in place. We went up to the attic. All his luggage is there, neat as you please.”

Of course he intended to return Friday night, Koesler thought. And he would have if he hadn’t met up with Mr. Vespa. It was so frustrating not being able even to hint at what the police should be looking for. Nothing he could do but count on the police finding out what had happened to him on their own. Koesler believed they could do it. But how in the world would they ever find the body?

“Okay,” Tully said, “check out his address book. It’s about the only lead we’ve got right now.”

They became aware of a commotion just outside the front door. Two distinct voices, a man and a woman, shouting at each other. The woman’s voice was the clearer. And she was using language she never learned, or should never have learned, from Mother. Then another male voice joined in.

The door opened narrowly and a uniformed officer-the one to whom Tully had spoken on the way in-squeezed through. No doubt about it, he was harried.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Tully demanded.

“It’s that crazy bi-“ He spotted Koesler’s clericals. “It’s that crazy lady, Lieutenant-the one you told me to keep out.”

“And?”

“She found out that another reporter is in here. Somebody from the News-McPhee. She’s in the kitchen interviewing some of the help. Somehow she got invited in the back door. Anyway, that crazy lady just heard about it and is … well …” He gestured toward the door through which Lacy’s purple prose continued to penetrate.

“What’s with her?” Tully wanted to know.

“Hogan spelled me for a little while. I’m going right out soon as I pull myself together. It’ll probably take the both of us …”

“Unless one of you shoots her,” Mangiapane contributed.

Somehow, no one found that humorous.

“Come on,” Tully said to Koesler, “let’s get out the back way.”

As they started toward the kitchen, they were met by Angie Moore. “Father Koesler: Good to see you again.”

“Yes, indeed.” Who was she? Koesler met so very many people.

“Zoo,” Moore said, “they found the car.”

“Keating’s.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Let’s go.”

The flow of their departure was temporarily interrupted when they reached the kitchen to find Pringle McPhee in conversation with the housekeeper and the secretary, who started guiltily as if caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

Tully scowled, angry that his cordon had been breached. But after a moment’s thought he not only could see no actual harm done, but also see the humor in it. Though he refused all comment in response to Pringle’s questions, there was the hint of a smile on his face as he, Koesler, and Moore exited, leaving Father Mitchell to play press secretary.

Meanwhile, Lacy De Vere continued to assault the battlements. To no avail.

10

Koesler was riding in Tully’s car. Moore and Mangiapane were following in another. Tully had explained to Koesler that when they arrived at Keating’s car, which had been found parked on a well-maintained residential street in northwest Detroit, there would be a complete complement of Detroit police specialists performing their specialties.

“I don’t know how you-the police, I mean-did it,” Koesler said. “There must be abandoned cars all over the city. Finding Father Keating’s car-and this quickly-well, it’s almost like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.”

“It’s not that mysterious,” Tully said. “As soon as we got into this as a missing persons case, we-actually the Bloomfield Hills police-put out a statewide broadcast on the car and the license plate number along with putting it in LEIN.”

“Excuse me,” Koesler interrupted. “LEIN-is that an acronym?”

“Yeah … Law Enforcement Information Network. Once the data is fed into LEIN, it’s accessible to all law enforcement agencies in Michigan. So, in theory at least, you’ve got every kind of cop in the state keeping an eye out for that car. The way it works in practice is that at any given time there are lots of missing cars listed in LEIN. And when a Michigan cop, state police, FBI, whatever, sees a car being operated in a suspicious manner, or one that is parked too long or in a questionable place, they check and see if it’s listed in LEIN.