thinking about a possible connection was religion.”
“Religion?!”
“He was a religion writer and you’re a priest. Probably no one thing got my attention, but when you put them all together. … The killer even set the machine pistol to fire in bursts of three in both shootings.”
Koesler scratched his head. “Boy! Isn’t that incredible? The same person in both shootings.”
“The same gun,” Tully corrected. “And we’re going on the theory that the gunman was the same too.”
“But why? I mean, what does that do to the premise that whoever shot Guido was the same person who gave him the contract?”
“Really messes it up. But we can’t wish it away. It’s reality. There has to be some connection between Vespa and Salden.”
“Could Hal Salden have found out about the threat to Father Keating’s life? That could explain the need to kill Salden.”
“Maybe. If that’s true, that might be the reason Salden was killed several days before Keating disappeared. If Salden learned about the contract, or even suspected it, he could have warned Keating and the guy wouldn’t have walked into what must’ve been a trap.
“Keating drove into the city. Maybe the bookies arranged the meeting. Maybe they told him they were gonna work out something where he could pay it off. It seems pretty sure the guy walked into it blind. He couldn’t’ve had any idea they were gonna kill him or he’d never have gone. If Salden got wind of it, he could’ve screwed the whole deal by warning Keating.
“But, as of now,” Tully summed up, “that’s all guesswork. We gotta get the facts. What really happened with Salden and why?” Tully looked searchingly at Koesler. “I know you’re not feeling too great just now. But every bit of time that goes by means we have less and less chance of breaking this thing. So, would you mind going with me to the
“Oh, Lieutenant, I don’t think-”
“It’s what’s in Salden’s CRT-his notes. Remember? That’s the outside connection: You’re a priest and he was the religion writer.”
They had him again! He also realized that during the Costello visit and now during this conversation with Tully, his injury hadn’t bothered him noticeably. It probably helped to be distracted. Trying to help the police might be just what the doctor ordered.
Koesler agreed to go, asking for a few minutes to make sure all the day’s pastoral matters were covered.
22
Pat Lennon arrived in the city room a little late and breathless. This was shaping up as a day of frustration if not downright disaster.
She’d had an appointment with the city councilman who was the swing vote on whether the mayor would get his long-awaited wish for his private airplane. First, the guy was more than an hour late for the appointment. Then he claimed he hadn’t yet made up his mind. The vote was scheduled for this afternoon. If he had come through, as he had promised, she would have had a dandy page-one scoop. The guy knew damn well what his vote would be, she was sure of that. He was just too chicken to tell her.
Added to that, she was not feeling at all well. She had awakened-a bit late-with a migraine. Groggily, she had neglected immediate medication, and now the monster was evading her control.
Added to that, Joe Cox had called last night. He stated-he did not ask or say, he stated-that he would be coming to see her this weekend.
It wasn’t that she’d had anything scheduled. But where did he get off issuing ultimatums like a victorious general! During the disagreeable conversation, he only thinly disguised the fact that he had read the item in DeVere’s column, which undoubtedly a “friend” had sent him.
Lennon, in no uncertain terms, told Cox that if he insisted on coming there would be no one- nor, for that matter, two-night stand. And he could stay elsewhere, since he would not be welcome at what had been their downtown apartment.
In all, she was already in a mood most foul when she became aware that something was amiss. Someone was in the city room who shouldn’t be. And that someone was where she shouldn’t have been,
Lacy DeVere was seated at the late Hal Salden’s desk, studying his CRT.
In the wild, when a predator falls upon her prey, she is instantly all over the victim, who has no avenue for escape. The only element lacking when Lennon descended on DeVere was the victim’s exit, Throughout the city room, fingers paused above keys, heads turned, and mouths hung open as Lennon used every strong word she’d learned during her outstanding reportorial career.
Taken by surprise, DeVere, who in turn possessed a most colorful vocabulary, was on the defensive. She lurched to her feet, managed to grab her briefcase, and began backing out of the room. Unrelentingly, Lennon, eyes blazing, continued to advance, until, eschewing an elevator that was too removed, Lacy almost tumbled down the marble staircase.
Lennon marched back through the city room. Some of the personnel chuckled, some sat in shocked silence, others felt like hiding under their desks; one or two essayed applause, which was quickly aborted when Pat swiveled her head to glare at them.
She plunked herself down at her desk and, after a few moments, began to snicker. It was as if her rampage had purged her.
Hesitantly, Pringle McPhee sat down at a neighboring desk.
Lennon turned to her. “What’s on your mind, Pringle?”
McPhee couldn’t have been more thankful that Lennon had regained her composure. Especially in light of what she had to say. “Uh … Pat … I’m the one responsible for DeVere’s being up here.”
Lennon looked at her with increased interest. “No kidding! Whatever made you do a thing like that?”
Pringle bit her lip. “I don’t know exactly. She intimidates me, I guess. When the call came from the security desk that DeVere wanted to see me, I was just curious. So I met her in the lobby and she seemed real friendly. She said she wanted to check a couple of things through Hal’s computer. It was in connection with a tribute to Hal she was putting together.”
Lennon’s disbelief was evident. “DeVere doing a tribute! Even for someone who’s dead? Not very likely.”
“Well, she could have been.”
“More like she wanted to steal some ideas or some leads. Why do you let her get to you?”
Pringle’s embarrassment was still plain. “Because she is what you said about her-selfish, not very talented, but really cruel. That’s where the intimidation comes in. I know she can hurt me and … well … I’m afraid of her.”
“Pringle, what can she do to you? You lead a pretty straight life. Hell, by today’s standards you’re practically a Camp Fire girl.”
“There was that time … with the car … you know, the attempted murder. She knows …” Her voice trailed off.
“Pringle, you didn’t attempt murder, for God’s sake! You were the victim!”
“I know, I know. But I’m still afraid … of certain things. DeVere knows. I feel so vulnerable with her.”
Pringle reminded Pat of a frightened deer. She felt like cuddling her. But this was neither the time nor the place. She also felt angry, very angry, at DeVere. “So you let the bitch up here. Well, it can’t be all that bad. How long was she fiddling in Hal’s basket?”
“Oh, no more than ten or fifteen minutes at most.”
“You didn’t give her Hal’s password, did you?”
“How could I? I don’t even know it.”
Pat smiled as she leaned over and patted Pringle’s arm. “I don’t think she could have stumbled on it in that little time. Besides, I was feeling pretty rotten. I needed an outlet for some king-size frustrations. I didn’t even
