Koesler slumped into the chair behind the desk. He massaged his forehead as he tried to make sense of this peculiar revelation. “Mr. Dunstable,” he said, “I assume you made this payment with a check.”
Dunstable nodded.
“Then,” Koesler continued, “who did you make the check out to?”
“Why … why …” Dunstable tried to recall. “I made it out to the parish, I believe. Yes …” He was more certain now. “… to St. Waldo’s.”
“Now that doesn’t make much sense, does it?” Koesler asked of no one in particular.
“No, it doesn’t.” Mitchell picked up on the question. “If Keating charged five grand for a no-charge item, you’d think he’d have had the check made out to him.”
“Now just a minute!” Dunstable objected. “There must be some explanation for this! You’re insinuating-”
“I’m not insinuating anything, Mr. Dunstable,” Koesler said. “We’re trying to figure out what happened here. Any light you can she don it?”
Dunstable was confused. But then, so was everyone else. “No,” he said, “I have no idea. I told you just the way it happened. Just the way Father Keating helped. I don’t know …” His voice trailed off.
“Mr. Dunstable,” Tully said, “this seems like it would be a transaction with Rome. Why would you make out the check to this parish?”
“The question crossed my mind,” Dunstable admitted. “But Father Jack explained that since all the paperwork would be originating from the parish, the payment also would come from the parish. I was, in a sense, compensating the parish in advance for costs that would come from the archdiocese as well as from Rome.” He put on his contentious hat. “How can you even suggest that Father Jack would enrich himself from this transaction? If you knew him, you’d know that such a thought would never cross his mind. Besides, as Father Mitchell already said, if he were going to profit from this, why did he have me make the check out to the parish? Why didn’t he have me make it out to him?”
No one had an answer. There was a prolonged period of silence and thought.
“Wait a minute,” Koesler said suddenly. “I’m not sure of this, or how it fits, or if it fits, but … let’s take another look at those books.” He opened the current ledger. He ran his finger down the list of billings. “Something vaguely occurred to me earlier, when we were going through the books. Something … something … something … some of these accounts, some of these companies, some of these billings …”
“What?” Tully wanted to know.
“Well,” Koesler said, “some of these billings are from companies or institutions I’ve never heard of.”
“Is that odd?”
“In a sense, yes. See, I’ve been a pastor for twenty-two years. That’s twenty-two years of running up bills and paying bills or at least being accountable for paying bills. Some might find it surprising, I suppose, that the billings are not all that different from one parish to the next.
“But, for example, there’s a firm that sells and delivers Mass wine as well as, in some instances, table wine. The ad for that company has it that only Catholic Teamsters drive the trucks that deliver the wine.”
Tully smiled.
“Okay,” Koesler said, “it’s hokey, but apparently it works. You’d be surprised how many parishes get their wine from this company. Then there’s the matter of hosts.”
“Hosts?” Tully had the impression that this case was on the brink of coming to a conclusion. He didn’t want to risk being sidetracked by Catholic jargon.
“The altar breads that are used at Mass,” Koesler clarified, “Communion wafers.”
Tully nodded.
“Well, when it comes to providing hosts, there’s a local convent whose nuns have virtually cornered the market. They’re available almost anytime and they’ve always got a good supply. Say some Sunday the crowded late Masses are coming up, and you’re running low on hosts. It could be time to panic-except for the good Sisters. They are especially at hand for that sort of emergency.”
“And they deliver,” Mitchell interjected,
“Like Domino’s?” Tully asked.
“Not quite,” Koesler said, “but you’ll get the wafers as soon as the fastest cab driver can deliver them. And in a fix like that the priest will be happy to pay the cab fare. Besides, they
“So,” Tully said, “how about this parish? Does St. Waldo’s buy from the Catholic Teamsters and the handy nuns?”
“Yes,” Koesler looked again at the ledger, “they’re both on the billing list. So are a number of other firms, companies, and services that I’m familiar with.
“But there are others that I’ve never heard of. I could swear I’ve never gotten any literature from them. I’ve never heard any of the guys mention doing business with any of them.” He looked up from the books. “And we do talk about these things.
“As I said before,” Koesler continued to look in a baffled way around the room at the other men, “I don’t exactly know what this means. It’s just that in the light of Mr. Dunstable’s paying for a canonical process for which there is no charge, I thought that these completely unfamiliar billings were a bit peculiar. But I don’t know where we go from here, I’d sure like to find out something about these companies.”
“Well …” Dunstable stood, repossessed of his original aggressive manner.“… I know where we go from here.” He stepped around to join Koesler and Tully behind the large desk. He took the ledger from Koesler, who winced as Dunstable inadvertently brushed against the injured shoulder. “Which of these billings are you questioning?”
“Well …” Koesler squeezed the sore arm with his left hand as he swallowed the pain. “… there’s this one-Med Corp Roofing-and Murray Athletic Supplies, and GOPITS, INC.-and these three down at the bottom of the page.”
Dunstable shook his head. “I’ve seen these names any number of times when I went over the books with Father Jack. But I never suspected … not for an instant.” He looked around the room. “Any one have any objection if I follow through on Father Koesler’s hunch?”
Mitchell was intent only on maintaining an extremely low profile, Tully couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have check out businesses than Dunstable. And of course it was Koesler’s lead that Dunstable was following. No objection. Koesler made his way back to the couch.
Dunstable picked up the phone, whose cord seemed to be near infinite, dialed, and began to pace about as he ticked off orders a la Jimmy Cagney in “One, Two, Three.”
Koesler could imagine whoever Dunstable had called being up to his or her ears in work. Now that person would be expected to drop everything and respond to these new orders. In all probability, the poor soul would also be expected to finish the interrupted work by the end of the day.
Though Koesler was intensely interested in what Dunstable was saying, he could pick up only bits and snatches. Among these fragments were, “securities commission,” “articles of incorporation,” “names of directors and officers” and “copy of annual report.” Then followed the names of the companies Koesler had indicated. And a forceful instruction to get this information back yesterday. Dunstable gave his employee St. Waldo’s fax number and hung up.
There was nothing to do but wait.
Mitchell was resolved to stay in his corner and contemplate what possible future he had at this parish. It was a nice enough place, but he’d pretty well had enough of influential people who ran roughshod over others. Those who did this were only a small percentage of St. Waldo’s parishioners, but they certainly made their presence felt. Chief among these, of course, was Eric Dunstable.
Maybe, Mitchell thought, he’d apply for a different parish. He was not immediately aware of an attractive opening, but there had to be one someplace. Besides, it was a buyer’s market; he ought to be able to swing something worthwhile.
Dunstable continued to pace.
Inwardly, he was fuming. He would not explode. Not here. Not in the presence of Tully. The man had bested him once already; he would not give the lieutenant another opportunity. But someone in the near future would pay. That vice president had better come up with that information soon or he would be the victim du jour.
Dunstable well knew why some nameless serf would have to suffer. Because he could not get his hands on Father John Keating. Dunstable was now willing to admit that Keating was dead. And that was sad because it
