“Grant you now that this whole premise rests on what we discover about those companies that are being checked out. But the way things would stand depending on those companies would be that Guido Vespa got a contract that called for nothing but the deceiving confession. That’s it. No burial with another priest. And most of all-no murder.”
“No murder!” A novel concept to Tully. “It might make sense if Keating stood to make a bundle and then blew the scene. It all seems to depend on-”
The phone sounded once; paper began to feed out of the fax machine.
Dunstable immediately stood and began a silent reading of what was being sent from his office. As he continued reading, his expression intensified to half smile, half sneer. “Well, Father Koesler,” he said, “it seems your suspicions were right on target. Nothing, nothing, nothing: Each and every one of these companies you questioned never amounted to anything. Not only were they nothing when they were incorporated, but several years back they stopped sending in annual reports. As a result, their charters were canceled. They are now nonactive corporations.”
“What does that mean?” Koesler asked.
“Anyone can incorporate. It’s a legal process that sets up a company. The company doesn’t necessarily have to do or accomplish anything or provide any sort of service. It’s just a sort of legal fiction. They’re also referred to as ‘shells’… ” He looked at Koesler and Tully in turn. “… empty shells.”
Instantly, Tully and Koesler looked at each other. “Shells,” Tully repeated. “Just what Salden had in his computer: ‘shells! look into … trace down! could be key!’”
“Just so,” said Koesler. “And the ‘K’ at the bottom of that note:
“But,” Koesler looked at Dunstable, “did Father Keating profit from these shell companies?”
“Oh, I’d say so,” Dunstable replied. “While we were waiting, I just did a little computing of what the parish paid these companies over the years. In excess of two million dollars! And since we don’t really know how many more of these ‘shell’ companies there are on the parish books, it may go even higher. After all, we only checked the ones you questioned. There may be more.”
“But did Father Keating have access to them?” Koesler asked.
Dunstable snorted. “I’d say so. A John Keating is listed as president and vice president of each of these companies.”
“The only slight gamble he took,” Tully said, “was that somebody might get suspicious and check into these companies. But that, especially since he was a priest, was really no gamble at all.”
“That’s right,” Dunstable agreed. “And I can speak as the prime patsy. I don’t know how many times I and the parish council and the finance committee checked these billings. It never occurred to any of us that we were paying bills of nonexistent companies. And he knew the books wouldn’t be audited until he was transferred from this parish. They wouldn’t be audited even now, even though he was missing, if it hadn’t been for Father Koesler.”
“Something else comes to mind,” Koesler said. “I wonder if John would be content with nothing more than the money from these shell companies.”
“There’s more?” Tully asked.
“I was just thinking of the five thousand dollars he took from Mr. Dunstable. It seems to me his avarice was so insatiable, he would stop at nothing.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“The collections. This is an extremely wealthy parish. I would guess the weekly collections would average about eighteen to twenty thousand dollars.” He looked to Dunstable, who nodded and said, “That’s in the ballpark.”
“So,” Koesler continued, “there was lots and lots of money to play with. You kept all the money in the parish account at the local bank?”
Again Dunstable nodded.
“The chancery doesn’t like that,” Koesler said. “They’d rather we banked with the chancery. But with a parish like St. Waldo’s, they wouldn’t insist. My thought is that he would give you full credit for what you gave in the collections, but he’d spread the money out wherever he wished and still have plenty to pay legitimate bills. John, I believe, handled the weekly collection pretty much by himself?”
Mitchell nodded.
“So,” Koesler continued, “no one actually knew exactly how much money there was except John. He could write checks on accessing accounts without question.” He pointed to an account listed in the ledger. “This, for instance: ‘The Youth Apostolate Fund.’ I’ve never heard of anything like that. My suspicion is that this and/or other funds might have been tampered with. John could put lots and lots of money pretty well anywhere he wanted.”
Dunstable looked deflated. “He kept such good records. We professionals admired-
“One thing seems certain, gentlemen: Father Keating is not lost, kidnapped, or harmed in any way. He is alive and well and very well off somewhere.”
Only Fathers Koesler and Dunn, Inspector Koznicki, and Lieutenant Tully knew of Guido Vespa’s “confession.” Thus, everyone else, including Dunstable, had never operated under the “knowledge” that Keating had been killed. Thus it was somewhat easier for Dunstable to conclude that Keating was alive. By now, there wasn’t much doubt in Koesler and Tully’s minds either.
“Then,” Koesler said, “the murders! Hal Salden and Guido Vespa! Keating?”
“Maybe.” Tully’s mind was now operating in leaps and bounds, “But that would be pretty tricky for him to pull off. There’s always the chance of recognition. He got his picture in the papers and on TV often enough. Then there’s the crime itself. Murder One is a long step from embezzlement. Maybe. But I’d like to find an accomplice. Somebody with as much to gain as Keating. But somebody who would go for the jugular.”
“Well,” Dunstable consulted the fax again, “here’s a nominee … although I haven’t the slightest idea who she is.” He handed the sheet to Tully, pointing out the recurring name on the shell companies.
“Sally Dean,” Tully read. “Each and every company lists as officers John Keating as president and vice president and Sally Dean as secretary and treasurer. Sally Dean,” He looked at the others, “Who the hell is Sally Dean?”
It was evident no one in the room knew. But suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Mitchell opened it and four men were startled to address four women: a cook, a secretary, and two reporters-Pat Lennon and Pringle McPhee,
25
What in hell-?!”
“You’d probably find out in time who Sally Dean is,” Lennon said, “but we can save you a lot of that time and trouble.”
“How in hell-?!” Tully was not having much luck in completing a sentence.
“… did we get in? Pringle here makes one hell of a good impression,” Lennon said. “She was in the kitchen here a while back when you gentlemen were investigating the disappearance of Father Keating. You may remember seeing her, Lieutenant, and” — she turned to nod at Koesler-” Father Koesler, when you were hurrying out the back door.”
“Yes,” Tully said, “oh, yes. But how in hell-?”
“… did we know you were trying to find out who Sally Dean is?” Pat gestured toward the secretary, who suddenly seemed extremely uneasy. “Well, you see,” the secretary fumbled, “when I brought refreshments in here just before you started your meeting, I must have-by accident-hit the intercom button, and …”
Dunstable glanced at the console. The tiny red light was lit. He nodded to the others: The intercom was on.
