The four women-of prime concern the two reporters-had heard everything. Well, not everything, but at least everything that had been said at or near the desk.
Had the women overheard, Koesler wondered, what he had said to Tully regarding Vespa’s confession? It was most unlikely. No one else in the room could have heard that conversation. And they had been seated on the couch, a goodly distance from the intercom.
“Okay, okay,” Tully said, “the damage is done. So who the hell is Sally Dean?”
“Sally Dean,” Lennon said, “used to work in this town, but not very well. She left town and years later came back with a remade body but unfortunately the same mind. Now she writes under the name of Lacy DeVere.”
“The gossip columnist?” Koesler said. He’d thought the name Sally Dean rang a bell; now he vaguely recalled her byline from the past.
“Lacy DeVere, the gossip columnist,” Lennon affirmed. “This explains a lot, most of which you have no way of knowing.”
“You gonna tell us?” Tully said.
“How about a bargain?” Lennon proposed. “Pringle and I get this story on a first-day exclusive, and you get some interesting details on Lacy DeVere.”
“Done.” It was both a good and a fair deal. All it involved was slightly delaying a press conference in return for promising details that these two reporters alone might have.
“Okay.” Lennon began ticking off those details.
“One: Lacy’s column contained the first intimation that Keating had been a victim of foul play and might be dead. She was first on that bandwagon because at the time there was no logical reason to suspect anything like that had happened to him. At the time, he was a missing person, nothing else. If he had turned up alive-and at the time, odds were that he would-she would have had a lot of crow to eat. But having him appear to be dead apparently is what they wanted. So he could run off with the money. And thanks to some clever planning, no one would be the wiser.
“Two: Hal Salden did discover the bones of what was about to happen. From what’s been said in here today, that’s what those notes in his basket were all about. Hal discovered the shell companies. This was even before Keating ‘disappeared.’ Hal could have blown the whole scheme out of the water. So he had to be killed. My guess is that Lacy did it.
“Three: This is the murky part. The wounding of Father Koesler here seems to have gotten you back on the case. So the wounding had to be a result of the investigation. My guess is that Guido Vespa somehow learned about the plot, maybe got involved in it, was going to tell the father about it-maybe to ease his conscience-and he was killed and Father was wounded. Again, my guess is Lacy did it.
“And four: Yesterday, just before you got to the
“Then why didn’t she kill the stuff about shell companies?” Tully asked.
“My guess is she would have but she never got the chance. Pringle didn’t give her the password. And just after she started fooling with the machine, I came in and threw her out.”
Tully counted this one of the best bargains he’d ever made, especially with anyone from the media. “Lemmee ask you: Why do you feel so strongly that the DeVere woman did the shootings?”
“Easy,” Pat said. “She’s notorious for doing anything-
“Even murder?”
“She could do it without blinking. And I think Keating blew this scene about the time he was reported missing. I think Keating found just the person to carry out the dirty end of the deal.”
“For love or money?” Tully wondered. “Was theirs just a business arrangement-or more?” He scratched his chin. “Either way, for her to try to get into Salden’s machine, they must have felt their world was falling apart.”
“I think so,” Pat agreed. “My guess, since the last we saw of DeVere was yesterday, is that she’s long gone. Probably she and Keating are busy enjoying millions of bucks-somewhere-either together or separately.”
“Yeah, somewhere. But where?”
After a moment, Koesler spoke. “I have a thought,” he said tentatively.
Everyone looked at him with a mixture of hope and encouragement.
“Mr. Dunstable …”
“Eric,” Dunstable insisted. He was really beginning to like Father Koesler.
“Very well then, Eric … when Father Keating used to accompany you on vacations, were there any places- was there any one place-that he seemed to prize more than the others?”
Dunstable gave that some thought. He chuckled ironically. “I can’t think of a vacation he didn’t enjoy to the hilt.”
“Any one more than the others, though?”
Dunstable thought some more. “Maui, the French Riviera, Costa del Sol, a cruise to Bali, golf at St. Andrews, Troon, Pebble Beach … there were so many. But I think I may be listing my favorites as well as his.”
Another pause.
“Wait,” Koesler said, “maybe I’m going at this the wrong way. Lieutenant, is there any way of finding out which countries have no extradition treaties with the U.S.?”
Tully brightened. “Of course! He had to figure that eventually his game would probably be uncovered. Possibly in the audit. Maybe a year or more away. He’d want to be somewhere where we couldn’t get him back to stand trial. Wait a second.”
Tully dialed a number, exchanged a few pro forma pleasantries, requested the information, and waited while drumming his fingers on the desk. The fax machine clicked. Tully scanned the incoming info, then grunted. “This doesn’t look so good. I had no idea there were so many countries that have no extradition treaty with us. There are,” he counted, “more than sixty countries on this list. Here …” He handed the list to Dunstable. “… see if any of these look good.”
Dunstable scanned the list. “There are a lot, aren’t there … I would never have guessed. Some of these countries are interesting, but mostly from an intellectual aspect-wait! Here’s one … here’s the one! It slipped my mind entirely. But of course: About five years ago we came across this fabulous resort. The climate that Father Ja- uh, Keating enjoyed. A bit pricey but worth every penny. So exclusive that practically no one knows about it. Father Jack” — he couldn’t break himself of the habit of tacking the title onto Keating’s name- “just loved it. I remember now. It seemed at the time that he was inordinately fond of the place. Now I know why: He was planning to retire there, safe and snug and beyond justice. Bahrain!”
Tully’s brow was knit. “Where in hell’s Bahrain?”
“The Persian Gulf,” Dunstable said.
“The gulf!”
“I know it doesn’t sound like much. But it’s just off the coast of Saudi Arabia. And believe me, it’s perfect. For Father Jack, it’s more than perfect.”
“But,” Koesler cautioned, “it’s still only a theory. How can we know for sure?”
“I’ll be glad to go there now, at my own expense-today-and flush out the bastard,” Dunstable offered.
“I don’t think that’s necessary-or even the quickest way to do this. I can ask the authorities there for verification. We may not be able to get Keating out of there, but at least we can locate him. And I’ll run a LEIN on Lacy DeVere. We may just be able to sew this thing up. Maybe not to everybody’s satisfaction … but not all endings are happy.”
Tully got busy on the phone. Koesler, reminded again that his stamina wasn’t what it had been before the shooting, dropped wearily to the couch. The cook and the secretary, having been admonished to keep mum on everything they’d heard, returned to their work with newfound confidence: Not only would they not be fired, but without Father Keating around they might just enjoy extended employment.
Dunstable and Father Mitchell, suddenly on a more congenial basis, huddled to arrange a speedy audit for St. Waldo of the Hills. Pringle McPhee and Pat Lennon quickly mapped their battle plan for last minute interviews prior to filing this story under their joint byline.
If all this speculation became fact, Lacy DeVere would deservedly suffer an ultimate discreditation. That item
