ministered to him in the Jacuzzi where he could not think of being aroused again. Not for a while, anyway.
Keating, wearing nothing but a beatific smile and with an ample glass of fine wine within reach, looked about with deep appreciation. “Not bad for a simple parish priest,” he commented aloud.
Soraya smiled broadly. Outside of a few words, and those often jumbled, she neither spoke nor understood English. Conversation, of course, was not why she’d been hired.
Keating’s smile broadened. “Soraya, my dear,” he said to her uncomprehending grin, “we could just as well be back in, say, 25 B.C. I could be a senator of imperial Rome. You know, ‘Senatus Populusque Romanus.’ And you could be … well … not a vestal virgin. Ah, yes, the Romans knew how to live. But before I’m done, I’ll be able to teach them a thing or two.”
He seemed pleased. She giggled,
He crooked a finger under her chin and lifted her head. Their eyes locked. He liked her. That was all that mattered.
“Well, m’dear,” he said, “you are very definitely not Lacy and, God knows, she is not you. I’ve just got to figure out some place to stash you after she gets here. I haven’t tested her jealousy threshhold. But I’ll bet it’s not very high. Anyway, whatever happens, you’re going to be better off than you were. It is a far, far better thing I do …” He paused. “This is a rather extended monologue. I can’t quite decide whether to teach you some English or not.”
“Henglish?” she adapted happily.
“Henglish,” he repeated. “No, on further thought, it’s better this way. I’ll have Lacy to talk to and physically satisfy from time to time. And you will be my love mate.”
“Love!” she said with certainty.
“Yes, love. I ask you … no … I ask myself, what further need have we for words? Love will do nicely. But this is a big house-a very big house. There’s got to be plenty of room for a couple of women who will scarcely if ever meet.”
Soraya seemed to have lost interest in his as far as she was concerned incomprehensible babblings. She was concentrating on a segment of his anatomy.
“Well, I’ll be …” he commented in wonder, “I didn’t think I’d get up again for days. Soraya, you are a marvel!”
Lacy DeVere couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was wrong. Perhaps it was intuition. But over the years she had learned to trust her sixth sense.
She dropped her luggage in the foyer. Quietly, deliberately, she ascended the winding staircase.
On the second floor landing she came upon Jack’s black silk trousers. A little further on toward the bedroom, his favorite kimono had been discarded.
Had Jack been drinking? He had a history of that-just short of, he assured her, alcoholism. But usually his heaviest drinking occurred at times of stress. And God knows the pressure was off now. Lacy grew uneasy.
As she followed the trail of abandoned clothing, she came upon a lengthy and beautifully decorated width of watered silk. She recognized the sari Jack had given her. That was followed by female underclothing, a bra and panties of a size to fit a petite but well-endowed female.
Any lingering doubt was dispelled as she reached the bedroom doorway. She could clearly hear the sounds emanating from the Jacuzzi.
Rational thought surrendered to consuming anger as she advanced to the nightstand. She recalled how she had argued against keeping a weapon in the house. They had installed a state-of-the-art security system and they could hire as many security people as they wanted. But Jack had insisted on keeping the loaded gun at hand.
Now, recalling his insistence in the face of her objections, she smiled as she drew the weapon from the drawer.
Soundlessly she moved to the arched doorway and stood motionless there. The tan-skinned girl’s shapely back was to the door, and Jack was too physically engaged to notice Lacy.
But something-possibly the hatred that flowed from Lacy’s core-reached him. He looked up and saw her. And the gun in her hand. The sight dampened the excitement he had been enjoying. In the face of his manifest distraction, Soraya looked up, concerned she was doing something wrong. Seeing the fear in his eyes, she turned to look over her shoulder. At the sight of Lacy and the gun, she let out a small shriek and slipped, scrambled, and clambered out of the Jacuzzi.
Lacy had to give Jack credit. The girl seemed without physical flaw. And it was good; now she had a clean shot at him. The second killing had been easier than the first. The third was going to be pure pleasure.
“Lacy, no!” Jack held a hand up defensively in front of his face. “You don’t know what you’re doing! We’ve got it made. Finally got it made. Don’t! This was nothing. I was lonesome for you, that’s all. I can explain this whole thing. Don’t ruin what we’ve got now.”
Lacy slowly, methodically, raised the gun until it was aimed directly at the hand that shielded his face.
He knew her. He realized that nothing he could do or say would dissuade her.
Lacy, afraid his pronouncement of sorrow might work and save him from hell, pressed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Taking that as divine reprieve, Jack cried out, “Lacy, give it up! It’s God’s will!”
She had forgotten the safety catch. She flipped the lever and fired.
The first slug tore through his extended hand to embed itself in the wall behind the Jacuzzi. The next four buried themselves in his head-or what was left of it. Jack Keating slumped and slid down into the rapidly reddening water.
Lacy DeVere lowered the gun as the police, weapons drawn, entered the room.
27
Father Nick Dunn was fond of calling it the Case of the Missing Pastor. Father Bob Koesler thought Father Dunn had seen too many Perry Mason programs.
Father Dunn wanted to have a party celebrating the closing of the Case of the Missing Pastor. Father Koesler could find nothing to celebrate. For him, the occasion marked the tragic end of a former friend and colleague.
In lieu of such a celebration, Koesler suggested that they accept Inspector Koznicki’s invitation to Sunday dinner at his home. Koesler hoped this would satisfy Dunn’s aspiration to meet and dine with important people. As for Koesler, dining with the Koznickis was old hat. He was confident that the inspector and his wife, Wanda, would make allowances for his less than exhilarated state.
The meal-pot roast, boiled potatoes, vegetables, and salad-was home cooked as usual, delicious if commonplace. Table talk revolved around pedestrian topics: Dunn’s studies, Koesler’s attempts to build his congregation from the neighboring apartments and condos, Koznicki’s departmental budgetary problems, Wanda’s recounting of the triumphs and mishaps of their children.
After dinner, they continued to sit around the dining table while Wanda served coffee and cake.
Conversation quite naturally turned to the star-crossed rise and fall of Father Keating.
“Without a doubt,” Koznicki said, “that must have been the most unusual contract ever offered to anyone in the mob.”
“I’ll say,” Wanda agreed. “Five thousand dollars just to pretend to go to confession. Many more deals like that and you’ll be busy from sunup to sundown.”
They chuckled.
“Yes,” Koesler said, “but in the good old days-which weren’t all that long ago-you’d have thought Catholics were being paid to go to confession. I can remember very well the days before Christmas and Easter-before St. Joseph’s feast if you were in an Italian parish-it was wall-to-wall penitents. And yes, Wanda, from about sunup to sundown.”
“Now that we’re well past it,” Dunn said, “and we know it was not a real confession-”
