Shell took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then hung up. Tully took stock. Shell stood perhaps five-feet-six or — seven. Both his hair and his mustache were thick and dark. His glasses were near-Coke bottle bottoms. Overweight-lots of baby fat-about 210 to 220. Fast food on the run-but that was all the running he did. His own firm at a relatively early age. He lived for his work.
If Tully’s hypotheses proved true, he could extrapolate much of what went on in Shell’s life-at work and at home.
The scenario according to Tully: Shell was on his third marriage. Present wife blonde, a knockout, some thirty years younger. She has no children. He has two kids from his first wife, one from the second. Present wife knows where her ultimate well-being lies; she does not wander off on separate vacations. She supplies plenty of steamy, if brief, progeny-free sex. She tans at a studio. He is bright, totally aggressive, and has the utmost confidence in himself, especially if he can get past the judge and play to the jury. He works thirty-eight hours a day, spends most of his time seated, and eats whatever, whenever. If she plays her cards just exactly right, she’ll spend her golden years aboard an endless series of cruise ships while Mike tries to pass that Great Bar in the Sky.
Shell sat in his contour-fitted chair. From a desk drawer he took three candy bars. He offered two to his guests. They declined. Shell unwrapped one and bit into it.
So far, thought Tully, right on, dietetically.
“Coffee?” Shell’s guests declined. Shell poured himself a mug from a pot on a hot plate on a remote corner of his king-size desk. Eyebrows raised, he looked at the detectives. He knew, of course, why they were here. He also knew not to volunteer information. The conversational ball was, for the moment, in their court.
“You know that Bishop Ramon Diego is dead … that he was murdered.”
Shell nodded slowly. No “Shocking,” “Sorry,” “That’s too bad,” “That’s good,” or “I did it.”
“Yesterday afternoon,” Tully proceeded, “at a gathering at Mr. Harry Carson’s home, you had words-angry words-with the bishop.”
“That’s right.” Useless to deny it; there were a couple dozen witnesses.
“What was that all about? We know Mr. Carson was with you during the entire exchange,” Tully added, “but we want to get it from you.”
Shell took another bite of the candy bar. “It was about my wife.”
“Your wife?”
“My wife and the bishop.”
“Your wife and …” This did not fit into Tully’s scenario.
“It’s complicated,” Shell admitted.
“Let’s try to simplify it,” Tully said. “Your wife. She’s your first wife?”
“Second.”
Fewer than expected.
“Here’s her picture …” Shell took a framed portrait from his desk and passed it to Mangiapane, who glanced at it and passed it to Tully.
“Couple of years.”
“So, what about the bishop and your wife?”
“It started just after he got here from Texas. When was that … maybe a year ago. See, her maiden name is Ortiz … Maria Ortiz. She’s fluent in both English and Spanish. She’s quite active in Hispanic affairs-fund-raisers and like that. So, she was excited when he got here and became bishop … you know, God’s gift to the Latinos.” He grimaced. “Some gift!”
“What’s that mean?”
“She-Maria-introduced him to her friends-society, club women mostly. And that’s where he began to spend most of his time: bashes, soirees, tennis, golf. Oh, not always with the women; he’d pal up with the men too. But the men spent most of their days at work. So the bishop would be the fourth for tennis or cards. Offer the invocation at parties, then stick around for a few hours.”
A cynical grin appeared briefly. “Times when he would spend most of the day in high society must have been a relief for that poor schmuck priest … Carleson. At least the poor bastard didn’t have to play chauffeur those days.” It was a parenthetical remark.
“We were on thin ice then, Maria and me … have been for the last few years.”
“What’s the trouble?”
Shell hesitated. “You’d find out soon enough, I guess. It’s common knowledge in our group … and with the gossip columnists. She claims I spend too much time at work … neglect her for the business.”
For the first time, Tully could empathize. He himself had lost a wife, kids, and later a significant other for just that reason.
“We went to a counselor-Maria’s idea-but what could he do? Damned-if-I-do and damned-if-I-don’t. She wants the good life, I gotta earn it. I cut back at work, she loses the life-style.
“Well, anyway, the whole thing settled into a routine. We’d go out occasionally on Saturday nights, once in a while Fridays. And every now and then we’d go to one of those fund-raisers. I mean, our social life was not a complete bust. But to do all this and live the kind of life we’ve got means I put in twelve- to fifteen-hour days.
“Not that I mind. I like it. In fact, I love my life just the way it is. But … she can’t see it that way.” He thought for a moment. “And I’m sorry about that. I’d like her to be happier with our life the way it is. Because-bottom line- this is the way it has to be.
“But, like I said, she doesn’t see it that way. And I know most of the time, she’s just been going through the motions.” He leaned forward and in a man-to-man tone, said, “That’s the way our sex is. It’s like making love to a board. And, believe me, that’s not the way it was in the beginning: She was one hot-blooded Latina lover.”
The last thing Tully wanted was to go through the grunts and groans of Shell’s sex life. “You mentioned earlier … the bishop … Bishop Diego and your wife …?”
“Yeah. Well, you needed some background. Like I said, we were already on thin ice when Diego came on the scene.” Shell paused.
“Are you saying that Diego and your wife were having an affair?”
“Well, yes and no.”
“‘Yes and no’? Were they or weren’t they?”
“You got to understand this Diego character.”
“Do you?”
“I think so. He’s upwardly mobile. That I know. What I don’t know is where he wants to go. Pope?”
“Go on.”
“He uses … he used people. And if they became his friends, he recycled them. But he would never-
Tully nodded. He was growing weary of hearing about Diego’s movie-star looks. “What’s understanding Diego got to do with whether or not he was having an affair with your wife?”
“Like I said, it’s complicated and it’s not easy trying to make it simple.
“Let’s do it this way: Suppose I answer your question: No, they didn’t have an affair.” His jaw tightened. “Jeez, I even had them followed. They met, okay. For one thing, she was always in the group that attached themselves to him. On top of that, they met, just the two of them, from time to time. But they never did anything. They never went to a motel. They never went to our house together. They’d maybe go on a picnic or something like that.
“And it wasn’t that they didn’t care for each other. My P.I. reported that he never saw a couple so infatuated with each other.
“At this point, you’d guess that not getting physical was my wife’s idea. It’s always the little women, eh? But it wasn’t. He’s the one who kept it innocent. And why?
