Bishop as Pawn

out, leaving Audrey to pay the bill. That too was neither classy nor effective. This was not Brad Kleimer’s finest moment, and he knew it.

Audrey glanced at the check, covered it with her American Express card, and waited for the waitress. Audrey would leave a generous tip. It was the least she could do.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

If Brad Kleimer were keeping score-and in a vague sort of way he was-this day was beating him badly.

The priest-Father Carleson-had been indicted for murder in the first degree. To date, that was Kleimer’s sole bright spot. The bail had been set too low and, with the totally unforeseen interference of the archdiocese of Detroit, the priest had been able to meet it. Acting again in a most unpredictable way, the archdiocese had engaged Avery Cone to defend Carleson. Cone was good, one of the best.

Next, there were those insane people from Hollywood who’d almost inveigled Kleimer into wasting his time helping them. In what he had believed to be a coup, he had steered the madmen to George Quirt, thus ridding himself of them and, at the same time, further ingratiating himself with Quirt.

Then that had backfired when Quirt became infatuated with moviemaking to the degree that Kleimer would not be able to depend on him to press the investigation into Carleson’s past.

The cherry on the top of this unpalatable sundae was his former wife’s revelation that Carleson had somehow convalidated her marriage to Lou Schuyler. Not only did that negate Kleimer’s painstakingly planned revenge, it also tainted his prosecution of Father Carleson.

The score, as Kleimer tallied it, was about six to two in favor of the opposition.

After serious and solitary consideration of the latest development, Kleimer decided to broach the matter of Carleson’s involvement in Audrey’s marriage with the chief of operations. Better this way than to launch into the trial all the while looking over his shoulder for the subject to surface, leading to a possible mistrial. After all, Kleimer had intended on using this trial as a springboard to fame, not as a catapult to infamy. Being a laughingstock was not in his plans.

And so, as if to treat the whole thing as if it were a ludicrous possibility, Kleimer told the chief, in a most sketchy way, of the cloud that cast a “slight” shadow over the coming trial of Father Carleson.

Unfortunately, the chief wasn’t buying the “slight” possibility that this coincidence could haunt Kleimer in his effort to convict. Kleimer argued the point until it became clear that the chief wasn’t going to budge on the one hand, and that he was about to lose his temper on the other.

Make that seven big ones to two.

And then, the tide turned.

“Don’t get me wrong, Brad.” It was the frustrated voice of Lieutenant Quirt on the phone. “I know you were only trying to do me a good turn, but those Hollywood guys are nuts!”

“What’s the matter?” A glimmer of hope in what had seemed an ocean of depression.

“These guys think the real world is named after Disney!”

Coming from Quirt, an imaginative metaphor.

“They don’t give a damn for any of the facts of this case,” Quirt fumed. “As of now, the Hollywood version of the story is that either Diego or Carleson was a fruit. Or maybe both of them were gay. Or maybe they weren’t gay; maybe they were both in love with the same broad. Take your pick. Any one of those or some combination of them will be their motive for the murder.

“I tried to convince those flakes that something really happened here-that there was a perfectly good murder that wasn’t committed for any of those reasons. But, you know, it’s like I wasn’t there.

“On top of that, they wanted me to arrange for the mayor to give them the key to the city, and to make sure the news media was there to cover the ceremony.

“And that’s not all! They wanted me to be with ’em like twenty-four hours a day!”

“So?”

“So, I told them to go to hell.”

Kleimer was smiling. But he managed to sound seriously concerned. “How about the money? Wasn’t the money good?”

“Hell, I couldn’t even pin ’em down to anywhere near a firm figure. They kept trying to tell me that stuff made for TV wasn’t in the same league as the big screen. After a while, I kept trying to tell them, Okay, I believe you. But they were still vague. They were ‘on a tight budget.…’” Quirt went into an exaggerated imitation of Walberg and Turner. “‘We don’t know how much we’re gonna have to pay the stars … or rental costs’ … or” — Quirt returned to his natural voice-” any of the rest of that shit! They like to sweat bricks when they found out they were gonna need a contingent of our guys to be with them every minute they were working. And that they were gonna have to pay the cops’ full salary, including overtime!”

“So you’re outta there completely?”

“Brad, I’m all yours. That is, when I’m not working on the constant supply of murders this city keeps coughing up.”

“George, I really appreciate that. It just comes a little late.”

“What? Whaddya mean ‘late’?”

Kleimer briefly explained the circumstances that had forced him out of the trial. “So that’s it, George,” he concluded. “I don’t mind telling you I’m feeling pretty damned embarrassed about the whole thing. I had some great-really great-publicity going there. Everybody expects me to be the prosecutor. I haven’t even figured out a PR way to soften the fact that I’ll be on the sidelines.”

“Geez, Brad, that’s rough. After all you already put into it. Sorry. I wish there was something I could do. But …”

“Wait a minute.” Kleimer searched for an elusive thought. “Now that you’re not tied up with the movie guys anymore, maybe there is something we can do … if you’re willing.”

“Sure, Brad, anything-within reason, that is.”

“This is well within reason, George. You’re still tight with the mayor’s press secretary, aren’t you?”

“Yeah …” Quirt slowly acknowledged.

“Suppose you were to go see him-I think this’ll work best face to face-suppose you go see him and tell him how I’ve been kicked off the case. You can even tell him why-only soft-pedal it … like the remarriage thing is no great shakes. Put in the fact that the accused has Cone for an attorney. Push the fact that I’m better prepared than any of the other guys. Pull out my track record and all. See if he won’t go to the mayor. Maybe a word from Cobb will do it.…” He tried to make his voice impelling. “How ’bout it, George?”

“I don’t know.…” Quirt hesitated. “Wouldn’t it work just as well if you did it?”

“No. It would sound too self-serving. Believe me, George, it’ll work better if it comes from you. We’ve been on cases lots of times before. We’ve worked good together. You make the arrests and I slap them behind bars. Cobb, above everybody, wants this mess cleaned up fast. I’m the one can do it.” Again the compelling tone. “How about it, George?”

“What the hell. Sure, Brad. I’ll do my best.”

“Right now! There’s not a moment to lose.”

“You got it!”

There was hope. Just a glimmer. But there was hope.

He was in a sort of limbo. There were other cases he could work on. But he had planned to focus on and devote most of his efforts to the Diego murder. Now, he didn’t know whether it was his or not.

A few moments ago he was down and out. He would have, once he worked through the distraction of self- pity, devoted full attention to other, nagging matters. But that was before he’d had that brainstorm of having Quirt intercede for him.

He wanted to stay busy; he just couldn’t decide what to do.

His thoughts returned to the abbreviated luncheon with Audrey. That had initiated this latest flurry of activity. Now that he had a leisure moment to consider what she had told him, he wondered again how Carleson had pulled off that validation. Damn! Kleimer had been so sure he had covered every possible exit