Moore shook her head. “Donnelly checked out that bar he said he was in Sunday afternoon … the Lazy Dolphin. The bartender remembers Shell. Donnelly showed the guy several head shots. He picked Shell out of the pack right away.”
“What made him so sure?”
“The length of time Shell spent at the bar. The barkeep remembered that Shell got there early to midafternoon and stayed until early evening. He remembers because Shell had been drinking pretty heavily, and he considered cutting him off. But then he talked to Shell and Shell voluntarily switched to a couple of soft drinks. Then he left. But by the time he left, it was a couple of hours at least after the time of Diego’s murder.”
“Okay,” Tully said, “that’s a dead end. How about his wife … Maria?”
“That’s still a live one,” Mangiapane said. “Patterson’s been following that up. The opportunity was there: She hasn’t got anybody who can account for her time that afternoon, or that evening. The motive wasn’t all that strong, but it’s getting healthier. Patterson’s been talking mostly with friends of Mrs. Shell-including some that aren’t all that friendly.”
“Oh?”
“I got a hunch Moore’s gonna kill me for this …” Mangiapane smiled. “… but Patterson spent some time in the beauty shop where Mrs. Shell goes-like regularly. And while Patterson sat there, the girls talked. Their candid opinion seems to be that there was one hell of a lot more going on between Maria and the bishop than what the lady told us.
“Girl talk?” Moore was sarcastic. “How would she know Diego was at Ste. Anne’s rectory that Sunday afternoon?”
“One of her friends was at that Grosse Pointe party,” Mangiapane replied. “Patterson heard the lady say she called Maria and told her about the fracas with hubby. She could’ve guessed easy enough that Diego didn’t have another party up his sleeve. Plus he’d probably be too shook up to do anything more than hole up after he almost got beat up. She had nothing to lose going there. When she got there, she found him in the office alone. One word led to another and-bingo! — she creamed him.”
“Interesting,” Tully commented. “See if Patterson can find if any of those talkative ladies maybe actually heard Mrs. Shell express some threat. It would help.
“What about that priest … the one Quirt and Williams interrogated?”
“Father Bell?” Moore said. “Same as he was when Quirt abandoned that theory and latched on to Carleson. Plenty of motive and plenty of opportunity.”
Tully sighed. He hated to ask any more of his squad than they already had volunteered. But this was a bona fide lead.
Moore seemed to read Tully’s mind. “I’ll take Father Bell,” she said. “I’ve already got a list of his closest friends-clergy and parishioners. Let’s see if they’ve got anything interesting-or implicating-to say.”
Appreciation was evident in Tully’s manner. “Thanks, Angie. Now-and I think this is the last thing-what do we hear from the street?”
Neither Moore nor Mangiapane spoke for several seconds.
“We were just talking about that before you came in, Zoo,” Moore said slowly.
“Yeah,” Mangiapane agreed. “It’s spooky. We’ve tapped just about every source we’ve got and … nobody’ll open up. I talked to a few people who clammed whenever it looked like we were getting close to anything.”
“Same with me, Zoo, and with just about all our guys. Which leads to several theories … none of ‘em with much water. Maybe nobody actually knows. Maybe some vagrant wandered in, saw the cash supply, and decided to help himself. Maybe the guy who did it has so much clout nobody’ll rat on him. And maybe … maybe it just doesn’t involve anybody from the street. Maybe Carleson or Bell or Maria Shell did it.
“Whatever. The bottom line is we’ve got nothing from the street.”
Tully thought for a moment, then, with deliberation, said, “I’ve got one large marker out. Maybe this is the time to call it in.” He glanced briefly at his two sergeants. “You guys follow these leads we talked about. If there’s anything on the street, I think I’ll know before today’s over.”
With that, Tully bundled up against a very cold January and hit the bricks.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tully would walk the short blocks from Police Headquarters to the Millender Center, on Jefferson across from the Renaissance Center. The Millender was a combination business and residence structure-and posh. RenCen partially blocked what otherwise would have been an impressive view of the river.
As he leaned into the strong wind coming off the water, Tully pondered what he was about to do.
It had been a great many years since he had talked at any length with Tony Wayne. Not since the death of Tony’s only son some … could it be that long?… twenty-five years ago.
Tully, then on the force only a couple of years, had been one of a battery of uniformed officers responding to a shooting. It was not Tully’s first exposure to a murder scene. But it was his first experience with a massacre.
He would never forget it.
It happened at the close of the sixties, a time of great unrest in Detroit and in the nation. A white mayor was trying to maintain a tight cork on a surge of civil unrest. The city was trying to recover from one of its most destructive riots. Forces contended for control of organized and random crime. And it probably didn’t help that the first waves of the Second Vatican Council were beginning to engulf the world’s Catholics.
In Detroit, two powerful men contended for the title of Number One Crime Boss. And should Mafia domination falter-as indeed it eventually did-one of these local crime organizations would reign supreme.
In one corner was Malcolm Ali, a.k.a. the Kingfish. Black, in his early thirties, the Kingfish and his gang held a tight rein on crime within the boundaries of the then confined black ghetto. By no means content with, in effect, overseeing a reservation, the Kingfish’s appetite drove him toward dominance of the city-with the suburbs in the offing.
Blocking him, and ever jealous of his territory, was Anthony Wayne. Only a close few were allowed to use his nickname: Mad Anthony. The original General Anthony Wayne had a colorful career as an officer in the Continental Army fighting first the British, then the Native Americans. Detroit still holds a fort named for him. And, of course, Detroit is part of Wayne County.
Tony Wayne was by no means as impetuous and hotheaded as his namesake. But it was only natural that one so ambitious and, at least by his lights, so successful, who lived in this region and whose name was Anthony Wayne, would take on the famous general’s nickname. And, as has been observed, only a precious few could use the name with impunity.
It was a matter of territory.
It was anyone’s guess whose terrain was more lucrative. It was evident whose was larger. Mad Anthony controlled much of the organizational crime in close to half of Detroit proper as well as in a good part of the suburbs. The Kingfish made do with what was left. Given the nature of these beasts, it was inevitable that they would find themselves on a collision course.
From time to time the “soldiers” of these crime families clashed, always bloodily. Of the two, Tony Wayne was more receptive to peaceful overtures.
And so it was, on a pleasant day in May of 1969, that a tentative probe for peace was scheduled in an unpretentious Coney Island eatery near the Farmers Market on the eastern outskirts of downtown Detroit. The parley was to consist of ten of the top soldiers, five from each family. Among the representatives of Tony Wayne was his only son, Freddy. Elaborate precautions were taken to ensure that none of the participants was armed. Neither food nor drink was served. The restaurant announced it would be closed that night. Participants sat on opposite sides of a long buffet, composed of several small tables pushed together.
Tony Wayne’s group took the floor for the first presentation. Freddy opened with the preamble to their initial offer.
Imperceptibly, the Kingfish group began to slide their chairs back from the table. Since it was his territory,
