Bishop as Pawn Page 0,27

off by Quirt’s eagerness to close each file expeditiously even if somewhat prematurely.

The squad’s record of arrests leading to convictions was good. But that, in turn, could be attributed to luck and the fact that Brad Kleimer prosecuted most of their high-profile cases. And Kleimer was good—quite good.

Right now, Quirt, with his totally gratuitous ethnic slurs, was driving Williams up the wall. But early on he had decided to wait the lieutenant out. With any luck, Quirt’d be off the squad before too long. With Quirt’s luck, Williams thought wryly, the so-and-so’d be promoted.

“Hey, Williams, you’re a Catholic, aren’tcha?”

Williams smiled. “My wife would give you an argument on that.”

“Like that, eh? Well, you’re still closer to that scene than I am. When we get there, feel free to lead off.”

“Whatever you say.” Williams didn’t see where his nominal Catholicism gave him any edge in this investigation, but he was just as glad to take the lead. Quirt stood a good chance of messing it up. “Well, no sooner said than done. Here we are.”

St. Gabriel’s plant covered one small block of West Vernor Highway between Inglis and Norman. The rectory was tucked between the church on the corner of Inglis and what appeared to be a school on the corner of Norman. A driveway separated the school building from the rectory. Williams pulled into the driveway and parked next to the rectory in what seemed to be an asphalted school playground.

When they stepped out of the car, the officers could plainly hear children’s voices through the closed windows and doors of the building. “Now,” Williams said, “that surprises me.”

“What’s that?”

“That they’ve got a school. I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Why not?”

“At best this is a lower-middle-class neighborhood. I assume most of the Latinos are Catholic. But I wouldn’t have thought they’d have enough money to support a school.”

“This …” Quirt’s gesture encompassed everything they could see. “… this is middle class?”

Williams shrugged. “There’s an Arbor Drugs right across the street, and I noticed a Farmer Jack market on one of the cross streets. I don’t think you’d find them—or any other quality stores—in a rock-poor neighborhood.”

Quirt let it stand. But Williams’s observation about the school was well taken and informed. No matter what Williams’s wife thought of his religious observance, Quirt was glad he’d brought him along.

The two officers reached the rectory’s front door to find a man in a black suit and a clerical collar awaiting them in the open doorway.

“You Father Ernest Bell?” Quirt asked.

The priest nodded.

Quirt showed his badge and identification. “I’m Lieutenant Quirt and this is Sergeant Williams. We’re from the Homicide Division.”

Again the priest nodded. “Someone—I guess it was your secretary—called and said you were coming over. I’ve been expecting you.”

As they entered the rectory, the detectives caught the vague odor of Scotch. They sensed the priest’s nervousness and concluded this was a scared man who had tried to bolster his confidence with a belt of liquor. Interesting.

Father Bell led them through the main floor to a furnished, winterized porch at the rear of the house. Each of the officers selected a chair on either side of the couch. They repositioned the chairs to face the couch, leaving that as the logical place for the priest to sit. He would, in a sense, be surrounded. The maneuver was not lost on Bell.

“Would anyone like something?” the priest asked. “I’ve got booze or beer. Or I could get you some coffee.”

“No, nothing for us.” Quirt seated himself. “As you probably know, we’re investigating the death of Bishop Ramon Diego.”

“Yes, yes, I know that.” Bell clearly was edgy. “What can I do …? I mean, I don’t know what I could …”

Quirt, without looking at Williams, nodded. The ball had transferred courts.

“What we have, Father,” Williams said, “are questions—lots of questions. You can help us with some answers.” His tone was calming, reasonable, reassuring. Yet it appeared to have little effect on Bell’s tenseness.

“First off,” Williams began, “do you know anyone who might have a reason to kill the bishop?”

Bell did not reply immediately. “No,” he said finally. “He may have had some enemies,” he added, “but then, who doesn’t?”

“Let’s talk about these enemies.” Williams flipped open a notepad and looked expectantly at Bell.

“Well, I don’t know, really.” Bell was defensive. “He didn’t travel in our company very much. He preferred the jet set, as it were.”

“We’re looking into that. But how about your ‘company’? For instance, just to drop a name, Father Carleson. He had some