The Dead Saint (3 page)

The evening at Windsor Court began with paying the taxi driver, followed by Galen's refusal to walk up to the twenty-third floor as Lynn wished. She wondered how anyone as logical as Dr. Peterson could trust little cords to hold crowded elevators and ski lifts! He was wrong. She didn't have a phobia, merely sound judgment.

The chef stood proud in his spotless whites and announced the five-course menu like a diva offering an aria dedicated to the Vice President. The feast raised the bar even by New Orleans standards, placing the after-dinner speaker in the awkward position of being anticlimactic. A drizzle of rain pattered against the windows during the mayor's long, egotistical introduction. When he finally released the dais, Vice President Parker thanked him and asked for the personal privilege of inviting John Adams to stand. "You who suffered so much from Katrina know firsthand that many contracts to rebuild the infrastructure of New Orleans were a fiasco. You also know that those given to BarLothiun, under the leadership of John Adams, always met the timelines and there was not a single accusation of wasting taxpayer dollars." Spontaneous applause resounded. "We all know that BarLothiun steers clear of lobbies. Every government contract it has received is because it offered the lowest bid. I invited John to come with me tonight because of all he did for New Orleans after Katrina." When the second round of applause ended, the Vice President told a joke and began his address.

Galen pulled out his BlackBerry and took abbreviated notes, a habitual custom. The speech concluded with an expected standing ovation for the Vice President and an unexpected text message for Galen. It was from Tulane's president, Thomas Turner, via Fay Foster, who, though Lynn's assistant, congenially helped Galen also when needed: You are needed immediately at Tulane University Hospital. It is an emergency regarding one of your students.

He told Lynn about it while texting Fay his thanks for helping him.

"You're leaving now, Love?" Even as she asked, she knew the answer. His students always took precedence. No exceptions. Not even an invitation from the Vice President.

"I trust Tom's judgment," said Galen. He offered his apologies to Vice President Parker, who said something Lynn couldn't hear. Galen nodded and turned back to her. "He'll have a car take you home from the airport."

As Lynn hurried out with a Secret Service agent, she felt party to intrigue in a surreal world. The agent rushed her through back halls to the alleyway
off
Tchoupitoulas and provided an umbrella as she scooted into the black limousine. She waited in the dim light to the soft sound of Mozart and the smell of leather. Thunder rumbled its anger over Elie's murder, and the sky rained tears of mourning upon the city.

As soon as Vice President Parker arrived, the motorcade pulled out. Escort sirens blared, adding shrieking soprano to thunderous bass. He campaign-poster smiled in the dimmed interior lights invisible to the outside world. "Thank you for riding to the airport with me, Bishop Peterson."

"I am honored, Mr. Vice President. Galen regretted being called away."

"It was necessary." Mozart's
Symphony in G Minor
rose in the background. "The President asked me to convey her greetings to you. She appreciated your kind note."

Startled that he knew she'd written, Lynn mumbled, "I received a gracious reply."

"I suppose you know that the President and her husband are members of your denomination?"

"Yes, sir."

"She recalls meeting you on a campaign stop here in New Orleans. She is aware of the significant international work you and Dr. Peterson have done, especially in Russia."

Stunned again, Lynn said nothing.

He smiled, this time natural and easy, warmer than the poster smile. "You are surprised. She surprises many people."

The lights around the Superdome reflected in the drizzle as they passed by. "The home of the Saints," he noted. "I was told that one was killed today."

Lynn remembered vividly. Too vividly.

"A kicker, I understand."

"The best. Elias Darwish from Sarajevo."

"Did you know him?"

"Yes, sir." The symphony filled the silence that followed. She felt scrutinized.

"Your note mentioned that you and Dr. Peterson are going to the Balkans on a peace fact-finding mission. Are you afraid?"

"Somewhat." With a grin she added, "But I have to go to protect Galen."

No grin from him. "The current trouble there was predictable. Dysfunction perpetuates itself. But you know that—you've done work in Russia."

"Yes, sir."

"And you wrote a book about the experience."

"Yes, sir." Is there anything he doesn't know?

"You and your husband both graduated from Harvard. He has a doctorate in history and you in theology."

"Yes, sir." She didn't talk about that and certainly hadn't put it in the letter. She'd found that both "Harvard" and "doctorate" could be barriers to building relationships with others.

"Russia is not the only country where you have met with national leaders. South Korea, China, Israel and Palestine, and Zimbabwe, for example. Is that correct?"

She nodded, puzzled. He'd probably used plane time to study the brief on prominent people attending the banquet, but she'd only given the invocation. These details were unlikely part of any briefing; none of that was in her letter to President Benedict.

"You've also met with religious leaders from Judaism and Islam as well as Pope Benedict, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Dalai Lama. Also correct?"

She nodded again and answered her earlier question: No. There is nothing he doesn't know about me.

"You have participated in peace delegations in the Middle East and the earlier Balkan conflict. You've been in some forty countries and on five continents. Also correct, Bishop Peterson?"

"Yes, sir."

He began talking faster, evidently feeling hurried. "When you leave the country Saturday, you will have a stopover in Frankfurt and connect to Vienna for the International Conference of Bishops? I understand that you are the keynote speaker."

Absolutely nothing he doesn't know. "Yes, sir." The phrase was beginning to sound robotic.

"President Nausner has invited the delegates to a reception Monday afternoon."

She didn't understand his obsession with their itinerary, but she wanted to be helpful. "Ambassador Whitcomb has invited some of us to dinner that evening."

"And you leave the next day for Skopje."

She nodded, beginning to feel wary about all his information. Maybe she shouldn't be so helpful.

He leaned forward and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "Let's speak hypothetically, Bishop Peterson. Suppose a president became concerned about an emerging pattern in which the receipt of confidential information was followed by heightened chaos and conflict in those very areas. Suppose a president, therefore, began to suspect breaches of trust at high levels."

Lynn sat absolutely still, barely disturbing the air to breathe.

"Under those circumstances a president might feel compelled to avoid official channels in certain situations and, therefore, desire the aid of an outside volunteer."

Lynn stared at him.

"For a safe task, of course," he added quickly. "Say, as a letter courier, for example."

"The President must be desperate."

"Remember that I am speaking hypothetically. This volunteer would have to be someone with integrity who travels around the world for nonpolitical and noneconomic reasons. Someone who has no vested interest except the common good. And, above all, someone totally trustworthy."

"Your hypothetical situation seems to have a hypothetical Galen in it."

He hesitated. "Dr. Peterson does have those characteristics. What if he were asked to assist the President? Do you think he should?"

"Absolutely."

"Thank you, Bishop Peterson," he said as they turned in at the terminal. "However, that is not what the President has in mind."

She felt relieved that Galen wasn't going to be involved, yet even more puzzled by this strange encounter.

"I want to remind you that the purpose of my visit is to bring you and Dr. Peterson the President's greetings and appreciation. The hypothetical part of this conversation will, I trust, remain confidential."

"Certainly, sir."

His eyes held hers in the dim light. "Totally confidential. For your ears only."

The motorcade stopped, and the Vice President's poster-smile returned. "You see, it isn't the good historian the President has in mind. It's the good bishop. Lynn Prejean Peterson." He thrust an envelope into her hand and stepped out of the car.

Lynn dashed up the veranda steps in the rain, still stunned. Making out Galen's form in the darkness, she flopped in the rocker beside him. They both liked to sit outside during storms and watch the rain dance with the city lights. "I'm surprised you beat me home, Love."

"The message was fake."

"
Fake?"

"Tom didn't leave it. There was no hospital emergency."

"That's weird."

"Maybe it was just a sick prank, Lynn."

"But why?" As lightning streaked, she saw the why. The call kept Galen from riding to the airport. The Vice President's words echoed through the rain: It was necessary.

Stop it, Lynn. This is real life, not a Ludlum novel.

He released a sigh. "What did I miss?"

"Vice President Parker was very nice." She started to pull the unopened envelope from her purse. Again his words echoed:
Totally confidential.

"And?"

And what? How much should I say? The boards creaked in rocker rhythm as the rain pattered against the sidewalk. The scent of the river thickened the air.

"Lynn?"

She hedged. "He said President Benedict respects our work in the global community."

"She knows about us?" he asked, astonished.

"Especially our work in Russia. I'm sorry you didn't get to hear the compliment personally. Also, she appreciated my note."

"That's all? He invited us to ride to the airport simply to express thanks?"

The rocker creaks ticked off seconds of silence. She wanted to tell him the whole strange story.
For your ears only.

"Lynn?" This time impatience edged his voice.

She debated telling Galen despite the warning. A safe task, being a letter courier. But
courier
will ring louder than
safe
and he'll drive me crazy worrying about me. If I don't say anything now, I always can later. But if I do, I can't ever unsay it. In the zigzag of lightning she scanned the face she loved so much and reached the end of her debate: if a problem occurs, I don't want him connected with it. Forcing a light tone, she asked, "Would you like a direct quote, Love?" She deepened her voice to imitate the Vice President: "The purpose of my visit is to bring you the President's greetings and appreciation." Galen seemed satisfied with that, but she didn't feel good about it. He trusted her.

Until this moment you were trustworthy, Lynn.

Technically I didn't lie, she argued back to Ivy.

You're hang gliding across a chasm of deceit.

It was a new experience to be less than honest with this man whose touch could uncloud her sky. She didn't like herself right now. It had been a terrible day. She reached up and brushed her forefinger across a bloom of bougainvillea, wishing its scent and soft petals could sooth her shredded soul.

A car approached, not unusual on busy St. Charles. But this one slowed down. It was too dark to tell what kind. Its lights flipped to bright. Raindrops bounced off the hood like silver confetti falling upward. Last night she wouldn't even have noticed. But last night she lived in a different world, one wrapped snugly in the illusion of tranquility.

Her cell phone rang. As she pulled it from her purse, her fingers brushed against the envelope. She winced at keeping it from Galen. Secrets make us sick. "Hello."

"Bishop Lynn?"

No problem recognizing that James Earl Jones voice. "Hello, Bubba."

"I wouldn't call so late, but I'm driving by and saw you and Galen on the veranda."

"Come join us. I'll make some coffee."

"I just left the Feds." His voice shook with rage. "They accused me of setting Elie up!"

They sat in the den at the round oak table that had belonged to Lynn's great-grandmother. The yellow roses in the center matched the walls. Usually a cheery room, tonight it picked up the negative energy of distress. Lynn reached around Bubba's immense, rain-dampened shoulders to pour his coffee, averting her eyes from the dark stain on his green polo shirt. The FBI hadn't even had the decency to let him change it!

Bubba circled the coffee beneath his nose, inhaling its aroma, and smiled at her. "Thank you." He took a sip and released a weary sigh.

"I'm glad you came by tonight," said Galen sympathetically. He was good at opening doors to whatever a friend needed to say.

Bubba's anger rested just beneath the surface. "How could the Feds think I . . ." He struggled for control.

Galen put his hand on the linebacker's shoulder. "Everyone in Louisiana knows the name Bubba Broussard is synonymous with character above reproach."

"But these Neanderthals aren't from Louisiana. I wanted to sack the—"

Talking to a bishop self-censors people from their most satisfying expletives, Lynn.

This time she agreed with Ivy.

"Chief Armstrong told me killing a Saint ranks right up there with killing a cop. He's like a mama gator trying to protect her nest. And me."

It was hard for Lynn to grasp that this tough Pro-Bowler needed protection.

He ran his palm across his shaved head. "I've replayed it again and again. We were on our way to autograph toy footballs for the Orthodox Church benefit."

"I saw the article in the
Times-Picayune,"
said Galen. "Anyone who read the paper knew where to find Elie this morning."

"We just wanted to help folks. Now—" his voice cracked.

Lynn reached over and touched his hand. She wished for a way to comfort this large, in charge, no-nonsense man. Wished for more than worn-out words. Wished most of all that she had the power to erase this tragic day.

Bubba regained control. "You were there, Bishop Lynn. Did you see anything?"

"It happened too fast."

"She has a theory, though." Galen grinned. "The mime did it." His effort to lighten the mood failed. "I remember the last Saints game. All the fans looking down from the stands as he drew back his magic foot and kicked a 53-yard field goal. Electrifying!"

Lynn nodded. "The last time I was with him he taught me some Serbo-Croatian for the Balkans. What patience!"

"Why would anyone want to hurt him?" Bubba's voice sounded shallow, the words traveling around a knot in his throat.

Silence followed his poignant question. Lynn rose to pour more coffee, struck by the human capacity for savagery. It sickened her.

Galen glanced at his watch. "Time for the news. Maybe there's an update." He turned on TV and caught the lead story:

"We take you now to Chief Martin Luther Armstrong of the New Orleans Police Department for a live report on the Kicker Case."

"The Kicker Case!" Lynn groaned. May that cutesy caption writer spend eternity scribbling it on the walls of purgatory!

Chief Armstrong, promoted from the ranks for his heroism after Katrina, stood confident before the cameras, as smooth and hard as a stone washed up from the river.

"I pledge to keep the citizens of New Orleans informed about every step of the investigation into the murder of Elias Darwish, a hero on the football field and a role model for youth. He will always have an honored place in our hearts. Late this afternoon one of our friends from the homeless community in the French Quarter gave us an important lead. While rummaging through a trashcan in Jackson Park, he found a plastic bag that contained white gloves with powder burns. He gave them to a police officer he trusts in case they were connected to the murder. He has asked for a reward: three hots and a cot in an unlocked cell." A slight smile played at the corner of his lips.

Galen chuckled. "Knowing the chief, his 'friend from the homeless community' will get that free room and board."

Chief Armstrong held up a red wig and a white stretch mask with red circles on the cheeks. The camera zoomed in for a close-up.

Startled, Lynn leaned forward in her chair. "The mime wore those!"

"The bag also contained this wig and mask. We believe the killer posed as a mime until Darwish came by, then shot him and scaled the Jackson Square fence."

Galen looked at her with surprise. "You were right, Lynn!"

"Then," she said aloud to herself, "he pitched his disguise and faded into the crowd. Ambling away. Or standing in the crowd to watch the aftermath." Little green lizards skittered up her spine.

"How did you know?"

"A hunch, Bubba. I walked past him on my way to Café du Monde. He had the hardest eyes I've ever seen—like cold gray marbles. After the . . ." The words wouldn't come. "While we were waiting for the ambulance, I noticed he was missing."

The chief leaned in toward the camera, speaking personally to each listener.

"I want to assure each of you that nobody robs the good folks of Orleans Parish of one of our favorite sons and gets away with it! Finding his murderer is the NOPD's top priority."

The station cut to a commercial with a promise to return for live updates as the case progressed.

"The brother does a good job on TV." Bubba paused thoughtfully. "So do you, Bishop Lynn. I saw that interview about your peace trip to the Balkans. You mentioned Sarajevo. Are you still going? With all the escalation?"

She nodded. "The invitation was an intelligence test. We both flunked."

Bubba's laugh had a hole in it. "Be careful," he said soberly. "That's a dangerous place."

The image of Elie lying in the street filled Lynn's mental screen. "Apparently, so is the Quarter."