Amos Cadbury had never practiced criminal law, and after some hours with Jack Gallagher, young Gallagher, and Mario Liberati, he thanked God for it. He preferred a world in which there were written contracts and the quarrel was over the meaning and application of carefully chosen words. Jack Gallagher was a flowing fountain of wordsâbut such
words. They could mean anything and everything. In the time since making his confession to the police, he had amended it time and again orally, discussing the events with his son and Mario Liberati, who was, Amos learned, also to be a son-in-law of the mellifluous patriarch. That voice brought back to Amos his love-hate feelings for Jack Gallagher's radio program. It had been the music he loved, but to hear it he had to listen to the breathy inanities of the host. Here there was no music as compensation for the voice.
“What do you think, Mr. Cadbury?” Liberati asked him when they had taken a break from the discussion.
“Did I understand aright that you are going to marry Jack Gallagher's daughter?”
“Yes.”
Amos consulted the ceiling. “That makes his defense team seem a trifle incestuous. There is a young man in my firm ⦔
Liberati shook his head. “There is no law against having a relative defend you. It is true that it is not smiled upon in the profession because of the seeming lack of the objectivity a good defense requires. Jack Gallagher is my fiancée's father, but he is, for all that, a stranger to me. The courtroom is my forte, Mr. Cadbury.”
“With Mallard and Bill?”
“I'm leaving there.”
“That surprises me,” Amos said diplomatically. “I should have thought it was a coup to be taken on there.”
“It has its negative side as well. The young woman who was killed worked there too.”
Amos had heard ad nauseam how Agatha Rossner had pursued Jack Gallagher with all the tenacity of the figures on Keats's Grecian urn, with the roles reversed, of course.
Forever she pursues and he pursued.
Her behavior, if accurately portrayed, gave a somewhat different image of Mallard and Bill than the one Amos had always had.
“Whatever the wisdom of representing him, Jack is fortunate in his son and soon-to-be son-in-law.”
He decided against rejoining the discussion. He'd had all of Jack Gallagher that he could take for now. Returning to his office was equally unattractive. The workday had been ruined by this turn of events and he would get precious little of consequence done if he returned to his office. On the steps of the courthouse, Amos set his black homburg firmly on his head, buttoned his overcoat with its astrakhan collar, and looked out at Fox River. He had been practicing law here for nearly fifty years, since his graduation from the Notre Dame law school. He had seen the city grow and prosper and in recent years had watched a seeming reversal of that. It is not easy for a small city to retain its identity with the megalopolis of Chicago reaching out to digest it and turn it into a mere suburb. This would have affected his status if it had happened earlier, when he was younger.
His decision to begin a practice in Fox River had been deliberate. He had never really liked Chicago. A very large city attracts the worst as well as the best, and the good are affected by both, perhaps more by the former. Fox River had been a Norman Rockwell setting half a century ago, before the Pianones had made their iniquitous presence felt. His parish, St. Hilary's, had been made up of hundreds and hundreds of families, young people starting out in life, those of middle age who were well-established. Neither a workingman's nor a professional's parish, but both, melded into a community of believers. Kneeling together at Mass of a Sunday, their differences in education and income evaporated. But like the city, the parish had changed. For all that, in some perverse way he preferred it now, doubtless because of the pastor Roger Dowling.
He had walked to the courthouse from his office, the exercise evoking an earlier time when he had been perforce a pedestrian. Now he was driven wherever he went. But what was the radical difference between Amos Cadbury young and Amos Cadbury old? He had tasted too deeply of success to have any illusions about it. When Mrs. Cadbury died he had gone through a period that friends had described as depression but which he himself had thought of as a time of great
lucidity. The death of his wife had brought back the kind of thoughts he had not indulged since he was an undergraduate. What does it all mean? Where are we hurrying with such single-mindedness? Now that Catherine's life span was closed, with a beginning, middle, and end, he had wondered at what point he was on the allotted span. The thought of returning to his practice and concentrating once more on the moment as if it bore some significant relation to the future was repellent.
“What does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and suffer the loss of his own soul?”
Amos felt that he had delivered himself over to a routine whose main advantage was that it diverted his mind from more serious matters. It was at that time Roger Dowling had been made pastor of St. Hilary's, replacing a line of friars who, whatever their avoirdupois, had a lean and hungry look when they greeted the affluent Amos Cadbury. How could he have spoken to such men of the condition of his soul? They would have recommended an increase in his financial support of the parish, perhaps of their order as well. Father Dowling had understood.
“We are brought low for a purpose, Mr. Cadbury.” They were then on a quite formal level, of course, despite the matter that Amos had come to speak with Father Dowling about.
In the course of their meetings Father Dowling had told Amos his own story. The stellar career in the seminary, being sent away to study canon law, returning to play a major part on the archdiocesan rota, the presumption by everyone, including himself, that one day he would be named auxiliary bishop and eventually go on to his own diocese. But the work he did had pressed heavily upon him. In those daysâbetter days, as Amos now thoughtâit had been almost impossible to have a marriage annulled, yet day after day Roger Dowling had reviewed applications for declarations that a marriage was null and void, that in effect it had never taken place. The anguish of dealing with people who had come to the point of wanting to discard their past without being able to assure them that this was possible became too much for the young canon lawyer. An evening drink with colleagues, to relieve
the tension of the day, became supplemented by another in his rooms. And another. Soon he was in the grips of drink and it became necessary for him to receive medical attention. His clerical career was over.
“I thank God daily for that, Mr. Cadbury. To be sent here has meant that at last I can do what I was ordained a priest to do. I have stopped thinking of life as going anywhere.”
“I don't understand.”
“Don't you imagine some future time as the culmination of all your efforts?”
“I suppose I do.”
“The culmination of our efforts is today. It is
how
we do what we do, and
why
, not what.”
There was more, much of it obscure to Amos, but he had found a kindred soul. Reflecting on his conversations with Father Dowling, he had remembered things he had known from childhoodâknown but not known. The grace of the present moment. The sudden realization of the sense of the Gospel passage, “Thou fool, this night thy soul will be required of thee.” Soon Amos was back in his office, his practice continued to flourish, and now he had become the dean of the Fox River bar. He was conscious of the honor shown him, but within himself he knew that in and of itself it did not mean a thing.
These memories prompted Amos to hail a cab and give the address of the St. Hilary rectory, hoping he was not abusing Father Dowling's hospitality. He had always allowed a decent interlude between visits, but today ⦠He might have walked a few blocks to his office and made use of his driver, but taking a cab had some obscure significance that he welcomed. Would Father Dowling be at home? Would he be free? Amos left all this in the hands of God. And God was good.
“Amos, what a delightful surprise.” But the pastor did not seem really surprised to see him yet again.
“I have spent much of the day with Jack Gallagher.”
“Say no more. I will have Marie prepare tea for you.”
And Mrs. Murkin's delicious tea was brought, with buttered scones, toast, and strawberry jam, and Amos was thankful that he had obeyed the impulse of the moment.
“Jack Gallagher has confessed?” Father Dowling asked.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“How so?”
“There are ways of taking blame which have the effect, perhaps the intent, of exonerating the one confessing.”
“You must have eavesdropped in the confessional.”
Amos threw up his hands in shock. “Good heavens, no. Sometimes I have left a confessional because the person on the other side was audible.”
“I only meant that there are penitents like that.”
“I doubt that anyone would describe Jack Gallagher as a penitent. I rather think he is enjoying this.”
“It's a somewhat dangerous enjoyment, isn't it? Saying he killed that young woman.”
“Oh, there are legal ways of negating that folly.”
“The deed or the admission?”
“Young Timothy Gallagher is a most impressive lawyer. And a man named Mario Liberati, lately of Mallard and Bill, is also advising him.”
“He will marry Jack's daughter Colleen.”
“So you know that.”
“Amos, do you think it possible that this confession is meant to shield someone else?”
Amos smiled. “Very perceptive, Father. I must say that criminal law is not something with which I am experienced. But I have observed human nature over many years. The very insouciance with which Jack speaks of his guilt suggests he doesn't feel any at all. So, of two possibilities, one: either he did it and is so morally blind that he feels no guilt, or two: he did not do it, and saying he did cannot make him guilty of it.”
“Phil Keegan is impatient with such a suggestion. He is understandably content to have the crime and its solution be all but simultaneous.”
“A confession does not absolve him of the need to provide the prosecutor with independent evidence. No judge would allow anyone to plead guilty to such a charge. It will have to be proven pretty much as it would if he had not confessed. Let us hope that all plausible avenues of explanation will be explored.”
The tea things were taken away. Amos very much wanted a cigar but would not light one now, as the pleasurable enjoyment of a cigar takes more time than he would inflict on Father Dowling.
“Could I use your phone to call a cab, Father?”
“A cab?”
“That is how I came. There is a taxi stand just in front of the courthouse.”
The cab was called, Amos bade adieu to his old friend and, in the backseat of the jolting cab, felt that he was doing penance for indulging himself in his unscheduled visit to St. Hilary's.
Phil insisted that Cy bring an officer with him if he was taking the prisoner to the Hacienda Motel, given Harry's status.
“How about Peanuts?”
“You're kidding. Take someone else too.”
“Tuttle is coming along. Harry has become his client.”
Phil Keegan moved things around on his desk as if he were losing at checkers. He almost agreed that Cy didn't need any backup. Still, even Phil would have reacted if he had seen Tuttle and Peanuts go off in one car, and Cy in another with Harry in the passenger seat beside him and Agnes Lamb riding shotgun in the backseat.
“Why would anyone push that girl into oncoming traffic, Harry?”
“I told you I didn't do it.”
“I meant anybody else,” Cy said.
“The guy who did it, you mean. Who knows? There are a lot of weirdos in the world.”
Cy said, “A cop doesn't like to admit that things just happen, no reason. Our work is based on cause-and-effect. Something bad happens and we have to find out who did it. Lots of times we don't find out, but we still think someone did it, that the effect had a cause. Even weirdos have to have reasons.”
“Weirdo reasons.”
“Maybe.” Silence. “Tell me about the bank account.”
Harry looked as if he now regretted having told Cy of his big surprise for Linda. He had been putting away a little now, a little then, and the balance had reached a point where he could show it to her and say, “Now we can get married.”
“I checked it out,” Cy said.
“You think I'd lie about a thing like that?”
Harry had opened a bank account, the day after Linda told him that the only way they could live together was if they were married. There was a balance of $1,289. “I was going to tell her when it went over a thousand. When it got there, I was going for fifteen hundred but then I couldn't wait. I wanted her to know that I was serious. If I hadn't decided to tell her ⦔
Causes and effects. Cy was beginning to believe Harryâagainst his better judgment. Harry had been in and out of reform schools, jails, and one prison, and would have learned the art of ingratiating himself with his captors, only Cy didn't think Harry was trying to convince him of anything.
“One thing's for sure, if they put me away for that, which I didn't do, I'd almost welcome it. I was like a lost soul in Kansas City. Stupid temporary jobs. When I knew you were after me, I was glad. You think I'm not sorry I didn't just stay here, no matter what. Running off like that ⦔
Mr. Lawrence Wagner was the assistant manager of Hacienda Motel. His eyes swept over the party: Peanuts, Tuttle, Agnes Lamb, Harry, and Cy Horvath.
“This way, please.”
Down a corridor, through double doors marked STAFF ONLY, another corridor, and then a festive scene, lunchtime for the housekeepers. Wagner left them, his unsavory duty done. Cy motioned to Ruby.
“What is this, an arrest?” That got a big laugh but then Ruby saw Harry.
“You!”
“Hi, Ruby.”
“I hope they put you away forever, I hope they hang you or sizzle you or whatever they do.” Suddenly she rushed at Harry and began to pound on his bony chest.
Cy took her arms. “Take it easy. We're still trying to find out if he did anything.”
A sullen Peanuts was looking around at the housekeepers with discomfort. It was as if he faced a roomful of Agnes Lambs.
“âDid anything'! Do you know what she looked like afterward, Harry? You didn't stick around to find out, but I'll tell you what she looked like after several cars ran over her body.” She tried to get free of Cy and her voice rose to an hysterical pitch. The others in the room looked on with stoic calm.
Cy told Tuttle to keep an eye on his client and led Ruby to a chair in the corner of the room, where she calmed down. “Seeing him again,” she said, shaking her head. “Just go on with what you're doing,” she called to her crew. “The fun's over.”
“Ruby, he says he didn't do it.” He held up his hand to stop her reaction. “Pretend, okay? Harry doesn't exist. Linda is pushed into traffic to her death. It could be a freak or it could be intentional. Who could have intended it if not Harry?”
“I don't know. There's nobody else.”
“It was a man.”
“It was Harry.”
“You mentioned men who stayed at the hotel who were interested in her.”
“They were just jollying her.”
Ruby had told him this before, but now she refused to entertain the idea that anyone other than Harry could have killed Linda.
The other housekeepers left. Tuttle brought Harry back, Peanuts shuffling behind. Harry's eyes were red. Ruby found this disgusting. Agnes Lamb just took it all in. “Come down here where she worked and bawl like a baby. You're trying to bawl your way right out of this, but you can't fool me.”
Harry just looked at her.
Cy had parked near the east wing of the motel because that is where the help ate and showered and had their lockers. Peanuts, Tuttle, and Harry went outside. Ruby was now talking of the Jack Gallagher confession.
“I should be working on that,” Cy said.
Ruby leaned toward him. “His daughter's here. To keep out of the way of the press.”
“The daughter?”
“Colleen Gallagher. She checked in this morning.”
“Thanks, Ruby, I wanted you to see that we found him.”
“Hang him high.”
Outside, he said to Peanuts, “You're all going back in this one car. Agnes and I are sticking around. Tuttle, I remand Harry to your custodyâmeaning I'll kill you if anything goes wrong. Peanuts, if he tries to run, shoot him. Harry, if you run away I'll come after you personally. Everybody understand?”
Three heads nodded. Peanuts put the car in gear and rolled across the parking lot for the exit. Cy went back inside and found Ruby sitting at the empty table, staring into her cup of coffee. Agnes was sitting beside her.
“What unit is Colleen Gallagher in?”
Ruby refused to go with him, since then the girl would know who had told Cy she was there.
“Stay with her, Agnes.”
There was no answer to the first knock on the door, nor to the second, though he stepped back to give Colleen Gallagher a look at him through the hole in the door. Then he went into the lobby and phoned her room from a house phone.
“Lieutenant Cy Horvath of the Fox River Police Department. There are no reporters in view.”
“Who told you I was here?”
“I was in the motel on another matter. Can I talk with you?”
After a long silence she said reluctantly, “All right.”
She had activated every security device the hotel provided, lock, bolt, and chain, and undid them as if she were the ghost of Christmas Past.
“I'm Horvath.”
“What âother business'?”
It seemed as good as any other way to break the ice. “Remember that girl who was pushed into traffic on Dirksen drive and died a horrible death?”
Colleen Gallagher shivered. “What has that got to do with the motel?”
“She worked here. In housekeeping.”
“Good Lord.”
“Her boyfriend has been sent back from Kansas City. I just presented him to the staff and got him away before there was a lynching.”
“Did he do it?”
“He says he didn't. I am beginning to believe him. Which creates a problem.”
“Would you like coffee? I can make it right here.”
“If you want some. You brought your computer?”
“Thank God.” She had begun the process of making coffee, filling the pot, putting in the little packet of coffee. Throwing the switch. “A motel room is a pretty boring place.”
“Nothing on television?”
“Ugh. What problem were you referring to?”
“If he didn't do it, someone else did.”
“How do you go about discovering a thing like that?”
“I come to where she worked and ask who else she knew, who else might have had any reason to do such a thing.”
“And?”
“Nothing much. The best I can come up with are the people who stayed here, or came for conferences, and showed an interest in her.”
“That sounds pretty far-fetched.”
“It is.” The coffee was already burbling into the little pot. “That's some screen-saver you have on your computer.”
“It's a standard one.”
Geometrical figures formed and morphed and fused on the screen, in a continuous pageant of pointless motion. She tapped a button and the screen changed.
“Who are those people?”
“That's the Web site of the firm I worked for, Mallard and Bill. In the Loop.”
“Where Agatha Rossner worked.”
“Whatever my father says, I am sure he didn't kill Aggie.”
“He says he did.”
“My father says lots of things, sometimes just for effect.”
“Well, it's the same principle.”
She looked at him questioningly.
“If he didn't do it we have to find someone who did.”
“She didn't have many friends.”
“You mean women friends.”
“Any friends. Men didn't
like
her, they were mesmerized.”
Cy got up and looked at the computer screen. As he did so, the pictures disappeared and the screen-saver began to swirl again.
“Press any key.”
This brought back the pictures. She told him these were the lawyers at Mallard and Bill.
“I don't see you.”
“I'm a paralegal. A lower form of life.”
“Who's this?”
“My fiancé. Click on it and it enlarges.”
Cy did this. “What's his name?”
“Mario Liberati.”
“He's been with your father most of the day.”
“I know. It was his idea that I hole up here.”
“Well, it worked.”
Again she looked at him.
“No reporters.”
“Just cops.”
But she said it with a smile. Cy was used to the fact that people felt at ease with him. Give him a minute or two and people thought he was a cousin or a big brother.
“Who do you think killed Aggie?”
“I could have.”
“Did you?”
“Of course not. All I meant is, I had motive.”
“She was flirting with your fiancé?”
“She tried to, before we were engaged. Mario can't stand her.”
There was a tap on the door. Cy lifted a hand and went to the door and looked through the viewer. Then he opened the door. It was Ruby and Agnes.
“Is this man bothering you?” Ruby asked with a big smile.
“I'm glad for the company.”
“Watch him, he's sly.” But Ruby was looking at the monitor screen. “I know him.”
“That's my fiancé. Mario Liberati.”
“You are a lucky woman. He's been here in the motel, at conferences. Know what he said to me? When his mother came to this country she did the kind of work I do. Now she's gone back to the old country.”
“Maybe you can end up the same way,” Cy said.
“The old country? Not me, no sir. No way, José.” She glanced at Agnes. “Never. I like it right here in the good old racist U.S.A.”
“Do you get chummy with all the guests, Ruby?”
“He got chummy with me. Big-shot lawyer and plain as can be.”
Colleen beamed at this testimonial to her fiancé.
Cy, at the computer, backed it up to the page where all the firm's lawyers were shown. “Take a look at these, Ruby.”
“That's the girl, isn't it?” Ruby turned away. “The one who was strangled.”
“Take a look at the others. They've all been at conferences here.” But Ruby had backed away to the door. When she was gone, Agnes going with her, Colleen said, “I checked my e-mail at the office.” When he said nothing, she went on. She sat at the computer and tapped a few keys, then said, “Read this.”