Father Dowling had been intrigued by Cy Horvath's attempt to link the death of Agatha Rossner and that of Linda Hopkins via the Hacienda Motel. The law firm for which the young woman worked had held meetings at that motel and the housecleaning crew had worried about the attention one young lawyer had paid Linda, suspecting that he was up to no good and she was too naive to see that. The death of the head housekeeper Ruby Otter had the effect of exonerating Harry Paquette, but thus far Agnes Lamb had been unable to find any lead or motive for Ruby's death. That she had been garroted suggested the way Agatha had died, but of course strangling with a scarf and garroting
with a cord were not completely identical methods. Cy decided to talk it over with the pastor of St. Hilary's.
“Your thought was that she had been silenced because she knew something,” Father Dowling said.
“Something bearing on Harry Paquette.”
“But you had already taken him there to be identified by her, hadn't you? What more could she do to him?”
“It's a moot point anyway. Harry was in a cell at the time.”
“Who else would have wanted to silence Ruby?”
“Harry had no friends.”
“I wasn't thinking of him, Cy.”
“There is also Mabel Wilson.”
This was the witness to what had happened on Dirksen Boulevard that snowy November evening, the woman who had said she would not forget the face of the man who pushed Linda into traffic if she lived to be a hundred. She had not lived until her next birthday, having died an ostensible suicide in her kitchen with the oven door open and the gas going full blast.
“So Ruby Otter and Mabel Wilson could be the victims of the man who killed Linda Hopkins,” Father Dowling mused.
“I did manage to eliminate the possibility that someone from Mallard and Bill was responsible for Ruby's death.”
If Harry Paquette could not have killed Ruby, Cy had turned his attention to the lawyer who had pursued the beautiful and naive young woman from Wisconsin.
“When Colleen Gallagher stayed at the motel the day her father was arrested, to keep away from the press, she brought her laptop with her. I was talking with Ruby and she told me that Colleen was in the motel, so I stopped by. Her computer was on and she showed me the Web page for the firm. There were photographs of all the partners and lawyers and paralegals. Ruby popped in while Colleen was showing me this, and recognized Mario Liberati's picture. Colleen had enlarged it to fill the screen.”
“Mario Liberati.”
Cy shook his head. “That's what I thought too. But Ruby said he was not the man who had been pursuing Linda. She knew him because he had been kind to her, telling her his mother had worked in a motel too. After Ruby was killed, I asked Agnes Lamb to show Gloria another picture. With the same result.”
“Whose picture was it?”
“Timothy Gallagher.”
Father Dowling raised his eyebrows. Of course Cy would have thought that if the young man had been unfaithful with Agatha he might be unfaithful with someone else.
“And that eliminated him. I am told that his alibi for the night of Agatha's murder puts him in the clear there as well.”
Cy said, “We were told that he had been out of town on business.”
“And was he?”
Cy handed Father Dowling the photocopy of Tim Gallagher's schedule for the week in which the murder had occurred. Every minute of the lawyer's day was accounted for, doubtless in order to facilitate billing clients. There was no mention of travel that would have taken him out of town on the night Agatha was murdered. Father Dowling looked at Cy.
“The first thing to be said is that Tim Gallagher himself did not tell us he was out of town that night. It came to us secondhand.”
“Ah.”
“From his wife. Through Colleen and from his father. I guess that makes it third-hand.”
“His wife said he was out of town?”
“That's why I've come to you, Father.”
This was what Roger Dowling had been dreading. It was frequent enough that Phil Keegan kept him au courant on an investigation, talking about it over lunch or in the evening while they were watching a game, but Cy was far more reticent. That he should have stopped by the rectory in midmorning to brief the pastor of St. Hilary's on the
present status of his investigation had come as something of a surprise. And now the reason for it was revealed.
“I could go to the house and ask her point-blank if her husband had been away that night.”
“But you'd rather not.”
“She would immediately suspect I had a reason for asking. I mean, even if he wasn't home, that doesn't mean he had anything to do with the death of Agatha Rossner. But maybe Colleen misunderstood her. Maybe he was home. His appointment book indicates he should have been. The whole thing could be a misunderstanding.”
Father Dowling was not surprised at such considerateness from the stolid Cyril Horvath. Phil Keegan stood in awe of Cy's way with women, who seemed instinctively to trust him and want to confide in him. This was all the more remarkable because the only explanation seemed to be Cy's unchanging facial expression which conveyed the thought that nothing could come as real news to him. Perhaps he would have the same effect on Jane Gallagher, but still, a detective lieutenant checking on her husband's whereabouts on the night Agatha Rossner was killed would doubtless alarm her.
“I'll talk to her, Cy.”
How he was going to redeem this promise was not immediately clear. He did not know Jane Gallagher, he had never met her, and she lived in Barrington which, while it wasn't a million miles from Fox River, could sometimes seem that way during peak traffic hours. The pastor of the parish in Barrington was an acquaintance if not a close friend, but resident in the parish, in semiretirement, was Jimmy Weigel, a classmate of Roger Dowling's. Jimmy had developed an almost crippling arthritis that had necessitated giving up his parish. The opportunity to be resident at St. Anne's in Barrington had come as a reprieve.
“I wish you'd talked to me about coming to St. Hilary's, Jimmy.”
“Maybe I will if they get tired of me here.”
That seemed unlikely. Jimmy said an afternoon Mass on weekdays and several on Sunday. The parish had grown exponentially with the addition of development after development so that the presence of three priests there, an almost unheard-of luxury nowadays, was a practical necessity in order to minister to the rapidly expanding flock. Father Dowling's promise to Cy Horvath seemed closer to fulfillment when Jimmy said he knew the young Gallagher family well. So it was that Father Dowling drove to Barrington for a reunion with his classmate.
“What do you think?” Jimmy extended his hands. “They broke all the bones and reset them.”
“They look good as new.”
“An illusion. But they are easier to manage.”
Some of the crosses people carry are more obvious than others and Jimmy's arthritis was difficult to conceal. Any priest learns the weight that can press on even the most fortunate of souls. And of course the cross is proportionate to the bearer. What for one might be a small thing, can bow down another. For all that, Roger Dowling was filled with admiration for Jimmy and his determination to continue with pastoral work despite his constant pain. After twenty minutes of reminiscing, Roger Dowling turned to the Gallaghers.
“The father put them through a wringer, Roger. What a thing to do, confess to a murder!”
“Apparently he was trying to protect someone else.”
“He was willing to be thought a murderer to save a murderer?”
“He thought Tim was involved.”
“My God.”
“The young woman had shown interest in both father and son.”
“Well, she wouldn't get anyplace with Tim, I'll tell you that.”
“We've heard that he was away on a business trip the night it happened.”
“There you are.”
“The police have learned this just as hearsay.”
“Why don't they ask him?”
“The fact is that his office calendar does not record any travel on that day.”
Jimmy thought there must be an easy explanation of this. “Does every trip a man make have to be recorded?”
“You may be right. For that matter, it's not clear that it matters whether he was on a trip or not. The detective who told me all this wants to avoid causing any pain to the Gallaghers. He thought that if there was some way Mrs. Gallagher could be asked without seeming to be questioned ⦔
“Let's go see her, Roger.”
“I had hoped you would suggest something like that.”
The Gallagher home was suburban imperial styleâmassive, many roof lines, a three-car garage, a multitude of chimneys, and, of course, the mandatory basketball hoop. The driveway was not level with the road, actually rising steeply from it, not the best design for this kind of weather. But it had been cleared of snow and presented no problem this afternoon.
“Two priests!” Jane Gallagher cried when she opened the door. “I feel like I've won the lottery.”
She was an exuberant and charming hostess. They sat in a sunny room at the back of the house and heard about her children, her background, her years at Georgetown where she and Tim had eventually become engaged.
“I had known him in Fox River; his sister Colleen was my best friend. I guess he needed to see me in a foreign setting.”
“Washington, D.C., is foreign?”
“When you're from Fox River it is.”
“Colleen will be married in St. Hilary's, as I suppose you know. She and her fiancé will begin marriage preparation soon. Recent events have put that on hold, of course.”
“What a time it has been. Imagine my father-in-law confessing to a murder.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Tim has a theory.” She smiled and then made an effort to look serious. “He thinks his father thought he did it and this was a grand gesture to save Tim.”
“For heaven's sakes,” Jimmy blurted out.
“If he had asked Jack would have known how silly that was. Tim wasn't even in town.”
Jimmy said, “Where was he?”
“On business somewhere. I really don't know. But he flew back that morning and came here to get ready to go to the office.”
“How long have you lived in Barrington?” Roger asked. He had learned what he had come for. Jane Gallagher knew that her husband had not been home the night Agatha Rossner was killed. Whether or not this meant anything, Roger Dowling would leave to Cy Horvath. Cy had thought Tim might have been the lawyer who had pursued Linda Hopkins. Tim had become involved with Agatha. Perhaps there was yet another woman who could explain his absence from home on that fateful night. But it seemed an odd thing to hope for.
Tuttle was more than happy to consult with his client Jack Gallagher at his condo in Western Sun Community. For one thing, it got him out of the office, though Hazel made an alarming suggestion.
“I better come along to make a transcript.”
“No. Jack wouldn't like that.”
“Let's find out.”
Tuttle fled to his inner office and closed the door. Now he felt trapped; the only way out was through Hazel's office, and she sounded as if her mind was made up. She intended to go with him to Jack Gallagher's. His eye fell to the new phone that sat on his desk. Hazel had
gone all-out. Not only could calls be switched back and forth, there were several lines now, one of which seemed to function as Hazel's private line. Tuttle had resolved to speak to her about that. Now he was glad he had put off the evil day. He picked up the phone, dialed her number, put down the phone and then crept to the closed door. When her phone began to ring, he opened the door and raced through the outer office to freedom. Hazel was calling after him as the elevator doors closed.
Jack Gallagher was a picture of relaxed rectitude when he opened his door to Tuttle. Mahogany loafers, pale green slacks with a pleated waist, black shirt. His smile was benevolent, his silver hair undulant, his eyes atwinkle.
“Counselor. It has been too long.”
“I came as quickly as I could.” Tuttle had the wild thought that if he told Jack Gallagher about Hazel he would understand. So he did.
“I won't suggest that you strangle her.”
It helped to laugh about it. “As your lawyer I would counsel against such advice.”
“It's time we got back to my suit against Austin Rooney, wouldn't you say?”
“Of course I kept in the background while the other matter was going on.”
“My confession of murder.”
“That was very risky.”
“Oh, I don't know. Given your vigilance, I should have been able to produce the best excuse of all. You and your man must have seen what happened. Who killed her, Tuttle?”
This was asked with such jovial good humor that Tuttle did not bother to deny the stakeout he and Peanuts had kept.
“Were we that obvious?”
“Night and day? We're not all plagued with deafness and poor eyesight, Tuttle. But come on, let's have a drink and get comfortable.”
Tuttle accepted a beer and watched Jack splash a glass half full of scotch. Tuttle put his tweed hat on the coffee table and lay his coat on the floor beside his chair. Jack sat, arranged the creases on his trousers, and lifted his glass.
“Cheers. May Austin Rooney eat crow.”
“We can't lose.”
“Why would you keep your own client under surveillance, Tuttle?”
“When I go up against someone like Amos Cadbury, I want no surprises. I want to know everything he could learn that might help his case. I interviewed people at the station. Hove and Judy.”
“Hove!”
“Exactly. If Cadbury talked with Hove and I didn't, well, I would have been caught off-guard. Judy, of course, was very positive. Is it true that Rooney assaulted you in your office at the station?”
“The man is a menace.”
“So there is a pattern.”
“Exactly. Another beer?”
His instinct was to say no. With Peanuts he would polish off a six-pack without giving it a thought, but Jack Gallagher was the most promising client he had ever had and a clear head seemed indicated. But then he thought of Hazel and half wished she could see him yakking it up with Gallagher, lawyer and client having a drink, going over the case.
“Maybe I will.”
“Good man.”
Jack Gallagher had not forgotten the vigil that had been kept outside his apartment and he wanted a complete report on what had been seen the night of the murder.
“Of course we saw the girl arrive.”
Jack nodded. “What time was that?”
“Seven-thirty. I'd have to check ⦔
“No, you're right. Did she come by cab?”
“No. The usual way. The Alfa Romeo. That car is the real mystery.”
“How so?”
“What happened to it? The young woman arrived in it, but she sure didn't drive it away. It ended up in her garage near Old Town.”
“You must have seen who drove it away.”
“This is embarrassing,” Tuttle said.
He told Jack about Peanuts, and yes, he belonged to the famous or infamous Pianone clan, but he was a good friend of Tuttle's. Peanuts had been keeping watch on Jack's place, with Tuttle taking turns.
“Who was on that night?”
“Peanuts came on duty at two, driving an unmarked police car. When he got there he had brought tacos so I sat with him while we ate those. The way he was yawning I worried he wouldn't be awake for long. I told him the girl was in your apartment. When I went back to my car, I thought I should stick around awhile, keep an eye on Peanuts as well as the house. How I wish I had.”
“So you yourself weren't here when she left.”
“No.” It sounded like dereliction of duty.
Jack leaned forward, looking anxious. “Was my son ⦔
“Peanuts fell asleep, just as I had feared. It was the lights on the paramedic ambulance that woke him up. He got the hell out of there.”
Jack Gallagher sat looking at Tuttle. All the previous camaraderie seemed gone. “In the military he'd be shot.”
“He's lucky to be a cop.”
“So you know nothing about what happened.”
“The car. I may not have seen it, but someone drove her car away, ran it through an automatic wash and parked it in its regular place. Whoever did that had to know where to take the car.”
“That must have been the one who killed her.”
Tuttle nodded. “If the police knew what they were doing they would concentrate on that Alfa Romeo.”