“Cy Horvath called,” Marie said, meeting Father Dowling at the door. “I didn't want to call you at the school. Colleen Gallagher is missing!”
“Missing?”
“They don't know where she is. She isn't at her apartment, she didn't go to work, Mario Liberati has no idea where she might be, and he is frantic.”
If Father Dowling had had any doubts about what he would do with the pictures Edna had printed out for him, they were gone now. He told Marie he would be away from the rectory for an hour or two and would try to reach Cy or Phil Keegan by phone somewhere.
“You should have a mobile phone, Father.”
He showed her the palm of his hand. Technology was all very well. He was glad that Edna was so adept at the computer, and he had heard much unsolicited testimony on the practicality of cell phones, doubtless all of it true. He was no Luddite, but he had no desire to encumber his life with such gadgetry. Besides, there were pay phones scattered throughout the city, at intersections, in parking lots and malls and other stores.
The Hacienda Motel was a familiar building though he had never been in it before. It was simply one of the objects that slipped past in peripheral vision as he drove by. The parking lot was surprisingly full, but he found a place, tucked the manila envelope under his arm, and headed for the entrance. Inside, he had to get oriented. The registration desk was not as prominent as he would have expected, having to compete with dining areas, a bar, sofas and chairs in various formations and configurations. Finally he saw it.
“Good afternoon.”
The girl looked up and then straightened at the sight of his Roman collar. “Yes, Father.”
“Where would I find Gloria, the head housekeeper?”
“You want the housekeeper.”
“That's right.”
“See those doors at the far end of the lobby? If you go through those, there is a long corridor. You just keep going down that and you will find her office. The door will say âhousekeeper.'”
He thanked her and started across the lobby when a man fell into step with him. “Lawrence Wagner. I'm the assistant manager. Can I help you?”
“Thank you, I've been helped. I've come to see Gloria.”
“Gloria!”
“The housekeeper.”
“I know she's the housekeeper.” His voice rose. “I'm sorry. I'll take you to her.”
“That's not necessary.”
“At the Hacienda, we do not confine ourselves to what is necessary. You're a priest?”
“Yes.”
He gripped Father Dowling's arm, his eyes wide. “Is something wrong with Gloria?”
“No. This is just a visit.”
Lawrence Wagner peeled off as they neared the double doors. “You're sure you can find your way?”
“Oh, yes.”
He pushed through the double doors and as they closed behind him he looked back to make sure Lawrence Wagner was no longer with him. Of course he was only doing his job. But he had something of Desmond O'Toole in him.
A sound of humming came from the open door of Gloria's office. Father Dowling tapped on the door frame.
“Door's open, come right in.”
“Gloria Daley?”
She turned slowly in her chair and her eyes traveled from Father Dowling's face to his collar. She pushed back and tried to rise from her chair.
“Please. Don't.” He brought another chair next to the desk and sat. “My name is Father Dowling. You don't know me.”
“I know I don't.”
“I want you to do me a favor.” He undid the clasp of the envelope and slid the photographs from it. Gloria followed this warily.
He told her of his friendship with Cyril Horvath. He said he knew Agnes Lamb.
“We were in school together.”
“Here in Fox River?”
“Yes, sir.”
Father Dowling nodded. “I've come about Linda Hopkins.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The police talked to you about a man staying in the hotel, here for a lawyers' conference, who pursued Linda.”
She frowned. “He was a bad man, but she was such a good girl she didn't realize it. Not that anything came of it. We looked out for her.”
“Gloria, I want you to look at these pictures.”
He handed them to her, and she turned them over, one by one. But then she turned one back the other way. “That's him.”
“The man who was bothering Linda?”
“Oh, yes. That's the man.”
“Thank you, Gloria.”
She stared at him as he got up.
“Is that all?”
“You may have to do this again for the police.”
When the priest passed through the lobby, Lawrence Wagner, behind the reception desk, looked as if he might leap over it and help Father Dowling find the door. But he restrained himself and soon Father Dowling was outside breathing the brisk winter air. He was halfway to his car when it occurred to him that he could have called Cy or Phil from one of the phones in the lobby of the Hacienda. But the thought of Lawrence Wagner deterred him. There were phones everywhere.
But he drove several blocks until he found one, on a street corner, looking the worse for wear. He was almost surprised to hear a dial tone when he picked it up. He called his rectory.
“Has either Cy or Phil called?”
“Cy called before you left.”
“If they call again, tell them I am going to Colleen's apartment.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“I want you to look at the notes I took when she and Mario came to talk about their wedding. Her address should be there somewhere.”
“I answered the phone in your study. Where should I look?”
He told her where to look, and after a great deal of sighs, shuffling of paper, and other sound effects meant to convey that Marie Murkin could shoulder any burden, no matter how inane, she sighed a final time into the phone.
“You found it?”
“Why do you want to go there? Cy has already been thereâhe and Mario went through the apartment. She's not there. That's why they think she's missing.”
“What's the address?”
Marie read it out reluctantly. Father Dowling repeated it. “Thank you, Marie.”
Tuttle sat in a booth at Stub's, exiled from his office by the predatory presence of Hazel Barnes, sipping a Dr. Pepper and pondering the significance of the mysterious removal of Agatha Rossner's Alfa Romeo from the scene of her murder. The young lawyer had arrived in that car, but when police had descended on Western Sun, alerted by the call to 911, the car was no longer there. Peanuts had proved to be of no help in the matter, and Rawley the gate guard was little better. Rawley had seen the car after it passed the guard shack, exiting the development, but he was far more intrigued by the relation of this fact to himself.
“Of course I thought it was the goddess who had driven by.”
“âThe goddess.'”
“Her name was unknown to me. I preferred it that way. She was gorgeous, and a mythical designation seemed appropriate. I will never think of her as Agatha. It's a good Greek name, of course.”
“Is Rossner a Greek name?”
Rawley ignored the question. “Agatha means âgood.'”
Tuttle gave up. As he sat in the booth at Stub's, tweed cap pulled down over his wrinkled brow, he realized that his former admiration of Cy Horvath and Phil Keegan was shaken. They knew of the mysterious removal of the car. They had traced it to its accustomed stall in Kopcinski's garage. They had to have noticed that it had been recently washed. Couldn't they see that the car was the solution to Agatha's murder? Who but the man who had strangled her would have driven it away?
He pressed his back against the seat on which he sat. For all he knew, Cy Horvath
was
concentrating on the car. The Chicago police had gone over it without results. No wonder, since it had been run through a car wash. Anyone who would do that would be unlikely to leave traces of his presence in the car.
Tuttle left his soda unfinished and went out to his own car. He could not bear the thought of going to his office. How could he ever get rid of Hazel? When he pulled away from the curb, he headed for Kopcinski's. Inspiration or just a cowardly avoidance of Hazel? Tuttle sent up a prayer to his sainted father. Despite his pep talk to Jack Gallagher, Tuttle felt foreboding when he thought of presenting the case in Judge Farner's court. If he were denied that triumph, where was he?
The kid with the dangling necktie squinted at Tuttle as if he felt he should recognize him. Tuttle accepted the ticket, but before driving on into the garage, lifted his hat to the kid, hoping for an unequivocal recognition.
“Did they bring the car back?”
“What car?”
“The Alfa Romeo.”
“Look, it's not for sale.” He stroked his sallow face. “What vultures. A woman is murdered and people want to buy her car.”
“âPeople.'”
“Well, you're not the first.”
“Did I say I wanted to buy the car?”
A horn sounded behind Tuttle. He was blocking the entrance of the garage. He drove on in.
When he got to the Alfa Romeo, he saw the man; he was stooped over and peering into the car. Tuttle drove by slowly, rounded the ramp, and ducked into an empty stall. He got out of his car, eased the door shut, and hurried to a point where he could look down at the car. The man was no longer there. Tuttle walked down the ramp but before he reached the car he saw that the man was sitting in it. The engine started. Tuttle turned and ran back to his own car and got behind the wheel. He would have to go down the up ramp or risk losing sight of the Alfa Romeo. When he rounded the curve, he slammed on his brakes. So did the car coming up. There was an angry blasting of horns. Tuttle leaned out the window.
“Back up. Back up.”
“You're going the wrong way!”
“Just let me get by you.”
Tuttle started toward the other car and was almost bumper-to-bumper with it when it began to move backward. Tuttle swung into the place vacated by the Alfa Romeo, then backed out and headed for the down ramp. When he reached the exit of the garage, the Alfa Romeo was pulled up at the guard shack. The kid with the loose necktie was reading something, lips moving. Tuttle pulled up behind the sports car, trying to get a look at the driver. The paper was handed back, the bar lifted, and the Alfa Romeo shot forward. Tuttle went out right after him, ignoring the protesting squeal of the attendant.
The Alfa Romeo proceeded slowly up the street, its speed mocking the potential of the car. Whoever was in it had unlocked the door and
had an ignition key. Whoever had driven it away from Western Sun had to have the keys to it. But Agatha's keys had been in her purse. It dawned on Tuttle that he was tailing the man who had strangled Agatha Rossner.
The sports car went south three blocks and then, stopped by a light, its turn light winked on and off. He was turning toward the lake. The light changed, the turn was made, and Tuttle followed. Why would the murderer risk being identified with Agatha's car when he must realize the significance of its removal from Western Sun could not escape the police? They were on a narrow street made more narrow by the parked cars lining both sides of it. The Alfa Romeo crept along until it found an opening, then ducked into it and parked. Tuttle stopped in the middle of the street. There was no other parking place in sight. A horn sounded behind him. In the rearview mirror Tuttle could see at least three cars he was holding up. But he did not move until the door of the Alfa Romeo opened and the man got out. He looked toward Tuttle's car and the forming traffic jam. Tuttle took his foot off the brake and started forward.
The man was not Tim Gallagher.
Tuttle did not know if he was relieved or disappointed. At the corner, he turned and double-parked and hopped out of his car, looking back up the street where the Alfa Romeo was parked. The man was disappearing up the walk, toward the far intersection.
Tuttle hopped back into his car, intending to make a circuit of the block, but the first street was one-way the wrong way and he raced on to the next. He had lost all hope of seeing the man again. But when he finally made the second turn and was heading north, he saw the man get into a cab.
Good God, what luck. He wished Hazel could see him in action. Hazel! He gripped the wheel and shook the thought away, and followed the cab.
Not more than a mile away, in another narrow street, the man got
out of the cab and hurried to the door of an apartment house. This time Tuttle found a parking space. He got out of his car, slammed the door, and looked up to see Father Dowling going along the walk.