Chuck Logan - Vapor Trail

Going down the stairs, Broker said, “I was wondering. Isn’t it unusual to have a Catholic church named after a guy named Martin? I mean after what happened in Wittenberg and all?”

Malloy shrugged. “The fact is, we have our own Martin on the books. He was bishop of Tours, in the fourth century. He was your kind of guy: the patron saint of the infantry. And horses and, ah, beggars and geese, I think.”

They shook hands in the vestibule, and Broker left the quietly lit, ordered sanctuary of Malloy’s living quarters behind, stepped back into the street, and walked toward the absurd mob of short, round cartoon characters in the park.

He put on his sunglasses, stared into the sun, and spoke aloud for no particular reason the first words to enter his mind: “Beggars and geese.”

Broker paced back and forth on the top level of the Victory Ramp smoking a cigar and combing through his talk with Malloy. The ramp had been full, and he’d had to park the Crown Vic on the roof. There wasn’t a square inch of shade in sight.

Recalling the determined look on Sally Erbeck’s face, he figured the medallion would be outed within twenty-four hours, if not sooner. The Saint was going to stage a return whether or not Father Moros was deserving of his-or her-attentions.

It was time to check in with John in Seattle.

He punched in John’s cell number, got voice mail, and left his own cell number. Then he waited. Sweat stewed in his hair and trickled down his forehead. He made a note to get a hat.

Broker was getting down into the less tasty end of the cigar when his cell rang.

“So, where are we at?” John asked without preamble.

“Malloy says no way the priest was a child molester. But he was transferred from his last parish after he was cleared of allegations of child abuse. Malloy says the Albuquerque cops ran the investigation.”

“But there’s the appearance that Moros was a child molester.”

“There it is,” Broker said. “And the only people who had that information, besides the church secretary, were in Investigations: Harry and whoever else saw the complaint.”

“I’ll call Mouse, get him to run the phone logs to see if anybody else got tipped about Moros. And I’ll have him liaison with Albuquerque. It’s long shot, but maybe somebody followed Moros to Minnesota. You get Harry to the hospital?” John said.

“Not yet; he’s still out there.”

“Is he giving you a hard time?”

“Oh yeah. A regular barrel of laughs and crazier than a shithouse mouse. But he’s hinting he knows something about the Saint.”

“Good. Good. So, how are the troops holding up?”

“Everybody knows about the medal, the whole damn building, patrol and detectives.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which means any minute the press is going to have it. Seventy, eighty cops can’t stay mum on something like this.”

“Actually,” John said, “you might be surprised about that.”

“You may believe in that blue-code-of-silence bullshit, but I don’t,” Broker said. “Yesterday some wit wrote on the unit bulletin board, ‘The Saint lives: Harry 2, Pedophiles 0.’”

“So what? Gallows humor.”

“Goddamn Harry. He’s fencing with me.”

“Keep reeling him in; he’s the key.”

“What if he isn’t? Malloy has a point; if someone’s targeting priests, they should be warned.”

“It’s local. It’s in our shop. I’m not going to panic the whole state.”

Broker thought for a few beats and said, “I don’t think panic is the right word; more like sensation. If the Saint comes out of the closet people will come out in those baseball jackets cheering him on. So if you think you have a cop who is going around killing suspected child molesters, I wish you’d tell me.”

“Who said it has to be a cop?”

“Say some names, John.”

“I’d prefer to hear them from you.”

“When the fuck did you start talking like Bill Clinton?” Broker said loudly.

“Push Harry, push him hard,” John said and hung up.

Broker dug Mouse’s phone number out of his wallet and punched it in. He got the voice mail. Goddamn, he hated talking to machines.

“Mouse, it’s Broker. I talked to Malloy. I’m on my way in, about twenty minutes out.”

Ten minutes later, Broker’s cell rang. He flipped it open and hit the button. Not Mouse. Harry Cantrell sounded like he was calling from inside a pinball machine. Broker heard lots of electronic bells and jingles going off.

“So what do you think of Sally Erbeck, neat chick, huh?” Harry said.

“You put her on to me?” Broker said.

“ Au contraire . I’d never rat a brother officer out to the yellow press, not me,” Harry said with elaborate seriousness.

“Where are you?” Broker said. But he thought he knew; the electronic calliope music he heard in the background sounded like the intersection of five hundred slot machines.

“Uh-uh. The question is, where are you?”

Broker endeavored to comb the burrs of anger from his voice. Be cool, he told himself. It’s a game. “Driving east on thirty-six, heading into town.”

“You know the Civil War statue in front of the old courthouse on the South Hill?”

“Sure.”

“Be standing in front of the statue at noon,” Harry said.

“A meeting, Harry?”

“Silly boy, I want you where I can see you’re alone. I’ll call. Noon sharp.”

“Make it at one. I have a sit-down with Mouse,” Broker said.

“Okay, at one. Don’t get smart on me. Be alone,” Harry said. The connection went dead.

As he drove east on Highway 36, Broker entertained a fantasy replay of the last scene in Easy Rider . The black Ford Ranger would pull up next to him, and a leering Harry Cantrell would lean out the driver’s side with a shotgun cradled in his elbow. Then, after he pumped four rounds of.00 buck into Broker’s face, he’d drive away.

At 120 miles an hour.

Broker walked into Investigations looking for Mouse, who was in his cube on the phone. When Mouse hung up, Broker said, “We’re still on, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Mouse said. “John called. Sally Erbeck’s calling every cop she knows in the county. The Star Tribune called, and so did Channel Four and Channel Five and Channel Eleven. Word’s out we got a dead priest. They all asked the same question: was foul play involved?”

“And you told them?”

“We’re in the initial stages of an investigation, and we’ll keep them informed. They’re closing the ring.”

“Great. So where’s Lymon?”

Mouse’s battered face conveyed a perfect Gallic shrug. But he got up and motioned with a jerk of his head for Broker to follow him. Benish joined them. They stopped at Lymon’s cube, which was along the outer wall and had a window that faced the lawn between the sheriff’s offices and the government center.

Lymon kept his space orderly. Just one personal picture, an attractive light-skinned woman and a smiling toddler in a frame on his desk. Mouse pointed at the Levolor blinds on the window, which were tilted, the right side up at an angle. Then he summoned Broker forward to look out the window and pointed up at the government center.

“Third floor,” Mouse said.

Broker scanned along the third floor windows and stopped on one that had its blinds tilted in a position similar to Lymon’s. The county attorneys’ offices were on the third floor, where he’d been this morning.

Benish stepped forward and said, “We’ve come to think of it as jungle telegraph. .”

“Benish,” Mouse warned.

But Benish went on. “Although now, since they have matching Palm Pilots, they tend to message each other. Like the ad says, there are times when text is better than talk. .”