James Benn - Death

“Then why hide it here?”

“Right. It makes no sense.”

“Give it to our friend Inspector Cipriano. Let him worry about it. I’ll get these clothes to Abe.”

The only thing that made sense to me was freeing Diana, and that was a long shot, but I had a better chance at that than at solving this case. Which should have made me happy, but all I did was worry as I carried Abe’s brown three-piece draped over my arm.

Luck was with me, although running into Bishop Zlatko wasn’t the same thing as your horse placing at Suffolk Downs. I had been on my way to look for him when I turned a corner in the Medieval Palace, and there he was, wearing a snow-white rochet over his cassock and hurrying along the corridor, his heels clicking against the shiny marble mosaics. When he saw me, his eyes darted everywhere else but in my direction.

“Bishop,” I said, loud enough that he couldn’t ignore me, and sharp enough to draw stares from a scurrying monk who had probably never heard a bishop spoken to like that.

“I cannot talk. I am on my way to celebrate midday Mass. Two priests from my diocese have made the arduous journey here, and I promised them a Mass in the basilica.”

“I’ll walk with you,” I said. “Nice rochet, by the way. I learned that word today.” His had lace borders. A bit ladylike for my taste.

“I am glad to hear you have discovered something in your time here,” Zlatko said, a sneer turning up one lip. He didn’t miss a beat. Kept walking at an even pace, hands relaxed at his sides. No widening of the eyes, no flush of red in his cheeks, only quick sarcasm. If it was his bloody rochet, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it.

“Oh, I’ve learned a lot. About your activities in Croatia, for instance. I wonder what the Pontifical Commission will do when they hear from Cardinal Boetto?”

“Lies! Slander!” He stopped and faced me, fists clenched and the whites of his eyes vivid. “You would do well to not spread unfounded rumors.”

“Ah, so that’s what your visiting priests are for,” I said. “Character witnesses. To refute what Cardinal Boetto will say.”

“You are a fool, Father Boyle. But not an unintelligent one.”

“Hey, if I were really smart, I’d know why you and Brackett were arguing about boats. Or was it rudders?” I watched for a reaction, and wondered if I’d given too much away.

“Perhaps you are right,” Zlatko said, giving away nothing at all. “You are not smart at all.”

With that, he was on his way. I still had questions about where he’d been before he’d headed to the radio tower, but they seemed less important now, given his total lack of reaction to my hints about the rochet, and how he threw the rudder mention right back at me. I thought about following him into the basilica and taking in a Mass, but the notion of him at the altar gave me the shivers. I decided on some larceny instead.

Half an hour later, with Abe in tow, we walked down the corridor in the Medieval Palace where earlier Kaz and I had searched Corrigan’s room. Checking the nameplates, we stopped at Bruzzone’s door and I turned to keep watch as Abe and his picks made short work of the lock. Before I could look both ways up and down the hallway, I heard a click and the door was open. I followed Abe in.

“Piece of cake,” Abe said. “You coulda done it, kid. Don’t Boston coppers know nothin’?”

“I like to rely on a professional, Abe.” The best lock picker we had on the force was Moose Meehan, and he mainly used his right foot. With legs the size of tree trunks, he didn’t need picks. Of course, we wore the bluecoats, and it was our turf. This operation required finesse, something the Boston PD at times lacked.

“What’re we lookin’ for?” Abe asked, looking pleased at the compliment and spiffy in his new brown suit.

“I have no idea,” I said. “Sometimes it’s better to do something than nothing, so here we are.” Bruzzone’s rooms were larger than Corrigan’s or O’Flaherty’s. Seniority, maybe. He had a small bedroom and a large sitting room, with a pair of chairs by a window gracing a view of courtyards below.

“He skip town?” Abe asked.

“He didn’t show up for breakfast with Monsignor O’Flaherty this morning,” I said. I checked the bedroom. His bed was made, and an armoire held several pairs of black trousers, a cassock, and shirts. One surplice, no rochet. A hairbrush sat on a washstand, set below a small mirror. A book lay on his nightstand. Next to it was a bottle of pills.

“Abe, you know what sonniferi means?”

“No, but I think sonno means sleep. Maybe he needed some help with his shut-eye.”

“Not the kind of thing to leave behind if you’re going on a trip, is it?” I shook the bottle. It sounded half full.

“What are you doing?” a loud voice from the other room demanded. It was Bruzzone, looking none too pleased to find us in his bedroom. He looked scruffy, too. Unshaven, wrinkled clothes, his hair in need of that brush. “How dare you enter my apartment!”

“I’m sorry, Monsignor,” I said, placing the bottle of pills back on the nightstand. “It appeared you had gone missing, and we were concerned.”

“Who gave you a key?” Bruzzone asked, studying Abe for a second. “And who is this person?”

“He’s a locksmith in civilian life,” I said. “He’s the key.”

“You broke in?” Bruzzone looked rattled, as if he couldn’t absorb what we were telling him.

“Let’s sit down, Monsignor.” I led him to the chairs in the study and we sat down. Abe edged toward the door, trying to look invisible, ready to bolt. “We were just looking for some clue as to where you had gone, or been taken. After the killing last night, we were worried.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Bruzzone said. “It was simply a shock to find anyone in my room. I assure you, I am fine.” He brushed grime from his pants and pushed back his hair, pulling himself together.

“Where were you, Monsignor?”

“In Rome. It is not a crime, is it?”

“Not at all,” I said, playing the helpful but confused pal. “Monsignor O’Flaherty was worried when you didn’t show up this morning. He was expecting you for breakfast.”

“I completely forgot. I will apologize to Hugh. And I must apologize to you as well, for being so rude. I thank you for your concern, but I simply could not sleep and went out. I often wake before dawn.” He sighed and slapped his hands on his thighs. All done, time to move on, or so he hoped.

“It must have been something quite important,” I said, “to cause you to leave the Holy See. I’m told you haven’t crossed the border into Rome in quite some time.”

“That is true, not since my last trip to Genoa, working with Cardinal Boetto. We had some close calls, and I thought the Gestapo was following me. I felt it prudent to not take any chances here. What is the American expression? To lie low?”

“Yes,” I said. “What was so important that you left after the murder of Soletto?”

“Why do you say that?” Bruzzone asked. I wasn’t entirely sure, except that he had the look of a guy who’d slept in his clothes, if he’d slept at all.

“Because you look like you’ve had a rough time of it. My guess would be that you were out after curfew and had to hide out somewhere.”

“That would have been difficult. The Germans enforce a curfew, and are guarding the perimeter. They would have picked up anyone crossing over.”

“But you got in okay?” I asked.

“Certainly. As a citizen of the Vatican State, I have no problem during the day.”

“So where were you? Whenever it was you were there?”

“I am sorry, Father Boyle. That must remain confidential. Even you are not privy to everything here. Or in Rome.”