John Lescroart - Dead Irish

Cavanaugh shrugged. “I just bet him he couldn’t hit something out on the canal. It was easy. And he had to fire the gun, you see?”

“Sure.”

“And then, once he had, there was nothing left to do.”

“He just gave the gun back to you and you shot him.”

He gripped at the pillow, raised it to his face, left it there, shutting out the world. Himself. Finally letting it down.

“It was too much. I broke-”

“Like you broke out of the seminary?”

Cavanaugh opened his eyes wide. “How did you…?”

“When Erin got married, you couldn’t handle that either, could you?”

“It isn’t right. It wasn’t the sex. Not having sex. Being celibate. It was Erin.”

“Fuck you, Father,” Hardy said. “Fuck yourself very hard.”

Cavanaugh walked halfway across the room and looked out the sliding glass doors to the backyard. “So what do we do now?” he asked.

Hardy, breathing hard, waited a long time. Finally he said, “You know, you’re the expert on suicide. I got a Suzuki parked out by where you killed Rose, looks like a Jeep. There’s a loaded gun in the glove compartment.” His face crinkled up. “You know how to use a gun, don’t you?”

Cavanaugh let his hands all the way down in front of him. He dropped the pillow to the floor. Hardy found himself staring at the pillow, hearing the front door open and close as Cavanaugh went out.

Abe found the note in Father Dietrick’s chair. It was a strange note. “I’m sorry. I’ll miss you.” Did people say they were going to miss people when they were going to kill themselves? Maybe. He didn’t know what minds might do at that point.

He left the note where it was. He’d send one of the team back to pick it up, check it for handwriting, oils, all that. It seemed to close it up for him, though. Hardy was wrong on this one.

Speaking of which, where was Hardy? One of the priests from outside, the tan one, was walking toward him in the hallway. “I’m Father Paul,” he said.

“You know anything about this?”

“No. I just got here. From Brazil.”

“Is that right?”

He seemed to be waiting for Glitsky to say something else.

“So what can I do for you?”

“I thought I’d unpack,” he said. “But the car seems to be gone.”

“The car?”

“Father Dietrick’s car. The one we came in.”

“It’s gone?”

He led him to the front door and opened it. “I’m sure we parked it right here, in front.”

So what? Glitsky thought. “Look, Father, we’re homicide. You got a stolen car, you should call the cops.”

“But aren’t you…?” Then he pointed. “There it is. Who’s that driving it?”

The car pulled into the driveway. “That’s Father Cavanaugh,” Abe said. “I want to talk to him.”

The hawk-faced black policeman jogged across the blacktop and got to the Honda as Father Cavanaugh was getting out. They shook hands, and while Father Paul was still crossing the lot, fighting the glare from the van and the other automobiles, he heard a funny, high-pitched laugh. It must have been Father Cavanaugh, as though he’d just heard a good joke, though it seemed poor taste to be laughing right then in the presence of mortal-sin death.

The two other policemen came out from inside the garage. Father Cavanaugh, the hawk-faced policeman and the other two all stood in a knot out in the sun. Father Dietrick had become a statue. Maybe he was in shock. Father Paul should go over to him, try to help him. That would be the Christian thing to do.

But he was more interested in what Father Cavanaugh was saying to the policemen. He hurried his pace a little, getting there in time to hear Father Cavanaugh saying, “I’m not lying.”

And the hawk-faced policeman saying, “I don’t think you’re lying.”

Father Cavanaugh wiped the sweat from his forehead. “You mind if I sit down a minute?” His face had a sick look, shiny white as though he might faint. “I’d like a minute alone.” Telling a joke, like. “I think it’s my last chance to be alone for a while.”

They watched him walk the ten yards or so over to the Jeep and get in the front seat. All three policemen were quiet, watching him. He sat there, seeming to be catching his breath, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his forehead.

“Father, you all right?” the shorter white man asked. Father Cavanaugh nodded. The other men closed in on one another, and Father Paul stepped up to hear them. Father Paul glanced over to the Jeep one time. Father Cavanaugh was doing something, like fussing with the radio knobs.

He heard the taller man say, “Well, that was easy,” and the hawk-faced one started to say something when suddenly Father Dietrick yelled “Father!” but it was drowned out almost immediately by a tremendous explosion.

Father Cavanaugh had come halfway out of the Jeep. His upper body lay out on the ground, one leg caught at a funny angle as though it had stuck up under the front seat.

THOUGH HE generally preferred to stand in his doorway and bellow, this time Lieutenant Joe Frazelli elected to use his intercom. He pushed the button, got an answer, and said, “Frank, come in here you get a sec.”

Maybe a minute later there was a knock on his door and he was looking up at the tall frame of Frank Batiste.

“Close the door,” he said. Then, “What kind a cake you like, Frank?”

Batiste stayed standing. He was a quiet, thorough officer who was especially good when paired with less experienced men. Of everyone in homicide, he had perhaps the least pugnacious character. Not that he couldn’t mix it up when he had to, but he preferred to leave alone the office posing and pecking. Well, Frazelli thought, somebody’s got to be that way. It sets him off a little, and that’s to the good.

“Cake?” Batiste asked. “I don’t know. I guess they’re pretty much the same. I’m not much of a cake eater, Joe.”

Perfect. Frazelli loved it. “Goddammit, Frank, I don’t give a shit about what you like. I got Marylouise out there humping her telephone to make a call down to the bakery and get a cake, and if she don’t hear from me in about another minute then the whole goddamn office is gonna know before I want ’em to.”

Batiste, not born yesterday, nodded and broke a smile. “Plain chocolate, sir. Chocolate icing. Chocolate on the inside. Boy, makes my mouth water.”

Frazelli punched the intercom again and whispered to Marylouise that Frank liked chocolate cake. He asked her how long it would take, and she said usually about twenty-five minutes.

“Sit down, Frank, you make me nervous hovering like that. But before you do…” Frazelli stood up behind his desk and extended a hand. “Congratulations, Lieutenant,” he said.

“You mind if I call my wife?” Batiste asked.

Frazelli shook his head. “Wait ’til after the cake, would you? The whole timing of this office is centered around Marylouise and her fucking cakes. We can’t get new cops, but we got petty cash for cakes up the wazoo. Well,” he said, grinning, “it ain’t my problem anymore. You’ll get used to it.”

Batiste scanned the office. “How long you been here, sir, as lieutenant?”

Frazelli twisted his wedding ring. “Fourteen years,” he said with a little laugh. “My stepping stone to Chief.” He sighed. “You want a little peace-of-mind advice? This isn’t a step to anything. Just treat it like its own job. God knows it’ll keep you busy. On the other hand, Rigby”-the current Chief-“had the job before I did.”

“I’ll do what I do,” Frank said. “See where I wind up.” But a cloud crossed his face. “You don’t mind my asking, who’s going down? The new guys, I mean.”