William Lashner - Falls The Shadow

“Flew. I drove her to the airport myself.”

“When?”

“Just a day or two ago.”

“She say how she got a ticket?”

“Said she just got it.”

“Nice for her.” I took out three cards from my wallet, passed them out. “My name is Victor Carl. Anything you can remember about Seamus, about the things he did or any troubles he had with the police, especially that, I’d appreciate hearing from you.”

“Don’t hold your breath on that one neither,” said Kylie’s mom.

We could hear their cackling as we walked away.

“Why do I feel,” I said, “like I just walked out of a scene from Macbeth ?”

“How long do you suppose they’ve been sitting on that stoop?” said Beth as we drove through the narrow streets of Fishtown.

“From the dawn of time,” I said. “They’ve buried kings, presidents, husbands, Seamus Dent. And they’ll bury us if we give them half a chance and half a bullet.”

“It took us, what, about thirty seconds to pry the Seamus Dent story from them?”

“If that. Another twenty minutes we would have had the sexual history of the entire block, and the parish priest, too.”

“So why didn’t Whitney Robinson come down here and ask those same ladies about Seamus Dent before François’s trial?”

“Good question,” I said. “Whit was a sharp lawyer and knew what he was doing. Maybe he did come down, learned what he could, and decided it wasn’t reliable or admissible.”

“But he didn’t tell you about it.”

“No, he did not. So that’s one puzzle we need to figure out. And I sure would like to know who sent Betty Dent a plane ticket to California right after we took the case. That’s the church over there.”

We parked on Gaul Street, just across from the church, a Romanesque stone structure with the requisite stained-glass window showing Jesus first carrying the cross and then nailed to it. On our side of the street was the school and a shrine to Our Lady of Knock. I was about to make a crack to Beth about the name and then stopped, because the shrine was beautiful and heartfelt and I’d heard enough jokes for the morning.

The church inside was tinted with the blues and reds from the stained-glass window. Heavy columns ran down both sides of the interior, leading to a lovely painted altar. The pews were burnished wood, the confessionals were not too ornate, the wood beneath the flickering candles was spattered with wax, and there was that solemn hush that always follows you into an empty church.

A woman was in the front, straightening the altar. She watched us as we entered, watched as we walked up the aisle toward her. She was older, with curly white hair, a long skirt, and sneakers.

“Can I help you?” she said.

“We’re looking for Wayne Harbaugh,” said Beth.

She tilted her head and looked us up and down for a moment, gave me an extra eyeful, like she knew my type, and then asked us to wait.

“I always feel weird in a Catholic church,” I told Beth as we sat side by side in the front pew. “Like I’m infiltrating behind enemy lines.”

“It’s just a church.”

“To you maybe, yes, raised as you were in the warm embrace of Christianity. But to me, I’m always wondering when I’ll be identified as a Jew and beaten about the head and shoulders until I run out screaming.”

“The Inquisition ended” – she checked her watch – “something like five hundred years ago.”

“Still,” I said, “it’s been known to happen.”

“What do you think, Victor, people look at you and only see a Jew?”

“I swear that lady was giving me the eye.”

“She’s a nun, she gives everyone the eye.”

“Don’t they have to wear those habits?”

“Not anymore.”

“Is that fair? How can we tell who’s who?”

“For your information, then,” she said, standing and indicating a ruddy-faced man coming into the chapel, his collar turned around, “that is a priest.”

“Yes, hello. Welcome to the Holy Name. I’m Father Kenneth. And what, pray tell, can we do for you today?”

Father Kenneth was short and solid and energetic, with a ready smile that put you immediately at ease. He didn’t look at me like I was an infiltrator, he looked at me like I was a friend waiting to do his parish some great good.

“We understand a man named Wayne Harbaugh works here,” said Beth.

“Yes, that’s true. Wayne is an employee.”

“We were hoping we could have just a few words with him.”

“Is there a problem of some sort?”

“Is he here today?” said Beth rather curtly.

“Yes, he is,” said the priest, still smiling. “He is currently at work in the school.” He paused for emphasis, widened his smile. “With the children, you see. Has Wayne done something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” I said, giving Beth a warning look. There was no need to come on like, well, like cops. Maybe she did have more of the cop in her than I had imagined. I introduced Beth and myself, gave the priest a card.

“So you’re lawyers,” said Father Kenneth. “It’s never a good sign, is it, when a lawyer steps through your door?”

“I could have news of a huge bequest left to Wayne in a will.”

“But you don’t, do you, Mr. Carl?”

“No. We just want to ask him a few questions about an old friend of his.”

“And who is the friend, may I ask?”

“Seamus Dent.”

The father nodded, pressed his thin lips together. “Poor Seamus. He was baptized here, along with his brothers. He was actually a sweet boy, if you got to know him. You should have heard him play the guitar. Magic. What happened to him was a tragedy.”

“You mean his murder?”

“Yes, and before that, too. His problems. The way his life veered off track. Although it looked as though things were coming around just before he died.”

I glanced at Beth, puzzled. “How so?”

“He looked to be clean, Mr. Carl. He was the one who brought Wayne here and convinced me to give him this job. Seamus had rededicated his life, he told me, for the good of the world. A bit ambitious, but we all need ambition. So for him to lapse like he did, and then be murdered like he was, made it doubly tragic.”

“Could we talk to Wayne about Seamus?” said Beth.

The father pressed his hands together, pressed his forefingers into his lips, considered. “Why are you interested in Seamus?”

“We represent a man who was convicted of murder, partly on Seamus’s testimony,” she said. “We’re investigating every aspect of the case, and that means we need to learn as much about the witnesses as we can.”

“This man you represent, is he currently in jail?”

“With a life sentence,” said Beth.

“Of course, yes, I see now the cause of your concern. That’s why you are such an adamant young woman. Okay, Ms. Derringer, I’ll have Wayne brought around. Do you think he ought to have a lawyer of his own present?”

“That really won’t be necessary,” I said. “We just want to talk about Seamus. To get a sense of him. Wayne is not personally involved at all.”

“You won’t mind, though, of course, Mr. Carl, if I sit in just to be sure.”

“Do you know anything about the law, Father?”

He winked. “Everything I know about the law I learned from Matlock .”

“Funny,” I said, “same with me.” I glanced at Beth and then shrugged. “Be our guest, Father.”

He brought us into a dark, book-lined room off to the side of the altar. A series of robes hung on hooks along one wall, a semicircle of leather-upholstered chairs was set up in front of a small desk against another. He bade us sit, made a call, then sat behind the desk and stared at us. He leaned forward slightly and opened his mouth as if to say something, as if to start some sort of conversation, and then gave a shrug. What was there to say, after all? We waited quietly until the door opened.