T. Parker - Cold Pursuit

"Pete was thinking about removing the diocese from his will," he said. "He sent us two letters to that effect- November and December of last year."

"How come you didn't tell us before?" asked McMichael.

Grothke looked at him with affronted pride. "It was a matter between a man and his god. You don't consider God a suspect, do you?"

"That's a dumb thing to ask," said Hector.

"Remove the diocese why?" asked McMichael.

Grothke sighed and cleared his throat. "Mr. Braga was unhappy with their decision on naming the new parish out in Poway. Mr. Braga suggested St. Peter's, in consideration of his generous gifting to the diocese for the last four decades. Pete knew, of course, that the name would only be coincidental to his own. Unfortunately, there is already a large parish in a nearby community, Fallbrook, named St. Peter's. The diocese had to decline."

Grothke waited.

"But Pete wouldn't take no for an answer," said McMichael.

"Not Mr. Braga," said Grothke, with a hint of contempt. "He then argued that it be called St. Anna's in memory of his wife. But there is no St. Anna in the Catholic religion. So Pete insisted on St. Victor's, but he's not a saint, either. Rumor had it that the diocese decided to go with its original choice, which was Saint Gabriel's ."

"Ouch," said McMichael.

"No shit?" asked Hector with a big smile.

"None whatsoever."

"Well," said McMichael, "Pete wanted a vanity church and he got shot down. He wanted to cut the diocese out of his will. Why the stonewall and the closed office door?"

Grothke folded his hands on the desk and cleared his throat. "He wrote us two letters to that effect. And we lost them."

"How exactly do you lose a letter?" asked Hector. "They got here- the receipts prove that."

"Right," said Grothke quietly. "And then they actually vanished from my desk. The first time it happened I was out of town, though my secretary assured me that a FedEx letter from Mr. Braga had been placed on my desk. I never saw it. I thought, well, all right, there must be some explanation for it. I apologized to Mr. Braga and asked him to send a copy. He ranted and raved because he'd typewritten the letter. He had no computer, nor, apparently, any carbon paper. He procrastinated and probably fumed mightily before he got us a second set of general amendment requests one month later. I read that letter and filed it immediately to protect it from office clutter and prying eyes and careless janitorial people. Three days after I filed it, it was gone, too. Mr. Braga was even more furious. He threatened to take his business somewhere else."

"What happened to the letters?" asked McMichael.

Grothke shook his head and looked down. "I don't know. My secretary has been an employee for eighteen years and has never lost anything, to my knowledge. My father's secretary has been with us for four decades. She's terrific. Our receptionist is intelligent and thorough. There are three partners here, and three other associates. Six paralegals, two secretaries and occasionally an intern. These are top-notch people. They would have no reason to come into my office when I'm not here and take a piece of mail. The janitorial people come and go- they're part of a service contracted by the building management company. Why would a janitor want a valueless letter? Our offices have never been broken into. After-hours security is good. So, all I can conclude is that some visitor to the firm managed somehow to walk out of here with them."

"Which one?" asked Hector.

"If I had a suspect, I'd turn him over," said Grothke. He chuckled quietly.

McMichael and Hector went quiet, let the silence sink in.

"What?" asked Grothke.

Hector offered a meaningless grunt. McMichael stood and went to the window. "Did Pete come here, try to find those letters?"

"Well, he came here to vocalize his concern. He didn't physically look for the letters."

"There were two Sunday meetings with you on his calendar," said McMichael. "They took place just after the letters had been mailed and apparently lost. Did you meet with him here or somewhere else?"

"At the Sea Market Restaurant, there in Tuna Harbor. After mass at St. Agnes."

Hector shook his head. "So, Pete can't buy his name on a church, but he still attends?"

"Of course. He was devout."

"What did you tell him about cutting the diocese out of his will?" asked McMichael.

"Well, nothing really. It was up to Pete."

"Did you tell the bishop?" asked Hector, smiling.

"Gentlemen," said Grothke, "absolutely not."

"Who did you tell?" asked McMichael. "Think before you answer."

Grothke frowned and looked at his desktop. "I discussed it with no one. We practice family law here, Detectives. We're all sensitive to privacy and confidentiality issues. At some point, I would have talked with my father and whichever associate we asked to draft the amendment. But it was too early for that."

"So none of the secretaries or paralegals or other lawyers here could have known that Pete was going to cut out the church?"

"It's possible, but I doubt it," said Grothke.

"Unless they saw the letter," said McMichael.

"Correct."

"Sharona," said Hector. "Before she puts mail on your desk, does she open it?"

"Opens but does not read."

"Saves you lawyers from paper cuts."

McMichael looked down at Grothke's in-box- an old three-tier tray with the mail neatly sorted.

"I heard that your father went on a document-shredding expedition last month," he said.

Grothke blushed and glanced at him unhappily. "I'm surprised Patricia would tell you."

"But he could have shredded those letters?" asked Hector.

"No. They had been… misplaced, before the incident."

"Maybe there was another incident," said Hector.

"Yes," said Grothke. "Maybe he lets himself in on a nightly basis and selectively destroys documents. That is possible. Gentlemen? I've been as helpful to you as I can. I'm tired of you and I have a practice. Would you please leave?"

Old Grothke sat in his wheelchair near the window and turned to watch the detectives as they walked by. The red blanket across his lap matched his red vest, worn smartly with a brown tweed suit. McMichael saw the light of recognition in his bright blue eyes and the old man nodded, then looked away.

Sharona Saddler looked without warmth at Hector.

"So," he said. "You and your fiancé that got you the earrings- when's the date?"

"June."

"Going to do it over at St. Agnes?"

"We're Lutherans," she said. "I doubt it."

"I don't think the Lutheran tipped off the bishop," Hector said when they got outside. "More like old Grothke shredded those letters, or maybe thought they were toast and ate them for breakfast."

"I was thinking along those lines, too."

"Maybe talk to him somewhere else, away from Junior and earrings. See what he has to say."

"You don't think Junior's the fiancé, do you?" asked McMichael. "He doesn't wear a ring. I never heard of him being married. Sharona has her nice big diamond."

Hector frowned. "He's sixty and she looks thirty. Junior's about as cute as a stool sample."

The cold east wind nudged McMichael and Hector down Broadway under a blackening winter sky. Workers spilled from the buildings onto the sidewalks, hands at the collars of their coats, leaning homeward. McMichael felt the chill in his legs.

By the time they got to the car he had told Hector about the pizza lunch with Johnny and Sally Rainwater.

"Man," said Hector. "Johnny okay?"

"He's more rattled by Sally than by almost getting killed."

"He's at a sensitive age, Mick."

Hector, a childless bachelor, never seemed to tire of giving McMichael child-rearing tips. "And you ought to stay about a hundred miles away from that woman. Until this case is wrapped."