The lieutenant was lost in labyrinthine theories. He had been convinced that it was very possible-easy even-to dislike this Bishop Diego. The questions were: How many ways were there to do this, and how many people were involved in this dislike?
Father Carleson was one candidate. The interrogation at Ste. Anne’s rectory indicated that. Another possible candidate was this Father Bell. Quirt was following that.
Up to his metaphorical ears in bishops and priests and auxiliaries and pastors and threats to close parishes, Tully had given serious thought to seeking guidance through this ecclesiastical maze from good old Father Koesler. This priest had been of use in some previous investigations when things Catholic threatened to obscure clues.
Little did Tully know that Father Koesler had been virtually waiting by the phone for just such a call. As the day wore on, the priest was taking care of parochial duties, but in a semidistracted way. In the past, he had been reluctant to take time from his parish to become a resource for the police. But now in this matter, he was almost eager to participate.
He had come very close to being part of this case from its inception. It was he, for instance, who had accompanied Father Carleson to the door of Ste. Anne’s. If Carleson had invited him in, Koesler would have been there when Carleson discovered the body. And so, Koesler made it a point to tune in to the hourly newscasts. But each was the same as the previous: There was no progress to report. Nonetheless, Koesler stood ready.
Only, no one was calling.
In Tully’s mind there was no point in seeking Koesler’s assistance … not just yet, anyway. Quirt and his team were covering the “Catholic angle.” Meantime, Tully’s crew was mostly on the street, tracing leads and seeking informants.
Tully, along with Mangiapane, was checking into the incident at yesterday’s cocktail party where someone had ripped into Diego. The ruckus had been quieted quickly. But, occurring as it did only hours before Diego’s murder, it certainly was worth checking.
The peculiar expertise possessed by Koesler was needed neither on the street nor in Tully’s exploration.
Mangiapane and Tully had just left the downtown headquarters of Comerica Bank, where they had spoken with Harry Carson about the fracas at his residence.
Carson had been cooperative to a point. He readily revealed the identity of the man who had accosted Bishop Diego. Michael Shell, a lawyer, had lost no time in challenging the bishop. An attendant had taken Shell’s coat, and no sooner had his arms left the sleeves than he had charged Diego.
Carson had stepped between them before anything physical could happen. He insisted they repair to the den and straighten things out. Things did not level off in the den. Shell was on the muscle, and Carson, to protect the bishop, stepped between them again. It was then the bishop declared he was leaving. After the bishop had departed, Carson had had strong words with Shell; the altercation had come close to ruining the party. Shell, in a huff, then left Carson’s home. The party wound down and died.
What was the fuss about? Carson would rather not say. It was a personal matter that the police might better discuss with Mr. Shell.
Tully saw no point in pressing Carson further. If they had need of him, Carson would be there. Meanwhile, no better next stop than Shell’s Southfield office.
As Mangiapane took the Nine Mile exit from the Lodge, Tully became aware that the sergeant was talking about Angie Moore, a member of their squad.
“… so, since Angie was off duty and on her way home, she didn’t pay much attention at first. Then, after a while, she thought there was someone following her. So she made a bunch of quick turns and, sure enough, the guy stayed right on her tail.
“Well, she was real close to home. So she just drove into the driveway and turned off the engine. Then she took her gun out of her handbag and waited.
“The guy pulled in behind her, got out of his car, came up and opened her door. ‘Whattya say, Babe, wanna get it on?’
“And the next thing he knows, he’s looking down the barrel of her service resolver. ‘No, and I don’t think you do either.’
“So the guy starts mutterin’ and sputterin’ as he backs-he backs — down the drive to his car. And he takes off without even turnin’ his lights on.” Mangiapane paused for the expected laugh.
“She should’ve headed for the nearest precinct station,” Tully said soberly.
“Yeah, Zoo. She said that too. Only she just didn’t think of it.”
Drawn as he was to the image of the creep finding his prospective victim with a gun in her hand, Tully began to chuckle. Mangiapane joined in. “It is funny,” Tully admitted.
With that, they pulled into the small parking lot adjacent to the law offices of Shell, Shell and Brown. As they parked, Tully spotted a man entering a car. The man, carrying a briefcase, was obviously in a hurry. Tully thought he recognized the man from newspapers and TV.
As the man turned on the ignition he looked up to see two men standing directly in front of his Lincoln. The black man was holding up a police badge. The man hit the car’s window button.
“Michael Shell?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Lieutenant Tully, Detroit Homicide. This is Sergeant Mangiapane.”
“It’s about yesterday, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, look, I’m late getting downtown for a deposition-” Tully’s expression arrested Shell. “I know, I know: We can talk about it at headquarters or here. Okay.”
Shell’s office was of average size and, by anyone’s standards, grossly cluttered. In addition to a modest bookcase crammed with what appeared to be legal manuals, the room was filled with bric-a-brac, apparently souvenirs of past victories. It seemed unlikely Shell commemorated defeats.
After motioning them to a couple of upholstered chairs that were too large for what was left of this space, Shell picked up the phone. “Henry, will you cover my deps today?… well, as a matter of fact, right now. Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but something came up. No … no, Henry, that’s impossible. This is something I’ve got to- I’ve got to-take care of now … right now. And my client needs one of us for the deps. Okay, okay, Henry. Thanks; I owe you one.”
Shell took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then hung up. Tully took stock. Shell stood perhaps five-feet-six or — seven. Both his hair and his mustache were thick and dark. His glasses were near-Coke bottle bottoms. Overweight-lots of baby fat-about 210 to 220. Fast food on the run-but that was all the running he did. His own firm at a relatively early age. He lived for his work.
If Tully’s hypotheses proved true, he could extrapolate much of what went on in Shell’s life-at work and at home.
The scenario according to Tully: Shell was on his third marriage. Present wife blonde, a knockout, some thirty years younger. She has no children. He has two kids from his first wife, one from the second. Present wife knows where her ultimate well-being lies; she does not wander off on separate vacations. She supplies plenty of steamy, if brief, progeny-free sex. She tans at a studio. He is bright, totally aggressive, and has the utmost confidence in himself, especially if he can get past the judge and play to the jury. He works thirty-eight hours a day, spends most of his time seated, and eats whatever, whenever. If she plays her cards just exactly right, she’ll spend her golden years aboard an endless series of cruise ships while Mike tries to pass that Great Bar in the Sky.
Shell sat in his contour-fitted chair. From a desk drawer he took three candy bars. He offered two to his guests. They declined. Shell unwrapped one and bit into it.
So far, thought Tully, right on, dietetically.
“Coffee?” Shell’s guests declined. Shell poured himself a mug from a pot on a hot plate on a remote corner of his king-size desk. Eyebrows raised, he looked at the detectives. He knew, of course, why they were here. He also knew not to volunteer information. The conversational ball was, for the moment, in their court.