No specific destination or duration was mentioned, only that he would be sojourning in a warmer clime for as long as it took to get those batteries recharged.
29
Cardinal Mark Boyle lived in what was by just about anyone’s standards a mansion. It was located in Palmer Woods, a square mile enclave just inside Detroit’s northern limits. Mansions are plentiful in this luxurious section, but the former residence of Bishop Michael Gallagher and Cardinal Edward Mooney and present residence of Cardinal Boyle well overshadowed its surrounding homes.
Traditionally, the neighborhood is quiet, elegant. But with the market value of these homes, one could expect little else.
It was quiet on this beautiful winter evening. Clear skies, lots of stars; only a quarter moon that shed little light. The drowsy dark was pierced only occasionally by a streetlight.
The streets were empty, except for the occasional car that would creep over the slippery pavement and turn in at a driveway to be tucked into its garage for the night.
One such vehicle, a late model black four-door Taurus, inched along the street, but did not turn in at any driveway. Instead, it circled the neighborhood as if the driver were on a sightseeing tour of the mansions. It drew no attention; one would have to have been watching the streets for some time and with concentration to note that the same car had passed not once but several times. And no one was paying that sort of attention.
Finally, the Taurus pulled to a stop on Balmoral. The driver got out of the car and opened the rear door. Out popped a Heinz 57 mutt with a stubby, furiously wagging tail; The man attached a lead to the pup’s collar, which was devoid of any identifying tags or license.
He set off at a normal pace, pausing only when the dog investigated a tree or a fire hydrant. To anyone who might have paid him any mind in the dim light, he was a neighborhood resident, home from a day of wheeling and dealing, walking his dog after dinner. The dog was a perfect pretext for strolling through the neighborhood.
Man and dog turned onto Wellesley Drive. Still no one on the streets. No cars going home anymore. Lights on in most of the houses, but recessed into the interior, perhaps the dining area.
There it was: the mansion by which its neighbors were measured.
The man did not break his pace, but proceeded until he was enveloped in shadow. There he stopped and unhooked the lead from the dog’s collar, stuffing the lead into his coat pocket.
Freed, the little dog pranced along happily, hoping to find a warm place to spend the night.
The man cautiously approached the mansion, careful to stay in the shadows. His black garb helped conceal him. He headed along the side of the huge house toward a room that showed a light from inside. He knew the room was a study.
Slowly he approached the lighted room. As far as he could tell, it was the only light on in the entire mansion. That was fitting. The occupant resided with no companion; the help lived in the distant interior. The occupant undoubtedly had finished dinner and was commencing an evening of reading and study before an early retirement.
The man studied the ground. There were no footprints. The sidewalk, as well as the walkways leading to and around the house, were totally cleared of snow. He had expected no less.
He drew nearer. The room lay behind lace-curtained French doors.
He stood looking into the room. He could not see clearly because of the filmy curtains, but he could make out the tall, slender, cassocked figure. This was the man he would kill. This was the man he had to kill.
His face was almost pressed against the door’s glass. Still he was unable to discern details clearly. The lighting was indirect-and there were those damned curtains.
From an inside coat pocket he drew a many-bladed knife. One of the blades was a glass cutter. He would effect entry through an adjoining room. But first, just on the off chance …
He tried the doorknob. It turned. Very, very careless. It certainly simplified his objective. But, very, very careless.
He opened the door quietly, just enough to step into the room. He closed the door behind him, again quietly, never taking his eyes off his target. Even in the dim light, no one could mistake the distinctive Cardinal-red of the wide cummerbund and zucchetto. The cassocked figure was standing at a table, his back to the intruder.
As the man took a cautious step, a board creaked.
“Hello, Quent. I’ve been expecting you.” The cassocked figure turned slowly.
The Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey gasped. His gasp was followed by another small sound of surprise. “Bob? Bob Koesler?” Jeffrey stepped in front of a large chair and lowered himself into it, burying his hands in his coat pockets as he sank into the upholstery.
His mouth hung ajar as he fought to conquer his astonishment. Koesler’s expression was both inquisitive and kindly as he Stood facing Jeffrey. The two men remained motionless, as if caught in one of television’s freeze-frames for several moments.
“How … how did you know?” Jeffrey stammered finally. “Was it the clue I gave you? Did you catch my hint?”
“Not right away, Quent.” Koesler sat back against the table. “It began at Archbishop Foley’s wake. A couple of the guys were talking about a lot of things: vacations, the Cardinal … and a party they were going to after the wake. They were going to play cards-poker. One of them complained that, with the out-of-towners who would be playing, the poker would be deadly serious and professional-no wild card games.”
Jeffrey nodded, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips.
“That was the seed,” Koesler said. “Later, I thought about the game I sat in on the other night. Young and Bash and you and I.
“Now, nobody in the diocese is more famed as a serious and professional poker player than you. And yet, one of the times it was your deal, you called one-eyed jacks wild.”
Jeffrey could not suppress a broad grin. Not unlike a teacher encouraging a pupil who was on the right track.
In fact, Jeffrey’s reaction was encouraging Koesler as he continued. “That also was the night you remarked that Church law held all the cards.
“Then I thought about how I tried to explain the administration of the Detroit archdiocese to a policeman, and I remembered the part the-at that time three-murder victims played in it.
“Larry Hoffer: the money man; in charge of most of the financial transactions in the diocese-in charge of ten departments with offices in the chancery.
“A ten.
“Sister Joan Donovan: Holding the highest rank of any woman in the diocese.
“Like … a queen.
“Archbishop Foley: Retired. The title of Cardinal being largely honorary, there is no one more powerful, outside of the Pope himself, than an archbishop. But this one had retired; was responsible for nothing, save himself. Once extremely powerful, now but a figurehead, powerless. Very much like the present function of most … kings.
“But I doubt anyone could have figured the connection without Father Bash. It wasn’t his title, job, or responsibilities. It was what the Korean War did to him. It took the vision in one of his eyes. Not only that, but Father Bash was thought by many-rightly or wrongly-to be a selfish, tricky person. In bygone days, he might well have been known as a knave. And knave is another name for the jack in playing cards. So, one could think of Cletus Bash as a one-eyed jack.
“So there we have it: a ten, a jack, a queen, and a king. Drawing to the only unbeatable hand in all of poker. Even if Church law does hold all the cards, nothing can beat a royal flush. Ten, jack, queen, king. All you lacked was the ace. The top card in the diocese, the Cardinal Archbishop that’s it, isn’t it, Quent?”
Jeffrey’s only response was a nod.
“Did you,” Koesler asked, “set up the two suspects-Carson and Stapleton?”