All the Dead Fathers (10 page)

That gave a shot of courage to the other two and they jumped down, and one of them, the one to her right as she faced them, made a show of slowly unbuckling his belt. “Yeah,” he said, “we're gonna have a party.”

“That's a shame,” she said. She took a step right at them and not one of them could resist the impulse to back up, though there was nowhere to go but against the edge of the tailgate. “Poor babies.”

She took another step, this time as though to go on past to her car. The man with the loosened belt moved in and grabbed at her her … but he was way too slow. In one sweeping motion she pulled the Colt .380 from her shoulder bag and raked the barrel across the side of his head. He howled, and with her forearm she shoved him hard against the crotch grabber. They both stumbled and went to their knees. The third man turned to go.

“Freeze!” she said.

He stopped and turned back to see the .380 pointed at his face. “Hey, c'mon,” he said, “we were just—”

“Flat out on the ground. All of you. On your faces. Now!” They all did what she said without a word, except for some weeping and moaning from the man she'd hit. “Don't move, not even a twitch.” She went to the truck and with the butt of the gun smashed out the taillights on both sides.

She heard the door to Bunko's swing open, and turned and saw the bartender she'd spoken to. He didn't say a word, and she didn't either. She doubted he was a big fan of these mopes, and a call to the cops about a fight on the premises wouldn't be a plus for a dive like this. She checked the Celica to make sure it had no flat tires, then went back and stood over the drunks. They hadn't moved.

“I have your plate number,” she said. “I can identify all of you. You shouldn't have touched me. That's sexual assault.”

“Hey, nobody touched you, bitch.” The crotch grabber again, still anxious to be
the man.

“Know what?” she said, and crouched beside him. “You moved.” She lifted her hand and slammed the butt of the gun down deep into his flank, below his ribs, into the kidney. When he got his breath back and settled down, she said, “You're the dumbest, so you get the prize. Sit up and take off your shoes and your jeans.”

“What?”

She tapped him on the head with the gun barrel. “Shoes and jeans.” He sat in the gravel and took them off. “And your shorts.” He did that, too, and rolled his shoes and shorts up inside his jeans when she told him to. She took them and made him lie facedown again. “Evidence,” she yelled across the lot to the bartenders. All three were looking out the door now. “Did you call the cops?”

“Cops?” the guy she'd spoken to called back. “Why? Is there some problem?”

“Not really. But if some creep with no pants comes looking for help,” she called, “you give him Detective Wardell's number. He'll have my report, about how one of them stripped down and tried to … well … maybe you saw it.”

“Maybe we didn't see anything.”

“Maybe not.”

Knowing they weren't about to call anyone, she turned and fired a shot into the sidewall of one of the pickup's oversized rear tires, then got into her car and drove away. She could feel the guy's wallet in his rolled-up jeans, and she tossed the whole bundle out into the weeds along the entrance ramp to I-90.

She might feel differently about it in the light of day, after a good long sleep. But right now? It seemed the most useful thing she'd accomplished in two weeks, and she felt pretty damn pleased with herself.

17.

Dugan took the call from Kirsten just before noon, then went out and told Mollie, his office manager, that he was taking the afternoon off.

“Uh-huh.” Mollie looked up from a desk loaded with papers, mostly bills to pay, and shook her head. “But you'll regret it.”

“Taking a few hours off on an occasional Wednesday afternoon isn't such a bad idea,” he said. “Some people take actual vacations.”

“I've heard rumors of that myself. Anyway, I didn't say it was a bad idea. I said you'll regret it.”

“Why?”

“Because you always
do.
You took an afternoon off … what?… two months ago? And Dan Miller called in a great case. A radiologist rear-ended by a utility truck, as I recall. The victim's family called from the E.R. and you weren't in, and by the time you called them back the next morning five lawyers had been to the hospital sweet-talking them, and you lost the case. So you regretted taking the afternoon off. Plus, Miller missed out on his package.”

Dugan's father had built up a stable of cops he used to pay—he called the payments “packages”—for referring clients to him, usually accident victims. Some, like Dan Miller, still referred clients after Dugan took over the firm when his father died, and Dugan still gave them their packages. That was against the ethical rules, unfortunately, although he had difficulty seeing it as much different from advertising, which was allowed. Nobody
had
to call Dugan, just because some cop suggested—

“Hel-lo-oh!” Mollie was waving her hand, trying to get his attention. “I said Miller hasn't sent us a case since then.”

“I know. And maybe that's not so bad.”

“Really?” Mollie's eyebrows lifted. “With all these bills to pay I should think you'd want every case you can get.”

“I do, but I also don't want to lose my license over—”

“Well, well, well,” Mollie interrupted, looking past Dugan and clearly wanting to cut him off, “look who's here.”

Dugan turned. It was Larry Candle, with the usual grin plastered across his pudgy face. “Hey, Doogie pal.”

“What've you been up to, Larry?”

“
Up
to? Just a morning of practicing law, my friend. Sat around the courtroom four hours, and when the clerk finally called the Crockett case I convinced Judge Raven to give us thirty more days to file a response to the defendant's bullshit motion. Now you can send the case out to some firm where the lawyers
like
to do research.”

“Jesus, Larry, you could have spent just
one
hour looking up a couple of cases and filed the response today.”

“Not my area of expertise. I do court work and settle cases. You acquire the clients and—”

“And settle cases,” Dugan said.

“And I work all day,” Mollie said, “while Larry goes to court and gossips, and you take half the day off.” Mollie loved to complain, but she also loved the fact that Dugan paid her more than even some lawyers made—because she was
worth
it to him.

Her phone rang, and she picked it up and waved them on their way. Larry followed Dugan into his office. “What's up?” he asked. “Taking the afternoon off?” Dugan sat at his desk and picked up the phone, but Larry stayed in the doorway. “That means Kirsten's up to something, right?”

“I don't know, Larry. Does it?”

“She's looking into those priest murders, right?”

“I don't know. Is she?” He waved the telephone receiver at Larry.

“You want me to get my ass outta here, right?”

“I'd like that,” Dugan said, “very much.”

*   *   *

Dugan knew better than to question Kirsten's instincts because they were right so damn often, but he still had a hard time agreeing that the hole in her tire and the
HERE I COME
postcard from two weeks ago were related. She started talking about that the minute he was inside the apartment.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “First things first. You're stressed out. You need a nap. Let's go.” He pulled her toward the hall to the bedroom.

“I don't need a nap, for God's sake.” She yanked her arm away. “What I need is—” She stopped. “Oh. You must mean a
nap
nap.”

“Yeah, I suppose you could call it that. Anyway, that's what
I
need. I've needed a …
nap
nap … ever since yesterday afternoon when you were nibbling on my
ear
ear.”

“Poor thing.” They started down the hall, she pulling
him
this time. “We better turn off the
phone
pho—”

“Please,” he said, and pressed his fingertips against her lips. “No more. Don't we have some chablis in the kitchen?”

“It's fume blanc,” she said. “But hurry.”

*   *   *

“So you think this guy was behind you all day.” It was two o'clock and Dugan sat at the kitchen table, savoring his corned beef and wondering, as always, whether anyone in the world but Kirsten ate radish sandwiches. “This, of course, after two weeks of doing nothing. But anyway, you think he follows you all the way to Rockford, just to poke a hole in a tire outside a Dunkin Donuts where police officers show up every five minutes.”

“I'm saying it feels that way to me,” she said. “I don't really know that he's been ‘doing nothing' the whole time, and if I'm right he didn't just poke a hole in a tire. What he did was announce that he's watching me, and that not only can he walk right up to—or even inside—my office and steal a piece of my mail, but he has the balls to puncture my tire while I'm sitting just a few feet away, in a public place, talking to a police officer.”

“But a detective, right? Wasn't this guy—Wardell, is it?—wasn't he in civilian clothes? So nobody would know he was—”

“His car was a clearly marked sheriff's patrol car, parked thirty feet from mine.”

“So the bottom line is…” He paused, knowing she didn't want to hear it. “Whoever this guy is, he scares you.”

“Not at all,” she said. “He
concerns
me.” Then she explained how she'd been threatened by three punks outside a bar after she talked to Wardell, and that she'd handled it—she didn't say how—and that that hadn't scared her, either.

“Congratulations,” he said, “but I'd swear you told me you were gonna ‘find a motel and crash' after you had the new tire put on.”

“That's what I intended to do, but I couldn't sleep. Anyway, the point is, even though I can handle these things, it doesn't make sense to ignore a … a stalker.”

“If there really
is
a—”

“I can't
prove
it, dammit. I just
feel
it.”

“Okay, okay.” He poured them each another mug of coffee and sat down again. “You know, I was just telling Mollie how long it's been since you and I took a vacation. We could go to … I don't know … how's Spain sound? Three weeks?”

“No way. First of all, you're already leaving this weekend for that trial seminar thing in—where is it?—Asheville? Second, if we went, we'd come back and—assuming there
is
a stalker—he'd still be here. Besides, this
other
wacko, this priest killer, he's not gonna go on vacation. By then he might have struck a fourth time—or a fifth. And sooner or later, you know, he'll be going after Michael.”

“Okay, no vacation,” he said, taking a pass on what he
wanted
to say about her damn uncle. “But I forgot about that trial workshop. I have to be there Friday night for orientation. Meanwhile, though, this is today, and Mollie graciously gave me the whole afternoon off. Maybe another
nap
nap?”

“I'm going to regret ever using that expression, I know,” she said. “But anyway, I have work to do. Did you see the morning news? Or the paper? Was there anything about the Regan murder?”

“To take them in order,” he said, “yes, yes, and not much.” He consulted an imaginary notebook he'd taken from his shirt pocket. “Here's what I got, Boss. Victim found dead yesterday morning in his apartment, second floor of a two-flat. By a woman who comes in to clean every two weeks.” He licked his thumb and turned an invisible page. “Talk of slashing and lots of blood. Word's out that the victim's a priest from that list. Neighbors pissed as hell at the building owners—who live on the first floor and are out of town—for renting to a pervert and putting the kids on the block in jeopardy. Victim often seen going in and out, but kept to himself. Police not speculating as to motive or suspects.” He grinned and closed the invisible notebook. “How'm I doing so far, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Admirable work, Archie,” she said. “But it appears that you've omitted something.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. What about all the goddamn clues?”

18.

Kirsten drove and headed north to the seminary. She liked having Dugan along. She always did. She enjoyed his wondering out loud whether she'd ever get a
real
job, and she enjoyed reminding him she'd listed him with the state as an employee of Wild Onion, Ltd., and telling him she
might
one day make him a partner. But Dugan never seriously questioned her decision to follow her own path, and she never seriously entertained the idea of a partner, or anyone she'd have to answer to.

They had reached the seminary campus, and the drive to Villa St. George, when Dugan asked, “Is this an officially sanctioned meeting?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean … do the authorities even
know
about you? Don't these priests have to ask permission or something to go out and hire someone like you?”

“Not as far as I know,” she said. “Anyway, Michael didn't say anything about anyone's permission. He just said he'd meet me and take me to his room to meet the others.”

“How many others?” Dugan asked.

“He's got four or five signed on,” she said. “Of the eighteen listed in the paper, ten of them live here. The other eight—well, five now, with three already dead—are living on their own somewhere.”

“And all eighteen of them have, at one time or another, sexually abused children. Jesus.”