Killing Orders (23 page)

Chapter 25 - Knight Takes Bishop

MURRAY GRUDGINGLY AGREED to run the story. “I’ll have to tell Gil the whole tale,” he warned me. Gil was the front page editor.

I explained the entire situation to him—Ajax, the Banco Ambrosiano, Corpus Christi.

Murray finished his beer and signaled to the waitress for another. Sal was busy behind the bar with commuting drinkers. “You know, it’s probably O’Faolin who backed away the FBI from the case.”

I nodded. “That’s what I think. Between Mrs. Paciorek and him, there’s enough money and power to strangle a dozen investigations. I’d like to get Derek out to the priory with me tomorrow, but he doesn’t listen to me at the best of times. Neither does Bobby. And today wasn’t the best of times.”

I’d spent a frustrating afternoon on the phone. I’d had a long talk with Bobby, in which he read me the riot act for not fingering Novick earlier. He refused to listen to my story. Refused to send men out to the priory to question the archbishop or Pelly. And was aghast at the accusation against Mrs. Paciorek. Bobby was a salt-of-the-earth Catholic; he wasn’t taking on a prince of the Church. Nor yet a princess.

Derek Hatfield was even less cooperative. A suggestion that he at least block O’Faolin’s departure for forty-eight hours was met with frosty contempt. As so often happened in my encounters with Derek, I ended the discussion with a rude remark. That is, I made a rude remark and he hung up. Same thing, really.

A conversation with Freeman Carter, my lawyer, was more fruitful. He was just as skeptical as Bobby and Derek, but at least he worked for me and promised to get some names—in exchange for a hundred and a quarter an hour.

“I’ll be at the priory,” Murray promised.

“No disrespect, but I’d like a dozen men with guns.”

“Just remember, Miss Warshawski: The pen is mightier than the pencil,” Murray said portentously.

I laughed reluctantly.

“We’ll tape it,” Murray promised. “And I’ll have someone there with a camera.”

“It’ll have to do. . . . And you’ll take Uncle Stefan home with you?”

Murray grimaced. “Only if you pay for the funeral when Lotty finds out what I’ve done.” He’d met Lotty enough times to know what her temper was like.

I looked at my watch and excused myself. It was close to six, the time I was to call back Freeman at his club before he left for a dinner meeting.

Sal let me use the phone in the cube she calls an office, a windowless room directly behind the bar with one-way glass overlooking the floor. Freeman was brisk, but brief. He gave me two names, Mrs. Paciorek’s attorney and her broker. And yes, the broker had handled a twelve-million-dollar transaction for Corpus Christi to buy Ajax shares.

I whistled to myself as Freeman hung up. Worth a hundred twenty-five dollars. I looked at my watch again. Time for one more call, this time to Ferrant, still at his Ajax office.

He sounded more tired than ever. “I talked to the board today and tried urging them to find my permanent replacement. They need someone managing the insurance operations, or those will go to hell and there won’t be anything left to take over. All my energy is going into meetings with legal eagles and financial wizards and I don’t have time to do the only thing I do well—broker insurance deals.”

“Roger, I think I may have a way out of the problem for you. I don’t want to tell you what it is, because you’d have to tell your partner and your board. It may not work, but if a lot of people know about it, it definitely won’t work.”

Roger turned this over. When he spoke again, his voice had more energy than I’d heard for some time. “Yes. You’re right. So I won’t press you . . . Could I see you tonight? Dinner maybe?”

“A very late dinner—say ten o’clock?”

That suited his schedule; he would be closeted with eagles and wizards for several hours yet. “Can I tell them we may have a break coming our way?”

“As long as you don’t tell them who you heard it from.”

When I got back to the table, Murray had left a brief note torn from his steno notebook informing me he was off to talk to Gil to try to make the last edition.

The one advantage the rented Toyota had over my little Omega was that its heater worked. January was sliding into February without any noticeable change in the weather. The thermometer had dropped below freezing New Year’s Eve and hadn’t climbed above it since. As I slid out of the underground garage and turned onto Lake Shore Drive, the car was already warm enough that I could take off my coat.

Exiting at Half Day Road, I wondered how safe it was to drive right up to the Pacioreks’ front door. What if Dr. Paciorek agreed with O’Faolin that I should be bumped off? It might save his wife’s reputation. What if O’Faolin knocked him out with a crucifix and shot me?

The doctor met me at the door, his face grave and pinched. He looked as though he hadn’t slept since I left him the night before. “Catherine and Xavier are in the family room. They don’t know you’re here—I didn’t think Xavier would stay if he knew you were coming.”

“Probably not.” I followed him down the familiar hallway into the familiar, hot living room.

Mrs. Paciorek sat, as usual, by the fire. O’Faolin had pulled a straight-backed chair up to the couch on which she sat. As Dr. Paciorek and I came in, they looked toward the door and let out simultaneous gasps.

O’Faolin was on his feet and coming toward the door. Paciorek put out an arm, strong through years of sawing people open, and propelled him back into the room.

“We need to talk.” His voice had recovered its firmness. “You and Catherine haven’t been saying anything to the point; I thought Victoria could help us out.”

O’Faolin gave me a look that made my stomach jump. Hatred and destruction. I tried to force down my own fury at the sight of him—the man who tried to get me blinded, who burned my apartment. Now was not the time to try to strangle him, but the urge was strong.

“Good evening, Archbishop. Good evening, Mrs. Paciorek.” I was pleased to hear my voice come out without a quaver. “Let’s talk about Ajax and Corpus Christi and Agnes.”

O’Faolin had himself back under control. “Topics about which I know very little, Miss Warshawski.”

The accentless voice was supercilious. “Xavier, I hope you have a confessor with a lot of pull.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, whether at my use of his first name or at the accusation. I couldn’t know.

“How dare you talk to the archbishop like that?” Mrs. Paciorek spat out.

“You know me, Catherine: brave enough to try anything. It all comes with practice, really.”

Dr. Paciorek held up his hands pleadingly. “Now that you’ve all insulted each other, could we get down to some real conversation? Victoria, you talked last night about the link

between Corpus Christi and Ajax. What evidence do you have?”

I fished in my purse for the greasy photocopy of Rául Diaz Figueredo’s letter to O’Faolin. “I guess what I really have is O’Faolin’s involvement in the Ajax takeover. You read Spanish, don’t you?”

The doctor nodded silently and I handed the photocopy across to him. He read it carefully, several times, then showed it to O’Faolin.

“So it
was
you!” he hissed.

I shrugged. “I don’t know what was me, but I do know this letter shows you being advised that Ajax was the best, if not easiest takeover target. You’ve got a billion dollars in Banco Ambrosiano assets sitting in Panama banks. You can’t use them—if you withdraw the money and start spending it, the Bank of Italy is going to come down on you like lions on an early Christian.

“So you remembered Michael Sindona and the Franklin National Bank and realized what you needed was a U.S. financial institution to launder money through. And an insurance company is better than a bank in lots of ways because you can play all these games with loss reserves and your life-company assets and nobody will really be able to tell. Figueredo got someone to check out the available stock companies. My guess is Ajax looked good because it’s in Chicago. The money boys are myopic when something happens outside New York City—it’ll take them longer to notice what’s going on. With me so far?”

Catherine had gone quite pale. Her mouth was set in a thin line. O’Faolin, however, was at ease, smiling contemptuously. “It’s a beautiful theory. But if a friend of mine points out that Ajax is a good takeover target, that is not illegal. And if I am taking it over, that, too, is not illegal, although where I would get such money is a good question. But so far as I know, I am not taking it over.”

He sank back in his chair, legs stretched out, ankles crossed.

“Alas for the venality of the human condition,” I tried a contemptuous smile myself, but suavity is not my long suit. “My attorney, Freeman Carter, spoke with yours this afternoon, Mrs. Paciorek. Freeman belongs to the same club as

Fuller Gibson and Fuller didn’t mind telling him who handles the brokerage business for the Paciorek Trust. And then it wasn’t too difficult getting verification of the note Agnes left for me: Corpus Christi used twelve million to buy Ajax shares in the name of the Wood-Sage Corporation.”

No one said anything for a minute. Mrs. Paciorek made a strangled little noise and fainted, falling over on the couch. Paciorek went to her side while O’Faolin got up and strolled toward the door. I stood in the doorway, blocking his path. He was half a foot taller than I and maybe forty pounds heavier, but I was twenty years younger.

He tried to shove me aside with his left arm. Since his weight was forward on that side, I grabbed the arm and pulled, sending him sprawling on his face into the hall. This small piece of violence unleashed the fury I’d been holding barely in check. Panting slightly, I waited for him to climb to his feet.

He got up, backing warily away from me. I laughed slightly. “Not scared are you, Xavier?” I curled my right fingers at the second joint, and came in with my left elbow to his diaphragm. He landed an inexpert blow on my shoulder, while I used my crooked fingers to push at his eyes. Holding the back of his head with my left hand I pushed up with the right while he shoved at me and kicked. Not a fighter.

“I might blind you. I might kill you. If you fight, you up the pressure.”

I felt an arm on my left shoulder, pulling, and shrugged it away, but it pulled more insistently. I came away, gasping for air, red rage swirling through my head. “Let go of me! Let go of me!”

“Victoria!” It was Dr. Paciorek. I felt a stinging on my face, realized he’d slapped me, and came slowly back to the marble hallway.

“He tried to blind me,” I panted. “He tried to burn me to death. He probably killed Agnes. You should have let me kill him.”

O’Faolin was white except for his eyes—the skin around them was scarlet from the pressure of my fingers. He straightened his clerical collar. “She’s mad, Thomas. Call the police.”

Paciorek let go of my arm and I leaned against the wall. As reality returned, I remembered the other part of my plan.

“Oh, yes. Stefan Herschel died tonight. That’s another crime that this prince of peace is responsible for.”

Paciorek frowned. “Who is Stefan Herschel?”

“He was an old man, a master engraver, who tried to interest Xavier here in buying a forged stock certificate. Xavier stole the certificate, but not before his buddy Walter Novick had stabbed the man. Walter is the man who was lying shot on your lawn last night. He gets around.”

“Is this true?” Paciorek demanded.

“This woman is a lunatic, Thomas. How can you believe what she says? The old man is dead, apparently, so how can you verify your story? All of this is hearsay, anyway: an old man dead; Corpus Christi buying Ajax shares; Figueredo writing about Ajax’s investment potential—how does that implicate me in a crime?”

Paciorek was pale. “Whether you are implicated or not, Catherine is. Thanks to you, it’s her money that funds Corpus Christi here in Chicago. And it’s that money that’s being used to buy Ajax stock. And now, maybe because she was looking into that, my oldest daughter is dead. O’Faolin, I hold you responsible. You got Catherine involved in all this.”

“For years you have insisted I was Catherine’s evil genius, her Rasputin.” O’Faolin was haughty. “So it is no surprise to me that you blame me now.”

He turned on his heel and left. Neither Paciorek nor I moved to stop him. Paciorek looked wearier than ever. “How much of that is true?”

“How much of what?” I said irritably. “Is Corpus Christi behind Wood-Sage? Yes, that’s true. And Wood-Sage behind the Ajax takeover bid? Yes, they filed Friday with the SEC. And Agnes killed because of looking into it? Never will be proved. Probable.”

“I need a drink,” he muttered. “Months go by and I have one glass of wine. Here I am drinking two days in a row.” He led me through the labyrinth to his study.

“How’s Catherine?”

“Catherine?” The name seemed to surprise him. “Oh, Catherine. She’s all right. Just shock. She doesn’t need me, in any event.” He looked in his liquor cupboard. “We finished the brandy last night, didn’t we? I have some whiskey. You drink Chivas?”

“You have Black Label?”

He pawed through the little cupboard. No Black Label. I accepted a Chivas and sat in the leather armchair.

“What about the old man? The engraver?”

I shrugged. “He’s dead. That makes O’Faolin an accessory, if Novick can make the identification stick. Trouble is, it won’t be in time. He’ll be on that plane to Rome tomorrow at ten. As long as he never comes back to Chicago, he’ll be home free.”

“And the Ajax takeover?” He finished the whiskey in a gulp and poured another. He offered the bottle to me, but I shook my head—I didn’t want to be drunk for the drive back to Chicago.

“I think I can stop that.”

“How?”

I shook my head. “It’s a small piece of SEC law. So small that Xavier probably never noticed it.”

“I see.” He finished his second drink and poured himself a third. There wasn’t any point in watching him get drunk. At the door I turned for a moment to look at him. He was staring into the bottom of the glass, but he sensed my departure. Without looking up, he said, “You say Agnes’s death will never be proved. But how sure are you?”