Vengeance Is Mine (18 page)

Archbishop Ciminski frowned. “It would be much too expensive for the ordinary home. Any type of chapel might have one. Parochial schools. Churches, of course. Perhaps even a local parish house. It's possible to buy a crucifix like this from just about any supplier that handles religious articles.”

“Have you received any report of a stolen crucifix?”

“No. I'll call around, of course. Joe, I want you to prepare a list of every Catholic facility in the area that might have a crucifix like this. Use our mailing list.”

“Yes, Your Excellency. I'll have it on your desk in the morning.”

Steve stood and shook the archbishop's hand again. “That's all I need for now, sir. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Of course.” The archbishop walked him to the door. “It sounds to me as if your killer is one of those religious nuts.”

Steve watched as Archbishop Ciminski's face turned suddenly pale.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

The archbishop swallowed with difficulty. He looked faint.

“Oh . . . no. It's just the idea of a crucifix being used for such a frightful purpose. It's a sacrilege!”

Joe was waiting to help Steve with his parka and usher him out. He promised to deliver a copy of the list to police headquarters in the morning and handed Steve a foil-wrapped package.

“We had turkey tonight. I thought perhaps you could use a few sandwiches. There's a bag of those chocolate chip cookies in there too.”

“Thanks, Joe.” Steve shook his hand. “Now that you mention it, I
am
a little hungry.”

 

 

The guard sounded disgruntled as he answered the phone, but he turned respectful immediately. The residence was completely dark. There had been no trouble of any sort tonight. No one had been in or out all evening.

Archbishop Ciminski thanked him and hung up the phone. The crucifix that Steve Radke had described matched the one he had purchased for Holy Rest last year. He was tempted to call Sister Kate right now to make sure that it was still there, but he hated to wake her in the middle of the night. It could wait until tomorrow. This whole thing was undoubtedly a very disturbing coincidence.

 

 

“Michele? I'm home,” Steve called as he let himself into the apartment. He was so tired he could barely move. He had to get some sleep right away.

A dim light was on in the living room, but there was no sound of a greeting. Steve tiptoed into the bedroom and stared at Michele and Pete. The little dog was snuggled next to Michele, sound asleep. Only his nose stuck out of the quilt that covered him. Steve lifted the gun from the trunk and moved it out of reach.

“Some watchdog you are.”

Steve whispered the words, but Pete's ears quivered. Then he was up, barking loudly.

“Don't panic, honey. It's me.” Steve grabbed Michele's hand as she reached out instinctively for the gun. “What did you do to my faithful watchdog? He didn't even blink when I came in.”

Michele sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then she hugged Steve tightly.

“I gave him a bath. It must have made him sleepy. I wasn't planning on it, but he jumped right into the tub with me.”

Steve grinned at Pete. “Better be careful, fella. I'm likely to get jealous.”

As soon as Steve began to take off his clothes, Pete leaped off the bed and headed for the living room. They heard him jump up on his beanbag bed and settle down for the night.

Michele laughed as Steve got into bed and turned out the light.

“That's what I like. A well-trained dog that knows his place.”

Steve rolled over and kissed her. She was warm and cuddly as she pressed up against him. All the worries of the day evaporated as he held her, and suddenly Steve wasn't a bit tired anymore.

“Pete doesn't know his place. He's just avoiding the waves we're going to make.”

CHAPTER 20

It was a little after nine in the morning, and Steve sat at Chief Schultz's desk, drinking his fourth cup of coffee. Michele had done it again this morning. French toast, crisp and hot with plenty of butter and warm syrup. Scrambled eggs with juicy little sausages. Chilled orange juice. She'd said it was frozen, but it had tasted like the freshly squeezed kind his mother used to make on Christmas mornings. And a pot of hot, strong black coffee. He'd never realized how much he'd hated instant coffee before.

Steve felt slightly guilty about enjoying himself so much with Michele. She'd moved in with him because of the murders, but he'd be a fool to let her move back to her own place when the case was closed. He was pretty sure Michele felt the same way, but the time never seemed right to talk about it. He'd given her his keys, and she'd put them on her personal key ring. Wouldn't she have kept them separate if she were intending to give them back?

There was no sense in sitting here trying to outguess Michele. It would be better to come right out and ask her. Steve picked up the phone to dial her number at the clinic, but he hung up before it could ring. This was the sort of thing he should ask her in person. Maybe he'd talk to her tonight, after the hockey game was over. They had to get things settled soon.

“Steve?” Carol tapped on his open door and came into the office. “There's a Father Joseph here to see you.”

“Good morning, Joe.” Steve went out to greet the young priest. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Oh, no, thank you. I just came to drop off this list. The locations in the immediate area are marked with an asterisk.”

“This must have taken you all night.” Steve scanned the list. There were more than a hundred addresses.

Joe laughed. “Actually it took only a few minutes. I ran a computer printout from our mailing list. We converted to data storage at the beginning of the year.”

After Joe had left, Steve sent Doug out to work on the list. Doug was turning into a fine detective. He'd come up with two college students who'd seen the bishop and the nun on the night of Brian's death. One of them, a Catholic coed from Sherburne Hall, had even noticed the crucifix. She had assumed that the Newman Center was having some sort of dedication, and she'd wanted to attend, but her boyfriend had talked her out of it.

Carol tapped on the door and came in with a foil-wrapped package. She grinned as she handed it to Steve.

“Father Joseph left this on my desk. A dozen blueberry muffins. I had mine already, and I sure wish they'd open a restaurant.”

 

 

It was almost noon in Los Angeles when Rollie Jackson glanced at his watch. The morning paper had promised another cloudless day in the high eighties, and Rollie knew from experience that it would be a good fifteen degrees hotter than that out here at LAX. He reached in his orange coverall pocket for the clean handkerchief his mother tucked there every morning, and mopped his face. Heat waves rose from the tarmac as he put the piggyback baggage truck into gear again and drove up to Gate 37.

Rollie grinned as the huge plane taxied down the runway. The red insignia on the side shimmered in the heat. Western Flight 407 was right on time. He'd be through with this pickup in half an hour, and then he could go to lunch. He just hoped they'd loaded the baggage right in Minneapolis. His job was easy when the jokers at the other end didn't screw him up.

A little boy in a window seat waved, and Rollie waved back. The passengers watching out the windows were all smiles. Rollie could understand why. He'd heard the temperature had dropped below zero last night in Minnesota. His mother's freezer was warmer than that.

Five minutes later more than half the baggage was on the truck. Since the baggage procedure was fully automated, all Rollie had to do was watch to make sure everything worked right. He was just deciding where to take his lunch date when he saw disaster appear at the top of the belt.

Rollie hit the shutoff, but it was too late. A big metal trunk twenty feet above his head slipped off the belt, taking a smaller bag with it. The trunk struck the tarmac with a resounding crunch. The lid popped open, and the contents scattered everywhere.

Rollie groaned and began to pick up the clothes. A broken bottle of Aqua Velva had soaked the passenger's topcoat. The airline would have to pay this claim. Rollie chased down a bathing suit and three pairs of rolled-up socks. He stooped to pick up a hideous Hawaiian sport shirt and stuffed everything back in the trunk. Then he hurried to take care of the other bag.

The smaller suitcase was relatively undamaged. Luckily it was the soft-sided kind. The zipper had come open, and that was about it. Rollie was about to zip it back up when he noticed that it was filled with a crumpled newspaper. Since it wasn't locked, Rollie figured he'd better inspect the contents to make sure nothing was broken.

It was a weird way to pack a suitcase. Rollie lifted out the balls of paper and felt something hard inside. He gasped as he uncovered a handgun.

“Damn!” Rollie swore loudly and went back to the cart for his radio. The rules were explicit about firearms, and he was willing to bet that this gun hadn't been declared. Now everything had to be halted until airport security arrived on the scene. The passengers would be late getting their luggage, and he'd spend his lunch hour answering questions.

The easy solution to his problem flashed through Rollie's mind. If he just zipped up the suitcase, no one would ever be the wiser. He'd be on time for his lunch date, and the passengers would be happy.

Rollie sighed as he picked up his radio and punched out the code for security assistance. He had to report it. You never knew when something like this might be important. So it shot the hell out of his lunch hour. So what? That sweet little fox at the Hertz booth would still be there tomorrow.

 

 

Sister Kate opened the door to the chapel for Archbishop Ciminski and switched on the lights. The archbishop had never visited on a Wednesday before, and he'd barely greeted the patients before he asked to see the chapel.

“The crucifix is still here, I see.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

Sister Kate kept her face carefully impassive. Where else would their crucifix be?

“Has this crucifix been moved at any time during the past week?”

“No, Your Excellency.”

This question was even stranger. There was no reason to move their crucifix. What in God's name was going on?

“Sister Kate, is there any possible way that a patient could leave Holy Rest at night and get back in again without being noticed?”

“No, Your Excellency. All the doors are secured at eight
P.M.
There are only three keys. I have one, the guard has one, and you have the third.”

“Yes, of course. I need your opinion, Sister Kate. Do you think Bishop Donahue is happy here at Holy Rest?”

Sister Kate couldn't help raising her eyebrows slightly. It was wrong of her to think it, and she'd have to confess her sin at the first opportunity, but Archbishop Ciminski was acting more peculiar than some of her patients.

“I believe he is, Your Excellency. His therapy is progressing nicely. I've sent the reports.”

“Hmmm. Well, thank you for your help, Sister Kate.”

That did it. Archbishop Ciminski was going to leave without telling her what all this was about. Sister Kate threw thousands of years of precedence out the window as she grabbed the archbishop's sleeve.

“Wait! You can't leave without telling me what's going on.”

Archbishop Ciminski looked down at Sister Kate in surprise. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

“Ah, Sister Kate, I apologize. Perhaps the dissident sisters
do
have a point. I certainly didn't intend to keep you in the dark.”

Sister Kate was so relieved she sat right down in one of the small pews. It was a miracle that Archbishop Ciminski wasn't angry with her impertinence.

“You've heard about the murders, of course?”

Sister Kate nodded.

“Steve Radke came to see me last night. He's managed to identify the murder weapon. It's a crucifix, the size of the one here at Holy Rest.”

“Mercy!” Sister Kate looked up at the crucifix and crossed herself.

“He also claims that a bishop and a nun were seen in the vicinity when Brian Nordstrom was murdered. He suspects that they're the killers.”

Sister Kate was speechless for a moment. She could barely believe she'd heard His Excellency correctly. She swallowed hard and stared up at the archbishop.

“And—and you thought that Bishop Donahue—”

Archbishop Ciminski nodded. “I'm ashamed to admit it, but I did have my doubts. Perhaps I'd better stop watching that Father Brown series on the Public Broadcasting System. It doesn't always work out when a man of the cloth tries to play detective.”

“Oh, Your Excellency.” Sister Kate laughed. “Would you like to see Bishop Donahue to put your mind to rest? I think he's up in the computer room, playing a game with the major.”

“First I'd like a cup of your delicious tea, Sister Kate. Then I'll find Bishop Donahue, poor man. I feel terribly guilty for suspecting him.”

Sister Kate left the chapel door open as they walked out into the hallway. If she had closed it, she would have seen Bishop Donahue standing there. His face was set in grim lines, and there was determination in his step as he went up the stairs. God had been guiding his actions when he'd failed to capture the Black Queen last night. Now it was still his move, and he was in a perfect position to put the Black King in check. No one but the Black King had the power to twist the archbishop's mind, and at last Bishop Donahue knew who he was. Tonight he would win the game and defeat Satan by destroying Steven Radke.

Michele was sitting at her desk when Carol called. Her third appointment of the day had canceled, and it looked as if this one was a no-show. People might attend WinterGame on Margaret's buses, but they were still afraid to go out in their cars alone.

“It's over, Michele! They got 'em.”

“What?”

“Two men, dressed up like Catholic priests. They took a flight from Minneapolis to Los Angeles, and the airport police picked them up when they got off the plane. We just found out they're wanted for five other murders, not counting the four here in St. Cloud.”

“What a relief!” Michele sighed deeply. “That's wonderful news, Carol. How's Steve? Ecstatic, I'll bet.”

“Well . . . just a second. I want to shut this door.” There was a pause, and then Carol came back on the line. “Of course, Steve's glad that the killers are behind bars, but—this is just between you and me, Michele—I think Steve's a little disappointed he didn't wrap it up himself. Do you know what I mean?”

“I know exactly what you mean. Thanks for telling me, Carol. Is Steve there now?”

“No, he's at the studio, taping a news release for Margaret. Do you want him to call you when he gets back?”

“No. I'll be leaving here in just a few minutes. Just tell him . . . I don't know. What do you think I should tell him?”

“How about ‘I love you'? That ought to cheer him up.”

Michele laughed. “You're right. Leave a note on his desk. Oh, and Carol? Where's the best place on the mall to buy a sexy negligee?”

It was Carol's turn to laugh. “You could try Herberger's or Vogue, I guess. I'm just an old married lady, Michele. I sleep in one of Jim's sweatshirts.”

Michele hung up the phone and got her coat. She had things to do. It was a good thing Steve had given her his keys. She'd pick up a bottle of champagne and put it in his refrigerator to chill, along with some kind of hors d'oeuvre. Then she'd buy the sexiest nightgown in downtown St. Cloud. She'd leave the hockey game early tonight and be there, dressed and waiting when Steve came home. If that didn't make him forget his disappointment, nothing could.

 

 

Steve had been cautious and factual in his interview with Margaret, but Carol said the whole town was buzzing anyway. The people were sure that the two men apprehended in Los Angeles were the St. Cloud killers. They wanted to believe it so badly no one was waiting for Steve's final confirmation.

Prior to the interview, Steve had spent an hour going over the facts. Margaret had told him that a nun had knocked on her door late last night. Thank God Margaret had been too stubborn to answer the door before Doug Phillips got there. There was no doubt in Steve's mind that Margaret's late-night caller had been the nun who had been seen outside the Newman Center with the bishop. And Steve was sure that the bishop had been hiding in the darkness, just waiting for Margaret to open the door.