Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 110, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 673 & 674, September/October 1997

© 1997 by Jeremiah Healy

Congratulations to Jeremiah Healy on his 12th Shamus Award nomination. The Shamus, given by the Private Eye Writers of America, recognizes achievement in the field of “hardboiled” crime fiction. Mr. Healy’s novels and stories are not as hard-edged as those of some other P.I. writers hut his record of Shamus nominations and wins is phenominal. This year’s honor is for Invasion of Privacy (Pocket Books).

1.

Our Lady of Perpetual Light fit its setting like a lambskin glove. The church rose three stories in gray, pink, and blue fieldstone, the white steeple spiring above it visible for half a mile as I’d driven through the small business district of Meade, about fifteen miles southwest of Boston. From the driveway, I could see the office annex, two floors of the same stone and connected to the church, nestled against the autumn-fired oaks and maples. The trees stood at the edges of a macadam parking area that surrounded the buildings like a moat.

Over the telephone, Monsignor Joseph McNulty had told me on which side of the annex to park. Very specific directions they were, too, as though he felt it important for my car to be in just the right place. Leaving the Prelude in a diagonal, white-lined space, I could hear the dirge of organ music coming from the church to my left as I walked up to the heavy wooden entrance of the annex. Pushing a button mounted on the jamb produced a tinkling noise inside, like the sound of canticle bells I’d shaken as an altar boy.

When the door opened, a stubby man with bushy gray eyebrows looked out at me. He wore a priest’s reversed white collar, black shirt, and black pants. The shirt was short-sleeved despite the October air, the man’s arms pale and veined. His face was veined too, but many of the capillaries had burst, as though my host counted among his faithful the likes of Jim Beam and Jack Daniels.

“Monsignor McNulty?”

“Ah yes. And you’d be John Cuddy, then. Our private investigator.”

He didn’t phrase any of it as a question, his voice that combination of brogue and wheeze you hear in men his age, which I’d have put as near sixty.

I said, “Not yet, Monsignor.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I’m not your private investigator until you tell me what you want done, and I agree to try and do it.”

McNulty didn’t seem fazed. “Well, come in, come in.”

I followed him down a corridor that seemed to run the width of the annex, a door similar to the one I’d entered at the other end. A smaller hallway branched left toward the church itself.

McNulty turned into an office on the right, the air smelling of old pipes and old sweat. It reminded me again of my days as an altar boy, the priests not always that careful about laundering their robes and other vestments. The monsignor had a large wooden desk and one wall of exposed stone. His windows were arched rectangles, half the panes around the lead made of stained glass. One window gave a nice view of the parking area and my car in it. The room was hot, and I could understand why my host wore short sleeves.

McNulty noticed me looking at the baseboard heaters. “One of the parishioners installed them, gratis. Do a wonderful job of taking the chill off the stone, sometimes too wonderful. Sit, please.”

I took a visitor’s chair while McNulty turned himself sideways and went behind his desk. He used both hands on the arms of the desk chair to lower himself into it. “So. This being the first time my church has needed the services of a private investigator, I suppose I don’t know where to start. Money?”

“Why don’t we wait on my fee until after you tell me why you called me.”

McNulty nodded judiciously. “You honestly don’t know what happened here at the church last week.”

“I’ve been out of town for a while.”

A sigh. “Last Tuesday, it was. In the afternoon sometime. It’s still not...” The words seemed to come hard for him, and he turned to look out his window. “My other priest, Francis Riordan, was struck down and killed in his office across that corridor.”

During my trip, I’d heard a throwaway line on a radio news program about a priest being killed near Boston, but no details. “Monsignor, I’m sorry.”

Another nod. “Frank — he always preferred nicknames, Francis did, especially his own.”

My middle name being Francis, I could understand that. “Go on.”

“It happened sometime between lunch and dinner, because when he didn’t come to table that evening, I went to his office. He was lying there, his head in a pool of his own... blood.”

“The police have any suspects?”

“The police?” A grunted laugh. “I’m afraid not. They’ve already stereotyped this. ‘Crackhead who panicked.’ ”

“In Meade?”

McNulty shifted against his chair, making the leather squeak. “Frank Riordan was a fine man, Mr. Cuddy. And I mean a man, not one of those Nancy-boys the seminaries seem to be hatching these days.”

I’d never heard the expression, but McNulty flicked his wrist as he said it. I was beginning not to like him very much.

“No, Frank played football in college. Came to his vocation later than some, but for that, all the more sure of it.”

“Monsignor, what does this have to do with a drug addict attacking him here in Meade?”

McNulty fixed me with a baleful look. “Frank volunteered at St. Damian’s House. Do you know it?”

A place for disadvantaged kids in a tough part of Boston. “I know of it.”

“Yes, well. Frank thought the lads could do with a look at how the other half lives. So he persuaded Joyce Steinberg — the owner of the health club he belonged to out here — to sponsor a basketball tournament for them. Took a bunch of the boys on a tour of our church buildings as well. The police believe one or more of them came back to rob him.”

“Anything taken?”

“His little computer, one of those ‘notebook’ things, I think he called it. And his chalice.”

The goblet Father Riordan would have used to celebrate Mass. “Monsignor, were you here that afternoon?”

“Of Frank’s... death, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I was. Sitting right at this desk, going over some budgetary matters.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No, but these walls are thick.” Swiveling in his chair and pitching forward, McNulty slapped a palm against the exposed field-stone. “And following my directions, did you notice anything about the parking outside?”

I thought I saw what he meant. “That the lot winds around the church and annex.”

“Exactly. I was sitting here, but someone who knew Frank, and who knew the layout of the buildings here, could have come down the driveway, gone around the other side, and parked near Franks entrance on the backside of the annex. I wouldn’t have seen or heard them come in or go out.” Another glance to his window, or to the stained glass within it. “I know, because I didn’t that afternoon.”

“Have the police questioned the boys from St. Damian’s?”

“Oh, they tell me so. The chief here assures me that they’ve gone through the lot of them, one and all. Nothing.”

“Any other possibilities?”

“What?”

Things are usually what they appear to be, but I still asked the next question. “Aside from the burglary-gone-bad, could anyone else have had a reason to want Father Riordan dead?”

McNulty seemed shocked. “What are you saying? You never met the man. He was a saint, genuinely. A Renaissance man with a heart, Mr. Cuddy.”

“Then I don’t quite see what you want me to do.”

“Yes, well.” McNulty calmed down. “The truth is, I don’t know what you should do. It’s clear to me that the police have given up on Frank. They haven’t said that in so many words now, but they’ve implied as much.”

“Monsignor, the police have more resources than I do. If they’ve canvassed St. Damian’s, and you can’t give them any other leads, there’s not likely going to be some breakthrough because of me.”

McNulty frowned, a shrewd look on his booze-weathered face. “Is it the case you’ve no taste for, or the man trying to give it to you?”

Perceptive. “I don’t like taking money with no possibility of result.”

“Not what I’d call an answer, but I caught the look on your face when I said ‘Nancy-boy,’ so enough for now.” The man weighed something. “How about if you look into it for a few days? Just give me your opinion as to whether or not it makes sense to pursue.”

“I think I already have, Monsignor.”

McNulty showed me a sad smile. “My church has stood on this site for a hundred years, Mr. Cuddy.” Instead of slapping the exposed wall, he caressed it. “A round century of tragedy has touched this house of stone, but never so closely, or so deeply. I loved that boy like a father loves a son, and now somebody has taken him from me.”

McNulty’s eyes welled up, and he sniffed so hard it was nearly a snorting sound. “I owe it to Frank to have someone who’s sceptical — and who doesn’t much care for me — look into it. Someone whose opinion I can trust. And I feel I can trust you, Mr. Cuddy.”

Not liking the man was one thing, not feeling for him another. “I’d have to let the police know I was working for you.”

“Why? They told me I could even dispose of his effects, though God knows I haven’t had the courage to do that as yet.”

“It’s still an open homicide, Monsignor. I don’t have to get their permission. I just have to let them know somebody’s going to be out there, asking questions. They might also be able to help me.”

“You ever met the chief here, Smollett?”

“Once. I was hoping he might have retired by now.”

Very nearly a real smile from Monsignor Joseph McNulty. “Perhaps you’ll be able to push him on his way.”

2.

The only other time I’d been to the Meade police station, the chief s door had been newly painted. It now showed signs of wear, including scuff marks centered at the bottom where somebody seemed to have a habit of kicking it open. The uniform escorting me knocked.

“Yeah,” said a gravelly voice on the other side of the door.

I had to push hard to open it, the height of the carpeting in the office creating the problem. New carpeting. Solve one problem, create another.

The chief, sitting behind his desk, made no effort to get up. I didn’t expect he would. The old and worn nameplate on his blotter said SMOLLETT, no rank or first name.

“Cuddy. What do you want?”

“Can I sit?”

A wave of the hand to answer me and dismiss the uniform. Smollett’s nameplate had stood the test of time better than its owner. The knuckles on the hand were knobby from arthritis, the fingers starting to bend the wrong way.

I said, “I’m here about the Riordan killing.”

“We don’t have anything new on it.”

“How about a look at the folder?”

“Not a chance.”

“Why?”

“I’m supposed to help you and encourage every citizen’s not satisfied with our work to go out and hire private?”

Which would just create more work for him. “How about what everybody else knows anyway?”

An explosion of breath. “Look, Cuddy. Simple case. Some crackheads come calling, the good Father knows them, so he lets them in and gets whacked in the temple for his trouble. We didn’t find a weapon on the premises, so they came in knowing they were going to hit him. Christ, this Riordan did good deeds among them over at St. Damian’s. What the hell did he expect they’d do?”

“Monsignor McNulty tells me whoever did him got his chalice and a notebook computer. Anything else?”

“Not that we’re told. The punk fences the chalice, though, and he’s ours. Real identifiable, according to McNulty, gold with a heavy base.”

“They killed him, you’d think they’d dump the chalice and move the computer.”

“Maybe they will.”

“In which case, why bother to take the chalice at all?”

Smollett just stared at me.

“And,” I said, “if they’re going to mug him, why not around St. D’s instead of in Meade where they’d need transportation and kind of stand out?”

“Stand out? You kidding? Our own kids dress like they watch Colors on the VCR every night.”

“You talk with the people at St. Damian’s?”

“One of my detectives did, with a Boston cop as shotgun guard. Nobody knows anything, everybody alibis everybody else. All in bed after saying their prayers.”

“Riordan’s effects tell you anything?”

“What, you think the crackheads sent him a note in advance or something? ‘Hey, Padre-man, try to be in around three so Tyrone and me can axe you a question.’ ”

My day to let things pass. “Any objection to my going through Father Riordan’s things, then?”

“Be my guest. Have them bronzed, all I care.”

Another wave of the crabbed hand told me the interview was over.

Winding back through the brick-and-clapboard center of Meade, I saw what Smollett meant about dress code. Baggy athletic pants and oversized sweatshirts, baseball caps worn backward. Only there was a desperately casual note in the way the town’s teens wore the clothes and the colors. As though they were trying to be something they weren’t, but feared.

At the church annex, Monsignor McNulty took me to Father Riordan’s office. Same architecture, and for my money, better view, since it looked onto the oaks and maples in the back. It also was more utilitarian and modern, with a fax machine and computer printer to either side of a gap on top of the metal credenza behind the desk.

I walked toward the credenza and pointed at the gap, what looked like fingerprint powder still dusted onto it. “This where Father Riordan kept his computer?”

“When he wasn’t carrying it around in that thing.”

There was a black vinyl case with a shoulder strap slumped into the corner. Crossing to it, I bent down. A couple of small diskettes, pencils, pen, paper clips. The short version of a manual for the machine itself. No paper copies of anything.

Straightening up, I said, “Where would Father Riordan keep his chalice?”

“Generally in the sacristy, but sometimes here, when he’d clean it properly.”

I came back to the desk. “He have an appointment book?”

“Not that I know of. Frank had no head for figures, but a wonderful mind for events and responsibilities. A real people person.”

Usually from someone McNulty’s age that label would be sarcastic. No hint of it, though.

I pointed to a photo on the desktop. It showed the monsignor standing next to a husky man of thirty or so, winning smile under a craggily handsome brow and piercing eyes. Both wore Roman collars, the handsome man’s arm around McNulty’s shoulders. “Is that Father Riordan with you?”

“Yes.”

“Good likeness?”

“Taken less than a year past.”

There was a large, polished seashell next to the photo. In it were scattered coins, more paper clips, a matchbook, some tooth-chewed pencils, and a set of keys on a tag.

I picked up the keys. “These belong to him?”

“Yes.”

On the back of the key tag were handwritten numbers. 219-9256. “This number mean anything to you?”

McNulty squinted at it, angling his face for the light. “What, telephone, is it?”

“Probably.”

“No. Not one of our exchanges here in Meade, anyway.”

“Your area code’s five-oh-eight, right?”

“Right.”

“Can I use this phone?”

“Certainly.”

I punched in 219-9256. The nice lady with the atonal voice told me that my call could not be completed as dialed. I added “1” as a prefix, and tried again. Same message. Tried area code 617 for Boston, 401 for Rhode Island, and 603 for New Hampshire. Same each time.

Hanging up, I hefted the keys. “Can I take these with me?”

“I don’t see why not.”

The matchbook caught my eye. It showed York’s Tavern, with an address in Boston. Not far from St. Damian’s House, as a matter of fact. “You recognize this place?”

Another squint. “No, but Frank wasn’t above a beverage now and then.” A weak smile.

I didn’t get any smell of tobacco in the office. “You said Father Riordan belonged to a health club?”

“That’s right. Meade Health and Fitness, near Route 128.”

“He wasn’t a smoker, then.”

“Never. Wouldn’t even let me smoke my pipe in here. Why?”

“Probably nothing.” I pocketed the matchbook and the keys. “Can I take that photo, too?”

A frown. “Of Frank and me?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“I’d like to be able to show it to anybody I speak to.”

McNulty chewed on that. “Could you have it copied and returned to me?” A sheepish look. “I’m not sure I have another print.”

“Sure.”

As I slipped off the cardboard backing, the muted sound of organ music began throbbing through the wall. I realized I hadn’t heard it on this visit to Our Lady. “Who’s playing?”

“Theresa. Lovely, isn’t it?”

“Her last name?”

“T-U-G-L–I-O. I spell it because people want to pronounce the letters ‘Tug-lee-oh’ but she says it ‘Tool-ee-oh.’ ”

“Did Ms. Tuglio know Father Riordan?”

“Yes.” A welling in the eyes again. “I’m afraid his death has left no one untouched.”

I told Monsignor McNulty that I wanted to speak to Theresa Tuglio without him. The October sun was bright coming through the high windows, creating shafts of light and shadow, and even though I’d taken the short, inside corridor into the church itself, my eyes still took a moment to adjust. The calliope tubes of the organ soared up the altar’s rear wall. From the altar rail, I couldn’t see the person playing.

Moving slowly around the railing, I cleared a stout stone pillar. A woman of thirty or so sat on the organ bench, but just barely. Her hands slashed through the air at the keyboard while her dangling feet pumped pedals like a contestant in the Tour de France. Small-boned, her hair was drawn back and up into a bun, the cardigan sweater, skirt, and shoes sensible rather than stylish.

At a break in the chords, I said, “Ms. Tuglio?”

The woman jumped, hands off the keys and clasped in her lap, turning sideways in fright to face me.

“I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“Who are you?”

“John Cuddy. I didn’t see you when I came in.”

“You’re not supposed to.” A shy smile. “The organ itself is tucked away over here so the priest can cue me but the parishioners won’t notice me.”

Tuglio said the last part as though she were relieved by that. The index finger and thumb of her right hand traced a brass button on the cardigan, a script “T” on it and the other buttons as well. “Can I help you with something, Mr. Cuddy?”

“Monsignor McNulty has asked me to look into Father Riordan’s death.”

What animation had remained in Tuglio’s face from the organ-playing drained from it, and she closed her eyes. “It hurts just to think about Father that way.”

“Were you here the afternoon it happened?”

The eyes opened. “Yes. Playing. Practicing, I tell the Monsignor. But really just enjoying. That’s part of the tragedy. If I hadn’t been making so much noise, perhaps someone would have heard...” She shook her head. “But I love playing.” A hand swept up toward the rear of the altar. “My dad was a metalworker, like his father before him. My grandfather helped cast those pipes, and my dad maintained them.”

“Can you tell me anything at all about Father Riordan?”

A slow intake of breath. “A fine man. Sympathetic, empathetic. Everyone’s dream of a young priest.”

I got something else from Tuglio’s tone of voice. “Any recent changes? Depression, nervousness?”

“No. If anything, just the opposite. What was the word in... Oh yes, ‘ebullient.’ Father was generally in good spirits, but that Tuesday, and even the day before, he’d been excited, as though he’d just discovered the secret to life.” A pause. “I wish he’d shared it with me.”

Secret, or life, I thought. Then, from the look she gave me, maybe both. Reaching into my pocket, I took out Riordan’s keys. “Ms. Tuglio, do you recognize these?”

Her head canted a little. “A set of keys? No.”

“Monsignor McNulty said they were Father Riordan’s.”

“Then they must be.”

I turned over the tab. “Does this number mean anything to you?”

Tuglio read it, moving her lips. “No.”

I tried the matchbook. “Did Father Riordan ever mention this place to you?”

“York’s? No, but my brother has.”

“Your brother?”

“Anthony. He goes there sometimes, to get a better feel for what his kids have been through.”

“His kids?”

“The boys at St. Damian’s. He’s the executive director there.”

3.

It was a toss-up whether to start at York’s Tavern or St. Damian’s House. The tavern came up first, on a street with a closed mill and a limping steel-fabrication plant.

There was no parking lot for York’s, the cars just left half on the street, half on the sidewalk. Outside, the windows were diamond-shaped, too small to crawl through and covered by chicken-wire mesh in a hopeful attempt to block rocks. A short-circuiting neon beer sign hung inside the glass of one, the first and last letters of the brewer’s name cut off by the narrowness of the window itself.

The front door had three of the diamond windows. I looked inside before opening it. Nearly full, and mine would be the only jacket and tie. I went in anyway.

The conversation died a bit as I moved through the crowd to the bar, then picked up again when I signaled the keep for a beer. About forty, squat and balding, he brought a draft of the brand in the window. Reaching under the counter with his free hand, he dealt a coaster to land like a playing card just in front of my elbows, then raised two fingers in a victory sign as he set the mug on the coaster. I laid a ten on the bar, and he went to the register with it, coming hack with a five and three ones. As he arranged the change near my glass, I showed him the photo from Father Riordan’s desk.

The keep slung a towel over his right shoulder. “You a cop?”

“Private. Just want to know if you’ve seen either of these men in here.”

“The big one, yeah. Wouldn’t have thought he was a priest, though.”

“Why not?”

“He come through the door in a ski sweater, the other with him wearing this nice navy blazer. I was afraid they might draw a little action.”

“For what?”

“For dressing that way. The boys don’t like yuppies slumming around their watering hole.”

“Like me in this suit.”

“Yeah, and you could feel the boys reacting, couldn’t you?”

“But not starting anything.”

“You look like a cop. And besides, it’s early yet.”

“What time was it when these two were in here?”

“Early Monday night, last week. I remember account of they kept a table for the football game, then left in the fourth quarter. The other guy got kind of stiff, but the big guy watching the tube, I had the feeling he played somewhere.”

“He did. Can you describe the other guy?”

“More like a priest than your friend there, I didn’t know better.”

“Know better?”

“The other guy’s named Tuglio. Tall and skinny, comes in here from time to time. Kind of ‘researching’ us, I always thought. But he don’t usually get slammed, and he does a good job for the kids over to St. D’s, so I try and watch out for him.”

“With the clientele.”

“Yeah. Only one look at your big guy there, and I didn’t see anybody messing with them.”

“Because of the big guy’s size.”

“And the attitude, you know? Your priest there, he just carried himself right. A guy with a hard laugh, kind of on edge.”

“On edge?”

“Yeah, like he was excited about something, ready to play.” The keep looked at me. “Kind of guy could handle himself, he had to.”

I told the keep I appreciated his time and left the change on the bar.

“Thank you, June.”

The woman smiled and closed the door behind me as the man at the desk sneezed into a handkerchief. “Sorry, this cold. Believe me, you don’t want to shake hands, but Anthony Tuglio.”

“John Cuddy, Mr. Tuglio.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking into the death of Father Frank Riordan.”

Tuglio’s features drained of color the way his sister’s had of animation. Tall and skinny like the bartender had said, with black, fine hair combed across. His shirt looked pressed and his tie was snugged up to the collar button despite his cold. A tweed sports jacket hung from a hook over files stacked on a low cabinet.

Tuglio said, “Look, I don’t want to be rude.” Another pass with the handkerchief. “But your people have already gone through this place like Sherman’s army, assuming that one of my—”

“Not to interrupt, but I’m a private investigator, not a cop. Monsignor McNulty’s asked me to look into this for him.”

Tuglio seemed to process that. “Why?”

“He’s concerned that the police may have moved Father Riordan’s case to the back burner.”

A shake of the head, his sister’s mannerisms evident in him. “A priest is killed, and even that goes to the ‘back burner.’ ” Tuglio’s eyes seemed to wander. “My God.”

“Mr. Tuglio?”

He came back into focus. “Yes?”

“What can you tell me about Father Riordan?”

“Frank? Salt of the earth, a prince of the church. We’re not part of the archdiocese here at the House, but we get some funding and a lot of honorable mentions. Well, Frank Riordan put his time where his mouth was. Organized a basketball tournament for the boys, always interested in how they were doing in school. And we weren’t even in his parish.”

“I understand you saw him the night before he died?”

His sister’s shy smile. “Yes. We played telephone tag during the day, and when we finally connected, he said he wanted to have a drink, talk about something.”

“What was it?”

“I never really found out. This cold must have been sneaking up on me, because when he suggested York’s — it’s a tavern just down the street? — I said sure. Well, it’s kind of a rough place, but Frank didn’t seem to mind. We sat and watched the Monday night game and must have talked.”

“Must have?”

“Well, like I said, this cold was creeping up on me, I guess, because the beer really hit me. I remember Frank saying something about the prior weekend; what, I couldn’t tell you.”

“When did you leave York’s?”

“I’m not sure. I was so stiff, Frank had to drive me home.”

“You live here at St. Damian’s?”

“No. Over in West Roxbury. I usually leave my car at the apartment and take a bus to work.”

“So Father Riordan drove you home in his car.”

“Correct.”

“Could he have gone somewhere else after that?”

Tuglio thought about it. “I’d say not. I remember the game going to the fourth quarter at York’s, so it would have been pretty late.”

I took out the keys. “This number mean anything to you?”

Tuglio read it aloud. “No. No exchange I’ve ever heard of.”

“But a phone number.”

“What?”

“You figure it’s a phone number.”

“Written that way? What else could it be?”

Good point. “When was this basketball tournament?”

“That Saturday.”

“Two days before you had drinks with him at Yorks.”

“Yes. The health club woman out there — a Ms. Steinberg? — was very helpful, but said it had to be before the real season started, when her members were still interested more in outdoor tennis and televised football.”

“Can I speak to some of the boys who were in the tournament?”

Tuglio gave me a steady look. “Mr. Cuddy, Frank’s death has already upset them badly, and the police only made matters that much worse.”

“It might help me.”

He looked down. “All right, but please, be gentle with them.”

“Do my best.”

Tuglio nodded before sneezing again into the handkerchief.

4.

“Yo, man, how’s it going?”

DeVonne was a solid black kid, maybe thirteen, with the long, graceful arm muscles of an all-around athlete hanging loosely from the sleeves of a rapper’s T-shirt. DeVonne also wore an Oakland Raiders cap, reversed but slightly cockeyed, black vinyl warm-up pants, and scuffed Air Jordans. We sat across from each other in a small room at St. Damian’s that was just a cut above a police station interrogation cell.

“DeVonne, my name’s John Cuddy, and I’d like to ask you some questions about the basketball tournament you were in at the Meade Health and Fitness Club.”

“Not in, man. We won the mother.” A sly look. “You here about the holy man, right?”

“Right.”

“Take it to the bank, we didn’t have nothing to do with that dude getting chilled.”

“Why would I think you did?”

“Aw, come on, man. Who do you think you talking at? Russian mothers set off a nuke, we’d be the ones get the blame.”

“Tell me about the tournament, DeVonne.”

He crossed his arms, stretching out in the chair like it was a lounger. “Mr. T loads us on the bus—”

“Mr. Tuglio?”

“Yeah, man. That’s what we call the dude, like after Mr. T on The A-Team, account of the two mens couldn’t be no more different, you know what I’m saying?”

“Go on.”

“So, Mr. T, he loads us on the bus, and we ride on out there to the country, and he thinks we’re all like gonna be so impressed, we grow up and be good suburban executives. But the club was okay, this foxy chick owner give us sandwiches and stuff. Then we play the tournament.”

“Who else was there?”

“The other kids from here, some old priest, and this kind of stale chick, couldn’t take her eyes off the holy man got killed.”

“The other woman, you know who she was?”

“The stale chick? Heard your holy man call her Terry.”

Theresa Tuglio. “You hear anything else, DeVonne?”

“Holy man, he knew something about the game, account of he was coaching the other team we beat, and he had them playing good against us. Mr. T, he try to coach us, and we try not to hear him so he don’t mess up our rhythm, you know what I’m saying?”

“You like Father Riordan?”

A shrug. “He was okay. Acted a little funny sometimes.”

“Funny how?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know. Always grabbing at you, arm around the shoulder, trying to make you feel like he was your best friend. And I got to admit, for a white honky holy man, he did some good things.”

It was the first time DeVonne smiled in the time I’d been talking to him.

I wasn’t sure if Estevan had ever smiled. He was a slight, pale Latino kid, fifteen according to Anthony Tuglio, but I thought a ticket-taker at a movie theater might let him in for the under-twelve price. Black tie shoes, white socks, frayed dress shirt with the collar button fastened. Sitting like a West Point plebe at dinner, Estevan kept rubbing his thin wrists under the shirt cuffs.

“I don’t mean to make you nervous, Estevan.”

“I’m not.”

“Can you tell me about the basketball tournament?”

“We went out there. Everybody had to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Tuglio said Father had gone to a lot of troubles to get this chance for us, so everybody had to go and everybody had to play.”

“Father Riordan, you mean?”

Looking down at his shoes, Estevan nodded.

“Do you enjoy basketball?”

He shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Don’t like sports. Like books.”

“What kind of books?”

Estevan looked up. “Kind Father used to bring to me. All kinds.”

Something felt off with the boy. “Are you sorry about him being killed?”

Estevan looked down again, nodding.

“Can you tell me anything that might help find who killed him?”

“No.” He shivered and looked back up. “Can I go now?”

“Estevan—”

He got up and left, without turning back to me.

Kurt never stopped smiling. If you include grinning and leering.

“So, you want to know about the croaked priest, huh?”

I stared at the grinning blond kid, hair buzzed all around except for a short, braided pigtail at the back. Dressed in a riverboat shirt and jeans, he was maybe Estevan’s age, but as aggressive as the other boy was passive. “What can you tell me, Kurt?”

“Hey, not much. I don’t even know if Kurt’s my real name. Around here, Mr. T takes one look at you and puts you in the ‘proper place.’ ” Kurt said the last word with a lisping sound.

“You don’t like Mr. Tuglio?”

“I don’t like faggots. Old ones, young ones.” Kurt closed the top button of his riverboat shirt the way Estevan had worn his, then opened it again.

As I wondered how Kurt would get along with Monsignor McNulty, he leered. “Too bad this shirt doesn’t have a collar that turns, too.”

I stopped. “What do you mean?”

“Hey, forget it, all right?” Grinning again, Kurt began circling the tip of his index finger into his thumb pad. “It’s not like you’re paying me for all this, huh?”

Lovely boy. “Did Father Riordan ever approach you sexually?”

“Hey, like I said, forget it. I ain’t telling you nothing.”

“How about the basketball tournament, then?”

“What about it? Big surprise: the bro’s won.”

“DeVonne’s team.”

“Right. We could have beaten them, too, we didn’t have Es-te-van dragging us down.”

“How?”

“Your dead priest made everybody play, and Es-te-van’s worse than having nobody. Four on five, we’d have had a better chance.”

“You notice anything else about the tournament?”

“Notice?” Another leer. “Just the way this wannabe babe watched your croaked priest.”

“Who was that?”

“He called her Terry, I think. Yeah, Terry. I swear, you’d think she wet her pants every time he looked her way, much less talked to her. Ugly thing, too, and old. Probably lucky even a priest gave her anything.”

“Anything?”

Kurt made the leer harder. “You ever heard of the horizontal mambo? I think that’s what she wanted to dance with him.”

5.

I left the Prelude in the parking area of the Meade Health and Fitness Club and went through the main entrance. Nautilus and aerobics rooms visible in front of me, arrows and signs for locker rooms on the walls.

A striking woman wearing a long-sleeved designer jersey and spandex tights turned toward me from behind a low counter to my right. She was five-six or so and trying hard to look only thirty, with a mane of black curly hair and jangly earrings.

Out came a perky smile. “Hi, help you with a membership?”

“No, thanks. Ms. Steinberg?”

“Yes?”

“My name’s John Cuddy, and I’d just like to talk with you about something.”

The smile drooped. “Look, we’re pretty much full up with personal trainers right now.”

“I’m flattered, but it’s about Father Francis Riordan.”

The whole face drooped, showing her years. “What a way to spoil the day. Police?”

“Private investigator. Monsignor McNulty asked me to look into things for him.”

“How about some identification?”

I showed it to her.

“All right, come on in the office.” Steinberg motioned a guy in an identical jersey over to the counter, then inclined her head toward a doorway behind it.

Inside the office, Steinberg flopped down on a futuristic desk chair while I took one of the more staid visitor’s ones. “Okay,” she said, “what do you want to know?”

“Tell me about Frank Riordan.”

“Tell you about him. Adonis with a personality, that help? He was Jewish, I’d have tied him to a bed until...” She bit off the next phrase. “Sorry, that was just the way...” A wave of the hand, enough like Chief Smollett’s that I noticed it.

“How did the basketball tournament come about?”

“Talked me into it. Personality, charm, Frank had it all. I should have had my head shrunk for listening to him, but it was good for the heart. Seeing the kids, I mean, watching them feel important. And what did it cost me? Some food, some drinks, an afternoon of electricity for the lights and the scoreboard. Thanks to God no one got hurt, or the insurance company would have fried my...” Another bite.

“Ms. Steinberg—”

“Joyce.”

“Joyce, did anything happen during the tournament?”

“Happen? Happen. No, I just told you, we got through it without—”

“I don’t mean injuries. I mean, did Father Riordan seem different to you, anything like that?”

Steinberg put an elbow on the arm of her chair, cupping her chin in her hand. “Well, he seemed excited about the tournament.”

“Excited.”

“Yes, that everything went so well, everybody played, everybody had a good time. More so on Tuesday, if that’s possible.”

“Tuesday?”

“The day he got killed. He was here in the morning, to work out. Said, ‘Hi,’ seemed on top of the world.” Steinberg made a face. “That boss of his, though, the monsignor? He was kind of a wet blanket during the tournament, looked more worried than I was about the kids breaking something or getting hurt.”

“Was there anybody else involved?”

“Involved? Involved.” Steinberg nodded. “Yes, now that you mention it. There was this woman, kind of parched-looking, standing off to the side. I went up to her, see if she wanted something, and Frank called her over. ‘Terry,’ I think was how he called her.”

“And?”

“And she stayed by him most of the rest of the time. She had it bad for him.”

“Bad?”

“Bad, bad, bad. But I don’t think Frank really noticed.” Steinberg smiled at me, a little coy. “Lots of the really good ones don’t, you know.”

I took out the set of keys. “You recognize these?”

“What, keys? Keys are keys, right?”

“These belonged to Father Riordan.”

“So, it’s some surprise to you that Frank had keys?”

“How about this number on the tag?”

Steinberg looked at it. “Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Sure, I know what it stands for. Frank had no head for numbers.”

“And so?”

“And so, all the changes of clothes the man had to go through, I told him he could have one of his own. I tell you, though, the other—”

“One of his own what?”

“I’m telling you, all right? We got over nine hundred members here, I can’t have one for each, so there’s three hundred in the men’s and another hundred in the women’s — they don’t like to change as much in front of each other — but if word got out that Frank—”

“—had his own locker.”

Steinberg looked at me as if I were a very slow learner. “Of course, his own locker. Number 219.”

“And the other four numbers?”

“His combination. Right-nine, left-twenty-five, right-six. The man was just terrible with numbers, like I told you.”

“Ms. Steinberg—”

“Joyce, remember?”

“Joyce, can I see his locker?”

“Sure.” The coy smile. “Of course, I can’t come with you.”

At number 219, I spun the padlock’s dial a few times, then tried the combination. The hasp clicked ajar, so I pulled off the lock and opened the door.

Musty air of sweat and fresh tang of deodorant. T-shirt, gym shorts, jockstrap. And next to his running shoes, a red envelope the size of a birthday card, but somewhat heavier as I picked it up.

The envelope was addressed simply “T.T.,” and inside it was a card. The cover read, “Thank you...” and opening it, the greeting continued, “... For the Time of My Life!!!” After the signature, “Yours always, Frank,” was a P.S.: “The enclosed came off just ‘before,’ but I stuck it in my pocket and didn’t remember it till I was changing at the club. Can I help you stick it back on?”

I hefted the enclosure in the envelope. It was a bright brass button with a scripted “T” on it.

Just like the one on Theresa Tuglio’s cardigan sweater.

6.

Getting out of the Prelude, I could hear muted organ music coming from the church, so I went to it instead of the annex. Inside the doorway, deep chords pounded and bounced around the empty, cavernous space. Given the cover of sound, Theresa Tuglio again wasn’t aware of me approaching her.

I said, “Ms. Tuglio?”

She turned as she had the first time, startled, a different sweater on today, her hands clasped in her lap. “Mr. Cuddy? What is it?”

Reaching into my jacket pocket, I said, “There’s something here you ought to see. From Frank Riordan’s locker at the health club.”

I handed her just the envelope containing the card. She noticed the initials on the outside, then opened it and took out the card. Mouthing the words, she stopped, shook her head, and glanced down at the bottom. More shaking, then a bewildered look up at me. “That’s Father’s signature.”

“Yes. This was the ‘enclosure.’ ”

I held up the button.

“But...” Tuglio glanced down at her sweater, even though it didn’t have any buttons on it. “But I’m not missing any of mine.”

“Any of yours?”

“Yes. My dad made those for both... Oh. Oh, no.”

The expression on her face made me realize the same thing she did.

“What... what are you doing here?”

“The House said you were home sick today, Mr. Tuglio.”

We were on the third floor of a three-decker in West Roxbury. He sneezed into the handkerchief. “Yes, I’m afraid this is getting worse instead of better, so I thought I ought to stay here, try to beat it. Don’t know when the last time—”

“Can I come in?”

A hesitation, then, “Certainly.”

The living room was tastefully decorated. Furniture, prints on the wall, some small sculptures on end tables and mantel. Tuglio gestured toward an easy chair as he perched on the edge of a couch cushion. “How can I help you?”

“I should have seen it, Monsignor McNulty telling me Frank Riordan loved to use nicknames. That’d make you ‘Tony,’ right?”

Tuglio stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

Handing him the envelope and card, I palmed the button. As he read, I held out my fist, turning it up and opening my fingers.

Seeing the button, Tuglio closed his eyes, his head going left-right-left, slow motion. “Oh, Frank.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

Tuglio kept his eyes closed. “I could always sense something about Frank, a pent-up energy that verged on anger. I thought I knew what it was, and I was right. But just before his damned basketball tournament, I got the results back from a test.” Tuglio now looked up at me. “An anonymous test.”

I said, “Blood test.”

A tiny nod. “HIV-positive. I don’t know why it took me so long to tumble to it. I hadn’t been feeling well for a while, but you don’t want to know, not after you’ve had so many friends...”

Tuglio shook it off, spoke with more juice. “Anyway, Frank was on the edge of coming out, to himself, I guess, and he made certain... overtures during the tournament time we spent out at the health club. I agreed to meet him for a drink Monday night.” Tuglio looked away from me. “I was going to ask him about... try to get some advice, some guidance, but he was in such a buoyant mood, I couldn’t bring myself to bring it up.”

“So you two watched the football game at York’s.”

“And I got drunk, and Frank had to drive me home. I’m not... I’m not sure what happened how after that. Here, I mean. I do know we had... Well, one thing led to another. I swear to you, though, I never... I didn’t think about the possibility...” Tuglio’s voice trailed away.

“But the next day, you decided to tell him.”

“I had to, and I did. I drove to work that Tuesday morning because with the hangover, I was late as it was. At lunch, I slipped out of St. Damian’s and drove to Meade. From the driveway, I could hear Theresa practicing in the church itself, so I parked around back by Frank’s office in the annex. I went in; he seemed so glad to see me. He was... he was packing up, putting some things in a box on his desk.”

“Things like his chalice.”

Tuglio flinched. “Yes. I asked Frank what he was doing, and he said, ‘Getting started on a new life. Here.’ He showed me the draft of a letter he’d done on his computer. A letter of resignation, saying he’d decided to ‘follow his spirit elsewhere,’ with me.”

“I’m genuinely sorry, Mr. Tuglio.”

“Thank you.” A hesitation, then, “I tried to tell Frank slowly, indirectly, but it wasn’t working, and his face grew... Oh, it was like implying to him that he’d made a huge mistake, that Frank was wrong about ‘us.’ And I couldn’t stand that, so I told him flat out, that I... that he might have become... infected.”

“And what did Father Riordan do then?”

Tuglio brought the hand with the handkerchief up to his eyes.

“He went berserk, tried to choke me. I was bent over his desk, fading out of consciousness and scared, Oh God, I was so scared. I reached and felt something heavy and just swung it, to knock Frank off me. But I caught him hard above the ear, and the base of his chalice was so heavy, his eyes just rolled up into his head, and he just... went down...”

“So you had to take the chalice.”

“And the computer. I didn’t know his system, and anyway I couldn’t take a chance on what else he might have written. So I threw everything including the draft letter into the packing box and just got out of there.”

“Where’s the box now?”

“In the basement here. I have a storage area.”

I leaned forward. “How do you want to handle this?”

“My life’s as short or as long as it’s going to be, Mr. Cuddy. But I don’t think I can stand a trial. I’ll just—”

“Maybe there won’t be any prosecution.”

Tuglio searched my eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, the police have no suspects, including you. If I bring Father Riordan’s box back to the church, it’ll be up to Monsignor McNulty to do something about it.”

Tuglio was trying to process what I’d said. And meant. “Won’t the... That is, the police—”

“Will be coming or not, depending on what my client does. But I need for you to give me the box of Father Riordan’s things.”

Anthony Tuglio sat back on his couch, trying to decide what would make the rest of his life better. Or worse.

When Monsignor McNulty opened the annex door, I went through it, carrying the closed box in front of me.

“Mr. Cuddy, what’s going on?”

I moved into his office and set the box on the chair I’d used during my first visit there. “How do you mean?”

“Theresa was here not an hour ago. Beside herself, crying so hard I couldn’t make sense of her.”

“Better sit down, Monsignor.”

“And what’s all this?” he said, indicating the box.

“Please. Sit.”

He went around his desk and lowered himself into the seat.

I opened a flap of the box and with a handkerchief of my own, lifted out the chalice.

McNulty started out of his chair. “Frank’s...? It is, my God in Heaven, where—”

“Let me tell you.” And I did.

McNulty sagged halfway through, burying his face in his hands by the end. “No. No, Frank, no, no...”

“What do you want to do?”

“Do?” McNulty dropped his hands to the desktop. “I want the killer punished. Or I did. But this, this... abomination. It’s unbelievable.”

“I believe it, but you’re the client.”

McNulty seemed lost. “Meaning?”

“Meaning no matter how bad it looks or will sound, I think it was self-defense. And everything will come out. Or be whispered about via the media and word of mouth.”

“But, but I’ve never... What should I do?”

“Sleep on it. Call me tomorrow.”

Turning, I left the office and went through the annex door to the outside world. On my way, Monsignor Joseph McNulty had begun to cry, and I wasn’t sorry when the closing door sealed that sound within his house of stone.