Man Who Loved God

Fifteen

Barbara Ulrich, a bit numb from all that had happened today, sat in her living room. The blinds were closed. She wore only a half slip and a bra.

Frequently she wore nothing at home. It was part of a peculiar game she and her late husband had played. She would try to tempt him and he would resist temptation.

God! Now that she looked back on it, how sick they had been. The more Al lived in and for the bank, the more she had pulled their relationship apart.

Was he really gone? She had to keep reminding herself that he would not be coming home-ever again. The games were over.

The sound of the phone seemed unreal. Who would call her at a time like this? Telemarketing, probably. She reached over the arm of the couch and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” she said absently.

“Barbara, this is Marilyn … Marilyn Fradet.”

For a second, it didn’t register. “Oh … yes, Marilyn. What is it?”

“Did you hear the news? Do you have your radio or TV on?”

“No. What news?”

“They got Al’s killer!”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Turn on your TV. Channel Four. No, wait; it was a bulletin. It’s over now.”

“I can’t focus, Marilyn. What is this all about?”

Marilyn forced herself to speak calmly. “Babs, evidently the police got some leads and followed them. They led to a young man-I didn’t get the name-I was so surprised.

“Anyway, he was barricaded in a house on the east side. I guess he decided to shoot it out. It was more like suicide. The police had their sharpshooters there. They killed him. They think he must’ve been on drugs.”

Barbara made not a sound.

After a few moments of silence, Marilyn said, “I’m sorry if I bothered you with this call. I just thought you’d want to-that you ought to-know.”

Slowly, Barbara comprehended what Marilyn had said. The facts settled in her consciousness. “No. No, I’m not putting reality together very well just now. Was there anything else? I mean, was anyone else involved? Just one kid? No idea that he might’ve been hired to kill Al?”

The question puzzled Marilyn. “No, Babs … not that I heard. And I think I caught the entire bulletin.”

“Can you remember anything else at all? Anything more than you’ve told me?”

A hesitation. “Well … the pictures. They had film showing the guy charging out of this house. He looked crazy … wild. He had guns in both hands. He was firing, firing. And then he was shot, killed-dead. It was godawful. They shouldn’t show things like that. It was more violent than some of the movies. You’d think-”

“That was it? Nothing more?”

“Well, um … the news reporter-Mike Wendlahd, I think-was interviewing a policeman. The name was familiar. I couldn’t place ever meeting him. But he was the only one I saw being interviewed. He seemed to know everything that had gone on.”

“You can’t remember his name?”

“He was a lieutenant. A homicide detective. He was black. His name … his name was … Tully, I think. Yes, I’m sure that was it: Lieutenant Tully.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all I can think of, Babs. I’m sure they’ll repeat the news at eleven.”

“Yes. Well, thanks, Marilyn. It was good of you to call. I really appreciate it.”

“You sound so tired, dear. I think you ought to unplug the phone. Everybody and his brother will be calling you.”

“Good idea.”

As soon as they hung up, Barbara followed Marilyn’s advice and pulled the plug.

But she did not rest.

This was not playing out the way she had expected. Her version of Al’s death was that one of the VPs had contracted for the killing to keep Al from replacing him in the bank’s hierarchy. The only question was which VP.

The information that Marilyn had reported simply made no sense. Some punk kid? Acting on his own? Stoned senseless? That was what had ended Al’s life? A bank robbery that had no hope of success? One shot at point-blank range?

That was not the way anyone, especially Al, should exit this life.

She had to have more information! But where could it come from? Not from the police. They would be polite once they knew they were talking to the widow, but they wouldn’t open up. And you couldn’t trust the media; they would have little more than she herself could glean.

That name … the one that Marilyn had finally remembered. Lieutenant Tully. It had a familiar ring. Why? Why would the name be familiar?

Tully. Tully. Tull-of course! The priest she’d met at the award dinner. The one who Fred Margan had told her would be presiding at Al’s wake.

Yes, that was it: Father Tully!

Was this a coincidence? Could they be related? In either case, definitely a coincidence.

She plugged the phone back in. A few calls, several blind alleys, and then bull’s-eye. St. Joseph’s parish, downtown. Taking some other priest’s place for a week or two. Lots of other interesting things to tell, but no time. She had to place another call immediately.

Father Tully was in the final phase of developing an idea for his homily. For a moment, he considered letting the answering device take the call.

Then he asked himself, “Would good old Father Koesler answer his phone?” Tully didn’t even know Father Koesler well enough to give an educated guess at the answer. But from the brief time they’d spent together, plus all that he’d heard, he knew what his absentee pastor would do. Slowly he lifted the receiver. “St. Joseph’s.”

“I want to speak with a Father Tully.” There was eagerness in Barbara’s voice. “Is he in?”

“This is he.” Tully was taken aback. Outside of his local relatives and the occasional connection from Koesler hardly anyone had called for him.

“This is Barbara Ulrich. We met the other evening … you know, when you presented that award to Tom Adams. Do you remember me?

Did he ever!

“Yes, I remember,” he said, instantly collected. “Please accept my sincere condolences.”

Why would the widow call him? Well, Adams, through a spokesman, had asked him to say a few words at the funeral. Probably Adams had mentioned it to the widow and …

“Thanks,” she replied dispassionately. “What I’m calling about, Father, is what happened, I guess sometime this afternoon. The police caught-and killed-the kid who shot my husband. I know this is a long way from firsthand knowledge. But a friend called me a little while ago and said she’d seen a bulletin on TV. She said the person being interviewed was named Tully-Lieutenant Tully. Any relation?”

He smiled. He was so pleased to claim that relationship. “Yes. That was my brother.”

So far so good, thought Barbara. “By any chance did you talk to him about what happened?”

“Better than that. I was there.”

She felt that she’d hit the jackpot-or, more to the point, that she held all but one number to win the lottery. “Can you talk to me about it?” She hesitated, but her voice gave every indication that she intended to continue. “What I mean, Father, is that my husband left home this morning headed on a new direction in his life. And then-just to become another statistic. I’m finding it so hard to adjust to it all. Tell me I’m wrong in thinking there must be more to it than this.”

Father Tully didn’t quite know what to make of it. Every indication, everything he heard, all that he’d observed about the relationship between Al and Barbara Ulrich contradicted the concern she suddenly showed toward a husband with whom she had not gotten along-to say the very least.

Was it idle speculation? Genuine concern?

He felt uneasy. Shouldn’t she be calling the police? Shouldn’t she be talking to his brother? By her questions and her statements, she seemed to indicate she was not satisfied with the “official” findings in the case. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that one young crook could have caused all that damage. Well, in truth, he didn’t believe it either. And, bottom line, she was the widow, and thus deserving of special treatment.

In any case, she’d asked a direct question and, he thought, deserved an honest answer. “Mrs. Ulrich, I don’t know exactly what to tell you.” He pushed the books and notepad off his lap, stood and, holding the phone in one hand, began to pace. He frequently did that during lengthy and/or demanding phone conversations.

“I happened to be with Inspector Koznicki at police headquarters when he got notice that a man, who was suspected of being your husband’s killer, had barricaded himself in a house with a hostage.

“I went with the inspector-he’s the head of homicide-to the scene. There was indeed a young man holed up there. He had a woman hostage. The police negotiated as long as the young man let them. Then he came out shooting. The police had no choice.”

“And they think this kid did it all by himself?”

“They retrieved a gun the young man had used. It was the same caliber as the one that killed your husband.

“When I left my brother there-at the scene-it looked as if they had lots more work to do … things to check. But they seemed certain that this was the man who killed your husband.”

Silence.

Father Tully could think of nothing more to say. She had asked a direct question. He had answered it to the best of his limited knowledge.

She wasn’t sure where to go from here. “Look, Father, the other night at the dinner, if I remember correctly, you were sitting next to Joe-you know, Joel Groggins, Nancy’s husband? Well … I don’t know how to put this politely, but Joe has a habit of talking about things.”

Somehow she made it seem there was a character defect in Joel Groggins because he had talked all evening to the priest. Whereas Father Tully had been grateful for the conversation. If there were a character flaw on anyone’s part at the dinner, it surely belonged to her, one among others who had shut him out that evening. She had sat next to him through the dinner and never once even looked at him. This, the priest thought, was a. small insight into her character.

“Joe pretty much knows where all the skeletons are buried in our little bank. Being married to Nancy, he’d have to.”

She must be aware that Groggins had undoubtedly painted a rather lurid outline of her by no means housewifely personal life. But she couldn’t afford to be concerned about that right now. “What I’m interested in, Father, is whether Joe filled you in on our executive VPs-with regard to the spot they’d be in depending on who was chosen as the new bank manager.”

The priest almost replied in an uncontested affirmative. Groggins most assuredly had suggested that at least one VP had plenty to fear from whoever was named new manager. Tom Adams’s gratitude was going to cost somebody his job.

But Father Tully pulled up short. Mrs. Ulrich had used the word “depending.” That a VP would be displaced “depending” on which of the two candidates was selected.

“Well, I was given to understand that, yes, one of the VPs would have to be displaced after a successful branch bank management. But I thought that was the case whether the selection was your husband or Nancy Groggins. You just said that the VPs need fear only one contestant.”

“My husband, of course.” Her tone was one of genuine surprise. “Don’t tell me Joe is so far outside the loop that he thought his wife could be named an executive vice president! Or, what’s even harder to conceive, that Nancy didn’t know the score.”

“Are you sure, Mrs. Ulrich? It made sense to me the other night when Joel Groggins revealed this pecking order.

“This new branch of Adams Bank was a practical testimonial to the city of Detroit-an act of faith in a city that’s trying to get its act together. To emphasize this commitment, the branch is located in one of the toughest areas in a tough city. This act of faith would have to be duplicated by anyone named manager.

“I take it there were few applicants. But, of those who applied, top contenders were Nancy and your husband.

“Then the thinking was, again if I’m not mistaken, that once the branch was functioning nicely, whoever made a success of it as manager would be rewarded. The reward would be a step up. And that would be next to the top-an executive vice presidency.

“But since there are only three such positions, one present VP would have to go. And I don’t mind telling you, Mrs. Ulrich” — in his pique he released information that otherwise he probably wouldn’t have-“the front-runner, at least at the beginning of that award dinner, was not your husband.”

“Tom told you that?” Her tone was almost playful.

“Yes, he did. He asked that I give him my evaluation after the evening was over. And, to be frank, I agreed that Nancy was the more appropriate choice.”

“Well, she’s got it now. And the VPs are happy now. For the most part,” she added, almost meditatively.

“But why should there be any difference in the way Tom Adams would treat Al and Nancy?”

“As the French say, Vive la difference. The overlooked difference is due to Tom’s appreciation of men and women. Leaders are men, not women. Top movers and shakers are men, not women. Executive vice presidents are men, not women. At least according to Tom Adams’s Bible.”

“You’re saying …”

“I’m saying,” Barbara insisted, “that if Al had been named manager-which, in the end, he was-yes, someplace down the line he, not one of the bean counter vice presidents, would’ve been named an executive VP. And one of the sitting execs would probably have been eased out with a golden parachute.

“Now that Nancy’s manager of the new branch, she can look for a reward if she makes a go of it. I hope she doesn’t think it’s going to be the executive spot. Remember, Father: executive vice presidents are men, not women. That’s the Gospel-at least according to Tom Adams.”

“Then, Nancy … what?”

“Likely one of the run-of-the-mill vice presidencies. Or, perhaps her pick of any branch she wants to manage. Maybe a significant financial bonus. But not-I repeat, not a job reserved for men only.”

“You’re sure,” Father Tally persisted.

Barbara nodded decisively. “I’m sure,” she voiced. “Anybody who thought Tom Adams saw some sort of equality between Al and Nancy simply didn’t know the man’s machismo philosophy.”

Silence.

“This sheds a slightly different light on my thinking,” Father Tully admitted finally.

“How so?” Barbara very much wanted to explore his thoughts on her husband’s death. She thought she detected some parallel in their thinking.

The priest hesitated. Had he said too much? Then in a self-mocking tone, he said, “During that party, with all that Joel Groggins was telling me, I thought-no, this is silly …”

“No, it isn’t. Go on.”

“I thought … this situation has got to put an awful lot of pressure on the three men whose livelihood is threatened.” Again he hesitated.

“Did it occur to you,” she prompted, “that they-or one of them-might do … something to prevent this from happening?”

He chuckled self-consciously. “Yeah. It did. I think I must be reading too many mystery novels. These are fine upstanding citizens-”

“Upper class … above this sort of thing; it wouldn’t even enter their heads. Like that?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Don’t bet on it, Padre. They’re human like everyone else. If anything, they’ve got more of a stake in their future than most other people. They’re at a level in society that is very demanding. It’s tough to retain what they’ve achieved through their position-executive vice president-and through their income. A solid threat to their status would definitely not make them happy campers. So what do you think now, Father?”

A pause.

“I meant that the idea sort of occurred to me,” the priest said slowly. “It just popped in and out of my mind. You really think it could have happened? That would mean …” He hesitated again. Was he going too far? “… that one of those men would have paid Lamar Burt to kill your husband. I find that almost unimaginable.”

“It could have been more than one.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, what if two of the VPs-or even all three-got together and put up the money for a contract on Al. That would be a conspiracy, wouldn’t it?”

“To my mind, that would be incredible to the second or third power.”

“It’s just a thought.” Actually, Barbara was counting on there being no conspiracy across the board. No, those men would go their separate ways without consulting each other on delicate matters such as murder … and adultery. “Just something to keep in mind. And, as for murder being a practiced option for these guys, remember that they’re playing for the highest stakes they can imagine.”

“I suppose,” the priest agreed reluctantly. What was this woman doing? Where was this conversation leading?

“Now that we’ve gotten beyond the possibility that at least one of them might have been involved in my husband’s death, can you think of anything that was peculiar about the shooting of that kid this afternoon?”

“Peculiar?” He racked his brain. “N … no. Everything seemed to proceed in an ordinary way-given the fact that it was an extraordinary event. The young man was, in effect, trapped. He chose to possibly imitate God knows who in a movie, and go out with guns blazing. That was about the size of i-wait!” Father Tully suddenly recalled something.

“What is it?”

“Something I do remember. After the shooting this afternoon-when the police were tying up loose ends-one of the officers mentioned that they’d found a sum of cash-a stash, I believe he called it.”

“How much?” Her voice was eager.

“Almost eight thousand dollars.”

“Any one of the three-Jack, Lou, or Marty-could have afforded that without any pain. I’m sure that’s more than enough for a murder contract. What did the police say?”

“They said it probably represented money for or from dope dealing.”

“The police didn’t know about our three guys and their very solid motive.”

Father Tully’s pacing intensified. “Well, I guess they did. I informed my brother-”

“And he said — ”

“That I should stay out of police business.”

“And that was it!”

“That was it. And, as far as I was concerned, that really was it. You and I have talked about it just now. But this is the first time I’ve seriously thought of it since my brother’s warning.”

“They’re not even going to. consider it?”

“I think the way my brother put it, police procedure follows the obvious line of investigation and doesn’t run off after bizarre leads.” Father Tully realized that this entire conversation was not only fraught but possibly problematic.

“Mrs. Ulrich, I think you and I see the possibility of a contract killing. But I have to admit, there isn’t a shred of proof for this theory. I, for one, am convinced that the police definitely are not going to investigate this killing further unless some pretty strong evidence comes up.”

“Huh, huh, huh,” she almost grunted. Then, half to herself, “Maybe standard police procedure discourages going further with this investigation. But it doesn’t stop me.”

“Uh …” Father Tully hesitated, then shrugged. “It probably isn’t my place to say this, but don’t you think that what you’re proposing is sort of dangerous? What if you’re right? What if one of these men is responsible for your husband’s death? And what if you flush him out? You said it yourself: there are very high stakes here. Nobody wants to see another … act of violence.” He stopped short of using the word “murder.”

“Don’t worry about me.” It sounded as if she was almost laughing. “This is one cookie who can take care of herself.”

Father Tully stopped pacing and sat on the arm of his chair. “Mrs. Ulrich, really now, I understand that these executive VPs would be protective of their position-and conceivably fearful of losing it. But for me, this was just idle speculation-and I’ve discarded that notion now that the police have dropped the investigation. Look: without any prejudice, I think we’re dealing with exceptional officers in an excellent police department.” He paused, but she made no comment.

“In the brief time I’ve gotten to know my brother,” he continued after a moment, “all I’ve been able to observe, all I’ve heard about him, tells me I can be proud of him and confident in his ability. He heard me out when I suggested that one of the VPs could be responsible for your husband’s death. He listened to me with an open mind-of that I’m sure. And he dismissed the idea.” He paused again. Still no response from Mrs. Ulrich.

“To be honest,” he said reflectively, “I haven’t completely abandoned the theory. It keeps popping into my head from time to time. Especially since each of those VPs-or maybe just one of them-could have a very credible motive. But for all practical purposes, I no longer consider it seriously. My brother said it: leave police work to the police-and in this instance, I think he’s absolutely right.

“Look at it this way, Mrs. Ulrich: If you try to get involved in this thing, what can you accomplish? If you-if we-are wrong, you could make some powerful enemies. If you’re right, you could be exposing yourself to great danger: you’d be dealing with someone who has already paid for one killing and could do it again.

“So I urge you, Mrs. Ulrich: leave it alone. Leave it to the police.”

She could have terminated this call some minutes ago. She certainly didn’t need his peroration urging her to give up her quest for the perpetrator of her husband’s murder. But it was easier just to let him go on while she pondered her next step. It would probably be good to let the priest think he had talked her out of it. “Okay. Thanks for all your information and advice. I promise I’ll think this over very carefully. I won’t do anything foolish. Promise.”

Father Tully took the lightness of her tone to mean that she would let the matter lie. Buoyed by all the good he had just accomplished, he bade farewell and hung up.

He gathered the books and papers that had hit the floor at the start of his pacing. He began putting them in order. He had been so close to a concept for his homily. But then his intense involvement in the conversation with Mrs. Ulrich had all but completely derailed his earlier train of thought.

As he organized his references, he gave a final consideration to the death of Al Ulrich.

In his experience as a priest serving in one poor parish after another, Father Tully had known more than a few individuals who would have casually accepted a contract killing. He had met only a very few who could have or would have hired someone to do the job.

Had he just met three of the latter type?

Best he himself take to heart his brother’s admonition: leave police work to the police.

At last he was comfy again, his papers and notes gathered close Except that now he was having a difficult time concentrating on the sermon he was trying to put together.

Damn! If only she hadn’t called. Their conversation had insinuated a seemingly permanent distraction in his mind. Now he was trying to rid his consciousness of the vague bothersome thoughts. At last he pinpointed the shadowy misgiving: it was Barbara’s seeming conviction that no harm would come to Nancy Groggins in her position as manager of that new branch.

That conviction was predicated at the outset on the hypothesis that Al Ulrich had been killed by a hired gun … and that one of the VPs had done the hiring. Finally-and Barbara seemed alone in this-on the assertion that none of the VPs need any longer worry about being ousted from his position for the simple reason that Tom Adams would never raise a woman to his bank’s hierarchy.

If all this were true, then there would not be another killing. Nancy Groggins, while ineligible for a top executive position, would not be in any danger-other than from the street threats that everyone faced.

Father Tully dug into his homily, vowing to at least try to erase all else from his mind.

Barbara had repaired to her tub for a long, leisurely soak.

From the moment the suspicion of murder by contract had occurred to her, she had bought it without reservation. Now she felt confirmed because someone else shared the same suspicion.

The fact that that someone-Father Tully-had done his utmost to discourage her from, in effect, carrying out her own private investigation, did not deter her. She knew that in his heart the priest believed as she did. And that was more than enough for her.

Gently, she marshaled the bubbles that skimmed the surface of her bath.

Jack, Lou, and Martin: as long as they needn’t get their hands dirty or bloody, any one of them could easily afford to pay someone else to do it. The kid had had eight grand. It hadn’t taken the cops long to find it.

Until now Barbara had given no serious thought to Tom Adams’s being a suspect. But why not? He’d have as much if not more to fear from a public scandal when Al loudly disavowed paternity.

She had informed all of them-Jack, Lou, Martin, and Tom-that she was pregnant. Her husband was not the father. But he had to be dealt with.

Now it was quite possible that she could get more than abundant support for herself and her child from all four men. At first blush that might appear impossible to carry off. But hadn’t she structured affairs with all four while none of them was aware of the others?

Another idea had come to her during the conversation with Father Tully. These guys had been playing fast and loose as far as any sort of ethical behavior was concerned. Adultery with the wife of one of their co-workers. And now at least one of them, she was certain, was responsible for that co-worker’s death.

Could one-or all of them-be guilty of more?

The CEO and his executive officers were subject to few checks and balances. Might there be any other skeletons in their closets? If there were, mightn’t there be a basis for additional blackmail? For blackmail surely was what she actually planned.

In any case, her immediate plans were clear: one by one she would lead each of four men to conclude that he was the father of her unborn child. Failing their initial belief, she would convince each of them that he was the father.

That should result in a more than comfortable income for her. Actually, she would do well financially if even only one were convinced-especially if that one were Tom Adams. What, indeed, had she to fear? After all, one of them was the father. She couldn’t miss.

On top of that, she might very well uncover more dirt. Based on the track record of each of her lovers, with the possible exception of Tom Adams, they easily might be as dishonest in their business lives as they were in their private lives. Discreet yet determined questioning might uncover secrets they desperately wanted to keep hidden. This was new territory; she would have to proceed with caution.

It would require research and investigation. Fortunately, Al had been open with her, at least concerning the bank’s business operations. Based on that information and knowledge, she ought to be able to open up some cans of misconduct that could cause one or more of her paramours to squirm. She would start digging. This was a win/win situation; she couldn’t lose.

She completely disregarded Father Tully’s admonition.