Credible Threat, page 20
“Will you be seeing the archbishop?” Gavin asked.
Ali nodded. “I’m headed back to the hospital now.”
“Please tell him I said hello and that I’m wishing him the best.”
“I’ll do that,” Ali assured him.
She had silenced her phone once she headed into Gavin James’s office. She’d had several notification buzzes while they were talking, but she waited until she was back in her car in the garage before she looked at the screen. One had been a missed call from B. The other, also from B., was a two-word text—CALL ME!
She did. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“If Frigg were a person, I’d be waltzing her around a maypole right about now,” he declared.
“Why? What’s happened?”
“She saved our bacon. First she uncovered Dieter’s gambling debts. The bank had called his notes, and he was about to go bust.”
“I know about that,” Ali said aloud. “Stu told me earlier.”
“It turns out his gambling debts were just the tip of the iceberg. A&D is a family-held partnership, with Dieter at the helm and Albert semiretired. Frigg’s research uncovered the fact that Dieter has been hatching a secret buyout deal with one of their major competitors.”
“Was Albert aware of the pending sale?” Ali asked.
“Not until I told him,” B. replied. “As managing partner, Dieter was able to pay the ransomware demand out of company funds without having to answer to anyone else—with the money going to pay off his personal debts. Now that Albert knows what’s going on, the jig is up and all bets are off. As long as the ransomware money is immediately returned to company coffers, Albert is willing to cover Dieter’s gambling shortfall long enough to get the bank off his back.”
“How will Albert get repaid?” Ali asked.
“Believe me,” B. said, “one way or the other he’ll get his money if he has to take it out of Dieter’s hide.”
“What about the proposed sale?” Ali asked. “Will that still go through?”
“I doubt it, not once Dieter’s mismanagement comes to light—as it’s bound to if the other company does any kind of due diligence. What’s good for us is that Albert is officially coming out of retirement. From now on he’ll be running the show at A&D. The other company’s cybersecurity business is handled by one of our biggest competitors. For right now, as far as Albert Gunther is concerned, High Noon is golden.”
“So A&D’s cybersecurity business will stay with us?” Ali asked.
“And so will our reputation.”
“What a relief!” she breathed.
“What’s going on with you?” B. asked, abruptly changing the subject.
For the next several minutes, Ali brought him up to date. The eight-hour time difference meant it was close to midnight in Zurich, and B. was ready to hit the hay.
“Good work today,” Ali told him before hanging up. “Now, get some rest. It sounds like you really earned it.”
|CHAPTER 32|
Jack had concentrated so hard on not pacing or twitching in the interview room that he’d actually fallen fast asleep, with his head resting on his arms the way kids at school used to do when they came back in from lunch and teachers made them put their heads on their desks. He awakened abruptly and sat up when the door opened. The clock on the wall said 2:05, so more than an hour had passed since Detective Lasko had left the room.
The moment Jack saw the grim expression on the cop’s face, he knew that things had changed—for the worse. Lasko was carrying a clear plastic bag with the word EVIDENCE stamped on it in bright red letters. Inside were Jack’s new Skechers.
Without a word of greeting, the detective slammed the bag down on the table in front of Jack before sitting across from him. Pulling a small printed card from his pocket, the detective began reading Jack his rights.
A Miranda warning? Jack thought. What the hell?
“What’s going on?” he asked when the caution ended.
“Why don’t we take another crack at your telling me what you were doing last night?” Lasko growled. “That blackout bullshit isn’t going to cut it.”
Clearly Lasko’s previous kid-gloves treatment was a thing of the past.
“What’s changed?” Jack asked.
Lasko held up the bag with the shoes in it and shook it in Jack’s face. “This is what changed. The soles on these match the casts we took of footprints found in your clearing near the crime scene last night—the same clearing where we found the murder weapon.”
“So what?” Jack asked, trying to maintain a bit of bravado. “That’s where I hang out every day. Why wouldn’t my shoe prints be there?”
“But those are the only ones we found there, Jack. Nobody else but you was in that clearing last night.”
“Like I already told you,” Jack insisted, “I wasn’t there. I caught the bus home the way I always do, bought some booze, and drank it. That’s it. If you don’t believe me, talk to my roommates. They’ll tell you where I was.”
“We already tried that,” Lasko said. “I dispatched a pair of detectives to interview the people you live with as soon as I left here. They talked to a pair of guys named George Wooten and Tom Mather. Sound familiar?”
Jack nodded. “Sure,” he said. “They’re my roommates.”
“According to them, you stumbled into the RV drunk as a skunk at three o’clock in the morning. So maybe you did end up blacking out eventually, but I’m guessing that happened a lot later than you told us the first time around. You didn’t black out until after you got back from shooting the priest, so help yourself out here, Jack. Tell me what really happened. Did Father Andrew cut you off and tell you no more freebies? Did cutting into your panhandling proceeds make you mad? Is that why you went gunning for him?”
“I’m telling you I didn’t do that. Father Andrew was my friend.”
“Did you argue?”
“No.”
“By the way, the crime lab has located traces of DNA on one of the cartridges inside the murder weapon. Once we’re able to profile it, chances are it will lead right back to you.”
Jack’s head was swimming. “I need to take a leak,” he said.
“Fine,” Lasko replied. “Be my guest.”
Lasko escorted Jack down the hall to a single-stall restroom and then stationed himself against a wall next to the door to wait. Jack did need to pee, but not all that badly. What he really needed was to clear his head and think. Finished at the urinal, he washed his face with cold water and then stared at his bleary-eyed reflection in the mirror. Was it possible he really had done this? If so, why? He’d had no beef with Father Andrew, none at all. And he had no access to a gun either, so how could his DNA be found on a murder weapon? Unless someone had put it there—unless someone was framing him, but that made no sense either.
For several long minutes, Jack couldn’t bring himself to leave the restroom. It seemed likely that these were the last few breaths he would take as a free man. If he stopped talking and asked for a lawyer, Lasko would immediately place him under arrest. After that he’d have a court-appointed attorney, one who would probably be worse than useless. And even if he ended up with a court-appointed lawyer who managed to get the court to grant bail, Jack had no money to post it. No one he knew, with the possible exception of Jimmy, maybe, had any money at all. In other words, he would be stuck in the Maricopa County Jail until the case went to court, which could just as well be forever away. No matter how you sliced it, Jack Stoneman was toast.
|CHAPTER 33|
Rachel was happy. She had trotted out her womanly wiles with Dan Morgan, the owner of One and Done, and they had worked like a charm.
“I’ve finally gotten ahold of the paperwork for a protection order,” she had told him. “I’ll be filing it first thing next week.”
For months now, she had been crying on Dan’s shoulder, telling him what a tightwad her abusive husband was. At least the tightwad part was true.
“In situations like yours, getting a restraining order is often the most dangerous time,” Dan advised her sympathetically. “If things are going to go bad, that’s when it happens. Is there a chance he’ll get violent?”
Rachel sighed and did her best to look as though she was trying to hold back tears. That worked, too.
“Do you have a weapon?”
Rachel shook her head. In exchange for her engagement ring, she left the pawnshop forty-five minutes later with a replacement for Rich’s revolver—an off-the-books loaded Ruger LCP in her purse. Dan was nothing if not full-service. He just happened to have a drawerful of ammunition in his back room, which included a box of the .380 ammo the little Ruger called for.
“Have you ever done any shooting?” he asked as he loaded cartridges into the clip, showing her how in the process.
Not since last night, she thought. “Not lately,” she said. “Years ago I did some target practice with a twenty-two.”
“Firing an LCP is a lot different from firing one of those,” he told her, handing her the loaded weapon. “For one thing, this has a laser sight. All you have to do is point and shoot, but you need to be close to the target. If I were you, I’d head for the nearest shooting range and practice, in which case you’ll need to pick up some more ammunition.”
“Thank you so much,” she said, giving him a brushing peck on the cheek as she left. “I owe you big time!”
Twice during the day, wanting an update on the archbishop’s condition, she had used her burner phone in an attempt to log onto his homepage, only to be told it couldn’t be found. On the drive back home, she tuned into a local all-news channel on the radio. That was where she heard the unwelcome news that not only was Francis Gillespie still alive, but also his condition had been upgraded from critical to serious but stable. In other words, he would most likely live, but wasn’t that what she had expected? Wasn’t that why she was driving around with a loaded pistol in her purse? Her first attempt had failed, but the next one wouldn’t. And she had to make that happen before Rich, now emerged from his birdhouse stagnation, could turn her in to the cops. With that in mind, she headed for the hospital.
As she drove, it suddenly occurred to her that she wasn’t at all affected by the death of the other priest, Father O’Toole. Shouldn’t she be sorry about that? Had her preoccupation with David’s death finally sent her completely around the bend? Maybe she really was nuts. In that case, if the cops arrested her, maybe she could opt for an insanity plea. Maybe I’ll end up in a mental institution, she told herself. That way I won’t have to go to prison, and Rich can make those damned birdhouses to his heart’s content.
|CHAPTER 34|
Back at St. Gregory’s Hospital, Ali discovered that the crowd waiting outside the entrance had thinned considerably. Almost all the media vans and cameras had disappeared from the scene. If Francis Gillespie wasn’t on the verge of death, then the newsies had more urgent stories to attend to. There was still a small assembly of the faithful waiting there, including a number of priests and habit-wearing nuns. Several of those folks were obviously elderly, and someone in the hospital hierarchy had seen fit to send out a collection of folding chairs so they wouldn’t have to stand.
When Ali showed up at the reception desk and inquired after the location of Francis Gillespie’s room, she was told that information was unavailable. Seeing Sister Anselm’s handiwork as the cause of that security precaution, Ali texted the nun and was directed to Room 514, where she found Father Mike stationed in a chair next to the door.
“She’s inside,” he said.
Peeking in through the doorway, Ali saw the archbishop asleep in his bed, with Sister Anselm half dozing on a visitor’s chair next to him. Catching sight of Ali, the nun put her finger to her lips, signaling for silence, and then motioned for Ali to stay where she was.
“They just gave him more pain meds for his shoulder,” Sister Anselm said, joining Ali in the hall. “Are you able to stay for a while?”
“Of course,” Ali said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“With him asleep now, Father Mike has offered to drive me over to the residence. Father Daniel has invited Father Mike and me to stay there. I’ll shower and come right back. Father Mike is hoping to get some sleep. He’s been up since I called him last night.”
“Sure,” Ali said. “Whatever you need.”
“You’re prepared for any eventuality?” Sister Anselm asked.
Ali recognized that in a purportedly gun-free zone this kind of conversation probably called for a certain amount of subtlety. “Would I be here if I weren’t?” she replied. “You and Father Mike go ahead and do what you need to do. I’ll see to Archbishop Gillespie’s safety.”
“Good,” Sister Anselm said. “Now, come with me. The staff here is well aware of the existence of an ongoing threat, so they’re limiting visitors to authorized people only. Let me introduce you to the charge nurse so she knows you have my stamp of approval. Father Daniel advised me that a priest from Prescott, Father Winston, is on his way and has asked to be part of the archbishop’s security detail.”
“We don’t have his ETA, but he’s ex-military,” Father Mike explained. “I think he’ll make a great addition to the squad.”
Once Sister Anselm and Father Mike took their leave, Ali settled into the visitor chair, a complex recliner sort of thing that could be folded down into a makeshift bed for overnight stays. The TV set, on but muted, was tuned to some afternoon game show. Wanting up-to-the-minute news, Ali turned on her iPad, only to discover that the battery was down in the red zone. Locating a usable electrical outlet in the room was a challenging and surprisingly noisy process, but the archbishop didn’t stir.
Once logged in, she quickly found a news site with an article on Father Andrew’s shooting that had been updated only five minutes earlier.
SUSPECT IN CUSTODY IN DEADLY PRIEST SHOOTING ON LINCOLN DRIVE
Phoenix PD reports that a suspect has been taken into custody in regard to the shooting death of Father Andrew O’Toole on East Lincoln Drive last evening. Archbishop Francis Gillespie of the Phoenix Archdiocese was injured in the incident and remains hospitalized at this time.
Because the suspect hasn’t been charged, he has not been named, but sources close to the investigation not authorized to speak publicly suggest that he may be the panhandler who was often seen begging in close proximity to the archbishop’s residence.
At the time of the shooting, Father Andrew O’Toole, age 56, was at the wheel of a Lincoln Town Car with the archbishop traveling as a passenger. Once the shooting occurred, the vehicle plunged into traffic, colliding with a number of additional vehicles and injuring several occupants.…
Scanning the remainder of the article, Ali could see that it was a verbatim rehash of what had been published earlier. Only the first two paragraphs contained any new information. Was solving a high-profile case really so easy that the first person named as a possible suspect could be placed under arrest in what, in terms of homicide investigations, was little more than the blink of an eye?
* * *
Sometime later, Archbishop Gillespie awoke. “Where’s Sister Anselm?” he asked.
“She’ll be back,” Ali answered. “Father Mike took her to the residence so she could shower. By the way, according to the news, Phoenix PD has made an arrest.”
“Who?” the archbishop asked.
“The name hasn’t been released, but it’s evidently your friendly neighborhood panhandler.”
The archbishop shook his head. “That’s not right,” he said. “Father Andrew and that guy—I believe his name is Jack Stoneman—had a good relationship, a cordial relationship. You know as well as I do that what happened had nothing to do with Father Andrew and everything to do with me. I never spoke to Jack directly, but I remember Father Andrew telling me that the man didn’t own a vehicle—that he traveled from place to place strictly by bus. How could he possibly have commuted all over the archdiocese, especially on Sunday mornings, to deposit threatening notes in the collection plates?”
“So you don’t think this is over?” Ali asked.
“I do not.”
“That makes it four to one—you, Sister Anselm, Father Mike, and me against Detective Lasko. Make that five to one. I understand someone named Father Winston is coming down from Prescott to give us a hand in keeping an eye on you.”
“Did you know that Father Winston was the one who brought me that first note way back last summer?”
“I had no idea.”
Archbishop Gillespie lapsed into silence. For a time Ali thought he had fallen back asleep.
“Do you think the killer will try again?” he asked at last.
“Maybe,” Ali hedged. “There’s really no way to tell.”
“I think he will,” the archbishop asserted quietly. “The cops have the wrong man, Ali. Please promise me that you’ll keep looking for whoever sent those notes. With Father Andrew gone and that woman from Mesa injured, I can’t stand the idea of anyone else being hurt or killed.”
“I promise,” Ali said at once. “We’ll keep looking.”
Just then someone tapped on the doorframe. Ali looked up to see an unfamiliar priest standing there.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Of course, Father Winston,” Archbishop Gillespie said. “Come in. Ali, this is Father Winston. Father Winston, this is my friend Ali Reynolds.”
Father Winston, a handsome man in his late forties, held out a friendly hand bolstered by a warm smile. “Yes,” he said. “I believe someone named Father Mike mentioned that you’re another member of the security detail.”
Shaking his hand, Ali smiled back. “Guilty as charged,” she said.
Aware that the only guest chair in the room was the one she was using, Ali vacated it and headed for the door. “Why don’t I step outside and give you two a chance to visit?” she suggested.
She had barely settled into the chair recently occupied by Father Mike when her phone rang with a Phoenix area code but no caller ID. “Hello.”
