Guilt

'My girlfriend, you fool. And Christina Carrera is a friend of hers. We were at a dinner party.'

'And my name came up?'

Wes shrugged. 'When we realized half the people there knew you. I said you weren't as bad as you appeared. I'm afraid I told them your Vietnam story.'

Dooher's face clouded for a moment. 'That story. I don't think it's come up once in the past ten years, and just the other day…' Dooher explained about Glitsky. 'So I showed him the picture. What was Christina's reaction to all this talk of me?'

'She didn't need your tragic background to think you were a hero. She's one of your fans. Obviously, someone has deluded her into thinking you are a sweet and gentle soul under that craggy exterior.'

'She's got a keen insight into human nature,' Dooher said. 'Maybe I'll give her a raise.'

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It wasn't exactly the Pope, but Glitsky's Polish was pretty ragged anyway. He figured the Archbishop was close enough.

Flaherty's Appointments Secretary was initially inclined to be coldly officious, but after Glitsky had explained that he needed a personal appointment with His Excellency to talk about the murder of one of his flock, the man had first gotten interested, then had thawed. He checked. Flaherty had a two o'clock, but his lunch had broken up early – he was in the office right now. Would Glitsky wait a moment?

Okay, the secretary had told him, if he could get down to the Chancery Office, the Archbishop would give him between when he arrived and his appointment, say twenty minutes if he flew.

He flew.

The windows were open and the sound of children playing down below drifted up to them.

They sat kitty-corner in wingchairs. The spartan office was chilly. Glitsky kept his jacket zipped. The rest of the room reinforced the theme of minimal creature comfort – Berber rug, flat-top desk, computer, the chairs, some photos of Flaherty with unknowns and kids and sports figures, a crucifix, a wall of books. With no pretension or sign of earthly power, it was nothing that Glitsky had expected.

Neither was the man himself. In his black pants, scuffed loafers, white socks, green and white striped dress shirt, the Archbishop might have been a high-school teacher. The gray eyes, though, were singular. Intelligence there, Glitsky thought, lots of it. The ability to calculate. To see through things.

But in spite of that, he didn't seem to be following Glitsky's line of questioning. 'Are you saying that Mark Dooher told you we had a meeting here on Monday a week ago?'

'He didn't say that, no.'

'Good. Because that didn't happen.'

'There was no meeting to talk about an increase in the settlement you were willing to give Mr Trang?'

'Yes, we had that meeting. But it was, it must have been three weeks ago. Maybe more. And we decided no. We were sticking with the six hundred thousand.'

Clearly, the settlement issue still rankled. But Flaherty wanted to go back.

'I'm curious. You said you talked to Mark, Mr Dooher, is that right? So if he didn't mention this meeting, who did?'

'Victor Trang's girlfriend. And his mother. Independently.' Glitsky felt he ought to explain a little further. 'I've been talking to people as they've been available, sir. Dooher was first.'

'Where did you even get that connection? Dooher to Trang?'

Flaherty might try to present a low profile, but he was used to command. Glitsky sat back, kept his voice low. 'Dooher called Missing Persons. Him, the girlfriend, the mother. That's where I started. And Dooher didn't volunteer anything about the meeting, but since that time I've heard about it from two sources. I'm trying to find out if it happened.'

'Why didn't you go back to Dooher?'

Now Glitsky leaned forward, made some eye contact. 'Excuse me, sir, but do you mind if I ask a couple of the questions? That's how we usually do this.'

The Archbishop let go with a deep-throated laugh, recovered, told Glitsky he was sorry, to go ahead. He'd shut up.

'So there was no meeting?'

'No. Not that Monday night. Not any night. As I said, we discussed the settlement terms at one of our regular daytime business meetings.'

Glitsky consulted the notes he'd taken with Lily Martin. 'You never discussed the figure of a million six hundred thousand.'

'No chance. Mark wouldn't even have brought me a figure like that. He knows that would have been insane. Hell, what we did offer – the six hundred - that was insane.'

'But Trang turned it down?'

The Archbishop shrugged. 'People are greedy, Sergeant. It's one of the cardinal sins and I bet you wouldn't be surprised how often it comes up.'

'So where was it going from there? The lawsuit?'

'I'd guess Mr Trang was going to amend the complaint and then file it. And lose.'

'That's what everybody seems to think. Which makes me wonder why he was going to do it.'

Another shrug. 'It was a power play, Sergeant, pure and simple. That's all it was. Mr Trang evidently thinks – thought – that we have infinitely deep pockets. He was, I gather, inexperienced in these matters, and evidently thought he could get more simply by holding out, putting the squeeze on a little tighter. But the suit itself had little merit.'

'And yet you were going to settle for six hundred thousand dollars?'

Flaherty broke a cold smile. He hesitated, uncrossed his legs, and leaned in toward Glitsky. 'In real life, Sergeant, an untrue accusation can be as damning as a conviction. We were willing to pay something to keep a lid on the accusation.'

'But not a million six?'

'No. Not even half that, as I've told you.'

'Did Dooher ever mention to you how he felt about Trang personally?'

'No.'

'Didn't like him or dislike him?'

'He was an adversary. I don't think they saw each other socially, if that's what you mean.' Flaherty sat back. 'You can't honestly think Mark Dooher could have had a hand in any of this, do you?'

Glitsky pointed a finger, toy-gun style, risking a faint smile. 'You're asking questions again, but the answer is I don't have a clue. Trang's death seems to have been good for the Archdiocese…'

Finally, a degree of frustration peeked through. 'Sergeant, we're in constant litigation about one thing or the other. One lawsuit, one scandal, more or less, just isn't going to make too much difference. And that's God's truth.'

Not that Glitsky necessarily bought it, but that direction wasn't taking him anywhere. 'All right, one last question. Do you have an appointments calendar I might glance at? See what you were doing that Monday night?'

This marked the obvious crossing of the Archbishop's threshold into active annoyance. Flaherty nodded curtly, stood up, and went to the door and out. In a moment he returned with a large black book. He carefully placed it open onto Glitsky's lap. 'That the day?'

'Yes, sir.' He looked down. 'Catholic Youth Organization convention. Do you remember that? Did it go on late?'

Flaherty was no longer Glitsky's friend, that was certain. But he answered civilly. 'It was at Asilomar, Sergeant, down in Pacific Grove. You know it? It's a hundred miles south of here.' He picked the book up and closed it firmly. 'And see the line here, to noon the next day. That means I spent the night.'

In one of those amazing coincidences, Glitsky thought, just then there was a knock on the door and the Appointments Secretary opened it, stuck his head in, and told Flaherty that his two o'clock had arrived.

Glitsky looked at his watch, closed his notebook, and stood up. The interview was over. He put out his hand and the Archbishop took it. 'Thank you, sir. You've been a big help.'

Flaherty's grip was a vice and his eyes had gone the color of cold steel. 'You know, Sergeant, I try not to stand upon it, but most people address me, at least, as "Father". Some even say "Your Excellency".'

Glitsky squeezed back. 'Thank you. I'll remember next time.'