Sergeant Phil Mangiapane chattered as he drove. Lieutenant Alonzo Tully listened only sporadically.
The lieutenant was lost in labyrinthine theories. He had been convinced that it was very possible-easy even-to dislike this Bishop Diego. The questions were: How many ways were there to do this, and how many people were involved in this dislike?
Father Carleson was one candidate. The interrogation at Ste. Anne’s rectory indicated that. Another possible candidate was this Father Bell. Quirt was following that.
Up to his metaphorical ears in bishops and priests and auxiliaries and pastors and threats to close parishes, Tully had given serious thought to seeking guidance through this ecclesiastical maze from good old Father Koesler. This priest had been of use in some previous investigations when things Catholic threatened to obscure clues.
Little did Tully know that Father Koesler had been virtually waiting by the phone for just such a call. As the day wore on, the priest was taking care of parochial duties, but in a semidistracted way. In the past, he had been reluctant to take time from his parish to become a resource for the police. But now in this matter, he was almost eager to participate.
He had come very close to being part of this case from its inception. It was he, for instance, who had accompanied Father Carleson to the door of Ste. Anne’s. If Carleson had invited him in, Koesler would have been there when Carleson discovered the body. And so, Koesler made it a point to tune in to the hourly newscasts. But each was the same as the previous: There was no progress to report. Nonetheless, Koesler stood ready.
Only, no one was calling.
In Tully’s mind there was no point in seeking Koesler’s assistance … not just yet, anyway. Quirt and his team were covering the “Catholic angle.” Meantime, Tully’s crew was mostly on the street, tracing leads and seeking informants.
Tully, along with Mangiapane, was checking into the incident at yesterday’s cocktail party where someone had ripped into Diego. The ruckus had been quieted quickly. But, occurring as it did only hours before Diego’s murder, it certainly was worth checking.
The peculiar expertise possessed by Koesler was needed neither on the street nor in Tully’s exploration.
Mangiapane and Tully had just left the downtown headquarters of Comerica Bank, where they had spoken with Harry Carson about the fracas at his residence.
Carson had been cooperative to a point. He readily revealed the identity of the man who had accosted Bishop Diego. Michael Shell, a lawyer, had lost no time in challenging the bishop. An attendant had taken Shell’s coat, and no sooner had his arms left the sleeves than he had charged Diego.
Carson had stepped between them before anything physical could happen. He insisted they repair to the den and straighten things out. Things did not level off in the den. Shell was on the muscle, and Carson, to protect the bishop, stepped between them again. It was then the bishop declared he was leaving. After the bishop had departed, Carson had had strong words with Shell; the altercation had come close to ruining the party. Shell, in a huff, then left Carson’s home. The party wound down and died.
What was the fuss about? Carson would rather not say. It was a personal matter that the police might better discuss with Mr. Shell.
Tully saw no point in pressing Carson further. If they had need of him, Carson would be there. Meanwhile, no better next stop than Shell’s Southfield office.
As Mangiapane took the Nine Mile exit from the Lodge, Tully became aware that the sergeant was talking about Angie Moore, a member of their squad.
“… so, since Angie was off duty and on her way home, she didn’t pay much attention at first. Then, after a while, she thought there was someone following her. So she made a bunch of quick turns and, sure enough, the guy stayed right on her tail.
“Well, she was real close to home. So she just drove into the driveway and turned off the engine. Then she took her gun out of her handbag and waited.
“The guy pulled in behind her, got out of his car, came up and opened her door. ‘Whattya say, Babe, wanna get it on?’
“And the next thing he knows, he’s looking down the barrel of her service resolver. ‘No, and I don’t think you do either.’
“So the guy starts mutterin’ and sputterin’ as he backs-he backs — down the drive to his car. And he takes off without even turnin’ his lights on.” Mangiapane paused for the expected laugh.
“She should’ve headed for the nearest precinct station,” Tully said soberly.
“Yeah, Zoo. She said that too. Only she just didn’t think of it.”
Drawn as he was to the image of the creep finding his prospective victim with a gun in her hand, Tully began to chuckle. Mangiapane joined in. “It is funny,” Tully admitted.
With that, they pulled into the small parking lot adjacent to the law offices of Shell, Shell and Brown. As they parked, Tully spotted a man entering a car. The man, carrying a briefcase, was obviously in a hurry. Tully thought he recognized the man from newspapers and TV.
As the man turned on the ignition he looked up to see two men standing directly in front of his Lincoln. The black man was holding up a police badge. The man hit the car’s window button.
“Michael Shell?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Lieutenant Tully, Detroit Homicide. This is Sergeant Mangiapane.”
“It’s about yesterday, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, look, I’m late getting downtown for a deposition-” Tully’s expression arrested Shell. “I know, I know: We can talk about it at headquarters or here. Okay.”
Shell’s office was of average size and, by anyone’s standards, grossly cluttered. In addition to a modest bookcase crammed with what appeared to be legal manuals, the room was filled with bric-a-brac, apparently souvenirs of past victories. It seemed unlikely Shell commemorated defeats.
After motioning them to a couple of upholstered chairs that were too large for what was left of this space, Shell picked up the phone. “Henry, will you cover my deps today?… well, as a matter of fact, right now. Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but something came up. No … no, Henry, that’s impossible. This is something I’ve got to- I’ve got to-take care of now … right now. And my client needs one of us for the deps. Okay, okay, Henry. Thanks; I owe you one.”
Shell took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then hung up. Tully took stock. Shell stood perhaps five-feet-six or — seven. Both his hair and his mustache were thick and dark. His glasses were near-Coke bottle bottoms. Overweight-lots of baby fat-about 210 to 220. Fast food on the run-but that was all the running he did. His own firm at a relatively early age. He lived for his work.
If Tully’s hypotheses proved true, he could extrapolate much of what went on in Shell’s life-at work and at home.
The scenario according to Tully: Shell was on his third marriage. Present wife blonde, a knockout, some thirty years younger. She has no children. He has two kids from his first wife, one from the second. Present wife knows where her ultimate well-being lies; she does not wander off on separate vacations. She supplies plenty of steamy, if brief, progeny-free sex. She tans at a studio. He is bright, totally aggressive, and has the utmost confidence in himself, especially if he can get past the judge and play to the jury. He works thirty-eight hours a day, spends most of his time seated, and eats whatever, whenever. If she plays her cards just exactly right, she’ll spend her golden years aboard an endless series of cruise ships while Mike tries to pass that Great Bar in the Sky.
Shell sat in his contour-fitted chair. From a desk drawer he took three candy bars. He offered two to his guests. They declined. Shell unwrapped one and bit into it.
So far, thought Tully, right on, dietetically.
“Coffee?” Shell’s guests declined. Shell poured himself a mug from a pot on a hot plate on a remote corner of his king-size desk. Eyebrows raised, he looked at the detectives. He knew, of course, why they were here. He also knew not to volunteer information. The conversational ball was, for the moment, in their court.
“You know that Bishop Ramon Diego is dead … that he was murdered.”
Shell nodded slowly. No “Shocking,” “Sorry,” “That’s too bad,” “That’s good,” or “I did it.”
“Yesterday afternoon,” Tully proceeded, “at a gathering at Mr. Harry Carson’s home, you had words-angry words-with the bishop.”
“That’s right.” Useless to deny it; there were a couple dozen witnesses.
“What was that all about? We know Mr. Carson was with you during the entire exchange,” Tully added, “but we want to get it from you.”
Shell took another bite of the candy bar. “It was about my wife.”
“Your wife?”
“My wife and the bishop.”
“Your wife and …” This did not fit into Tully’s scenario.
“It’s complicated,” Shell admitted.
“Let’s try to simplify it,” Tully said. “Your wife. She’s your first wife?”
“Second.”
Fewer than expected.
“Here’s her picture …” Shell took a framed portrait from his desk and passed it to Mangiapane, who glanced at it and passed it to Tully.
Well, I never claimed to be infallible, thought Tully. She was a good-looking woman. But a beautiful dark-haired matron rather than the vapid blonde toy he had envisioned. “A recent photo?”
“Couple of years.”
“So, what about the bishop and your wife?”
“It started just after he got here from Texas. When was that … maybe a year ago. See, her maiden name is Ortiz … Maria Ortiz. She’s fluent in both English and Spanish. She’s quite active in Hispanic affairs-fund-raisers and like that. So, she was excited when he got here and became bishop … you know, God’s gift to the Latinos.” He grimaced. “Some gift!”
“What’s that mean?”
“She-Maria-introduced him to her friends-society, club women mostly. And that’s where he began to spend most of his time: bashes, soirees, tennis, golf. Oh, not always with the women; he’d pal up with the men too. But the men spent most of their days at work. So the bishop would be the fourth for tennis or cards. Offer the invocation at parties, then stick around for a few hours.”
A cynical grin appeared briefly. “Times when he would spend most of the day in high society must have been a relief for that poor schmuck priest … Carleson. At least the poor bastard didn’t have to play chauffeur those days.” It was a parenthetical remark.
“We were on thin ice then, Maria and me … have been for the last few years.”
“What’s the trouble?”
Shell hesitated. “You’d find out soon enough, I guess. It’s common knowledge in our group … and with the gossip columnists. She claims I spend too much time at work … neglect her for the business.”
For the first time, Tully could empathize. He himself had lost a wife, kids, and later a significant other for just that reason.
“We went to a counselor-Maria’s idea-but what could he do? Damned-if-I-do and damned-if-I-don’t. She wants the good life, I gotta earn it. I cut back at work, she loses the life-style.
“Well, anyway, the whole thing settled into a routine. We’d go out occasionally on Saturday nights, once in a while Fridays. And every now and then we’d go to one of those fund-raisers. I mean, our social life was not a complete bust. But to do all this and live the kind of life we’ve got means I put in twelve- to fifteen-hour days.
“Not that I mind. I like it. In fact, I love my life just the way it is. But … she can’t see it that way.” He thought for a moment. “And I’m sorry about that. I’d like her to be happier with our life the way it is. Because-bottom line-this is the way it has to be.
“But, like I said, she doesn’t see it that way. And I know most of the time, she’s just been going through the motions.” He leaned forward and in a man-to-man tone, said, “That’s the way our sex is. It’s like making love to a board. And, believe me, that’s not the way it was in the beginning: She was one hot-blooded Latina lover.”
The last thing Tully wanted was to go through the grunts and groans of Shell’s sex life. “You mentioned earlier … the bishop … Bishop Diego and your wife …?”
“Yeah. Well, you needed some background. Like I said, we were already on thin ice when Diego came on the scene.” Shell paused.
“Are you saying that Diego and your wife were having an affair?”
“Well, yes and no.”
“‘Yes and no’? Were they or weren’t they?”
“You got to understand this Diego character.”
“Do you?”
“I think so. He’s upwardly mobile. That I know. What I don’t know is where he wants to go. Pope?”
“Go on.”
“He uses … he used people. And if they became his friends, he recycled them. But he would never-never-do anything to compromise his ambition. It was easy for him to charm the women. He was a handsome son of a bitch.”
Tully nodded. He was growing weary of hearing about Diego’s movie-star looks. “What’s understanding Diego got to do with whether or not he was having an affair with your wife?”
“Like I said, it’s complicated and it’s not easy trying to make it simple.
“Let’s do it this way: Suppose I answer your question: No, they didn’t have an affair.” His jaw tightened. “Jeez, I even had them followed. They met, okay. For one thing, she was always in the group that attached themselves to him. On top of that, they met, just the two of them, from time to time. But they never did anything. They never went to a motel. They never went to our house together. They’d maybe go on a picnic or something like that.
“And it wasn’t that they didn’t care for each other. My P.I. reported that he never saw a couple so infatuated with each other. But they didn’t do anything.
“At this point, you’d guess that not getting physical was my wife’s idea. It’s always the little women, eh? But it wasn’t. He’s the one who kept it innocent. And why? Because he’s upwardly mobile. He’s going places. And he’s not going to get to be Cardinal or Pope by having a physical affair with some good-looking Spanish broad.”
“You know this for sure?” Tully asked. “That staying out of the sack was his idea?”
Shell extended his arms, palms up, as if to say, what other explanation makes sense. “Fits his profile.”
“So,” Tully concluded, “the simple answer to my question is no.”
“Not exactly.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t a physical affair. I’m convinced they never had intercourse … not even close. But they had-a what? — a spiritual affair.”
“Huh?”
Shell unwrapped a second candy bar and bit into it. “I can’t explain it. I’ve never seen anything like it. The guy could have had her, easy. She was bananas for him. He could have, but he didn’t.
“The way I see it, he just wouldn’t compromise his future. Must have taken a lot not to accept what he was freely offered. I’ll give the bastard that. But then, see, she changed. It was something like that character in Man of La Mancha-you know, Dulcinea. She’s a scullery maid and a whore. But the crazy Don Quixote keeps calling her ‘My Lady’ until she changes completely and starts acting like a highborn lady.
“Not that Maria was a whore, you know. But what I mean, she changed. Oh, she was willing to throw herself at him. But he’s Don Quixote. He’s going to teach her how to love ‘pure and chaste from afar.’ Okay, so she becomes Dulcinea … and I lost my Maria.”
“You mean-”
“I told you our relationship was on thin ice. Sex for me was like making love to a board. Well, Maria took the board away and left me nothing. Nothing”
No one spoke.
“As far as I know,” Shell said finally, “I’m the only guy in history to have been cuckolded by a couple of practicing virgins.”
Mangiapane barely suppressed a burst of laughter. Tully, with some effort, kept a straight face.
Shell, who was quite serious, continued. “Now, what the hell could I do about it? How could I say Diego was guilty of alienation of affection? He didn’t do anything except mesmerize her. She didn’t do anything but fall under his spell. The upshot of the whole thing was I lost my wife. I lost her to a goddam bishop. And there wasn’t a goddam thing I could do about it.
“It was awful. We’d be together, say at dinner, and she wouldn’t say anything-nothin’-just answer questions. With one word-the fewest possible syllables. She began sleeping in the guest room.
“I was going nuts.
“What happened next reminds me of a story.…” Shell smiled briefly. “Seems this doctor-a surgeon-was on trial for using abusive and obscene language. Trying to explain his side of it, he says to the Judge, ‘You see, Your Honor, on the day in question, I woke up about eight o’clock. The alarm didn’t go off. I was scheduled for extremely delicate surgery at 9:00. So I tried to hurry. Naturally, I cut myself shaving. I started breakfast before I took my shower. There wasn’t any hot water. After the cold shower, I found I’d set the microwave for too long and burned everything. In my haste to get dressed, I ripped the trousers of my suit. The car wouldn’t start. I lost two taxi rides when people pushed me aside so they could take the cabs. I was nearly an hour late by the time I got to the hospital. The elevator that took me to the OR stopped just a few inches short of the floor. I tripped on my way out. I fell flat on my face and broke the glasses I needed to perform the operation.
“‘At that point, a nurse came up to me and said, “Doctor, we just received a shipment of a thousand rectal thermometers. What do you want me to do with them?”’”
The two detectives couldn’t help but laugh.
“Funny,” Tully said after a minute, “but what’s that got to do with you?”
“Just remember,” Shell said, “how completely frustrated I was. For all practical purposes, I had lost my wife. It was like being with the living dead. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. And I owed it all to this son-of-a-bitch bishop.
“That’s exactly the state of mind I was in when I walked into Carson’s house and saw the bastard standing there in the middle of a bunch of fawning sycophants. There he stood like Cock Robin in his black and red robes. I never even met him before. Just saw his picture in the papers, caught him a few times on TV. This was the first goddam time I was ever in the same room with the bastard.
“So it was like when the nurse asked what to do with all those damn thermometers. I blew it. I blew my stack.”
“Were you going to hit him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He shrugged. “Carson stepped in before anything could happen.”
“Then Carson got you and the bishop to go to another room together. So then what?”
“I kept at it. I called him everything I could think of. I told him to stay the hell away from my wife-even though I knew it was too late to do any good. Then I made some idle threats-like anybody in my position would’ve done.”
“How did the bishop react?”
“Completely on the defensive. He didn’t say a word. First his complexion matched his red robes. Then he got real pale. That was when I knew I’d reached him. About that time he muttered a few excuses and beat it.”
“And then …?”
“I was too worked up to remember what Carson said to me. Something about telling me to leave in no uncertain terms … that I had wrecked his party.”
“And then …?”
“I left.”
“And then …?”
“And then I didn’t kill him.”
After a short silence, Tully spoke again. “So what did you do then? Where did you go?”
“The boy got my car.” Shell snorted. “Hell, the motor hadn’t had time to cool. I must’ve set some kind of world’s record for the briefest time spent at a party. Oh, I didn’t mind being asked to leave.” He grinned lopsidedly. “I’ve been thrown out of better places than that.
“But I was still steaming. So I forced myself to park for a while to cool off. I didn’t want to add an auto accident to all the rest of my misery.
“When I felt a little less like tearing Diego limb from limb, I started out Jefferson. I wasn’t heading anywhere in particular. I ended up in a bar in St. Clair Shores … what the hell is the name of the place … uh … I’ve never been there before. It’s around Nine Mile and Mack … uh … The Lazy Dolphin. Yeah, that was it.”
“What time would that have been?”
“Geez, I don’t know. That’s where I went from Carson’s house, driving slow … I guess maybe 3:00, 3:30.”
“How long were you there?”
“A couple of hours … about 5:30 maybe.”
“Would anybody remember your being there between those hours?”
“Uh … I don’t know.… I don’t think so.”
“You were there two hours and no one can attest to that?”
“The bar was crowded. I don’t know … maybe the bartender.”
“We’ll check that out”
“Am I still a suspect?”
“Who said you were a suspect?”
Shell smiled. “I’ve been in court a few times. I’d say someone who gets into a violent argument with somebody and that somebody gets killed later on the same day, I’d say the police might get a little suspicious. Might even come over to the guy’s law office asking questions.”
“Just checking things out, Mr. Shell.
“Thanks for your time.”
Mangiapane, who had been taking notes throughout the session, slid into the driver’s seat. Tully spent a few moments taking in the atmosphere before entering the passenger seat.
Mangiapane started the engine. “Off to see Dulcinea?”
Tully smiled. “Yeah, Dulcinea. Know where they live?”
“In Troy. I looked it up before we got started.”
“Good man.”
Mangiapane would take Telegraph Road north, then cut east on Square Lake. “He seemed kind of open, didn’t you think, Zoo?”
“That the impression you got? Yeah, I guess he did volunteer a lot of information for somebody who’s under suspicion. But when you think about it, it’s all stuff we’re probably gonna get from the other people we talk to.”
“Maybe the stuff that went on in Carson’s house. But how about what was going on with his wife and the bishop?”
“Yeah, how about that? Going over what he said, there’s the fracas at Carson’s. All the guests heard what he said to Diego. Even when they went in the other room, Carson was there. And I’d be surprised if at least some of the guests didn’t hear him through the closed door. He was pissed and he was likely yelling.
“Then there’s that bit about him and his wife and his wife and Diego. Remember he said that a number of people, even some gossip columnists, were in on that. It figures: The Shells are society. They’re in the spotlight. If their marriage is on the rocks, people know. And people talk. And the bishop was popular with those society women. Mrs. Shell was a member of that group. Whadya wanna bet that some of those dames knew what was goin’ on. Hell, they probably wanted to trade places with her. So we’re gonna get some info about Shell and his wife, and the wife and the bishop, from a lot of people.
“And, we’re on our way to interview the wife. Shell knew we would. He knows what she’s gonna tell us.
“What this comes down to is that Shell wanted to tell us first what we were gonna learn anyway. That way he appears open and aboveboard. A nice, frank guy who certainly wouldn’t kill anybody.
“Manj, right after we get done with Mrs. Shell, I want you to start checking this guy out. Use as many of the team as you need. By this time, the guys must know whether they’re gonna get anything from the streets.
“If I were Mr. Shell, I’d start hoping that barkeep’s got a real good memory.”