A Priestly Affair Read online

  “She doesn’t need to come to Portland; she has remote viewing skills. I’ll just turn on the speakerphone. She’ll be more sensitive if she stays at home in her lair.”

  “Good call.”

  “What’s the other prong in your approach, Jesse?”

  “I want to contact Fritz Weller and Archie Lapointe. They are both respectable investigators, and their workloads may have fallen off as ours has picked up. I’ll see if they are interested in handling some of the overflow. In return, they can help us out when we need backup. Archie is especially tough and hardnosed. He might come in handy when push comes to shove. I’d like him in our corner—shoving back.”

  • • •

  Angele drove down to Portland on Thursday morning. I remained in Augusta for one more day, tied up some loose ends around the office and hung my new calendar on the wall. I was warming to the idea of Italy in March, but it was slightly disconcerting that the months were written in French. With Google Translate at my fingertips, I took a felt pen and wrote “Gennaio” under “Janvier.” I was beginning to feel European. “C'est bon, n'est-ce pas?” I heard myself say. “Oui,” I replied. I had no idea how to say that in Italian.

  Aspirin & Beef Jerky for the Band

  Every lead guitar player I know has attempted to copy the style of Mark Knopfler. Before long, most of them give up trying. Eric practiced the “Sultans of Swing” licks for weeks, but finally said in frustration, “No way I can do this. He’s just too good.”

  In October, Billy persuaded Eric to give Knopfler’s riffs a second try. In 1982, Dire Straits released the song, “Private Investigations.” The song opens with an airy, though somewhat ominous, orchestration on the synthesizer. Billy duplicated that sound rather easily. Eventually, Eric was able to cover the guitar parts. The bass line was simple enough for me, and I sang the vocal:

  A bottle of whiskey and a new set of lies

  Blinds on the windows and a pain behind the eyes

  Scarred for life, no compensation

  Private investigations

  After Eric, Billy and I had gained some notoriety from the Lavoilette case, “Private Investigations” became our most requested song.

  Our band received a jolt of media coverage when the murder convictions were handed down. Turnout at our gigs doubled, and sales of our first album soared. We released the CD in August and had planned to name it Falling Apart, the title of our most popular original song. Billy, who does our promotions, had other ideas. He insisted on changing the album’s name to Deadly Capers. He smelled the buzz coming. He has a keen olfactory sense, which, I believe, he acquired from his dog, Alonso.

  Our next scheduled appearance would be in Portland on New Year’s Eve at The Rusty Tavern. We practice at my place in Augusta every Thursday evening. During the warmer months, we set up in the barn, but in early December, we moved inside the house. I pushed the furniture against the walls in the living room to make room for all five of us. Besides Eric, Billy and me, there’s Amanda Cavanaugh and Willie Franklin.

  Willie is our drummer. His girlfriend, Amanda, sings and plays flute. She left the band for a brief period in mid fall, and it looked as if Willie would be taking a hike as well. But after becoming overnight celebrities, we were able to coax them both back into the fold. We could have found another drummer easily enough, but Amanda is a real star. She has a great voice and a sultry, intoxicating stage presence. She is irreplaceable. Our cachet plummets without her.

  Amanda and Willie were the first to arrive Thursday evening. Willie was sniffling and looked rundown. Amanda, on the other hand, was brimming with zest and nuzzled in close as she gave me a “Hi, how are ya?” kiss on my neck.

  “Doin’ fine, Amanda. And you?”

  “Ready to roll,” she replied, eyeing me closely. She followed her double entendre with “Is Angele out of town?”

  “Yes, she went home this morning,” I replied, as calmly as possible.

  Amanda smiled back and winked. Willie blew his nose and glowered.

  “Do you need help with your drums, Willie?” I asked.

  “Nah, but I could use some hot tea with lemon and some Extra Strength Tylenol.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

  Willie went back outside to get his kit, while Amanda followed me into the kitchen.

  “You wearin’ that boy out, Amanda?” I asked.

  “No way. He’s been in bed for a week—alone.”

  “I know I’ve got some Tylenol around here someplace,” I said, changing the subject. “Can you fill the kettle and light the stove? The matches are on the window sill if you need them, but I’m thinking you can get the fire started by snapping your fingers.”

  Amanda blew me an air kiss, but opted for the matches.

  “I’ll save the sparks for later,” she suggested.

  Eric and Billy arrived and went straight to the living room to set up. As usual, Alonso made a beeline for the kitchen. He parked himself by my refrigerator and let out a weeping moan.

  “Don’t you ever feed this guy?” I called out to Billy.

  “All the time, Jesse. He’s got four hollow legs. Just pat him on the head and tell him, ‘Later, dude.’”

  I opened a 3-ounce pack of beef jerky instead. I keep Jack Links on hand for band practice. Alonso takes his prize and disappears into my bedroom every time; he’s not the kind of dog who shares his treats. If I give him enough, we don’t see him again till we’re finished playing. He grabbed the whole package and lumbered down the hall.

  The band was out of kilter until a handful of aspirin finally medicated Willie’s attitude. From that point on, it was clear sailing. Our recent celebrity put a charge in all of us and renewed our commitment to playing well. We would probably always be a local band; we knew our limits. We also knew that Amanda had a higher destiny; it was the elephant in the room. But for the time being, we played like there was no tomorrow.

  Willie was packing up his drum kit when Amanda called over to me, “Jesse, come here a second.”

  I shuffled over and listened to the following proposal…

  “You can see that Willie is under the weather. Maybe I should stay here for the night. I don’t want to catch what he’s got. We have a solid gig on New Year’s Eve. If I come down with a cold, I’ll be no good to us. I could sleep in your spare room.”

  Willie raised his eyebrows and blurted out, “I have a spare room, Amanda. You’ve been sleeping there for a week, and you’re still right as rain.”

  “I don’t know, Willie, I think I’m coming down with something.”

  “She’s coming down with something, all right,” I thought, but I kept that remark to myself.

  Amanda knows I’m monogamous, but she also knows she is positively irresistible, and she likes to push Willie’s buttons. Everybody wants to be in Willie’s shoes—for a night. But when dawn breaks, it would be a whole ‘nother thing. Few men have the grit to keep up with her. Willie’s therapy is what keeps him out of mental institutions; he beats the daylights out of his drums.

  “Load him up on vitamin C and put our drummer boy to bed, Amanda,” I replied. “He needs some TLC. Besides, the sheets on my spare bed aren’t clean. Eric crashes here during the week when he’s working late.”

  She gave me a mischievous smile and said, “OK, Willie. Let’s go home.”

  As they filed out the door, Amanda brushed up against my arm and kissed me on the neck again, this time on the other side—for good measure.

  “Sweet dreams, Jesse,” she said as the door was closing.

  5

  Evelyn & the ’58 Cadillac

  A light snow started to fall just as I arrived at Our Lady of the Seas. It was Friday morning, and the church parking lot was empty. Around back, a lone car was sitting in front of the rectory—a vintage Cadillac Eldorado convertible. It was bright yellow with a white top and looked to be in mint condition. I parked my Forester two spaces over, to give the old timer some breathing room, and walked aro
und it for a closer look.

  “It’s a 1958,” came a voice from the porch.

  “A real beauty,” I called back. “Monsignor O’Reilly?”

  “Yes. Come inside, out of the weather.”

  When I got to the door, we shook hands and he said, “It was my mother’s first and only new car. My father bought it for her the week I was born. She was forty years old at the time. For fifteen years, they prayed to have a child and had almost given up hope. Then I came along. God always responds to prayer, Mr. Thorpe, but He has His own schedule.”

  “No doubt about it,” I said. “A ‘58 Cadillac. That makes you…well…middle aged.”

  A gentle smile crossed his lips.

  Compared to the car, his home was austere. He showed me to the living room and invited me to sit down. Other than a statue of Mother Mary on the mantle and a crucifix on the wall, there wasn’t much of anything in the room, just a sofa, an easy chair and a bookshelf. No television, no stereo. “Why would Father Francis O'Reilly want to hire a private investigator?” I thought.

  The monsignor looked kindly at me for a while without speaking. I decided to let him break the ice.

  “This isn’t easy for me,” he said slowly. “I hear 200 confessions every week. Human woes surround me like atmosphere envelops the earth. My parishioners open their hearts and pour out their sins to me. Then I give them to God. I’ve been listening so long now that nothing I hear disturbs me anymore.”

  He grew quiet and pensive. It was my turn to nudge the conversation forward.

  “I’m not a priest, Father, but I’m here to help in any way that I can. Whatever you tell me is as confidential for you as those confessions are for your parishioners.”

  He offered a tentative smile and continued solemnly, “The vow of chastity is a daily struggle for me. Usually I win the battle over the flesh—but not always. I’m not just a priest with a flock, I’m also a father with a child.”

  I was only slightly surprised to hear this revelation. To be honest, I was no more startled by his infidelity with God than I was by the Cadillac convertible parked out front. They sat like bookends, with bibles and catechisms propped in between.

  “I see no problem at all with that, Monsignor. But why do you need a private investigator?”

  “It’s about the mother. Her name is Nicole Levesque. Four years ago, she began attending mass once or twice a week, but never on Sunday. She seemed to like the peace and quiet of a small gathering of souls.

  “One morning, Nicole came early for confession. Of course, I can’t tell you what she said, but actually she wasn’t really confessing any sins, so I suppose it might be all right to share it with you.”

  He paused for a few seconds and then added, “No. We don’t need to go there. Suffice it to say that we became friendly; it was entirely platonic. She stayed after mass, and we shared some tea.

  “The next day, she seemed quite agitated. I asked her what the trouble was, but she wouldn’t tell me. She just started crying. When I reached out to take her hand, she came on to me as if we were lovers.

  “We had sexual intercourse only that one time, and I didn’t see her again until a year later. She dropped in to tell me that she had a baby girl, and that I was the father.

  “I knew she had had some boyfriends, so I requested a paternity test. She was already prepared for that. She had the child’s DNA report with her in her purse. She told me that there had been only two possible fathers, and she had gone to the other man first because he was more likely. It turned out not to be the case.

  “Nicole and I went to a testing facility, and we each provided a sample of our saliva. The test results came back a week later. It proved conclusively that I am the father of Evelyn Levesque. She chose the name, ‘Evelyn,’ because the baby was born on New Year’s Eve, and ‘Lynn’ is Nicole’s middle name.”

  “Did the DNA parentage test follow the strict chain of custody requirements set down by the courts?” I asked.

  “I’m not familiar with that. But she already had the DNA profile for Evelyn from the first test. As far as I was concerned, Nicole didn’t need to be retested either, but she insisted.”

  “I see,” I replied after some hesitation.

  “Nicole has been perfectly discrete about all of this. She asked if I could help pay to raise the child, and I readily agreed. We both prefer that I pay her just once a year; frequent meetings might draw attention and raise eyebrows. We also decided that I would make cash payments. I provide her with $15,000 a year.”

  “How did you arrive at that figure?” I asked.

  “We submitted our incomes, taxes and expenses anonymously to a Maine state facility, and they determined my annual responsibility.”

  “OK. Go on.”

  “I see Nicole only one time each year. I have asked her to keep me informed as to how my daughter is doing, and she calls now and then and talks about her. Evelyn seems to be doing fine. She’ll be three years old next Tuesday. I’m due to make my annual support payment on Wednesday at one o’clock. That’s why I called you.”

  “Do you want me to pass the money to Nicole?” I asked.

  “No. No. It’s not that. The problem is that Nicole won’t allow me to see my daughter. I have asked many times, but she refuses. She says it could be a problem for both of us. She has never given me her address or phone number. She’s afraid I’ll keep calling or come by her apartment unannounced. She brings a picture of the child each time I’ve given her money. That’s all I ever receive. A photograph.”

  Father O’Reilly went over to the bookshelf. He picked up a Bible that was resting on top and opened it in the middle. He then cradled the book in his hands and walked over to where I was sitting. I braced myself for a reading. Instead, he removed the bookmark and handed it to me.

  “That’s Evelyn,” he said. “The picture was taken last year on her second birthday.”

  “She’s darling,” I replied.

  “I want you to find her,” he replied resolutely. “I have to see her. I need to hold my daughter.”

  There was no significant background in the picture. It was a close up of a little girl, sitting on a carpet and smiling into the camera.

  “I want you to be there, undercover, when I give Nicole the money. Take some pictures of her and follow her home. If I know where she lives, I’ll be able to see Evelyn.”

  “Will she be driving a car?” I asked.

  “Probably not. She didn’t last time. I tried following her, but it didn’t work out.”

  “Tell me how that went,” I said.

  “We met in Deering Oaks Park and sat together in the bleachers of the ball field north of the pond. She talked non-stop about Evelyn for ten minutes and gave me that picture. Eventually, she said it was time for her to go, so I handed her the parcel of hundred-dollar bills and walked back to my car at the curb. She waited for me to pull away before getting up from her seat.

  “I drove to State Street and turned right, which would be the normal way for me to return to the parish. When I got to Park Avenue, I was out of sight, so I made another right and parked my car in a lot on the far side of the street where I could hide.”

  “That’s a difficult prospect in a yellow Cadillac convertible,” I said.

  “It certainly is,” he replied with a sheepish grin. “As you might surmise, I’m not much of a private eye.”

  I smiled and said, “The second thing they taught us in PI school was, ‘Never drive a yellow car when you’re on a stakeout.’”

  “Really?” he said pursing his lips. “What’s the first thing they taught you?”

  “This can be a dangerous job; always say your prayers.”

  Father O’Reilly laughed and then said, “That’s the first thing they taught us in seminary.”

  Monsignor Francis O’Reilly was an endearing, yet unassuming, man. For starters, he was wearing blue jeans and a green flannel shirt. I figured he changed from his vestments after morning mass to a more casual outfi
t for my benefit, since he had no idea as to my religious persuasion. The deep and inviting wrinkles on his cheeks and around his blue eyes told me that he smiled easily and often. I imagined that he greeted everyone, even strangers, as though he were meeting the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. Perhaps every day was Christmas for him. If PBS is looking for another Mr. Rogers, Francis Kevin O’Reilly is their man.

  “I changed jackets,” he continued, “put on a hat and hurried back toward the park. I caught sight of Nicole walking south on State Street. I had hoped she had a car parked nearby, so I could either follow it or at least get the number of her license plate. But she kept on walking. She looked over her shoulder a number of times; I had to keep my distance. I don’t think she saw me, but it’s possible that she did.

  “When she reached Congress Street, she turned right and caught the Metro on the other side of Longfellow Square. Heaven only knows where she went.”

  “I’ll bring an assistant,” I said. “We’ll do the best we can, but there are no guarantees. If she is determined to be elusive, it will be a challenge. There are numerous ways to lose a tail.

  “I suggest we use a GPS tracking device. There are a few options. We could plant it in the package of money. The tiniest ones are so small that it’s very unlikely she would detect it. However, she might transfer the money to her purse and discard the package.

  “I assume you’ll be giving her 150 hundred-dollar bills. We could actually put the little device in the middle of the wad and place a wrapper around the bills. She probably wouldn’t find it before she got home. On the other hand, if she took the money directly to the bank, we’d be busted. But…it will be New Year’s Day, so that probably won’t be an issue.

  “Another possibility is for you to slip it into her coat pocket. Tell me, when you are with her, do you sit close or keep your distance? Do you hug?”

  “She’s a little uncomfortable with that. In fact, last year when we met, I went to hug her, but she held up her hands and said, ‘You know what happened the last time we did that.’”