A Priestly Affair Read online

  “Why don’t we do this,” I suggested. “We’ll give you the tiniest GPS device available to carry with you. You can put it in the package of money or slip it into her coat pocket. On her person is better than in the package, because we don’t know if the money will follow her home. You can decide which alternative will work better when you are with her. We could even use two devices—one in the package and one in her pocket. Keep in mind, however, that if she sees the unit and knows what it is, we’ll lose the element of surprise at future meetings.”

  Father O’Reilly thought for a minute and said, “I’ll take one with me. I’ll know what to do when the time comes. In the meantime, I’ll pray for guidance.”

  “That’s reasonable,” I said. “We’ll put a microphone on you as well, so we can hear your conversation. Will that be alright with you?”

  “That’s fine,” he said.

  “There’s something I want to share with you,” he added. “I don’t know if it’s important or not, but it might be.”

  “Yes?”

  “As a priest, I look for vulnerabilities in people. I do that so I can help those in need. Jesus was a shepherd; I am carrying on with His mission.

  “When I first met Nicole, she seemed totally unsure of herself. That’s why I took special interest in her; she was troubled. After Evelyn was born, Nicole changed dramatically. She became poised and self-confident. It was an unusual transformation. I’ve been a priest for over thirty years. I study people. It’s my job—it’s my life’s work—to be vigilant and to nurture others. It’s quite rare for an individual to turn life around so completely.”

  “$15,000 a year is a fair piece of security, Father,” I suggested.

  “Yes. There’s that. But there’s more to it. I can’t put my finger on it, but something shifted inside her.”

  “She’s now a mother,” I said. “Maybe that brought her down to earth.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Are you suggesting that she might have entrapped you?” I asked.

  “No. I don’t think so. I hope not anyway. She seems too sweet for anything like that.”

  “Any little thing can end up being important in an investigation. I will definitely keep your personal evaluation in mind, especially if something unexpected happens, or if you require us to delve deeper into her affairs. For now, we’ll put one foot in front of the other.”

  The padre nodded slightly, without unfurrowing his brow.

  “Where are you supposed to meet with her?” I asked.

  “In the same spot as last year, the bleachers at Deering Oaks Park.”

  “Do you have a picture of Nicole?”

  “Not a single one,” he said.

  “OK. I’ll bring two assistants with two cars and cameras. I’ll be here at noon to set up your microphone and give you the tracking device. That will give us plenty of time to prepare our surveillance in the park. Do you have a cell phone?”

  “No, I have only the phone in my house,” he replied.

  “I’ll bring one for you so that we can stay in contact. If any aspect of the meeting changes along the way, you can call me immediately.”

  He nodded and said, “All right then. I’ll see you here Wednesday at noon. How much do I owe you, Mr. Thorpe?”

  “We usually require a $500 retainer, but let’s waive that for now. We’ll see how it goes.”

  “Thank you so much for your help,” he said.

  “We’ll do our best,” I replied.

  We shook hands, and I walked out into the snow.

  6

  Sleightly out of Hand

  Archie Lapointe never blinked.

  His eyes moved methodically up and down the menu several times, but his lids refused to flutter. The waitress stood patiently next to his chair until he was ready to speak. Eventually, Archie looked over the top of his narrow reading glasses and said, “Kelly, I’ll have the Reuben and a dark draught.”

  There was a precise economy in every word he spoke and every move he made. The song, “Every Breath You Take,” began looping between my ears. This, I thought, must be Archie Lapointe’s theme song. Sting’s voice was fading out over several refrains of, “I’ll be watching you,” when it dawned on me that Kelly was still waiting for my order.

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” I said, “… a Reuben and a dark draught.”

  My initial choice, quite honestly, had been a Caesar salad and tea, but I scratched that the moment Archie opened his mouth. I didn’t expect the upper hand with him, but I wanted some leverage during our conversation. This wasn’t going to be a lecture if I could help it, and a Caesar salad lacked substance. The turkey club was a reasonable alternative, but for some inexplicable reason, the Reuben took hold of my senses and wouldn’t let go. Duplicating Archie’s order may have demonstrated a lack of independence and imagination, but a voice inside my head droned, “He’s eaten here dozens of times; he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Their Reuben is the best in Portland,” Archie said, as if to brush aside any concern that my luncheon order was a sign of weakness.

  Archie Lapointe was the most prominent PI in the state, but this was the first time I had met him face to face. His midnight black shirt matched his hair and eyebrows perfectly. His dark silk tie had a sprinkling of orange flowers, which complemented his chiseled features and rugged complexion. His eyes were steady, yet a gentle touch of kindness seeped through his eagle-like gaze.

  “So, tell me, Jesse, is it true that you impersonated a state trooper last year while working the Lavoilette murder case?”

  “Am I under oath?” I asked.

  “Just professional curiosity,” he responded.

  “In that case, yes, it is true,” I said with a grin.

  “That was a nice piece of work,” he replied.

  “Thank you, Archie,” I said. His praise took me by surprise. “I should add that I had some solid backup. Two friends of mine posed as FBI agents. We had the guy surrounded, so to speak. In any event, we were lucky to pull it off.”

  “The governor had been murdered in cold blood, and the FBI had nothin’. They needed a happy ending, and you provided it for them. Besides, everyone loves a hero. The public wouldn’t have tolerated any blowback on you.”

  “That’s what we were counting on,” I replied.

  Our beers arrived, and we each took a hearty swig.

  “The first time I heard your name was seven or eight years ago, during the Jacob Lewis case,” I said. “The press called it ‘Maine’s Lindberg kidnapping.’ You’re the reason I went to PI school.”

  “Jacob Lewis. That was ugly,” Archie replied in a sobering tone. “A three-year old boy loses his life for a piece of change.”

  His eyes squinted slightly as his face grimaced, and then he said, “Crime can be spur of the moment, but normally it’s a logical event. The public is captivated by the idea of random violence. This infatuation stokes their fear. Truth is, there’s always a rationale to it. Twisted—sure it’s twisted—but there’s a reason for every twist.

  “Nowadays, physical evidence dominates detective work. The average cop on the beat relies too much on forensics and not enough on smell. They teach cops to be politically correct and to keep the evidence clean, but it takes a lot more than that to be a first-rate detective.

  “Here’s an example. If I know some guy ate spicy Chinese food before he committed a murder, I wouldn’t start my investigation by rummaging through the refrigerators of possible suspects, searching for leftover kung pao. I’d go to Ming’s Golden Duck and have dinner. I want to taste what the perp tasted. I want to smell like him. Then I’ll get inside his head.

  “DNA, fingerprints and ballistics are important, of course; every police detective knows how to collect that stuff. But not one in a hundred has the nose of a hound.

  “On difficult cases, I bring along Sherlock, my Rhodesian Ridgeback. The public thinks I’m putting him on the scent. Not true. He puts me on it. There’s a difference. And
when I use the word, scent, I’m not just referring to the olfactory function; I’m talking about a sixth, or even a seventh, sense. I begin where Sherlock begins, thinking with my nose. Eventually, something opens up. Call it intuition; call it what you like. But it’s not just ordinary thinking and follow-the-dots,” he concluded. “Instinct tells you what to do next, where to go, that sort of thing.”

  “The only dog I know has a nose for food, but that’s about it,” I replied. “I give him a few morsels, and he disappears.”

  Archie grinned as he continued, “Most dogs are trained to bark at anything that crosses the imaginary line of your property. A real hound knows the difference between an intruder and a visitor. A real hound doesn’t bark at every sound in the night; it barks at the sound that doesn’t belong.”

  Our matching lunches arrived. The Reuben was huge by any standard—corned beef stacked two inches thick with sauerkraut and Swiss cheese spilling over toasted rye onto the plate. Lunch would be an epicurean challenge, and there was no way I could bring half of this home to Angele’s apartment; her kitchen is strictly vegan. Perhaps another beer or two might wash it down. That remained to be seen.

  Before I took my first bite, I asked, “I seem to remember that you started out as a policeman in Boston. Is that right?”

  Archie was already working on his sandwich. I took a bite of my own and waited for him to come up for air.

  “Right,” he said finally. “I was on the force for seventeen years. At the beginning, I rose fairly quickly through the ranks. I solved a few tough cases and helped our precinct through some dark times. I was promoted to lieutenant in my eleventh year, but the way things were arranged at that point, it was very unlikely I was going any higher. My boss, Captain Sean Booker, didn’t care for me and didn’t approve of my methods.

  “Like my dog, Sherlock, I kept barking at stuff that didn’t belong. Captain Booker said I needed better manners. He was a hard-ass and wouldn’t listen to any subordinate. He referred to me as his ‘underling.’ He was a complete jerk.”

  “You’re very independent, Archie, and you handle yourself well. It’s a little hard for me to imagine you dealing with a superior.”

  “There was nothing superior about him while he was alive, and even less so when he became a corpse. Booker was murdered on the job shortly after I left. He never saw it coming. He had only five senses. When you’re dealing with the most successful and calloused criminals alive, five is not enough.

  “Here’s another example of what I’m saying. Policemen aren’t allowed to drink on the job. What’s that about? If you know the perp drinks bourbon, you’ll never track him down jacked up on green tea.

  “But the worst part of my job was that many of the guys in my department were on the take. I worked narcotics mostly. All day we were shaking down users. These people aren’t criminals. The dealers are the criminals, not because of what they sell, but because they operate violent ad campaigns.”

  “So, you’d drink bourbon if the perp was a bourbon drinker. Would you take heroin to catch a heroin dealer?” I asked.

  “I did that once. I wanted to get a feel for their zone of operation. I didn’t know who was in charge at the time. I found out quickly that the biggest heroin dealers aren’t users. The users are easy to spot. They get put away one by one. The real dealers, on the other hand, keep their wits about them. You can sniff out a middleman on smack, but the guys at the top wear suits and drink scotch.”

  “And if it’s a woman?” I asked, playing devil’s advocate.

  Archie raised one eyebrow and smiled.

  “That’s why women are so damned hard to pinch. Police detectives are trained to look for men. If you’re after a female, you’d better give the job to a policewoman. In fact, when I was working the beat in Boston, I often said, ‘The best men on the force are women.’ That got me into trouble too,” he said with a chuckle.

  It was easy to see why his boss didn’t care for him. But I liked Archie. In fact, I liked him a lot. He might be covered in gristle, but a sense of humor tempered his dogged nature. He’d be a tough adversary, but a strong and reliable ally—which brought me back to the reason I called him in the first place.

  “Archie, I asked you out to lunch to see if there are ways we might be able to help each other.”

  “I imagined that was the case,” he replied.

  “The Lavoilette murder was resolved two months ago,” I said. “Since then, I’ve been deluged with work. I can’t keep up with it. What’s been happening to your caseload lately?”

  “I’ve got more than I can handle,” he replied. “The media coverage surrounding the convictions for your case has increased public interest in PIs throughout New England. If you thought you were drawing business away from me, you’re mistaken. It’s been a boon for all of us.

  “No doubt there will be plenty of wannabes putting up shingles in the neighborhood,” he added, “but they have no idea what the work is all about. Competition has never been a problem for me. The cream rises to the top, Jesse. Right now, my bills are being paid and then some.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “I didn’t want to take away anything from you, or even from Fritz Weller.”

  “Fritz is cashing in, too. It’s an up year in the business,” Archie said.

  “OK. Then I’ll find a way to deal with the extra work. But there is one other thing I wanted to discuss,” I said.

  “Fire away,” Archie replied.

  “How would you feel about working with me from time to time whenever a particularly nasty case falls in my lap? I was definitely in the deep end of the pool during the Lavoilette murder investigation. There loomed a distinct possibility of more violence. I was armed, of course, but I can foresee situations when a second hired gun would come in handy.”

  Archie eyed me closely. He wasn’t the kind of guy who leapt into the breach. He finished his beer and caught Kelly’s eye. He raised two fingers and pointed to our glasses. She was over with refills before Archie said another word. After a few swallows, he looked at me again.

  “I think we can collaborate now and then, Jesse,” he said finally. “I didn’t get into this line of work to run Google searches and reprimand teenagers smoking pot. There are always risks when you’re dealing with real criminals. Ninety-eight percent of the job is tedious and boring. I thrive on the other two percent. Sure, you can call me when it gets prickly. I’ll cover your back, and I’ll expect you to cover mine.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I’m not working on any dangerous cases at the moment, but I like the idea that I have someone to call in a tight situation.”

  “All right. I’ll keep that in mind—and your phone number on my cell,” he said.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter.

  “Have a look at this,” he said. “Read it and tell me what it says.”

  I looked carefully at the quarter, wondering if this was a trick question.

  “United States of America. Quarter Dollar,” I said.

  “Not the front; the heads are all the same. Look at the back. There are fifty different tails, one for each state. What does that one say?”

  I flipped it over and read aloud, “Live free or die.”

  “What else?” Archie persisted.

  “OK… New Hampshire. 1788.”

  “1788, the year New Hampshire became a state. Read on,” he said.

  “Old man of the mountain. E pluribus unum. 2000,” I replied.

  “The granite face in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. One out of many. The year the quarter was minted,” he said. “OK, hand it back to me.”

  I did, and Archie immediately went into magic mode. He exposed the coin, first in his right hand, and then in his left. Next, he placed it in the middle of his right hand and slowly pulled his left hand away as his fingers curled around it.

  I trained my attention on his every move.

  Without opening his right hand, he shook it back and forth seve
ral times and then uncurled his fingers. The quarter was gone.

  My mouth gaped open. I was literally astonished. I had no idea how he made that thing disappear.

  “Where do you think it is?” Archie asked.

  “I have no idea. I suspect it’s up your sleeve. I know you didn’t palm it with your other hand; I was keeping my eye on that one. I’m pretty sure that the coin was in your right when your left hand moved away.”

  I scratched my head and said, “I give up. Where is it?”

  “Look in your coat pocket,” he said.

  I felt around and pulled out a piece of paper. It had Archie’s phone number and Father O’Reilly’s address. I held that up and said, “You mean this?”

  “No. Look in the other one,” he said as if he were dealing with an idiot.

  I rummaged through that pocket, and there it was!

  “It’s a quarter,” I said with a grin on my face.

  “Read the back,” he insisted.

  “Live free or die,” I said. “How did it get there?”

  “Jesse, the toughest criminals are magicians. They’re way ahead of you—and me. It’s our job to be alert and see through the distractions. They know all about forensics. They can plant blood. They can manipulate DNA. They are dreamers, and the successful ones are very skilled. They exploit evidence to suit their needs and send detectives off trailing apparitions. Just remember that when the tough case comes along. And when you see a ghost, duck for Christ sake! You might not get a second chance.”

  “Archie, where on earth did you go to PI school?”

  “BU.”

  “Boston University. I read recently that it’s rated the second best PI school in the country.”

  “You can’t prove that by me,” Archie replied matter-of-factly. “School may put a diploma on your wall and a license in your wallet, but you learn how to be a PI on the street.”

  “I’m sure you must have learned something at BU.”

  “Let me see. Did I learn anything there?”