Ocean Park Page 5

  Minutes later Conley was being ministered to by the most beautiful black girl he’d ever seen. She studied gashes on his forehead and cheek, fat lips, crooked nose, then got to work. She worked intently, warm breath washing his face as she touched him on either side of the cuts and gently pulled skin apart.

  William O’Neil sat in a straight chair behind her.

  “Hello, Matt. Good to see you.”

  “You, too,” he tried to say, but it came out “Yoo shoo”. He was surprised how many places could hurt just from talking.

  “Sorry the boys roughed you up. Things always seem to get out of control when Sage and I go out for lunch. I wish you’d called first. Sage will fix you up. She’s a doctor.”

  Of course. And Teddy was a lawyer, Donna a diplomat, Rocco a CPA. Morgan’s Tap was a regular hangout for Ocean Park’s upper crust.

  The woman retrieved a medical kit from a closet and removed alcohol, gauze, and bandages. She looked back at Conley and turned to the case for more supplies.

  The office was neat and clean. The leather couch looked new and wood floors gleamed. An executive desk stood in back of them. Evidently, being CEO of Morgan’s Tap had fringe benefits beyond scaring the hell out of bikers and hanging with beautiful doctors.

  A picture frame displayed a gold USMC buckle behind glass. More frames held photos of William with men in fatigues—in a jungle, on a palm-treed beach, perched on the crag of a rocky hill that looked like a moonscape.

  The woman—Sage—soaked pads in alcohol and swabbed his cuts as Conley watched it all in the mirror of her eyes. The reflection of her mocha-colored hands disappeared in her irises because they were the same color. The white gauze squares appeared to be dressing wounds by themselves.

  William was no longer frail and certainly not small. Six-five maybe. Gangly but solid. His arms were so wide that when he straightened them, hands on knees, they looked like broadswords at rest.

  Teddy brought two tall drinks, muddy and frothy, and placed them on the small table.

  “Irish Car Bombs,” William said with a smile. “What better drinks for two Micks to toast their reunion?”

  “Sorry, William, but I didn’t come here on a social call. I’m a policeman now.”

  “Figures. Some people are put on this world to screw it up and others are here to fix the screw-ups. You were always a fixer, Matt.”

  “I need to ask you about your boss. Victor Rodriguez.”

  He nodded.

  “And where the hell you’ve been all these years,” Conley said.

  William took a long swig and folded his long arm-swords across his chest. “I’ll start there. Makes more sense that way.”

  ****

  William O’Neil joined the military after high school, had a taste of battle, learned he was good at it. So good that private opportunity followed, a high-paid job chasing people good at screwing up the world. Heʼd also become a storyteller, and rendered his adventures more like a journalist than a mercenary.

  Tears fell from the canopy in the Somali jungle, hot condensation that turned the jungle floor into a steaming cauldron. Monkeys chattered and beautiful birds cawed at the endless shower. Mud-hut villages outside Kandahar were cold and quiet—no noisy animals there, just listless, desperate people waiting to die. Winds in the desolate Peshawar mountains howled, blew relentlessly, angry and cruel, the only thing alive.

  His strong jaw twitched, a tic Conley suddenly remembered. It was less pronounced now, barely perceptible.

  “I’m back, Matt. Came home three months ago and heard Victor Rodriguez was looking for someone to run the Tap.”

  “Interesting job.”

  “And not many applicants. I had the inside track. He and my dad were friends.”

  “Two unlikely companions.”

  “Knew each other from St. Amby’s. Holy Name Society.”

  “Really? Rodriguez was a parishioner?”

  “A very dedicated member of the Church of St. Ambrose.”

  “Any idea who murdered him?”

  “No, but I know who does. The Paladin.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Paladin’s a place—a social club.”

  “You mean like the Elks or the Hibernians?” Conley asked.

  William took another long slug from his drink and wore a brown mustache before his tongue wiped it away.

  “No. More social.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Sage glanced at William. He took a deep breath into his long, wide torso.

  “Kinky stuff, Matt. You try my wife and I’ll try yours.”

  Tic.

  Sage pulled stitches through his eyebrow, hands moving so fast they fluttered. Conley was embarrassed that she had to hear this, hoped she was too occupied to be listening.

  “William, Victor Rodriguez was a married man. He took his wife to sex parties?”

  Tic.

  “He took me,” Sage said. She’d spoken for the first time, in a confident, detached voice that didn’t interfere with her handiwork. “Victor took me to those parties.”

  Silence filled the room. Stunned, Conley avoided eye contact and took a deep breath. When he finally spoke, his words rasped from a parched throat.

  “So you think the people at this club killed him?”

  “They threatened to kill him,” she said, drawing a stitch.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I need to find out.”

  “I’ll help,” William said.

  Conley hesitated. Not so fast. The adult William may have been built like a steamroller and capable of scaring an entire biker gang, but he was a civilian. Conley’s job status was tenuous enough without enlisting amateur sleuths.

  “Thank you,” Conley said, “but no.”

  “Matt, you need us. Without our help, you’ll never find the Paladin.”

  Sage stopped working and turned to William, one eyebrow raised, and said “Our help?”

  He nodded once, looking Conley directly in the eye. “Victor was our friend. We need to set this right. Sage and I want to be fixers too.”

  Chapter 10

  One week after Victor Rodriguez’s murder, Conley pulled into the rectory driveway and parked behind Father McCarrick’s Buick. Mrs. Blodgett was already at the door. Somehow she seemed to know when visitors were coming.

  “Prescient,” McCarrick always said about his loyal housekeeper, proud that he’d found a word that made him sound smart and his housekeeper appear gifted. He’d even spell the word.

  “Father, she’s nosey,” Conley always corrected. “N-O-S-E-Y.”

  She held the door open and her eyes brightened when she saw his damaged face.

  “Matt, what in God’s name happened to you?”

  “When you fight crime, Mrs. Blodgett, sometimes crime fights back.”

  He walked past her into the rectory, into the Sunday-afternoon smell of a roast in the oven.

  Father McCarrick sat at the dining room table reading the Catholic newspaper The Pilot, his finger running down the list of morally objectionable movies.

  “Where’s Father Francesco?” Conley asked.

  “Boston. He and the Cardinal are busy counting pieces of silver. Who beat you up?”

  “Bikers at Morgan’s Tap.”

  Father grunted. “Morgan’s. Only thing missing in that place is brimstone.”

  “Father,” Conley said, sliding into a chair and folding his hands on the linen tablecloth. McCarrick looked at him over the top of his reading glasses. “Victor Rodriguez. He was a parishioner, wasn’t he?”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Just part of the investigation. Captain Stefanos never asked you that question. Rodriguez belonged to St. Ambrose parish.”

  “Yes. He did.” Back to the newspaper.

  “Why didn’t you tell us that?”

  “Don’t offer anything you’re not asked. Isn’t that what they tell defendants, Matt? Yes or no answers?”

/>   “Father, you’re a material witness, not a defendant. You can say anything you think is relevant to solving the case.”

  “Fine. I found it irrelevant. Happy? I’m not a blabbermouth, you know.”

  McCarrick turned pages until he found The Pilot’s morally objectionable book list and put his finger back to work.

  “So, he must have come to confession here,” Conley said.

  Mrs. Blodgett pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen and placed a cup of tea in front of Father as he answered.

  “Yes, he came to confession here. So what?”

  The housekeeper laid the spoon next to the teacup, then decided it looked better on the other side. She cupped one hand near the edge of the table and used the other to meticulously sweep the clean tablecloth. Conley waited for her to finish. And waited. Finally, she left.

  Asking Father to break a sacred vow would be an awful thing—reprehensible—unethical—downright immoral.

  “Tell me what he confessed.”

  “Matt!”

  “Sorry, but I thought we were playing the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ game.”

  “You damn well know I can’t divulge what’s said in the confessional.”

  “That didn’t seem the case last New Year’s Eve, Father. Lisa and I heard you tell everyone about Mrs. O’Donnell’s adventures at the church party.ˮ

  “I did not.”

  “You probably don’t remember. Let’s just hope Father Francesco doesn’t find out.”

  McCarrick looked over the top of his newspaper.

  “Is that blackmail or extortion, Matt? I get the two confused. Of course, I do remember a confession from a young man who had a stash of nudie books he stole from the pharmacyˮ—he jerked his thumb toward the window—“the one right across the street.”

  “That was a very long time ago. Tell anyone you want.”

  He dropped the paper on the table.

  “Well, let’s bring things up to date if that’s your aim, Matt. Mrs. O’Donnell’s still at it, finds a new friend every time her husband travels to Chicago on business—and guess what? They aren’t always man friends.”

  “Father, don’t.”

  “And how about Peter Mullen? He skims a bit every week at his bank job. Has a system, says he can’t stop. No one knows except him and me. And now you. Satisfied? Is that what your job is now? Gossip? Salacious enough for you, Detective?

  “Arthur McDonough has a girlfriend, but she’s a transvestite, David Manning keeps a collection of child pornography, and Stella Neary, wait until you hear this one, Matt—ˮ

  The swinging door moved. Conley pushed his seat back, stepped quietly, and nudged the heavy door an inch. A dull knock sounded, wood against bone, followed by a groan and the slow shuffle of shoes.

  He returned to the table. Father McCarrick was still spouting others’ confessions like a sportscaster. His face was flush and perspiration beaded his forehead. Breath came fast.

  “Father, stop. Please.”

  “Why, Matt? I thought you were enjoying it?”

  “Tell me about Victor Rodriguez. He went to sex parties?”

  McCarrick sat back and rolled his shoulders as if he were trying to scratch an itch against the chair.

  “So? He’s one of many.”

  “What did he say about them?”

  “Confessors don’t elaborate on their sins. ‘I did it and here it is, Father. Make it right with a few prayers so I can sin again’.”

  “What did Victor Rodriguez tell you?” Conley asked.

  McCarrick rolled his eyes. “Let’s see, he said there was fornication, sodomy, a little S&M, but only on the last week of every month—ˮ

  “He actually said those words? Fornication? Sodomy?”

  “Matt, I don’t take notes on these things. It’s too dark in there to write anyway. I’m giving you the gist.”

  Mrs. Blodgett pushed through the door with a plate of steaming roast beef, mashed potatoes with gravy, and two crescent rolls. McCarrick moved the newspaper to create an opening in front of him.

  The housekeeper turned slightly, looking straight down as if checking her shoes. “Will you be having a plate, Mr. Conley?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Blodgett. Looks like a nasty bump on your forehead. Might want to be more careful. Kitchen can be a dangerous place.”

  The housekeeper lifted her chin and left faster than he thought possible.

  “I visited Simon O’Neil,” Conley said when she’d left.

  Father McCarrick held up a fork full of mashed potatoes, gravy dripping. “You are determined to spoil my supper, Matt.”

  He shrugged. “Sorry. Simon hasn’t changed much.”

  “At least we know it wasn’t him painting the statue.”

  “How do we know that, Father?”

  “Because the miracle’s real.”

  Conley peered at him. “You know something.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “What will it be now? More blackmail? Headlock maybe? Waterboard?”

  “Okay. Tell me one thing. Do you know who did this? Is it related to Victor Rodriguez’s murder?”

  “That’s two things, but I’ll give you an opinion anyway, my arithmetic-challenged friend. The miracle is real. The Matt Conley I used to know would have realized that.”

  He finished the last bite and tore a piece off the roll. He swept the plate with the gravy mop and popped it into his mouth. More pieces, and a dozen swipes later, the plate shone.

  Conley stood. He was wasting his time here.

  “Going to Morgan’s Tap again?” Father McCarrick asked around the last bite.

  Conley touched his tender cheek and winced. “Not anytime soon.”

  Father mumbled, still chewing.

  “Too bad.”

  Chapter 11

  On Monday morning, Conley watched crowds funnel up the wide steps of St. Rita’s Church for Tommy Lopez’s funeral, and squeezed the thick manila envelope in his hand. The mourners angled toward the double front doors, waiting in a queue to step inside. Snowflakes fell on them and clung, as if trying to brighten dark suits and topcoats. The high-pitched chime of a bell sounded three times from inside the church, and its doors closed.

  Stefanos and Kendricks watched too, from an unmarked car across the street, breath fogging the windows. Conley snuck toward them, stepped into a doorway hidden from view, and strained to listen to their conversation through Lloyd’s partially-open window.

  “Big funeral, Captain.”

  “They’re not called funerals anymore. This is a celebration of Tommy’s life.”

  “Shee-it,” Kendricks said. “I fucked up. Here I been celebrating his death for three days now.”

  He started the car. Stefanos threw binoculars into the glove compartment. Conley opened the back door of the cruiser and slid onto the seat.

  “Conley?” they erupted in unison.

  Conley sat back, legs spread wide, jacket open, the manila envelope against his chest.

  “Nippy out there.”

  “We’re on surveillance,” Stefanos said. “Get your ass out of here.”

  “Are you guys aware you’re supposed to sit inside the church at a Catholic funeral?”

  Kendricks lifted his chin at Conley’s cuts and bruises. “Looks like you make friends everywhere you go.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t care who murdered Tommy the Dog. You’re here because you think it will help solve Victor Rodriguez’s murder.”

  Kendricks answered. “And I say maybe you ain’t as smart of a guesser as you think you are.”

  “Victor was a wealthy man. Influential. Well-known. Must be a lot of pressure on you guys to show some progress.”

  “How ʼbout you and me step outside and I make some progress kicking your ass?” Kendricks offered.

  Stefanos held his hand up.

  “But Captain, he’s already beat to shit. I can rough this motherfucker up and get away with it �
�cause he already looks like hamburger.”

  Conley waved the envelope in the air. Clasp was open and the yellow strings hung down.

  “What’s that?” Stefanos asked.

  “Victor Rodriguez had a secret. He was into some strange stuff. Dangerous people threatened him.”

  “Who’s your source?”

  “Let’s just say it’s been confirmed by an authority.”

  Kendricks reached out and tried to swipe the package. Conley pulled it back.

  “Whoa,” Stefanos said, “Relax, Lloyd. Keep going, Conley.”

  “That’s it. Not telling you any more, Captain.”

  “Beating’s still on the table, sir,” Kendricks said.

  “I’m ordering you to give me that information.” Stefanos looked irritated.

  “Can’t order me to do shit, sir. I don’t work for you,” Conley said.

  Kendricks twisted his body, pushed against the steering wheel with his left hand, and braced his whole right arm over the seat back, ready to launch.

  “Of course, if I was on the team,” Conley said, swinging the envelope from side to side, inches from Kendricks’ fingers, “I’d have to share everything I got.”

  “No way,” Kendricks protested. “Don’t do it, Captain. He’s got nothing we need.”

  The police scanner squawked. The engine rumbled. Heat hissed from the dashboard vents. Cars drove by, washing the accumulating slush of snow on the street and turning it gray.

  Kendricks clenched his fists as he waited for the decision, forehead strained into dark lines, eyes pleading. Clench. Unclench. Clench.

  “Okay,” Stefanos finally said. “You’re in. Be at the station at five o’clock.” He pointed at the envelope. “Bring that with you.”

  Kendricks closed his eyes, rubbed his hand over the short hair on his scalp, and shook his head slowly.

  Conley nodded and opened the car door. Cold air and snowflakes blew in and melted on the leather seat. He reached over the seatback and dropped the envelope before he left. “Lloyd can bring it.”

  Kendricks seized the bottom of the envelope and emptied the contents. Dozens of circulars fell out. Walmart was having a sale. Two-for-one pizza at Domino’s. Sofa Barn was having a going-out-of-business blowout, and this time they were serious.

  Conley left the door open and heard Kendricks as he walked away.