Private Lies Page 11

  Sydney shrugged, bewildered by where this conversation was going.

  “At any rate,” Leslie continued, “Father Moran…Ian…was a priest here in Madison many, many moons ago.”

  “Back when you were young enough to have preadolescent crushes on the clergy,” Barney teased Leslie. “Maybe that sowed the seeds for you falling for a cop! Uniforms, authority. It all makes sense now.”

  Leslie ignored her brother. “He started as the priest at the elementary school my family sent me—well, all of us, actually—to. And, yes, he was handsome. The women in the parish, my mother included, adored him. I think the men wanted to be like him. All the girls thought he was the hippest priest we knew. He’d wear jeans with his collar. Quoted Rolling Stones lyrics to explain heavenly mysteries.”

  “Oh, you can’t always get what you wa-ant,” Barney sang.

  “Stop.” Leslie shoulder-bumped her brother. “Father Moran was an up-and-comer, my mother used to say. My father was making do with small strings of projects. It was Father Moran who gave him his first big project.”

  “The one that allowed him to buy the property in Maple Bluff?” Sydney asked.

  “Not quite. But definitely the one that allowed him to build the house,” Leslie answered. “Ian had been promoted and given the responsibility to build the new diocesan headquarters on the far west side. He gave the project to Father.”

  “That was the beginning of a long and fruitful connection between the Fitzgeralds and the Catholic Church,” Barney added. “And every time Father scored with some church building, Prairie Construction got bigger.”

  “Father was always a good steward of church resources,” Leslie explained. “Projects came in under budget and on time.”

  “So,” Sydney offered. “The relationship was reciprocal. Prairie Construction got rich and Father Moran’s reputation for being the guy to get things done grew.”

  “You guessed it.” Barney drained his glass and lifted it high to signal for a refill. “One promotion after another came to him. He’s the big cheese now.”

  Sydney didn’t understand. “You’re not going to tell me he’s the pope.”

  Leslie smiled. “More important. Father Ian Moran is now Chief U.S. Investment Officer for the Institute for the Works of Religion.”

  “Commonly known as the Vatican Bank,” Barney said. “Think of all the money gathered from peasants and kings for centuries. Add to it the bounty from conquests and crusades. Lace that all together with the miracle of interest…compounded over two thousand years.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Sydney said.

  “And our own Ian Moran is in charge of it all. A lot of money doesn’t even describe the man’s monthly expense allowance.”

  “He’s only in charge of the U.S. part of the Vatican Bank,” Leslie clarified.

  Sydney was stunned. “And your parents know him? You know him?”

  “Friend of the family,” Leslie said.

  “And for obvious reasons, you can see why Father wants to keep the ties close.” Barney turned toward his sister. “Honestly, sis. I think you’d jump at this chance, what with you running Prairie Construction now. Don’t you want to keep that big fish of a customer on the hook? And don’t give me any smoke about being too busy.”

  Leslie’s jaw was firmly set. “Of course I want to keep on friendly terms with Ian. But I want him to see me as leading Prairie now. I couldn’t be so blunt with Mother when she asked me to plan the dinner, but I can’t risk Ian seeing me as the woman who orders the floral arrangements. That’s why I told her I was too busy. I’m sorry, Barney. I didn’t know she’d stick you with it. She has an assistant. Or she could plan it herself. I mean, would it really kill her to skip a couple of bridge tournaments?”

  Sydney had no desire to meddle in the siblings’ squabble.

  “Why did this dinner with Moran bring you here?” Syndey asked Barney. “Why Hush Money?”

  “Mother’s idea.” Barney took a sip from his second scotch. “Moran’s coming to Wisconsin to participate in some super-secret meetings with several bishops. He called Father and asked if they could get together. Mother thought it would be great fun to bring him back to Madison. You know, where it all started.”

  “And Father Moran has mentioned my restaurant?”

  “Oh, no,” Barney answered. “As far as I know he hasn’t been back to Madison in at least five years. Mother chose it. She wanted me to swing by and see if you have a private room. I think she’s crazy about your chef.”

  My chef who’s in New York? she wondered. That chef?

  “How many would there be for dinner?” Sydney asked.

  “Mother wants to keep it small. Her and Father, of course. Me, Leslie here. I suppose the chief of police will have to be there. That’s it. Just the six of us.”

  “You won’t have a date?” Sydney asked.

  Leslie barked out a laugh. “Seriously, Syd. You’ve seen him in action twice now. Who’d date this dud?”

  This time it was Sydney who laid her hand on Barney’s arm. “Oh, I don’t know. I think he’s kind of cute. Bluster and wind. That’s all he’s got.”

  Barney seemed to grow five years younger as he smiled and accepted her assessment.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Hush Money’s not your spot,” Sydney said. “We don’t have a separate room. I certainly can set you up with a nice table for six, but unless you’re willing to buy out the entire restaurant for one evening, that’s the best I can do.”

  Barney shook his head. “A nice table in a large restaurant will never do. Not for Father Superstar. Let me just say he’s not the kind of priest who emulates the humbleness of Christ. No way would he break bread with an audience of hoi polloi looking on.”

  “My guests represent the finest people.” Sydney felt a surge of protectiveness. “Besides, as you said, this Moran is a big fish in a very arcane pond. It’s quite possible no one would even recognize him.”

  “Which would be utterly worse!” Barney drained his glass. “Ian thrives on being fawned over. He’s just quite particular about who’s doing the fawning. Dining incognito would be the death of him, dear woman.”

  “I’ve got it!” Leslie exclaimed. “If Mother wants to bring him back to where it all began, let’s do it whole hog.”

  “Oh, sister. Tell me you’re not going to develop a habit of using butcher metaphors.”

  “Hear me out,” Leslie continued. Sydney was impressed with how easily Leslie ignored her brother. She imagined it was a skill born from years of practice. “Let’s have dinner at my home. Ian’s been there dozens of times throughout the years. He’s seen it in many incarnations, but he hasn’t seen it since Charles and I added on. He’ll love it! We can all spend the entire evening flattering him with how it all would have been impossible without his patronage and support. Father will love it, too. He always likes a good stroll down memory lane.”

  “What about Mother?” Barney asked. “Sorry to be a buzzkill, but she had her heart set on Hush Money.”

  “Hush Money can cater!” Leslie’s eyes sparkled as she spoke directly to Sydney. “You can do that, right? Your staff will have full access to our kitchen. We can serve out on the patio.” She snapped her fingers. “Voilà! Everyone’s happy.”

  Sydney felt a surge of excitement. “Yes! It sounds like great fun. Count us in.”

  As the three of them chatted about possible dates and menus, Sydney felt a nagging tug in her gut.

  Is this another adventure I’m chasing?

  Chapter 21

  It was 9:00 at night when Horst returned to the hospital. He smiled at Officer Dennis York who sat in the chair in front of Frank Vistole’s hospital room.

  “Here ya go.” Horst handed the officer a paper sack. “Bad Breath Burger from the Blue Moon. Fries, too.”

 
The officer didn’t allow the surprise he felt keep him from reaching for the bag. “Thanks, Welke. I was just thinking how good one of these would taste about now. You must be psychic.”

  “I must be somethin’.” Horst nodded toward Vistole’s door. “Things nice and boring?”

  “Just the way we like it.” York reached in and pulled several fries from the bag. “I think he’s sleeping. I heard the TV go off about ten minutes ago. Docs say he’s good to go first thing in the morning. Guy’s probably wanting to savor his last good night’s sleep. He won’t get much down at the jail.”

  Horst nodded. “Why don’t you take a break? Take that burger somewhere you can enjoy it. I’ll stay until you get back.”

  York nodded. “Whatley told me you’d come by today, wanting to see Vistole. Heard she gave you the company line. Sorry about that.”

  “She’s new. She’ll learn the ropes.” Horst tilted his chin toward the clipboard resting next to York’s chair. “You get the call?”

  “I did.” York grabbed another handful of fries. “Lovash called about an hour after I started my shift. Just so you know, I didn’t need that. You come by while I’m standing guard and tell me you need to see Vistole, I’m stepping aside. We gotta have one another’s back, am I right?”

  “I appreciate that.” Horst wished Sergeant Milo Lovash felt the same esprit de corps. But then, he realized York was in that sweet spot of seniority. Unlike Whatley, York had been on the force long enough to know some rules could be ignored. But Lovash had nearly thirty years of service. He knew how to bargain if he was holding something another cop wanted. It had cost Horst two tickets to the Packers home opener to get his name on the list. “Like I said, take a break. Go enjoy your burger. I’ll keep an eye on Frankie.”

  York heaved himself up out of the chair. “I’ll take you up on that. You need me, I’ll be in the family room. There’s a TV in there and I’m hoping it’s tuned in to the Brewers game. Half an hour sound okay?”

  “Take your time.”

  Horst waited until York was well down the hall before entering Frankie Vistole’s darkened room. York was right. Vistole was on his back, eyes closed. Left leg and wrist cuffed to the hospital bed.

  Horst clicked on the overhead lights.

  Vistole’s eyes shot open. “What’s this, now? Time for my drugs already? You got any of that magic sleep potion? I sure wouldn’t mind a hit of that.” He squinted to examine Horst more closely. “Shouldn’t you have a white coat or some shit like that?”

  Horst pulled out his badge and introduced himself.

  “Oh, no, no, no, no.” Vistole struggled to pull himself into a seated position. “I ain’t talkin’ to no cop without my lawyer present. I look like a rube to you?”

  Horst decided against telling Vistole what he looked like, opting for delving in directly, instead. “Who’s Billy Tremble?”

  “That name supposed to mean something to me?” Like all street punks, Vistole liked to run his mouth, despite having just said he wouldn’t talk without legal representation.

  “I think it does. I think you and Billy are working this thing together.”

  Vistole’s face contorted in confusion. “And what thing might that be?”

  “You left Ossie MacDonald holding the bag. Literally. You and I both know Ossie’s not smart enough to pull this kind of thing off. That’s why you needed Billy.”

  Vistole rested his head on the pillow, his face showing his appreciation for Horst having assessed him as the brains of the operation. “I don’t know no Billy.”

  “Try Billy Shakes. You know him now?”

  “That some kind of flavor-of-the-day over at Culver’s? Oh, no. My mistake. That was a Bucky Shake.”

  “What were you doing carrying more than a million dollars, Frankie?”

  His face shifted into a pose of exaggerated innocence. “Why, Officer. I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You and Billy have business? Did he give you the money?”

  “Again with the Billy. Man, I don’t know no Billy.” A warning gleam came to Vistole’s eyes. “And if I was holding a million dollars—which, of course I’m sayin’ I wasn’t, but if I was—you sure wouldn’t want to know the name of the person who gave it to me.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning nothin’ since I ain’t been carryin’ no such bag. But if I let my mind wander, try to guess who might give a fella like me that much money…Why, it wouldn’t take much for me to realize that would be a man no one would need to be messin’ with. You feel that?”

  “You tryin’ to scare me, Frankie?”

  “Man, I ain’t tryin’ to do nothin’ here but tell you there’s been a big mistake made. I done nothin’ wrong.”

  Horst nodded to the bandages wrapped around Vistole’s leg. “Then how do you explain that? You’ve been shot, Frankie. Shot by one of Madison’s finest.”

  Frankie’s eyes turned to two brown orbs of cold mud. “Don’t tell me you want me to school you on how police don’t care much about who they shoot these days. Is that what you’re lookin’ for, Officer?”

  Horst pulled out his phone and maneuvered it to show the close-up photo of Billy Tremble’s dead face. “Wasn’t any police officer shot Billy. He’d been flashing around hundred-dollar bills. You got nabbed holding a duffel bag filled with hundred-dollar bills. Billy gets shot on Friday. Same day your business at the market went down. Way I see it is you and Billy were in this together. Bringing money up for…for what? Major purchase? Pay off somebody’s debt? I figure you and Billy were simply the deliverymen. You’re too stupid to be dealing on that level and my hunch is Billy was operating at the same temperature IQ as you. What happened? Billy raid the stash? You decided to pop him before whoever’s money it was found out? Is that when you called Ossie? Once you got rid of Billy? Did you need another fall guy after you killed the one you had?”

  The color drained from Vistole’s face. All earlier bravado was gone from his voice when he spoke. “I told you. I don’t know any Billy. Billy Trembles. Billy Shakes. Billy Goats. I don’t know no Billys.”

  “Tremble. Billy Tremble.”

  “See? I don’t even know the dude’s name!”

  “Bullets we pulled out of Billy were thirty-eights. What’s the caliber you used to shoot Officer Sheffield? And don’t try to bluff. You know we’ve got them.”

  Vistole’s lower lip trembled. “So, I pack a thirty-eight. So, what’s that make me? Check your local NRA Saturday night dance party. Eighty percent of those guys gonna be holdin’ a thirty-eight.”

  “But would they have pockets full of hundred-dollar bills? An entire duffel bag full? I doubt it. No, I like my theory better. All I have to do now is find the ribbons that I can tie into a perfect bow for the DA. We’ll let her turn ’em into a noose.”

  “I told you! I don’t know any Billy Tremble!”

  “What was the money for?”

  Vistole looked around the room, as though he was hoping to see some giant pile of cards where he could pick one for getting out of jail free.

  “I don’t think it would take much for Ossie to link you to Billy. I’ve already had a little chat with him. Our boy’s more than pissed at you for not telling him it was a mountain of cash you were moving.” Horst added a detail to assure Vistole knew the conversation with Ossie had actually taken place. “He told me had he known it was more than a million you asked him to hold, he would have asked for more than the C-note and beer on State Street you offered him to come up from Beloit with you.”

  Vistole’s hands shook enough to rattle the cuff against the bed’s metal railing.

  “What was the money for, Frankie?”

  Vistole didn’t answer. Horst watched the worn cotton of his hospital gown dance on his chest with every rapid, shallow breath.

  “Ha
ve it your way, Frankie. Tell ya the truth, I kind of admire your silence. Honor among thieves and all that bullshit. But you gotta ask yourself one thing: Would whoever you were muling for appreciate your ethic as much as I do? Or if they have enough money to let some dumbass schlep it up to Madison for them, would they even blink at spending ten times that to make sure you took the fall?” Horst paused. “Don’t tell me you want me to school you on how determined those of us wearing the blue can be when one of our own goes down.”

  Horst turned toward the door. He figured he’d make it about halfway before Vistole called him back. In actuality, he only made one step.

  “Wait!”

  Horst turned back around.

  “The money was coming up from Chicago.”

  “Who do you think I am, Frankie?” Horst shook his head. “I know your rap sheet. You may like to spread the word on the streets that you’re somehow connected to Chicago’s style, but you and I both know that’s nothing but something you hope will get you laid.”

  A flicker of dare flashed across Vistole’s face. “All right. All right. I guess I own that. But this time it’s true. Started ’bout three months ago. Don’t know what happened to the guy they had been using, but I heard there might be an opportunity open for me. Do some driving once a week.”

  “Three months ago? That when you and Billy started working for the bad guys?”

  “You gotta hear me when I say I don’t know no Billy. That’s one of them dead ends you cops like to run into. No. I was workin’ it on my own.”

  “Explain to me what you were working.”

  Vistole inhaled long and slow, like he suddenly understood there’d be no turning back from what he was about to say. “Driving. That’s all I do. I drive. Guy comes to Beloit. Different car every time, but always Illinois plates. Always the same drop-off. Always the same guy. Always with the same guy riding shotgun.”