Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [576]
“This is weird,” she said, turning it around for a more thorough inspection. To Pakula it looked like a piece of white fuzz, no bigger than a dime.
“What is it?” Pakula came closer while she slipped it into a plastic bag and was picking another off the monsignor’s polo shirt.
“I could be really off base,” she said, holding it up to her nose this time, “but it looks like crumbs.”
“Crumbs?”
“Yeah, bread crumbs.”
Before Pakula could respond, his cell phone started tinkling, the sound of a million tiny little bells. He should never have let his daughter Angie—the techno nerd—program the damn thing. He had no idea how to change the tone and instead he resorted to ripping the phone off of his hip, breaking his record at two rings.
“Pakula.” All he got was static. “Hold on.” He turned his back and walked down the hallway, hoping for a stronger signal. “Yeah, go ahead.”
“Pakula, it’s Carmichael.”
“Where the hell are you, Carmichael? I could use your butt down here at the airport.”
“I’m still at the station.”
“I’ve a got a sliced-up priest on the bathroom floor with idiots walking around him to take a piss and maybe even eat a sandwich over his dead body.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Well, that all sounds like a lot of fun, but I thought you might be interested in the phone call I just got. A Brother Sebastian from the Omaha Archdiocese’s office wants to know the condition of Monsignor William O’Sullivan’s body.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. How the hell did he already find out? We just ID’d the padre less than an hour ago.”
“Said he received an anonymous phone call.”
“Really?”
Pakula could hear Detective Kim Carmichael crunching, a nervous habit that added to her waistline. Then the rest of them would pay, having to listen to her complain in a burst of choppy Korean expletives. But he’d trade Kasab for her, too.
“Here’s the thing, Pakula, actually two items I think you’ll find interesting. Brother Sebastian seemed awfully concerned about the monsignor’s personal effects, particularly one leather portfolio. Second, he wanted us to know that Archbishop Armstrong would help us, so it certainly wouldn’t be necessary to bring in the FBI.”
“The FBI?” Pakula laughed. “Okay, Carmichael. Very funny. But it’s been a long day, and I’m really not in the mood for—”
“I’m not kidding, Tommy. That’s what he said. I even wrote it down.”
“Why the hell would we call in the FBI for a local homicide?”
“He tried to sound nonchalant about it when he said it,” Carmichael replied, “but I could hear something, you know. He was nervous and careful with his words, and yet, trying to be all like it’s no big deal.”
Pakula stopped, leaned against the wall, keeping out of earshot of the coffee and doughnut counter. He couldn’t remember seeing a leather portfolio. From the beginning he thought this was a random hit, maybe a robbery gone badly despite the padre’s wallet left behind filled with euros. Euros were worthless to a local petty thief. But what if the killer hadn’t been looking for quick cash? What if he knew exactly who he had followed into the men’s bathroom? Was it possible someone intended to kill the good monsignor? That made it a whole different case.
“Hey, Pakula, you fall asleep on me?”
“Do me a favor, Carmichael. Give Bob Weston a call and fill him in on the details.”
“You sure you wanna do that?”
“The archbishop says he doesn’t want us to bring in the FBI. Yeah, maybe I might check with the FBI to see why that is.”
CHAPTER 7
Newburgh Heights
(Just outside of Washington, D.C.)
Maggie had just gotten home when her cell phone began to ring. She and Harvey were in the middle of their “welcome home” routine even though she had seen him several hours ago. Ever since