Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [617]
A door opened, startling him, and he caught himself sitting up straight almost as if he was in church and had fallen asleep during the sermon. He twisted around in the chair, not sure what was appropriate. Should he stand? Why the hell stand?
“Mr. Pakula.” Archbishop Armstrong said it like an announcement, only getting the pronunciation wrong, so that it ended up being PAYkoola instead of Pa-koola.
“It’s Pakula and it’s detective,” he said, correcting the archbishop. Getting it wrong was just another way he thought he could intimidate Pakula, make him feel he needed to explain himself. He noticed the archbishop stayed standing alongside the desk, hesitating. Was he waiting for Pakula to stand? Chief Ramsey had assured him he needed to be polite, but no sucking up was required. Pakula remained seated.
“Czech?”
“Polish.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” Armstrong said and glided to his chair behind his desk, finally taking his place, as if the ancestry of Pakula’s name was something they needed to get out of the way, as if that might help him understand Pakula.
The chair seemed to swallow the archbishop’s tall, lean body. Evidently he was aware of its effect because immediately he sat forward on the edge of the seat with his hands in front of him on the desk, clasped almost reverently as if in constant prayer mode. They were the smallest hands Pakula had seen on a man, smooth, not a callus or cuticle in sight with buffed, pearly white-tipped nails. Definitely a professional manicure. So much for that vow of poverty.
“What can I do to help you, Mr. Pakula?” he asked with a tilt of his head to show concern, but already purposely exchanging “detective” for “mister.” Pakula recognized it for another maneuver or strategy in the archbishop’s game of control. The detective decided to ignore it for now.
“You offered your assistance through Brother Sebastian. I wondered if you might have some thoughts, some insights…you know, on who could have killed Monsignor O’Sullivan?” No sense in beating around the bush, be it burning or camouflaged.
“Who, indeed?” Archbishop Armstrong said in a deep voice as if it were the beginning of a sermon.
He opened his clasped hands, holding them palms up before bringing them to the desk again, this time softly and slowing tapping all ten fingertips on the desk’s polished surface. The gesture reminded Pakula of some ritual right before a blessing, although he doubted that it was a blessing the archbishop had in mind for him at the moment.
“Perhaps it was a drug addict? Some poor soul only looking to find money for his next fix?”
Pakula restrained himself from laughing. The archbishop was serious. His youthful face creased with concern. The fingertips continued to tap out some secret code as he added, “It was a random act of violence. Was it not?”
“It’s still too early to answer that.”
“So you have no suspects?”
“Not at the moment.” Pakula watched to see if the archbishop looked disappointed or relieved. He couldn’t tell.
“Was the monsignor having any problems at the school?” Pakula asked.
“Problems?”
“He was the principal of Our Lady of Sorrow, correct?”
“Yes, he was, and he did a fine job.”
Interesting, Pakula noted. He hadn’t asked what kind of a job the monsignor had done, only if there had been any problems.
“Did he voice any concerns recently?” He’d try again. “Any trouble with other instructors. Maybe a student?” He continued to watch closely, more interested in reaction than verbal responses, although this could be fun if the archbishop continued to throw in things Pakula didn’t ask about.
“Students,” he said, but it wasn’t a question. Instead, it seemed an idea he hadn’t thought of before. “He never mentioned any threats.”
Pakula wanted to smile. He had asked about trouble. The archbishop had converted it to