Death's Door (24 page)

“Who else was here?”

“The sound engineer. And another announcer waiting for his program.”

“Was that Zlatko’s broadcast?”

“Sure. He did a Croatian-language hour twice a week. He’d been in earlier to make sure his announcer was there.”

“Wait, you mean Zlatko was in the studio, before Soletto was killed?”

“Yes,” Brackett said, thinking about it. “Maybe fifteen minutes or so. He talked with his guy, then said he’d forgotten his notes. He had plenty of time, so he went back to his office.”

“Did he talk with anyone else?”

“He and Bruzzone chatted for a minute, that’s it.”

“Was it usual for Bruzzone to hang around, after he’d handed over the list of American POWs?”

“He would stay for the start of the program. Then he’d leave, other times not.”

“And he was outside the window the whole time?”

“I guess so. I mean I wasn’t keeping my eye on him, no reason to.”

“Okay, that’s fine. Kaz, ask the engineer if that door to the offices is kept locked at night.”

Kaz conversed with him, then reported that it was. Announcers and engineers didn’t need access to the offices, so the connecting door was locked after hours. I checked the door. It was fairly new, with a single-cylinder deadbolt lock. Definitely not sixteenth century.

“What’s further down the corridor?” I asked Brackett.

“A small kitchen and a bathroom. I think there’s a supply closet, but that’s it. The radio station is fairly well sealed off from the rest of the building at night.”

Kaz and I searched the rooms. I was hoping for a bloodstained coat or gloves, some evidence that the gendarmes might have missed. Nothing. We went outside and searched in the rain, checking tree limbs, shrubs, and any hiding place we could think of. Nothing again.

Back inside, I nodded to Kaz as we approached Brackett, who sat in the waiting room, smoking one of the Nazionali cigarettes Kaz had given him.

“Okay, you’ve been a big help,” I said. “We ruled out a number of options.”

“Good for you. You could’ve gotten any of this from Inspector Cipriano; I gave him the same run-down. I’ve got to go,” he said, as if he had a ton of paperwork waiting.

“I need to ask something else,” I said. “Monsignor O’Flaherty mentioned that Bishop Zlatko might be leaving the Vatican soon. Do you know anything about that?” O’Flaherty had been about to explain that when the ruckus in the square started up.

“Sure. Cardinal Boetto is coming to Rome. He’s the archbishop of Genoa. Word is he’s got information about the deportation of Jews from Croatia.”

“And let me guess, Bishop Zlatko is involved,” I said.

“That’s the scuttlebutt. Boetto is very active in hiding Jews who make it to his door. They come from all over, and probably more than a few from Croatia. Boetto provides them with money and false identity papers all the time.”

“So Boetto would be glad to see Zlatko sent back?”

“He and others want the Pope to take a stand against the Croatian clergy participating in the Ustashi killings. Or a stronger one, at any rate. He’d be glad to have the Pontifical Commission act against Zlatko.”

“Now I understand why Zlatko is working against us,” I said. “It takes some pressure off him.”

“Yep, good politics on his part,” Brackett said, rising to leave.

“One more question,” I said, laying my hand on his arm as he walked by. “How would you describe your relationship with Bishop Zlatko?”

“Relationship? What the hell do you mean? He’s a right-wing Catholic Fascist and I’m a Protestant FDR Democrat. We’re hardly buddies.”

“Do you talk with him? You know, social chitchat.”

“I wouldn’t be rude, it’s not in the diplomat’s handbook. But I don’t seek him out for conversation, if that’s what you mean. And let go of me.” He shook off my hand.

“Share any interests? Skiing, any kind of sports?”

“Are you insane?” He looked to Kaz for support, uncertain of where this was going.

“It is just that we have heard of a strange conversation between you and the bishop,” Kaz said. “Something to do with boats. A rudder
was mentioned. If you and he are not friendly, and share no common interests, why were you talking about rudders?”

“There are some things even wisenheimers like you aren’t cleared to know,” Brackett said, pushing past us. Cigarette jammed in his mouth, he grabbed his coat, flung it over his head for cover, and slammed the door behind him.

“Haven’t seen him that lively in a while,” I said.

“Wisenheimer?” Kaz asked.

“You know, I was six years old before I knew my name wasn’t wisenheimer, since my dad called me that so often. It’s an affectionate way of calling someone a smart aleck.”

“Our friend did not seem to have much affection for the question,” Kaz said.

“No, but it’s interesting that he gave up that information about Zlatko being here earlier. If they’re in cahoots, he probably wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“We should compare notes with Inspector Cipriano,” Kaz said.

“First things first,” I said. “Did you get civilian clothing for Abe? I want to get that squared away.”

“Not yet. Nini was about to show me where they keep donated clothes for refugees in Santa Marta. She said there would be suits, worn but serviceable.”

“Worn is good, it will look more authentic. Let’s get that done, and then you check with Cipriano.”

“What will you do?” Kaz asked as we stepped outside, where the rain had softened to a mist that floated through the gardens.

“Stay away from the gendarmes.” I didn’t want to chance getting tossed out of the Vatican or, worse yet, into a jail cell if things went against me. Or us, actually.

“The better part of valor is discretion, as Falstaff said.”

I knew Falstaff was from Shakespeare, but since all I recalled was the image of a fat drunk, I didn’t comment. That was Kaz’s territory, after all. Which encompassed just about anything taught in school.

We made it to Santa Marta a second before the rain let loose
again, pelting down in heavy, thick drops. I laughed at the image of the Germans guarding the border in their sodden wool uniforms, but then thought about the Jews who had been taken, and the ones running scared in Rome, soaked to the bone, unsure of friend or foe, and the laugh died in my throat.

“Here,” Kaz said, opening the door to a long, narrow storeroom. Shirts were folded neatly on shelves, shoes lined up on the floor, and coats, suits, and trousers were hung at the far end. They were soft, well worn, laundered, and patched. Perfect. We found a brown three-piece that looked right for Abe, and Kaz found a once-white shirt not too frayed around the collar. I grabbed a tie, a bit loud for my taste, but it seemed a good fit for Abe. Kaz scrounged around in a box filled with undergarments, since we didn’t want Abe getting nabbed in case he had to expose his Air Corps BVDs for any reason.

“Billy,” Kaz said, his tone far too serious for rooting around in a box of used skivvies. “Look.” He dumped the contents of the box onto the floor. A crumpled ball of white, stained with the rusty red of long-dried blood, rolled against my shoe.

“It’s a surplice,” I said, picking it up and smoothing it out. I examined it, a white lacey garment worn by priests over the cassock. The right arm carried a thick stain, with a spray of red at the chest.

“No, actually it is a rochet,” Kaz said. “Similar, but the rochet is usually made of linen, as this is.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The cotton surplice is worn by the lower orders of clergy. The rochet is for prelates, bishops, and higher ranks.”

“Hmm. Either way, it makes a handy apron to keep blood off your clothes. You could wear this under a coat, where no one would notice, and get rid of it afterward.”

“Remember the coat hooks by the door at the radio tower? Anyone could have stepped outside, stabbed Soletto, and removed the rochet.”

“Or,” I said, “fold it up real tight and stick it in a coat pocket. Put it on, slip outside at the right moment, and do the deed.”

“It could have been anybody,” Kaz said. “We know how easy it
is to steal things here. The rochet could have been taken from an unlocked room, the laundry, anywhere.” He looked for a garment tag, but there was nothing.

“Or it could belong to a bishop or a monsignor,” I said. “These aren’t for everyday wear, they’re worn at services. It was a cold night, remember, we were buttoned up tight. In the dark, there’d be no way to know if someone was wearing one.”

“Perhaps we are jumping to conclusions. It could be a priest with a bloody nose.”

“Then why hide it here?”

“Right. It makes no sense.”

“Give it to our friend Inspector Cipriano. Let him worry about it. I’ll get these clothes to Abe.”

The only thing that made sense to me was freeing Diana, and that was a long shot, but I had a better chance at that than at solving this case. Which should have made me happy, but all I did was worry as I carried Abe’s brown three-piece draped over my arm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

L
UCK WAS WITH
me, although running into Bishop Zlatko wasn’t the same thing as your horse placing at Suffolk Downs. I had been on my way to look for him when I turned a corner in the Medieval Palace, and there he was, wearing a snow-white rochet over his cassock and hurrying along the corridor, his heels clicking against the shiny marble mosaics. When he saw me, his eyes darted everywhere else but in my direction.

“Bishop,” I said, loud enough that he couldn’t ignore me, and sharp enough to draw stares from a scurrying monk who had probably never heard a bishop spoken to like that.

“I cannot talk. I am on my way to celebrate midday Mass. Two priests from my diocese have made the arduous journey here, and I promised them a Mass in the basilica.”

“I’ll walk with you,” I said. “Nice rochet, by the way. I learned that word today.” His had lace borders. A bit ladylike for my taste.

“I am glad to hear you have discovered something in your time here,” Zlatko said, a sneer turning up one lip. He didn’t miss a beat. Kept walking at an even pace, hands relaxed at his sides. No widening of the eyes, no flush of red in his cheeks, only quick sarcasm. If it was his bloody rochet, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it.

“Oh, I’ve learned a lot. About your activities in Croatia, for instance. I wonder what the Pontifical Commission will do when they hear from Cardinal Boetto?”

“Lies! Slander!” He stopped and faced me, fists clenched and the whites of his eyes vivid. “You would do well to not spread unfounded rumors.”

“Ah, so that’s what your visiting priests are for,” I said. “Character witnesses. To refute what Cardinal Boetto will say.”

“You are a fool, Father Boyle. But not an unintelligent one.”

“Hey, if I were really smart, I’d know why you and Brackett were arguing about boats. Or was it rudders?” I watched for a reaction, and wondered if I’d given too much away.

“Perhaps you are right,” Zlatko said, giving away nothing at all. “You are not smart at all.”

With that, he was on his way. I still had questions about where he’d been before he’d headed to the radio tower, but they seemed less important now, given his total lack of reaction to my hints about the rochet, and how he threw the rudder mention right back at me. I thought about following him into the basilica and taking in a Mass, but the notion of him at the altar gave me the shivers. I decided on some larceny instead.

Half an hour later, with Abe in tow, we walked down the corridor in the Medieval Palace where earlier Kaz and I had searched Corrigan’s room. Checking the nameplates, we stopped at Bruzzone’s door and I turned to keep watch as Abe and his picks made short work of the lock. Before I could look both ways up and down the hallway, I heard a click and the door was open. I followed Abe in.

“Piece of cake,” Abe said. “You coulda done it, kid. Don’t Boston coppers know nothin’?”

“I like to rely on a professional, Abe.” The best lock picker we had on the force was Moose Meehan, and he mainly used his right foot. With legs the size of tree trunks, he didn’t need picks. Of course, we wore the bluecoats, and it was our turf. This operation required finesse, something the Boston PD at times lacked.

“What’re we lookin’ for?” Abe asked, looking pleased at the compliment and spiffy in his new brown suit.

“I have no idea,” I said. “Sometimes it’s better to do something than nothing, so here we are.” Bruzzone’s rooms were larger than
Corrigan’s or O’Flaherty’s. Seniority, maybe. He had a small bedroom and a large sitting room, with a pair of chairs by a window gracing a view of courtyards below.

“He skip town?” Abe asked.

“He didn’t show up for breakfast with Monsignor O’Flaherty this morning,” I said. I checked the bedroom. His bed was made, and an armoire held several pairs of black trousers, a cassock, and shirts. One surplice, no rochet. A hairbrush sat on a washstand, set below a small mirror. A book lay on his nightstand. Next to it was a bottle of pills.

“Abe, you know what
sonniferi
means?”

“No, but I think
sonno
means sleep. Maybe he needed some help with his shut-eye.”

“Not the kind of thing to leave behind if you’re going on a trip, is it?” I shook the bottle. It sounded half full.

“What are you doing?” a loud voice from the other room demanded. It was Bruzzone, looking none too pleased to find us in his bedroom. He looked scruffy, too. Unshaven, wrinkled clothes, his hair in need of that brush. “How dare you enter my apartment!”

“I’m sorry, Monsignor,” I said, placing the bottle of pills back on the nightstand. “It appeared you had gone missing, and we were concerned.”

“Who gave you a key?” Bruzzone asked, studying Abe for a second. “And who is this person?”

“He’s a locksmith in civilian life,” I said. “He’s the key.”

“You broke in?” Bruzzone looked rattled, as if he couldn’t absorb what we were telling him.

“Let’s sit down, Monsignor.” I led him to the chairs in the study and we sat down. Abe edged toward the door, trying to look invisible, ready to bolt. “We were just looking for some clue as to where you had gone, or been taken. After the killing last night, we were worried.”