Body Count Page 12

  “I don’t know how you—the police, I mean—did it,” Koesler said. “There must be abandoned cars all over the city. Finding Father Keating’s car—and this quickly—well, it’s almost like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.”

  “It’s not that mysterious,” Tully said. “As soon as we got into this as a missing persons case, we—actually the Bloomfield Hills police-put out a statewide broadcast on the car and the license plate number along with putting it in LEIN.”

  “Excuse me,” Koesler interrupted. “LEIN—is that an acronym?”

  “Yeah … Law Enforcement Information Network. Once the data is fed into LEIN, it’s accessible to all law enforcement agencies in Michigan. So, in theory at least, you’ve got every kind of cop in the state keeping an eye out for that car. The way it works in practice is that at any given time there are lots of missing cars listed in LEIN. And when a Michigan cop, state police, FBI, whatever, sees a car being operated in a suspicious manner, or one that is parked too long or in a questionable place, they check and see if it’s listed in LEIN.

  “That’s what happened here. A private citizen reported this car had been parked in his neighborhood. That neighborhood is a better-than-average location, so a current Lincoln Town Car is not out of place. But this car has been standing there for the past four days. They checked it out with the CAT section—that’s Commercial Auto Theft—but it hadn’t been reported as stolen. Then an ABAN officer—that’s Abandoned Auto officer—checked it through LEIN—and there we have it. Keating’s car. So, no miracles. Just standard police work … well, here we are.”

  Here they were, indeed. Tully had not adequately prepared Koesler for the scene. Not only was there a bumper crop of cops around and in the car, but a large number of curious bystanders were trying to get a good look at what was going on. Some of the onlookers were being questioned by police; others were being interviewed by TV, radio, and print reporters.

  Tully’s car—followed by that of Mangiapane and Moore—was waved into the inner circle.

  “This is it, Zoo,” a lieutenant from ABAN said with a hint of pride. Then he noticed Father Koesler, the sole civilian in this coterie of cops. “What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s with me. Be nice. Let him look, but not touch.

  “Gotany prints?”

  “Lots. All over the car—except for the steering wheel. Wiped clean.”

  “Interesting.”

  “And guess what, Zoo: Guess who lives on this street, just three doors down from here?”

  Tully merely looked at the officer.

  “Carl ‘Double C’ Costello.”

  “Now that is interesting.” Tully thought for a moment. “Carl’s a little long in the tooth now, isn’t he? I thought he was out of the business. I haven’t heard his name mentioned in years.”

  “Me neither. But it is a coincidence, isn’t it? I mean, the priest’s car found just a few yards from the front door of the Mafia. Maybe Costello ain’t what he was. But maybe he put his hand back in—one for old time’s sake?

  “Or, maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

  “Coincidences don’t have any explanation; that’s what makes ’em coincidences, I think I’ll just take a short walk and check this one out.”

  Then Tully remembered: He had Koesler in tow. What to do with him? Leave him here to feel like a fifth wheel? Or take him along? They were too pressingly involved in this investigation to break off and take him home. Tully felt responsible since it was he who had involved Koesler in the first place. Besides, if Costello was anything, odds were that he had to be Catholic.

  Tully stepped close to Koesler and spoke softly. “Father, have you ever met a Mafia don?”

  “Once.” Koesler shuddered. The memory was not one of his favorites.

  Tully didn’t pursue the subject. “Well, let’s go meet another one. Then we’ll take you home.”

  Home would be most welcome. Images of the Godfather movies with their dark, disturbing, threatening interiors, the potential for grave bodily harm, even death, as a constant backdrop alternated in Koesler’s mind with the memory of the time when he, Koesler, with a recorder taped to his body, had been ushered into the presence of a Mafia don who was prepared to add Koesler’s blood to that already on his hands. And who would have, had not the police burst in.

  Then another even more disquieting thought: Guido Vespa! What if Guido Vespa were there? If Koesler showed up on his doorstep with the police he would be certain that Koesler had violated the seal. Would Vespa strike out at them? At him? The man had killed before; he’d told Koesler that in confession. He would have even more reason for violence now, thinking he had been betrayed, than he had when he was merely paid to kill.

  This, Koesler concluded, was far and away above any call of duty.

  But for the life of him—maybe literally!—he couldn’t think of any plausible way out of it. Maybe he was overreacting; after all, there must be any number of residences in Detroit inhabited by Mafia members. Why should this one, as opposed to all the others, be the one that housed Guido Vespa? Koesler shook his head as he followed the lieutenant. His imagination must be getting the better of him! But where there was Father Keating’s car, could Father Keating’s killer be far behind?

  Tully, Mangiapane, Moore, and Koesler mounted the steps to the front porch. Koesler carefully looked the house over. This house, at least, bore no resemblance to Marlon Brando’s Godfather mansion.

  That was reassuring.

  While the movie’s mansion seemed never to quit with its security features, ample parking space, spacious yards, and. gigantic size, this seemed a modest home, especially in comparison.

  Here was a large, two-story, but quite conventional house. Well kept up in a well-kept up neighborhood. It was homey, with the lived-in quality that suggested that many generations had grown up and moved on. Koesler hoped everything inside would be as quiet and peaceful as the outside.

  Tully rang the doorbell. The little group waited in silence.

  It seemed longer, but it was only a few seconds until the door opened. A dark-browed young man stood just inside the screen door, which he made no move to open. He wore Sansabelt slacks and a T-shirt that emphasized an expansive torso and muscular arms. Without moving his head, his eyes scanned the four visitors. “So?”

  Tully showed his badge and identified himself, as well as his companions. The young man seemed unimpressed. “So?” he repeated.

  “Mr. Costello,” Tully said, “Carl Costello in?”

  “I’ll go see.” The door was resoundingly closed.

  Tully looked around, evaluating their surroundings. He noticed Koesler’s inquiring expression. Tully smiled. “Don’t let it bother you. That’s Remo … Remo Vespa. We all know each other pretty good. Remo likes to pretend he’s never met any of us. The old man’s his grandfather and he’s probably home. Remo will make us wait a little while, just to show he’s in charge. Or so he’d like us to believe. When push comes to shove—and it has more than once—we have to let him know who’s really in charge. Meantime, he likes to play this little game.

  “It’s probably the most innocent thing he does,” Tully added.

  Oh, my God! Remo Vespa! Of course; the Sunday paper that pictured Remo and Guido Vespa. Oh, my God! What now? The last, and only, time Koesler had seen Remo Vespa was in that photo. And then Koesler had not been focusing on Remo but on his brother Guido—Guido the Confessor.

  Koesler gave serious consideration to offering his regrets and trying to find a cab.

  In the midst of his inner debate, the door reopened.

  Remo was there again, but he was standing behind another man.

  “Carl, long time no see,” Tully said.

  At one time Carl Costello must have been a very large man. His face was heavily lined. His oval head was crowned with wispy white hair. His glasses were bottle-bottom thick, magnifying the tired-looking eyes behind them. His rumpled trousers were topped by an unbuttoned sweater ov
er an open-collar shirt. He held himself barely erect.

  Costello looked at Tully for several long seconds as if to focus on a blurry image. “So what is it, Lieutenant, you gonna read me my rights?” He began to chuckle deep down in his chest. The chuckle quickly became a cough so violent it worried Koesler.

  When the coughing finally stopped, Tully said, “No, Carl … not yet, anyway. Just some questions. You gonna invite us in?”

  Costello did not appear eager to reply. He peered at the group on the porch one by one, studying each unhurriedly as he had studied Tully earlier. Then he got to Koesler. Costello pulled up short, “Hey, you a father? You a Catholic priest?”

  For the first time in his life Koesler was reluctant to identify himself. He had no idea what would follow the admission that he was, indeed, a priest. Was the whole family in on the killing of Father Keating? Probably. Did the whole family know that Guido had confessed the murder to him? Probably not.

  “Wassamatter,” Costello said good-naturedly, “you forget if you’re a father or not?”

  Koesler reddened. “No … of course not. Yes, I’m a priest, a Catholic priest. Father Koesler.”

  “You should watch the company you keep, Father.” Costello chuckled again, and again it developed into a coughing spasm. He turned his head slightly to address his grandson standing behind him, “Wassamatter with you, anyway, sonny? You see a father on the porch and you don’t invite him in? What are you—a Catholic or what?”

  “Sorry, Gampa. I woulda done that, but the father came in this package deal. I didn’t think you’d want the heat in here.”

  “We got better hospitality than that, Sonny.” He turned back to the group. “Come on in, fell as … and good lady. Though I must tell you, Lieutenant, if you hadn’t had the father along, you woulda had to have some paper with you toget in. But …” It was a verbal shrug, … what the hell; it’s a short life.”

  Tully entered first. But Costello stood back waiting for Koesler to cross the threshold. “You bless my home with your presence, Father.

  “Hey,” his voice raised only slightly, “Momma: Come see who come to visit us.”

  As Mangiapane and Moore entered, with Sonny bringing up the rear, from somewhere in the back of the house, probably the kitchen, since she was drying her hands on an apron, came a gray-haired woman. Though she might have been of a certain age, she was still quite attractive; she had held on to her youthful figure remarkably.

  “Father,” Costello announced, “here is my wife, Vita. Vita, see who this is. It’s … uh … Father … uh …”

  “Koesler,” the priest supplied. He caught the surprise in her eyes. Evidently this home did not get a lot of priest visitors.

  “Welcome, Father,” she said. “You bless our home with your presence.” She walked quickly to Koesler, took his hand with both of hers, and kissed it. Instinctively he started to pull away, thought better of it, and left his hand in Vita’s clasp.

  Koesler had almost forgotten that once that had been a time-honored custom. Long ago, when newly ordained priests blessed people, the faithful would kiss the hands that so recently had been anointed with holy oil. Even then, Koesler had felt squeamish about the practice.

  Then, also in those early days, sometimes the elderly ailing people would kiss his hands when he brought them Communion.

  He wondered about what he had seen and heard just now. Somehow, though he knew it was far too facile, Koesler expected all Italians—as well as Poles, Irish, and Hispanics—to be Catholic. But he never would have expected to be greeted so warmly and with such faith by the Mafia or their family. He was reminded of how comfortable and at home Jesus always seemed to be in the presence of outcasts and those whom society branded as hopeless sinners. He resolved to meditate on this later when he could be alone in prayer.

  For the moment, despite the cordial welcome, he had to be on his guard. There was still the secret to protect.

  Vita Costello, after a few more words of welcome for Koesler—and an invitation to dinner, which the priest graciously declined—returned to the rear of the house whence emanated appetizing aromas of marinara and meatballs.

  Carl Costello led the way into a spacious living room, which looked as if it had been furnished in the twenties and thereafter left untouched. The elderly gentleman moved with deliberation to a chair that appeared to be both comfortable and his. Behind the chair Remo stood almost at attention. He might have been a guardian angel or a sentry.

  Koesler and Tully each picked an easy chair; Moore sat on the couch. Mangiapane remained standing behind the couch, mirroring Remo’s angel-or-sentry stance.

  Costello held up his left hand, with the index and middle fingers extended. For a moment Koesler wondered why the don was giving the peace sign. But Remo quickly lit a cigarette and placed it between the upraised fingers. Koesler now knew the source of Costello’s cough.

  “Now, gentle lady and gentlemen,” Costello began, “in what way can we be of service to you?”

  Innocent or guilty of whatever, Carl Costello was cool. He might easily, thought Koesler, have been a conscientious citizen eager to help the police in any possible way.

  “Carl,” Tully said, “you heard we got a missing priest in Detroit?”

  “Bloomfield Hills, I heard, Lieutenant.” Costello was almost apologetic.

  Tully nodded. “He lives in Bloomfield Hills. He’s a Detroit priest.”

  “It was on the radio and TV, is how I know,” Costello said. “I don’t get around in those circles too much anymore.”

  “The last anyone saw of him—that we’ve talked to—he was heading for Detroit. That was Friday afternoon last. No one’s heard from him since.”

  “Is that so!” Costello said. Impossible to tell whether the expression was sincere or sardonic. “Perhaps he will return soon.”

  “It’s been four days, Carl. That’s a long time to be missing.”

  “It is indeed. But there is always hope. Sonny, Why don’t you drop over by church to night and have a Mass said for …” Costello looked to each of his four visitors for assistance.

  The long pause proved too much for Koesler. “John Keating,” he said, “Father John Keating.”

  Costello nodded good-naturedly toward the priest. “Thank you, Father.

  “Sonny, write that down: Father John Keating—wait: Father, maybe you would say the Mass.”

  Koesler felt most uncomfortable. If he consented, Costello would offer him money. Which he would refuse. He—most Detroit priests—no longer accepted Mass stipends. Costello would insist; there would be explanations. All very inappropriate.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Costello,” Koesler said. “Our parish is booked solid for weeks with Mass intentions. I am praying for him though.” All of that was true. However, the prayers were for the repose of Keating’s soul.

  “I understand, Father,” Costello said. He turned his head. “Sonny, go to Holy Family. They can’t be so busy. Have the Mass said.”

  “Right, Gampa.” Remo was writing down the name.

  “Carl,” Tully spoke pointedly, “get serious.”

  How serious can I get, Costello’s gesture implied.

  “You know anything about the missing priest?”

  “Me! I live in Bloomfield Hills? I should know this priest?”

  “He’s worked other parishes, some in Detroit, even Little Italy. You could know him from lots of places.”

  “Anybody could know him from lots of places, Lieutenant. Come on, why me?”

  Tully’s storied patience was wearing thin. “Carl, guess.whose car that is out there that’s attracting all that attention?”

  Costello leaned forward and craned for a better view of the bustle practically outside his front window. “Well, now, Lieutenant, I learned toadd. The kind, you know, where two plus two equals four. I’d guess that since you been asking me all these questions about a missing priest named Father Keating, which I’ve never seen in my life, and since the car in question is park
ed almost in front of my house, I would guess that that car belongs to the missing priest, Father Keating.” Costello looked at Tully with the wide-eyed innocence of a schoolchild who hopes his answer is the right one. “How’m I doin’?”

  “Until we came in your house and started questioning you, you weren’t curious about what all those police officers were doing with that car?”

  “I seen cops before.”

  “You didn’t see that car before today?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You did see the car before today.”

  “I didn’t say that either.”

  “One of your neighbors has been watching it for four days. That’s why he called the cops and reported a suspicious vehicle.”

  “He done good.”

  “And you?”

  “I mind my own business. There’s a law against that?”

  “You want us to believe there’s no connection between you and that car? That it’s just a coincidence that a car owned by a person who’s been missing four days ends up practically in front of your house?”

  “I don’t care what you believe.”

  The conversation was getting a bit intense. It was Costello who tried to defuse it. With a tone of calm reason, he said, “Look, Lieutenant, what is this? We both know I’ve been around the block a few times. If I done anything to this priest—and God forbid I did!—I’m gonna have his car parked in front of my house? Like I hang a red flag from the car’s antenna? Be reasonable, Lieutenant. Gimmee credit for being more than a dumb school kid!”

  “Maybe one of your family left it there.”

  “And I didn’t check into it?”

  “You didn’t notice the car until today.”

  “I didn’t say that. Besides, Lieutenant, why would I have anything to do with a missing priest?”

  “Maybe one of your family had something to do with it. Maybe Guido. Maybe Remo. Sonny here doesn’t look too clean,”

  Remo stiffened. Costello checked him with a gesture.

  Yes, yes, yes, Koesler thought. Guido! Go after Guido.

  “Look, Lieutenant,” Costello said, “nobody here had anything to do with your missing priest. Ain’t there supposed to be a motive for this kind of thing? Why would we mess with a priest? Especially a priest from Bloomfield Hills?”