Body Count Page 13

  “That’s what we want to find out, Carl. Why? Somebody want him iced bad enough to hire a hit? Unpaid bills? Lots of possibilities.”

  Yes, yes, yes, Koesler thought. Gambling debts. Why isn’t this ESP working? It was Guido and it was gambling debts. Can’t you hear my thoughts, Lieutenant Tully? Can’t you read my mind?

  “You been reading too many detective stories, Lieutenant. Whoever put that car there probably had a grudge or something. We didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.”

  “You didn’t have anything to do with the car. You didn’t have anything to do with the priest.”

  “What I said.”

  “Then you won’t mind if we look around your house, eh, Carl? You got nothin’ to hide.”

  For the first time, Costello’s demeanor became deadly serious. “For that, Lieutenant, you gotta have some paper.”

  Tully rose. Koesler and Moore followed suit. “We’ll be back.”

  The four found themselves out on the sidewalk. Only a few of the gawkers turned to look at them, and those spared only a momentary glance. The police checking out the abandoned car were far more interesting.

  “Anyone’s rump get hit by that door?” Mangiapane asked.

  Moore laughed. “We did get ushered out rather firmly,” she agreed.

  But Tully was all business. “Manj, stay here. Make sure that we question everybody in every house on this block. Neighboring blocks too. We ought to be able to find somebody who saw something out of place—anything odd. That car didn’t just grow there.

  “Angie, get a warrant. I want our people to go through every inch of that place. Somebody there is in on this. Maybe not the whole family. But someone.

  “I’ll take the father home. I want to check with Organized Crime, see what they’ve got on this family. OC ought to have the latest sheet on Costello. I got a hunch if I let OC know what’s going on, they might be able to put some pressure on the family.”

  On their return trip downtown, Tully was the only one to speak. He made a single statement. “In the beginning, I thought this whole investigation was a waste of time. At least the time of Detroit Homicide. But now that it looks like the Costello family could be in this thing … well … it’s down to: Is Keating in hiding somewhere, or has he been wasted?”

  And Father Koesler agonized that it was impossible for him to give Tully the answer.

  11

  It was almost 6:00 in the evening when Lieutenant Tully dropped off Father Koesler before St. Joseph’s rectory with, for Tully, profuse thanks for the priest’s help and time throughout the day.

  As Koesler turned from the departing car he was momentarily awed, not for the first time, by the massiveness, the fortresslike character of St. Joe’s rectory and church in the last clear light of day. He could hear, in his imagination, “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” One of his favorite hymns.

  There were no lights visible in the rectory. Not surprising; both the housekeeper and Mary O’Connor would be gone for the day. It would be deathly quiet now for at least another hour, when his appointments and meetings would begin. Perhaps he could squeeze in a nap before the evening busyness began. Offered his druthers, he would have preferred a nap to dinner. He was that tired.

  Then he remembered. Nick Dunn. He had no idea where his visiting priest might be now, but Dunn’s presence would have to be taken into account. It struck Koesler that this was just a little bit like being married in that he had someone else to consider instead of scheduling for himself alone.

  He entered the dining room to find Dunn doing some sort of paperwork at the dining table. “Oh, there you are,” the younger priest said brightly.

  “Here, indeed, I am. Have you eaten?” Koesler hoped that Dunn had finished dinner. Therein lay a chance that he might sneak in that nap.

  “No, it’s in the oven. All I have to do is heat it. I was hoping we could talk over supper.”

  Damn, there went the nap! “Okay. But we’ll have to shake a leg. I’ve got an appointment in about an hour.”

  “Plenty of time. Shall I fix us a drink?”

  “Thanks. But make mine light. Plenty of water. I’ve got a busy evening ahead.”

  Dunn began heating dinner, prepared the drinks, and joined Koesler at the dining table.

  Koesler tasted his drink. It was very light—scotch and water with a heavy emphasis on the water. It occurred to him that he hadn’t expected to see Dunn this evening. “Don’t you have a class at this hour? On the Mercy campus?”

  “I cut it.”

  “You cut your first appearance? What’s the course?”

  “Psychology of Religion. How much psychology can there be to religion?”

  “Plenty. I thought these papers all over the table were your notes from class.”

  Dunn shook his head. “They’re notes, okay, but not from class. We’ll get to them shortly. First, how did your day go?”

  That explained it: Dunn was so obsessed with the police investigation that he had cut class and postponed dinner in order to eat with Koesler—all just to learn what had happened.

  Very well, then. But he would skip over his early morning meeting with Mrs. Pietrangelo. That wouldn’t interest Dunn.

  On to the cops and robbers.

  Koesler recounted the course of the investigation: the drive out to St. Waldo’s; a résumé of what he’d told Tully of Koesler’s contacts with Keating through the seminary and priesthood; Fred Mitchell’s description of Life With Father, as Keating’s associate.

  Koesler skipped the bit about Lacy De Vere’s frustrated attempt to gain entry to the rectory and Pringle McPhee’s success. Next, he told of the drive to the far east side, describing in some detail the meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Costello and Remo Vespa.

  Toward the conclusion of Koesler’s narrative, Dunn, who had been hanging on to every word, served the reheated dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. While it tasted good, Koesler surmised that Mrs. Costello’s meal was even better. If his olfactory sense could be trusted, that is what the Costellos, and likely the Vespas, were eating, probably at this very moment.

  Koesler wiped sauce from his lips. “And that,” he concluded, “pretty much brings us up to date.”

  “Hmmm,” Dunn commented, after the manner of Bulldog Drummond, “and Guido Vespa wasn’t there.”

  Koesler looked at him with some asperity. “You’re not going to get back into that confession again, are you?”

  “Now, I know you’re not thrilled to talk about it. But between us, we’re not violating the seal. We’re talking about a confession we both heard. Actually, I think we’re talking about whether there is some way we could help the police without breaking the seal of confession. Isn’t it something like a consultation between doctors? I know the weight of the secrets is not equal—the professional versus the sacramental secret. But the doctors are not violating the patient’s right to privacy. They are professionals trying to help the patient … no?”

  Koesler had to admit to himself that there was merit to Dunn’s argument. They were doing nothing to make Vespa’s confession odious or difficult for him. As long as they kept their remarks between the two of them, there seemed to be no violation of the seal. It was just that in Koesler’s many years as a priest, he had never discussed in any way any confession with anyone. It was the unique character of this situation that pushed Koesler toward reticence.

  “Okay,” he said finally, with some reluctance, “but let’s tread very gingerly. We’re on dangerous ground.”

  “Fair enough,” Dunn agreed. “Didn’t Guido’s name come up at all?”

  “Yes, it did, at one point. There was even the mention of gambling.” Koesler smiled. “I gave ESP my best shot, but it didn’t seem to work.

  “Now, can we get around to all those papers you pushed aside here?”

  It was Dunn’s turn to smile. “They represent a busy day for me. A morning spent at the Detroit main library and, once I convinced a sympathetic managing editor at the News of m
y need, an afternoon going through the News library.”

  Koesler sighed. “If only you got that wrapped up in your studies …”

  “I will. I will. All in due time. First things first.”

  Being a detective is not your first—or second or third—priority, thought Koesler. But he let the admonition pass unspoken. It would have accomplished little or nothing. “So then, what was the object of all this research?”

  “The Mafia, or, more properly, La Cosa Nostra. Know much about it?”

  Koesler gestured toward the stack of notes. “Not as much as you do now,I’ll bet. Shoot!”

  Dunn began assembling the notes. “It may come as no surprise to you that the Mafia is only a shadow of its former self.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Dunn looked at Koesler to try to discern whether he was joking. Apparently not.

  “Well, then,” Dunn proceeded, “it will come as a surprise to you: Almost everybody involved in the war against the Mafia seems to agree that La Cosa Nostra is declining. They’re not quite in agreement as to the reason. However, there’s a guy named …” Dunn consulted his notes. “… Blakey, from Notre Dame, who was chief developer of something called the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act that worked pretty good in court. He’s quoted here in a New York Times article: ‘It was sort of like George Kennan’s containment policy of the Soviet Union. We tried it, and by God it worked.’”

  “Just what is this … act?” Koesler checked his watch. He didn’t want to be late, especially since Dunn’s information could be delivered anytime.

  “It was …” Dunn searched for the pertinent note. “Ah … here … it was a courtroom tool that allowed the Justice Department and the FBI to concentrate on enterprises rather than individuals. And that helped them remove the highest leaders of the Mafia by means of convictions and long prison sentences. So that now, this one guy says, ‘Outside of New York and Chicago, the Mafia is an anachronism.’

  “Now here is an interesting part. A couple of experts say that certain changes in society contributed to the Mafia’s decline. One: white flight from big cities lessened the Mafia’s political influence and also lessened the protection they used to get from the police and their political machines. That’s got to be true in Detroit … no?”

  “Sure it is,” Koesler said. “I can remember the big Italian parishes, the heavily Italian neighborhoods. All gone now. Dispersed throughout the suburbs. I was surprised to find the Costellos still living in Detroit.”

  “We’re going to get to that,” Dunn promised. “But here’s another change: As the leaders were convicted almost wholesale, the ones who took over were less competent than their predecessors.

  “And another: When the Mafia loyalties disintegrated, some of the members broke the code of silence and became informers.

  “And finally: Rival crime groups sprang up. Some of them Asian, Colombian, and black Americans. These new groups pretty well control crime in the inner cities, where the Mafia’s power used to be.

  “Now, get this one, Bob: There’s a Mafia defector who said his crew could no longer find reliable assassins in its own ranks and they were forced to issue outside contracts. Now that’s going to have something to do with our Guido Vespa.”

  “But how–?”

  “Let me finish.” Dunn checked his own watch. He wanted very much to complete his presentation before Koesler was forced to leave for his appointment.

  It occurred to Koesler that during Dunn’s rather carefully planned presentation, the young priest had served this entire warmed-over meal while he, Koesler, had done little but eat and first talk and then listen. Dunn had even served the drinks. Koesler had contributed nothing to the dining experience. It didn’t seem fair. “I’ll fix us some coffee.”

  “No!” Dunn realized he’d been more emphatic than the occasion warranted. But the prospect of having to endure another unique Koesler brew was more than innocent humanity should have to suffer. “I mean, I’ve had quite a lot of coffee today. None for me, thanks.”

  “Okay, okay.” Koesler thought the vehement response a bit excessive. Perhaps Dunn was simply keyed up over all he’d accomplished this day. “I’ll get some for myself, if you don’t mind.”

  Dunn wondered about the lining of Koesler’s stomach. How, he puzzled, could Koesler tolerate that acid? Maybe it was in the same category as the ugly baby who everyone except the parents knew was homely.

  Dunn raised his voice as Koesler went into the kitchen to blend freeze-dried coffee with hot water to somehow produce hemlock. “When you get back in here,” Dunn called, “I’d like you to look at this chart that I got photostated at the News. It shows the makeup of the Mafia in Detroit some thirty years ago. They’ve got it arranged like a family tree.”

  “Oh, I vaguely remember that. When it was first published, I couldn’t figure out how the law enforcement agencies could do that without a trial. It seemed to be a denial of ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ I couldn’t figure how the police could get away with that, unless it was factual and the people identified there simply didn’t want to go to court with—what?—a defamation of character or libel suit.”

  “The interesting thing,” Dunn said, “is that back then there were six families that ran the Mafia in Detroit. And Carl ‘Double C’ Costello was the boss of one of those families.”

  “The gentleman we visited today,” Koesler said. “I guess I wasn’t paying much attention back then … that or I’ve just forgotten.” He returned with his coffee—black.

  Funny, thought Dunn, it smells all right.

  “Look here …” Dunn turned the chart toward Koesler. He pointed to two pictures side by side far down the list. One was Remo Vespa; the other was Guido Vespa. They were in the category of “soldiers.” In the accompanying article, they were further identified as “made men” and “buttons.” Meaning they had been solemnly inducted into La Cosa Nostra and, in addition, they were assassins—“hit men.”

  “They look like choirboys in these pictures,” Dunn observed.

  “They probably were,” Koesler replied. It was quite beyond him how members of the Mafia families squared the kinds of things they did, particularly vicious crimes, with an easy familiarity with religion. But he was aware, in some imperfect way, that the inception of the Mafia concept had little to do with its eventual development.

  “See this article?” Dunn pushed another photostated news story toward Koesler. “It talks about how the mob made its money from labor racketeering, gambling, loan-sharking, extortion, prostitution, smuggling, and narcotics trafficking. And see this story?” Dunn moved another sheet toward Koesler. “It says that in Michigan, the mob’s major activities are illegal bookmaking, labor racketeering, and loan-sharking.” Dunn looked at Koesler expectantly. When Koesler did not respond, Dunn said with an emphatic Dont’-you-get-it? tone: “Illegal bookmaking! Don’t you see, Bob? Illegal bookmaking!”

  Obviously, Koesler was not getting it.

  “The cause of Keating’s murder, Bob! Guido Vespa said it was because of Keating’s bad debts. And the Mafia is into illegal bookmaking!”

  “I fail to see …”

  In all honesty, Dunn was not a little disappointed with his hero. Koesler was the fairly famous amateur detective. He should be ahead of this game. Instead he failed to see …

  And then it dawned on Dunn: He hadn’t given Koesler the whole picture. “Wait: There’s one more thing I haven’t told you. Remember, the article said that some thirty years ago there had been six families in the Detroit area? Now there is only one that’s still functioning. And it’s not the Costello family.” Again he looked expectantly at Koesler.

  It was embarrassing. Obviously, Dunn expected him to be arriving at a correct answer to this puzzle. But if there were such an answer, it certainly had escaped Koesler’s observation.

  Dunn gave up. He’d have to spell it out. “The way I see it,” he began, “Keating liked to gamble. No—more: He wa
s a compulsive gambler. But apparendy none of his close friends was aware of that, else one or more of them would have told the police during this investigation. And nobody has, … am I right?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “But according to our very best source—the man who executed him—Keating bets on just about everything. Now if Keating’s close friends don’t know about this, Keating is guarding the secret carefully. To use a metaphor that Keating would have loved, he’s playing his cards very close to the vest. Which means … ?”

  “Which means he probably isn’t doing much or any of this gambling in legitimate areas. Else,” Koesler took Dunn’s cue, “the people he chums with would be aware of what was going on. And if his friends were alert to his compulsive gambling, while they probably wouldn’t have interfered—no one criticizes ‘Father’—they surely would have mentioned it when Keating turned up missing. He’s a ‘missing person’ under such circumstances that anyone who knew of his reckless gambling would have suspected the connection. And would have told the police.”

  “Exactly,” Dunn agreed. “So if Keating is not gambling in Monaco or any of the other legitimate hangouts, he might be putting down bets with illegal bookmakers—the Mafia. Because that’s one of the remaining rackets of the local Mafia. And if he is placing his bets through the Mafia, there’s only one family left to handle his business. There’s only one of the six originals left,”

  “But the one remaining family, you said, was not Costello’s. So how does Guido Vespa figure into this if–wait a minute …” Koesler fingered through Dunn’s notes and photostats until he found the one he was looking for. He read it aloud: “‘A high-ranking Mafia defector bitterly said that his crew could no longer find reliable assassins in its own ranks and had to take outside contracts.’

  “So …” Koesler allowed the conjunction to stand alone as he weighed the present state of the question. “So …” he repeated, “according to your theory, Keating bet outrageously on just about everything. We have Vespa’s word on that. He ended up head over heels in debt because he couldn’t cover his losses. Again, Vespa’s Word. Plus, it occurred to me today while I was with Lieutenant Tully, that the one incident I personally know of when Jake Keating played a hunch was with stocks and bonds, and he lost a pile … although compared with what he apparently got into recently, the stocks and bonds gamble was innocence itself.”