Masquerade Page 23

  Finally, in a pretense of some sort of conciliation, Krieg assured that the destruction of David’s reputation was the furthest thing from his intention. So there need be no fear of a premature revelation. On the other hand, David must know the consequences of an ultimate rejection of the contract. There could and should be no doubt that Krieg was ready and able to make public David’s secrets. To reckon otherwise would be to risk certain destruction.

  The Reverend Father David Benbow returned to his rectory a sober and worried man. Martha detected the mood but could not pierce the curtain David had drawn about himself.

  Martha was not the only one puzzled by David’s uncharacteristic transformation. Pamela had never seen her lover in such an unremittingly dark frame of mind. It affected their total relationship. They barely spoke, and on those occasions when they did, he would become lost in thought at any point in a conversation. She took special pains with dinners; he scarcely touched them.

  And, as a unique event, he had become impotent, at least with respect to her. She had no means of knowing he remained sexually active with his wife.

  Pamela was convinced by the evidence that overwhelmed her that her affair with David Benbow was over, presently and permanently. She scarcely paid attention to the words David used to tell her.

  He knew what was wrong, of course. Krieg’s threat was so imminent and far-reaching that it exacerbated Benbow’s guilt. If it were not for his affair with Pamela, Krieg would have nothing, no hold on him whatever.

  There was no way of eradicating the affair retroactively. No way, in the face of all Krieg’s evidence, that David could claim that it had never happened. It got so that every time he was in the presence of, or saw, Pamela his fatal folly was brought home to him ever more forcefully. She became the personification of his downfall. Not that he thought for a moment that the entire mess was Pam’s fault. No, the fault lay in David’s groin. But he could not amputate any of his organs. His sole recourse for any measure of personal peace was to end the affair and see Pam no more.

  He did not take too kindly the fact that, after their breakup, she took up with several young men of promise, according to all reports. She seemed to be having a marvelous time while he wavered between helpless hatred for Krieg and the no-win situation of his dilemma. Should he sign and risk his career or refuse and risk his career? And what of his soul?

  Like Professor Henry Higgins, he was indignant that his erstwhile protégé was using the devices and maneuvers he’d taught her. Under his guidance she had grown from being an ugly duckling with a distracting and disconcerting nervous tic to become a Carmen-like seductress. In quick order, Pam narrowed the field, singling out a promising bank executive several years her junior. After a brief engagement, they were married—not by the Reverend David Benbow.

  Her marriage threw David into an even deeper funk. It was as if his love affair had not only been pronounced dead; it had been entombed.

  And for all of this he had Klaus Krieg to thank—overlooking, for the moment, his own culpability for initiating the affair with Pam. For a while, David had been so obsessed with Pam and her happiness in the face of his misery that he had virtually lost sight of Krieg’s ultimatum.

  With Pam’s marriage and the ultimate end of their relationship, David recalled with horror that there was some sort of time limit to the ultimatum. Although he hadn’t set any specific date, Krieg had made it clear that David was running out of time.

  However, with no recent contact from Krieg, David decided to let bad enough alone. Unless he were blessed by some unforeseen circumstance that would free him from Krieg’s clutches, Benbow would have to sign. It would take no more than a moment or two to sign the stupid contract. So why not wait until there was utterly no more room for maneuvering? Meanwhile, who could tell; something might happen.

  Then the invitation arrived. In effect, it was a command performance from Krieg to attend a writers’ workshop at Marygrove College in Detroit.

  The invitation was innocent enough. Not unlike many another invitation he’d received, as had other published authors. The difference was the small paragraph explaining the role of Krieg in this conference. It would be meaningless except to someone obligated to Krieg.

  David knew. It was time. Unless . . .

  David’s attention focused on the other three proposed faculty members. He had heard of them. Two of them were first-time authors, but all had garnered good notices.

  David studied their names. He had no way of knowing. But, supposing . . . just supposing they were in the same or a similar boat as he. It was not inconceivable. Supposing all, or one or another, were being sought by Krieg for his stable. Supposing there was a kindred soul in that group. Could something be worked out? What? Strength in numbers? Together might they not be able to effect the “miracle” that would eliminate Krieg as their tormentor?

  Contact with them would have to be discreetly handled.

  He couldn’t write or call any of them now. Not without betraying his humiliating situation. Contact would have to be made in person—and even then only circumspectly.

  He would have to wait until they had assembled at the college. He would consider it indicative if all the invited accepted. Difficult to think that all would have schedules that permitted attendance at the same workshop. If every one of them accepted and was present, that would indicate the possibility that they were united in a reluctant bond to Klaus Krieg.

  Sound them out as judiciously as possible. Who could tell what might transpire? Maybe, just maybe, this dilemma might find a satisfactory conclusion. Maybe God would not have to intervene. Maybe they could do it themselves. Praise God!

  18

  Even during a school term, with a full complement of students, Marygrove’s campus was rarely this busy.

  Particularly bustling was Madame Cadillac Hall, overflowing with police, the media—print, radio, and television—as well as the students who had signed up for the writers’ workshop. Gawkers and the curious lined the iron fences that surrounded the grounds. Police were stationed at regular intervals to keep bystanders off campus.

  The story of the murdered rabbi had broken last night, reported on the late TV and radio newscasts and the early morning editions of the News and the Free Press. The city of Detroit, which routinely absorbs multiple murders daily, was shaken by the bizarre event of the killing of a visiting rabbi on an otherwise peaceful Catholic campus. The city might burn down around it, but Marygrove traditionally was spared this sort of notoriety. Yet now it had happened, and the city was stunned.

  Inspector Walter Koznicki did not need a directive from Mayor Cobb to clean up this mess forthwith. He got one anyway. Lieutenant Alonzo Tully didn’t need a similar directive from his boss; he didn’t get one. Just the promise of all the police manpower he needed. Everyone in authority wanted this one locked up as quickly as possible.

  There had been police task forces on the local scene before, lots of them. And Tully had participated in several. This was the first time he had been in command of one. It was a singular feeling. He had never been in charge of hundreds of soldiers in war either. But he surmised the two experiences were not all that different. On this field and in the heat of battle, he found he was not bad as a modern major general.

  His troops were being efficiently utilized and he had done a credible job at delegating complementary responsibilities. Some of the officers were interrogating the workshop students, both those living on and off campus. Others were combing nearly every inch of Madame Cadillac Hall with deliberation and meticulousness. Still others were going over the scene of the crime: the dining room used by the workshop’s faculty. What remained of the faculty, minus the deceased Rabbi Winer, had been interrogated at length and in great detail last night. The panel members remained under a loosely structured surveillance—with the exception of the Reverend Klaus Krieg. Because he refused to stay in one securable place, he could not be protected in any absolute way. But in the number and quality of offic
ers used, the police approached perfection.

  Tully, through his delegates, was keeping abreast of what was going on in all areas of this investigation. In his mind, the most important detail, headed by Sergeant Angie Moore, was the group inquiring into the backgrounds of Augustine, Benbow, and Sister Marie. Due to the questionably unwarranted bitterness they exhibited toward Krieg, these three had to be the prime suspects at this point in the case.

  It was natural, then, for Tully to feel a particular anticipation when he spied Angie Moore hurrying down the corridor toward him. Her haste telegraphed the message that her squad had uncovered something of moment.

  With Tully was Father Koesler. His presence in the inner circle of this investigation was due, in part, to Inspector Koznicki’s invitation.

  “Got somethin’?” Tully greeted Moore.

  Moore nodded perfunctorily at Koesler. Under more casual circumstances she would have greeted him warmly. Now she was strictly business. “Yeah. We started calling people last night, till it got too late. Then we started again early this morning.”

  “And?”

  “And Benbow’s got—or at least had—one on the side.”

  “A mistress?” Tully wasn’t sure Koesler understood what Moore meant, and he wanted to make sure there was no communication breakdown.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How long’s it been going on?”

  “Years.”

  “How notorious?”

  “Hard to tell. The first several calls we came up dry. Phoned some of his friends, a few parishioners whose names he gave us. Nobody knew anything except they were concerned about his being involved in any way in an act of violence. Then we got a break. One of the parishioners—I think her type used to be called ‘a pillar of the Church’”—she glanced at Koesler.

  “They still are,” he said.

  “Anyway,” Moore continued, “this gal was hesitant at first. It was her hesitation that gave us the idea that she knew something. So we dug a bit and she finally opened up. Actually, she was just dying to tell us.

  “This involves a gal Benbow was counseling. From there it turned into an affair.”

  “Before,” Tully said, “you said Benbow ‘had’ this affair. It’s over?”

  “Apparently. See, it was this lady who led us to another and another and another—all gossipy types—who filled in some details. Seems Benbow tried to keep it under wraps, took precautions, hardly ever appeared with her in public. But snoops who want to know generally find out. That’s what happened here. That’s why we think it’s not widely known. My guess is most—almost all—of his friends and parishioners are in the dark on this one. But those few who do know are sure of themselves. One of the informants claimed it was all over, that it ended abruptly after Benbow took a trip. From another person who knew nothing of the affair, we learned that that trip was to P.G. Enterprises in California.”

  A restrained smile spread over Tully’s face. “So, Krieg found out and threatened to reveal Benbow’s affair—scared him enough to make him end it.”

  “That’s what we figure. It’s the only way it makes sense. Shortly after that trip, Benbow stopped visiting the woman completely. Then, for the first time, other men began seeing her, taking her out, visiting her. A little while back, she married one of them.”

  “With Krieg’s connections,” Tully said, “he undoubtedly could have found out with his own resources alone. But if that many people knew, it certainly would have been easy for him. So what kind of stick did Krieg hold over him?”

  “We figure,” Moore said, “that pulling this out of the closet probably would have ended or seriously compromised Benbow’s writing career . . . at least as far as the religious aspect of it was concerned. Probably the Episcopal Church is not as quick with penalties as the Catholic Church, but I doubt they would look the other way when it comes to notorious adultery.”

  “Hmmm, the whole ball of wax,” Tully said. “How about his wife?”

  “Always the last to know, Zoo,” Moore said. “Far as we can tell, she still doesn’t know. Or, if she does, according to all accounts, she gives no indication she does.” Pause. “So, what do you want to do with this one?”

  After a moment’s reflection, Tully said, “Nothin’ just now. There’s no point in it. We already know how Krieg would react. The same way he did when we confronted him with Rabbi Winer’s secret past: ‘Who, me?’ But the pattern is holding true. Two for two. It looks like Krieg was blackmailing these writers to get them to sign a contract with him.

  “As far as that theory goes, so far so good. Both Winer and Benbow had secrets that could ruin them if anyone revealed them. I think Krieg threatened both of them. It’s the only thing we know of so far that would explain why they hated him. Now, if we find something similar in the past of the monk and the nun, it’s gonna be a little tight for Krieg to deny the whole thing. And we will have four people with enough motive to commit murder. Any luck with the other two, Angie?”

  “Not yet, Zoo. I’ve got a team working on each one. We’re in touch with Augustine’s monastery, going through the various monks and the abbot, of course. Nothing of any significance so far. Before he joined the monastery he worked in a New York ad agency—one of the big ones. But there aren’t too many left there who remember him. It was a long time ago. Lots of the people who worked with him are either retired or dead. But we’re staying with it.

  “The nun is a little tougher. She’s been all over the place. Taught at something like twelve schools in this area. Chicago too. Took postgraduate courses at different colleges. Again, all over the place. Now she’s got that job in Florida.”

  “The thing is, Angie,” Tully said, “with what you found out about Benbow, the odds go up fast that there’s something in the backgrounds of the other two. There’s gotta be something. If Krieg could find it, by damn we ought to be able to. So, hang in there, Angie, and keep me plugged in. Need any more help?”

  “I don’t think so, Zoo. We’re getting the knack. The team’s sort of in the groove; they’re doing a great job. We’re gonna break this one, I just feel it.” With that, Moore hurried back to her troop.

  Tully turned to leave and check the progress of the others on his team. Before he could go, Koesler spoke.

  “One thing puzzles me, Lieutenant.”

  Tully stopped, one eyebrow raised.

  “It would seem to me,” Koesler said, “that Reverend Krieg would be the most cooperative person in this whole investigation. After all, it’s his life that’s being threatened. In fact, if it hadn’t been for an unforeseeable fluke, he’d be dead now. Yet he seems to be more an obstacle than a help.”

  Tully thought for a moment. “It’s odd, but it’s not unique. You’d naturally expect somebody whose life is on the line to be scared sh . . . uh, stiff.” Apparently Tully discarded one word and chose another in its stead. “Ordinarily that’s the way it is. Now somebody’s trying to kill Krieg. You’d assume he’d want to leave town. Or, better, so we’d have a chance to catch his assailant, to at least hole up in his apartment with security while we investigate the case and come up with the perp. You’d assume he’d be the most scared and cooperative guy possible.

  “But it doesn’t always work out that way. Sometimes it’s macho bravado. The guy doesn’t want to admit that anything could scare him. I think there’s a little of that here. That might explain what’s goin’ on, at least to some extent.”

  “Yes,” Koesler said, “that could explain it. Just in the short time I’ve known him, he strikes me as one who would not want to admit to any weakness or fear. It would compromise his professed confidence in God and God’s alleged commitment to protect him. It might wipe that perpetual grin off his face. It would compromise. And . . .” he grew more thoughtful, “something that occurred to me while you were explaining this. I’ve met a few people over the years who never give up. When they want something, nothing stands in their way. They simply don’t understand ‘no’ and won’t take it
for an answer.”

  “Sounds good,” Tully said.

  “Applying that theory,” Koesler continued, “Reverend Krieg probably considers Rabbi Winer a lost commodity rather than a murdered human being. And even if one of the three remaining writers wants him dead, he’s probably still counting on signing the other two. Probably he is constitutionally incapable of conceiving that he could be killed along the way.

  “As I say, I’ve met his type before.” Koesler shook his head. “But I still can’t comprehend such bullheadedness, especially in the face of betting one’s life on the outcome—” He looked startled. “Well, speak of the . . .”

  A small entourage was making its way down the corridor. At its center was Klaus Krieg. In his retinue were a few steely-eyed men and women, who, Koesler correctly surmised, were police officers. The others were students. Though he didn’t know their names, Koesler recognized their faces.

  The company passed Tully and Koesler seemingly without noticing them. The police were on the lookout specifically for any danger. The students were hanging on each of Krieg’s words. And Krieg, a smile on his lips, was happily pontificating. As he passed, he exclaimed, “Praise God!”

  In their wake, Koesler sniffed. “Cigars?”

  “Krieg,” Tully said. “Didn’t you get the odor in the residence hall?”

  “Yes, now that you mention it. But I didn’t know who was smoking. Now that I think of it, the odor wasn’t there yesterday, but it was there strongly this morning. And the only difference was that Reverend Krieg stayed here last night while he spent the previous night downtown at the Westin.

  “Funny,” Koesler added, “I haven’t seen the Reverend smoke. Not in the classroom or the dining room.”

  “Somebody said he doesn’t smoke when there’s a chance anybody’d be offended by it.”