Greenwich (18 page)

“Drummond. He wants to be governor.”

“You're kidding. Governor of his state—with his past?”

“He's drying it up. By now most of it is dried up, and he has to dry up the rest of it.”

“But why me?” Castle persisted.

“Bush, Bush, think about it. You were the one who was always yelling about the goddamn Jesuits. I don't think you knew what a Jesuit was. To you, like to everyone else in State, they were communists. They weren't communists, Bush, but you were too goddamn stupid to know that. You wrote the orders for the shooting—six of them. Roberto Aubisson is dead, but General Garcia is alive and in protective custody. He was your contact, and he'll testify that the orders came from you. He'll talk about that Catholic bishop, Romero, you had shot, and the word is that he's going to put the murder of the nuns and the lay workers on your yellow ticket.”

“I had nothing to do with the nuns!” Castle burst out. “You know that! That was Drummond's idea.”

“Like you said, fuck Drummond. It's all your baby.” Never taking his eyes off Castle, Larry took out his gun and the silencer, fixing the silencer in place.

“Larry, don't do this,” Castle pleaded. “Don't do it.”

Larry stuffed the letter Castle had written into his pocket.

“Larry, I sent a copy to my lawyer.”

“When? You didn't know I was coming until last night. I looked in your mailbox at the road. No letter there. I got to do what I got to do. I'm sorry, Bush.”

At that moment, the door to the office opened, and Josie, the downstairs maid, appeared in the doorway. Larry swung around, saw her, registered a black face and fired twice. Both bullets struck her chest, and Josie collapsed in the doorway. The thermos of hot coffee she was carrying dropped from her hand.

Castle leaped to his feet, yelling, “You dumb bastard, you didn't have to do that! You didn't have to kill her, you fuckin' prick! I faxed the letter in, you dumb bastard, I faxed it!”

Possibly Castle's last thought was,
Why didn't I fax it
? Then Larry fired, and the single shot hit his forehead just above his nose. His head snapped back, his legs crumpled, and he fell face forward, flat on the floor, a trickle of blood running from under his head.

And Larry asked himself, What in hell do I do now?

Moving like a man in a dream, he dragged Josie's body into the room, found a match in his pocket, and lit the letter Castle had written. He allowed it to burn on the metal top of the desk. He separated gun and silencer and put both in his jacket pocket. He closed the door and peered put of the window facing the house, seeing no sign of movement. It was a half hour after eight.

He looked around the room, trying to remember what he had touched. Where had he left fingerprints? On the desk? He wiped the desktop with his handkerchief, scattering the ashes of the letter on the floor. He tried the desk drawer, but it was locked. Decades ago, when he had been a sheriff, he had learned something about crime, but not much. He wiped the doorknob clean. Why hadn't he worn gloves? What else had he touched? The chair? He wiped the chair arms. He was drenched in sweat now, in spite of the air-conditioning that kept the room at a temperature of seventy degrees. Where was the rush, the cocaine-like high he remembered?

Then he went through Castle's pockets, and sure enough, there was the key. His hand was shaking as he opened the drawer. It contained a leather-bound date book, some papers clipped together. He went through them quickly, then dropped them to pick up a sheet of paper folded in half. This was pay dirt, the copy of the letter Castle had given him.

“Hallelujah!” Larry exclaimed. “Blessings to God or the Devil—I don't give a fuck which!” Then he burned it where he had burned the other copy.

He opened the door and looked around. Still, no sign of anyone. Then he remembered the athletic bag with the money in it. How could he have forgotten it? He picked up the bag and zipped it closed.

All he desired at the moment was to get out of there. He closed the door behind him, walked a few steps, and then remembered fingerprints. He ran back and wiped the outside doorknob clean. Then he walked down the driveway, trying not to hurry, tossed the bag into his trunk, got into the car and drove off. The rush had finally come.

Thirty-one

B
efore Donna, the upstairs maid, came into the kitchen, she peeped into the master bedroom and saw that Sally was sleeping soundly. That was about eight-thirty. She vaguely registered the sound of a car starting, thinking that possibly that was Mr. Castle off to the club for golf. The coffeemaker was half full, so Josie must have made coffee and taken a cup either into the study or to the pool-house office. Dickie, as she well knew, having discussed it with Josie the night before, was spending the night in the local jail, and a very good thing she thought it. She would at least have a day without fending off Dickie's pats on her behind or her breasts.

She went to the door and brought in the papers, the
New York Times
and the
Greenwich Time.
Both the
Times
and
Time
were delivered at about seven, but the local paper went to press too early to have anything about Dickie's escapade. Disappointed, she poured a cup of coffee, warmed a croissant, flooded it with butter, and settled down to Ann Landers and then Liz Smith in the local paper.

Donna enjoyed the morning hour. Usually, Sally was not up before nine, and during the week, more often than not, Mr. Castle was off to New York by seven-thirty. It fell on Josie to prepare his coffee, orange juice, and whatever else he might desire. Since this was a Saturday morning, which meant brunch on the terrace instead of a series of breakfasts, Donna had at least an hour to drink her coffee and eat her croissant and read the morning paper in peace. On the other hand, thinking of the blessed absence of Dickie, she concluded that she had been unfair to Mr. Castle in her thinking. He was probably off to the police station to pay Dickie's fine. I don't know why, she said to herself, the way he talks to his father. I'd let him stay there for a day or two. It might do him good.

At nine-thirty, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, Sally came into the kitchen and said to Donna: “Isn't it a perfectly beautiful day! I opened my eyes and I just couldn't think of staying in bed. I feel so worthless when I oversleep, don't you, Donna?”

“My ambition is a whole day in bed.”

“Oh, you should be ashamed.” Sally would never dare talk to Donna like this if Castle were present.

“With Mr. Right,” Donna said, laughing.

“Do you know where Mr. Castle is?”

“I think I heard him take off about an hour ago.”

“Then he went to get Dickie, thank God.”

“That's what I thought, Mrs. Castle. Do you want some juice and coffee?”

“I'd love it.”

“I'll make a fresh pot.”

“Don't bother. There's enough left for me, and the kitchen—it's already such a mess. I'm glad Mr. Castle wasn't in here. You know how he hates a mess.”

“I know, and if Josie doesn't get in here soon, I'll start.” She poured the juice and coffee. Sally took a sip of the orange juice. She could never get used to the pleasure of having fresh-squeezed orange juice waiting for her in the morning. She disliked ordering the servants to do anything, but Josie should have been in here, and she said to Donna, “Please, dear, see if you can find Josie.”

“Sure, Mrs. Castle. I'll even go upstairs and look in her room.” Like Josie, she adored Sally, who always said please, even with the smallest request. Donna wandered around the house, first to Josie's room and then through the other rooms and even the basement.

“The only place I haven't looked,” she reported to Sally, “is in the pool-house office. But what would she be doing there if Mr. Castle has gone downtown?”

“I don't know, but why don't you run out there and see, please, dear.”

A minute later, Sally heard Donna screaming.

Thirty-two

M
onsignor Donovan was waiting for Joe Hunt, Abel's son, on the steps of the church that Saturday morning. “I must thank you for allowing me to spoil a beautiful morning. It was good of you to come.”

“No problem,” Joe said. “A nerd is a nerd. That's my priority.”

“I must ask this,” Donovan said, somewhat reluctantly, “I must ask that this be in complete confidence. If you can't accept that, then we can't go ahead.”

“No problem,” Joe repeated. “My lips are sealed.”

“Good.” He led Joe into the office where the church computer was kept. “What I'd like you to do,” Donovan said, “is to find out all you can about Richard Bush Castle. You know—the man who gave the dinner last night. He is, I believe, about sixty-two or -three years old and he's an investment banker with an office in New York. At some time or another, he had a connection of some sort with the Jesuits. That's a Catholic order of priests. I'm a Jesuit myself. So you have various paths to follow. I must assure you that none of this has any malign purpose. He has given our church a very generous gift, and I must know whether, in all good conscience, I can accept it. Again, I tell you this in confidence that you will repeat nothing we find.”

“You have my word, Monsignor.”

Joe sat down and flicked on the computer. It began to buzz as they waited, and Joe remarked, “You need a new model, something state of the art. This is a tired old man.”

“But it works?”

“Oh, yes, it works. This will take a few minutes to connect to the Web … And here we are, Richard Bush Castle. No relation to the Bush family. Born in Tedman, Georgia. Born 1935. Business administration, Berea College, law degree, Georgetown University, Assistant Secretary of State 1980–1989 … let's try that link. Hmm … Not much more here. Ah, wait … Archbishop Oscar Romero, assassinated in March 1980, in San Salvador. Castle was working in the State Department then. I'll try San Salvador.”

His fingers laced over the keys. “Wow! Thank God I live in Greenwich. Six Jesuits murdered in cold blood. Here's a long statement by Daniel Berrigan. I'll print all of this out for you. State Department accused. Another statement by Peter Winch, Workers' Party, and here's Mr. Castle up to his neck in it. He denies all accusations, calling them utterly absurd and Peter Winch is a liar and his party a communist front. This is part of a long story in the
Washington Post.
I won't try to read it to you. I'll print it out. I'm putting all of this on a disk, so you have it if you want it.”

“Try the Vatican,” Donovan said softly.

“The Vatican,” Joe repeated. “Whoa! There's enough here to fill a row of books. Let's see if I can narrow it down. OK, now here's something. Shall I read it?”

“No. Is it a condemnation?” the monsignor asked hoarsely. He was standing at the window, gazing across the churchyard.

“Seems to be.”

“Just print it out.”

“Eyewitness reports, in the Vatican section.”

“I want all of them. Print it.”

There were a few seconds of silence as Joe scrolled down the statements.

“Try Honduras, priests—Catholics.”

“Two missionary priests missing. Believed murdered by the contras. An Indian woman bears witness. That's a story in the
New York Times.
You want it?”

“Yes, please.”

Moments passed, and then Joe said, “Here's Castle again. A hearing by a subcommittee of Congress, Latterbe Johnson, chairman. Castle completely cleared of any involvement in the murder of the Jesuits. A small piece on the back page of the
Washington Post.
I'll print it.”

There was no word from the monsignor, standing at the window, his back to Joe.

“I can go on searching,” Joe said. “I might be able to find out how this Latterbe Johnson fits in and why he's defending Castle.”

“I think I have enough,” Donovan said.

“This Castle character's something. When I was at his house last night he seemed like a decent guy. His wife tipped me fifty dollars. But I never knew he was involved in all this Washington business. Don't worry, sir, I'll keep my mouth shut. I'll stick around until we're through printing, just in case the printer goes haywire. You know, sometimes it does.”

“Thanks, Joe.” Donovan reached into his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. You pay me for teaching you. This was just an exercise to see how much this old crock could spit out. Not too bad for an old Macintosh. In some ways, they're pretty good.”

Thirty-three

D
ickie Castle was aggrieved, and not without reason. Here it was, well into the morning, and he was still in the holding cell at the police station, sharing it with a man sound asleep in a drunken stupor.

“Where's my dad?” he yelled. “Where's my breakfast? What are you trying to do, starve me? Hey, somebody!”

A cop appeared with a tray—toast, coffee, jam, and an apple.

“This is my breakfast?” Dickie exclaimed indignantly.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away. What do you want, Dickie? Steak and potatoes?”

Pointing to the sleeping drunk, Dickie said, “He pissed and shit all over the place. I can't stand the smell.”

“My heart goes out to you,” the cop said.

“Why can't I wait somewhere else?”

“Because you committed a crime, Dickie. You assaulted a nice young lady. Anyway, Frank Manelli is coming over here in a little while, and if you were out here, he might just beat the shit out of you before we could stop him.” The cop smiled. He knew that Manelli was coming down to drop the charges, but he saw no reason to extend that little bit of comfort to Dickie.

“Fuck you!” Dickie yelled. “Fuck you and fuck Frank Manelli!”

“Someday, Dickie,” the cop said, “that mouth of yours is going to get you into a lot of trouble, a lot of trouble.”