Bishop as Pawn (13 page)

“Yeah. Well, you needed some background. Like I said, we were already on thin ice when Diego came on the scene.” Shell paused.

“Are you saying that Diego and your wife were having an affair?”

“Well, yes and no.”

“‘Yes and no’? Were they or weren’t they?”

“You got to understand this Diego character.”

“Do you?”

“I think so. He’s upwardly mobile. That I know. What I don’t know is where he wants to go. Pope?”

“Go on.”

“He uses … he used people. And if they became his friends, he recycled them. But he would never—
never
—do anything to compromise his ambition. It was easy for him to charm the women. He was a handsome son of a bitch.”

Tully nodded. He was growing weary of hearing about Diego’s movie-star looks. “What’s understanding Diego got to do with whether or not he was having an affair with your wife?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated and it’s not easy trying to make it simple.

“Let’s do it this way: Suppose I answer your question: No, they didn’t have an affair.” His jaw tightened. “Jeez, I even had them followed. They met, okay. For one thing, she was always in the group that attached themselves to him. On top of that, they met, just the two of them, from time to time. But they never did anything. They never went to a motel. They never went to our house together. They’d maybe go on a picnic or something like that.

“And it wasn’t that they didn’t care for each other. My P.I. reported that he never saw a couple so infatuated with each other.
But they didn’t do anything.

“At this point, you’d guess that not getting physical was my wife’s idea. It’s always the little women, eh? But it wasn’t. He’s the one who kept it innocent. And why?
Because he’s upwardly mobile.
He’s going places. And he’s not going to get to be Cardinal or Pope by having a physical affair with some good-looking Spanish broad.”

“You know this for sure?” Tully asked. “That staying out of the sack was his idea?”

Shell extended his arms, palms up, as if to say, what other explanation makes sense. “Fits his profile.”

“So,” Tully concluded, “the simple answer to my question is no.”

“Not exactly.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t a physical affair. I’m convinced they never had intercourse … not even close. But they had—a what?—a spiritual affair.”

“Huh?”

Shell unwrapped a second candy bar and bit into it. “I can’t explain it. I’ve never seen anything like it. The guy could have had her, easy. She was bananas for him. He could have, but he didn’t.

“The way I see it, he just wouldn’t compromise his future. Must have taken a lot not to accept what he was freely offered. I’ll give the bastard that. But then, see, she changed. It was something like that character in
Man of La Mancha
—you know, Dulcinea. She’s a scullery maid and a whore. But the crazy Don Quixote keeps calling her ‘My Lady’ until she changes completely and starts acting like a highborn lady.

“Not that Maria was a whore, you know. But what I mean, she changed. Oh, she was willing to throw herself at him. But he’s Don Quixote. He’s going to teach her how to love ‘pure and chaste from afar.’ Okay, so she becomes Dulcinea … and I lost my Maria.”

“You mean—”

“I told you our relationship was on thin ice. Sex for me was like making love to a board. Well, Maria took the board away and left me nothing. Nothing”

No one spoke.

“As far as I know,” Shell said finally, “I’m the only guy in history to have been cuckolded by a couple of practicing virgins.”

Mangiapane barely suppressed a burst of laughter. Tully, with some effort, kept a straight face.

Shell, who was quite serious, continued. “Now, what the hell could I do about it? How could I say Diego was guilty of alienation of affection? He didn’t do anything except mesmerize her. She didn’t do anything but fall under his spell. The upshot of the whole thing was I lost my wife. I lost her to a goddam bishop. And there wasn’t a goddam thing I could do about it.

“It was awful. We’d be together, say at dinner, and she wouldn’t say anything—nothin’—just answer questions. With one word—the fewest possible syllables. She began sleeping in the guest room.

“I was going nuts.

“What happened next reminds me of a story.…” Shell smiled briefly. “Seems this doctor—a surgeon—was on trial for using abusive and obscene language. Trying to explain his side of it, he says to the Judge, ‘You see, Your Honor, on the day in question, I woke up about eight o’clock. The alarm didn’t go off. I was scheduled for extremely delicate surgery at 9:00. So I tried to hurry. Naturally, I cut myself shaving. I started breakfast before I took my shower. There wasn’t any hot water. After the cold shower, I found I’d set the microwave for too long and burned everything. In my haste to get dressed, I ripped the trousers of my suit. The car wouldn’t start. I lost two taxi rides when people pushed me aside so they could take the cabs. I was nearly an hour late by the time I got to the hospital. The elevator that took me to the OR stopped just a few inches short of the floor. I tripped on my way out. I fell flat on my face and broke the glasses I needed to perform the operation.

“‘At that point, a nurse came up to me and said, “Doctor, we just received a shipment of a thousand rectal thermometers. What do you want me to do with them?”’”

The two detectives couldn’t help but laugh.

“Funny,” Tully said after a minute, “but what’s that got to do with you?”

“Just remember,” Shell said, “how completely frustrated I was. For all practical purposes, I had lost my wife. It was like being with the living dead. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. And I owed it all to this son-of-a-bitch bishop.

“That’s exactly the state of mind I was in when I walked into Carson’s house and saw the bastard standing there in the middle of a bunch of fawning sycophants. There he stood like Cock Robin in his black and red robes. I never even met him before. Just saw his picture in the papers, caught him a few times on TV. This was the first goddam time I was ever in the same room with the bastard.

“So it was like when the nurse asked what to do with all those damn thermometers. I blew it. I blew my stack.”

“Were you going to hit him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He shrugged. “Carson stepped in before anything could happen.”

“Then Carson got you and the bishop to go to another room together. So then what?”

“I kept at it. I called him everything I could think of. I told him to stay the hell away from my wife—even though I knew it was too late to do any good. Then I made some idle threats—like anybody in my position would’ve done.”

“How did the bishop react?”

“Completely on the defensive. He didn’t say a word. First his complexion matched his red robes. Then he got real pale. That was when I knew I’d reached him. About that time he muttered a few excuses and beat it.”

“And then …?”

“I was too worked up to remember what Carson said to me. Something about telling me to leave in no uncertain terms … that I had wrecked his party.”

“And then
…?”

“I left.”

“And then …?”

“And then I didn’t kill him.”

After a short silence, Tully spoke again. “So what did you do then? Where did you go?”

“The boy got my car.” Shell snorted. “Hell, the motor hadn’t had time to cool. I must’ve set some kind of world’s record for the briefest time spent at a party. Oh, I didn’t mind being asked to leave.” He grinned lopsidedly. “I’ve been thrown out of better places than that.

“But I was still steaming. So I forced myself to park for a while to cool off. I didn’t want to add an auto accident to all the rest of my misery.

“When I felt a little less like tearing Diego limb from limb, I started out Jefferson. I wasn’t heading anywhere in particular. I ended up in a bar in St. Clair Shores … what the hell is the name of the place … uh … I’ve never been there before. It’s around Nine Mile and Mack … uh … The Lazy Dolphin. Yeah, that was it.”

“What time would that have been?”

“Geez, I don’t know. That’s where I went from Carson’s house, driving slow … I guess maybe 3:00, 3:30.”

“How long were you there?”

“A couple of hours … about 5:30 maybe.”

“Would anybody remember your being there between those hours?”

“Uh … I don’t know.… I don’t think so.”

“You were there two hours and no one can attest to that?”

“The bar was crowded. I don’t know … maybe the bartender.”

“We’ll check that out”

“Am I still a suspect?”

“Who said you were a suspect?”

Shell smiled. “I’ve been in court a few times. I’d say someone who gets into a violent argument with somebody and that somebody gets killed later on the same day, I’d say the police might get a little suspicious. Might even come over to the guy’s law office asking questions.”

“Just checking things out, Mr. Shell.

“Thanks for your time.”

Mangiapane, who had been taking notes throughout the session, slid into the driver’s seat. Tully spent a few moments taking in the atmosphere before entering the passenger seat.

Mangiapane started the engine. “Off to see Dulcinea?”

Tully smiled. “Yeah, Dulcinea. Know where they live?”

“In Troy. I looked it up before we got started.”

“Good man.”

Mangiapane would take Telegraph Road north, then cut east on Square Lake. “He seemed kind of open, didn’t you think, Zoo?”

“That the impression you got? Yeah, I guess he did volunteer a lot of information for somebody who’s under suspicion. But when you think about it, it’s all stuff we’re probably gonna get from the other people we talk to.”

“Maybe the stuff that went on in Carson’s house. But how about what was going on with his wife and the bishop?”

“Yeah, how about that? Going over what he said, there’s the fracas at Carson’s. All the guests heard what he said to Diego. Even when they went in the other room, Carson was there. And I’d be surprised if at least some of the guests didn’t hear him through the closed door. He was pissed and he was likely yelling.

“Then there’s that bit about him and his wife and his wife and Diego. Remember he said that a number of people, even some gossip columnists, were in on that. It figures: The Shells are society. They’re in the spotlight. If their marriage is on the rocks, people know. And people talk. And the bishop was popular with those society women. Mrs. Shell was a member of that group. Whadya wanna bet that some of those dames knew what was goin’ on. Hell, they probably wanted to trade places with her. So we’re gonna get some info about Shell and his wife, and the wife and the bishop, from a lot of people.

“And, we’re on our way to interview the wife. Shell knew we would. He knows what she’s gonna tell us.

“What this comes down to is that Shell wanted to tell us first what we were gonna learn anyway. That way he appears open and aboveboard. A nice, frank guy who certainly wouldn’t kill anybody.

“Manj, right after we get done with Mrs. Shell, I want you to start checking this guy out. Use as many of the team as you need. By this time, the guys must know whether they’re gonna get anything from the streets.

“If I were Mr. Shell, I’d start hoping that barkeep’s got a real good memory.”

CHAPTER

EIGHT

It was not a pretentious house. But considering the neighborhood, the address, and the 48098 zip code, it probably went for about $500,000. Frankly, Tully had expected more from the Shells’ conspicuous consumerism. Perhaps more was coming.

The snow, somewhat deeper here this far north of Detroit, lay in neat rectangles, squares and other geometric shapes demarcated by crisply clean driveways, walkways, and streets.

Mangiapane pulled into the Shells’ driveway. One of the fringe benefits of riding with Manj, mused Tully, was that he knew his way around the city and its environs as well as or better than any cab driver. You not only never got lost riding with the sergeant, you got to your destination as quickly as possible.

They were met at the door by a maid in black dress and white apron. Tully displayed his badge and identified himself and his companion. The maid, displaying neither surprise nor awe, led them to a drawing room, where she announced them to a woman seated in a white deeply upholstered chair near the window. A white robe covered her from shoulder to ankle. Her complexion was a dusky tan. Though her eyes were obscured by shaded glasses, it was obvious she was the woman in the photograph on Mike Shell’s desk.

Tully introduced himself and Mangiapane. She acknowledged that she was Maria Shell, wife of Michael.

They declined her offer of coffee or tea. The maid was dismissed.

Mangiapane flipped open his notepad and prepared once again to record the session.

“You are aware of Bishop Diego’s death?” Tully asked.

Maria Shell nodded slowly. Despite the dark glasses, Tully could tell there was puffiness about her eyes. She seemed composed, but barely. He guessed she’d been crying.

“Why are you here?” She spoke softly and deliberately with no trace of accent.