Murder at the National Cathedral (19 page)

Buffolino shook his head.

“Did your flight-attendant friend notice how Singletary and this woman left the plane? Did they leave together? Did she happen to see them in the terminal, maybe out at a cab stand while she was waiting for a crew bus?”

“Nope. That’s all she could tell me, only I figured it was pretty impressive. How many times do you find anybody who actually remembers somebody?”

“Not often,” Smith agreed. “What else do you have?”

“Let’s see.” Buffolino looked at his notes. “Nothing except—there’s an interesting turf war goin’ on with this case.”

“How so?”

“MPD … Finnerty … you know him pretty good … Finnerty and the MPD start out investigating the murder. It’s being handled like any D.C. homicide.”

“Where is the jurisdictional dispute?”

“Well, here’s where it gets interesting. MPD sent guys to Singletary’s apartment. Routine, right?” Smith nodded. “But I hear from some friends I got in the department that anything having to do with Singletary’s apartment, personal life, clothes—all of it has been put under wraps by another agency.”

“Which agency? The FBI?”

Buffolino shook his head and smiled again. “The navy.”
Buffolino glanced down at his notes again. “Naval Investigative Services, to be exact.”

“Because of the time he spent in the navy, short as it was?” Smith was almost talking to himself.

Buffolino shrugged. “Beats me, but that’s the word I get. And these.” He pulled a sheaf of clippings from the file folder and slid them to Smith. “I figured you’d want to keep up on what the press has been saying while you were gone.”

“Much obliged, Tony. Good thinking.”

“Yeah, sometimes I think pretty clear …” His brow furrowed, and he looked toward the door. “And sometimes I don’t.”

There was a loud knock on the door. “Yeah?” Buffolino yelled.

Alicia poked her head in. “It’s time for the show, Tony.”

Buffolino looked up at a black-and-white kitchen clock hanging precariously from a nail. “Excuse me, Mac, I always introduce the show.”

“You don’t have to,” Alicia said. “I can do it.”

Buffolino stood and waved the notion away. “Nah, people in a joint like this want to see a guy be the MC. Right, Mac?”

Smith wisely said nothing.

Through the closed door came the ragged roll of a snare drum and the crash of a cymbal. Then a cranked-up amplification system blared Buffolino’s welcome to Tony’s Spotlight Room. He told a few bad jokes before introducing a singer who’d come “direct from Las Vegas,” and who was “destined to be one of America’s great singing stars.”

The trio vamped her on, and she launched into a frenetic version of “Everything’s Coming Up Roses.” Smith grimaced; he was glad Annabel was home soaking in a tub. He wished he were.

Buffolino returned to the office. “Anything else for me?” Smith asked.

“That’s about it. Want me to keep going?”

“Yes, I do. I want you to find out whether a woman named Clarissa Morgan was in Washington the day of Paul Singletary’s murder. It’s likely that she was the woman with him on the flight from London. I also want you to start running some background checks on various cathedral personnel, as you get time. Start with a Canon Nickelson, the music director, and do a couple of the clergy, Reverend Jonathon Merle and Reverend Carolyn Armstrong, maybe a few other names I’ll give you later.”

“Carolyn? That’s a
priest
?”

“A beautiful one, as it happens. We’re talking Episcopal here, Tony, not Catholic. I also want you to see what you can find out about this naval-intelligence interest in the case. While you’re at it, see if there is anything going on at MPD that hasn’t been publicly announced. In other words, keep digging on all fronts, and keep me informed.”

Buffolino had a way of asking for money without having to say it. Smith had brought a check with him; he handed it to his oddball investigator.

“Thanks, Mac. You in town the next couple of days?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch. How’s your pretty wife?”

“Annabel is splendid, thank you. Tired from the trip, but good. How’s that boy of yours?”

“Billy? He’s doin’ real good. Looks like the cancer is in remission. I keep my fingers crossed, though.”

Smith stood. “Good, good. I have to leave, Tony. I’m teaching a class at eight tomorrow morning.” They shook hands. “Nice work. Keep it up.”

When they reached the door to the club, Buffolino asked whether Mac wanted to stay for the rest of the show—complimentary, of course. Smith looked back at the singer, who was doing a version of Judy Garland with “Over the Rainbow.” Some men at the bar leered at her. Two couples danced—moved together was more accurate. Light reflected from a revolving mirrored ball danced off them like
photokinetic confetti. “I’d love to, Tony, but the trip took a lot out of me. Give me a call tomorrow.” He stepped out onto K Street, lowered his head, and walked quickly to his car.

Washington, the Next Day—Horizontal Rain

“How was your honeymoon, Professor Smith?” Joe Petrella asked.

“Busy but pleasant,” Smith replied. The class laughed. He hadn’t realized what he was saying, or what they were inferring, and he was tired and out-of-sorts. Not having had time to adequately prepare for class added to his grumpiness.

“The woman who found Reverend Singletary’s body came forward while you were gone,” Joy Collins said, excited.

“Yes, I heard.”

April Montgomery, his thin, pale, exceptionally bright student, asked, “Did you spend part of your honeymoon in London investigating what Reverend Singletary did there the day before he died?”

Smith removed his glasses and leaned his elbows on the lectern. “What would lead you to that conclusion, Ms. Montgomery?”

She wiggled her nose and said, “I read that Reverend Singletary had been in London the day before he died, and it struck me as an interesting coincidence that you chose to take your honeymoon in London at this time.”

Smith couldn’t help but smile. “Did it?” he said. “All right, let’s take another fifteen minutes to discuss the murder of Reverend Paul Singletary.” He was less annoyed at this intrusion than he’d been last time. It would consume some of the time he’d have trouble filling with course materials. And the kids might even help him reason things through.

“I said my honeymoon in London was busy but pleasant. Half was untrue.” He told the class about Annabel’s coming close to being trampled to death in the field, and about discovering the body of Reverend Robert Priestly.

“Wow!” Joy Collins said. “Some honeymoon.”

Smith laughed gently. “Yes, it was not run-of-the-mill. Now, let’s harness the considerable intelligence in this room and come up with any possible connection between the murder of a Reverend Paul Singletary in Washington and the murder of a Reverend Robert Priestly in England, both in church, and, not by the way, Priestly was also killed by a blow to the head. The only difference is that the murder weapon was left behind in Reverend Priestly’s case. It was a heavy brass candlestick that was covered with blood—Reverend Priestly’s blood, of course—and had been left on a pew next to the body.”

Smith studied his students’ faces as they sought to forge a defensible link between the two murders. Ms. Montgomery was the first to offer an opinion. “It could have been sheer coincidence,” she said.

“Yes, that is a distinct possibility,” Smith said. “Oh—sorry. I should add, too, that Reverend Singletary and Reverend Priestly were friends. Not only had they followed the same professional calling, they evidently went back quite a way, perhaps to their college years.”

“It’s unlikely that the same person committed the two
murders,” another student said. “I can’t conceive of the spontaneous murderer of Reverend Singletary flying all the way to England to kill his friend. Doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Somebody else said that, also. Doesn’t make sense to me, either, but would the murders have had to be done by the same person? And remember, Paul Singletary was part of two worldwide organizations, with members on many continents,” said Smith.

“Two?” said Joe.

“The Anglican-Episcopal-Protestant church,” Joy Collins said, calmer and more reflective now.

“And …?” Mac asked.

“Word of Peace,” April Montgomery put in.

“A conspiracy.”

“Possibly,” Smith said. “But what would be behind a conspiracy to murder two priests?”

“Hatred for the clergy,” said Joe Petrella, the student who had voiced a similar observation during the previous discussion.

“Could be,” Smith said, “but that’s too lurid, too tabloidish for me. At least for the moment.”

Smith was asked, “Do you think it was the same murder weapon? I mean, the weapon that was used to kill Reverend Singletary was never found, from what I’ve been reading.”

“That possibility has been raised with the British authorities. Naturally, they’re doing a thorough analysis of the weapon, although chances of finding any physical evidence that would link it to Reverend Singletary’s murder are remote.”

“Has anyone checked to see whether a candlestick is missing from the National Cathedral?”

Smith said, “MPD has been looking for every candlestick on the premises. The shape and nature of the wound to Reverend Singletary’s head could certainly have been made by such an object.”

“You said your wife was almost killed in a field, and that it appeared to be deliberate because the horse and rider returned and went after her again. What connection does that have with the priest’s murder?”

“That is a puzzling aspect. We have to be open to the possibility, as April is, that there was no connection—though murderous intent was in the air.”

“Maybe the same person who tried to run down your wife killed the priest, although I can’t imagine what they would have had against her, either,” Bob Rogers said.

“Maybe,” said April Montgomery, “the person had something against
you
, Professor Smith.”

A Boeing 707 with
U.S. NAVY
painted on its tail banked over Annapolis and picked up a compass heading of 225 degrees until entering the airspace of Andrews Air Force Base. The navy lieutenant commander at the controls received permission to land, and soon the four-engine aircraft taxied up to a long gray limousine with tinted windows. A boarding ramp was rolled to the side of the plane. The door opened, and two uniformed military personnel came down the steps, followed by a gray-haired man wearing a tweed suit and carrying a tan raincoat over his arm who seemed to lean slightly to his left as he walked. A naval officer who’d been in the limousine approached the visitor when he reached the bottom of the steps and extended his hand.

“Captain Ely, U.S. Navy, Mr. Leighton. Hope your flight was smooth.”

“Yes, quite,” Leighton said. “Damned foggy in London. Wondered if we’d get off.”

Captain Ely escorted the assistant director of MI5’s “B” Division to the limousine, and climbed into the backseat with him. The driver had received his instructions before the plane’s arrival and immediately drove off, taking Maryland Highway 4, also called Pennsylvania Avenue S.E. He stayed on the road after crossing the District of Columbia line until
they reached the historic Washington Navy Yard on the Anacostia River, a seventy-five-acre spread known for much of its history as the Naval Gun Factory; it dated back to President John Adams’s purchase of the site in 1799. They drove along narrow roads defined by old gray stone buildings, past the Navy Memorial Museum, one of the longest buildings in the world, and past the Marine Corps Museum and Submarine Museum before pulling up in front of an administration building. Their credentials were checked at a desk inside the door, and a phone call was made. “You can go up now,” Leighton and Ely were told. A few minutes later they entered the office of Rear Admiral Stuart Zachary, chief of operations for Naval Investigative Services. With him were Rudolph Kapit of the FBI’s counterespionage division, CIA representative Robert Wilson, and Louis Malvese of the State Department’s European Section.

“Good of you to send a plane for me,” Leighton said after Ely had left and the others had settled around a large circular table in a corner of the spacious office.

“We appreciate your agreeing to come on such short notice, Mr. Leighton,” Admiral Zachary said. “We thought it was important enough to do whatever we could to expedite this meeting, especially in light of the death of Reverend Priestly in Buckland.”

“Yes. Tragic affair,” Leighton said. “The local authorities have been most cooperative. We’re receiving daily reports on the progress of their investigation.”

“That’s good,” Zachary said.

“How long can you stay in Washington, Mr. Leighton?” the FBI’s Kapit asked.

“That depends entirely upon you,” Leighton responded. “I’m here at your request.”

Malvese, of State, a short, square man with a pugnacious face, said, “I don’t think this meeting would have been necessary if recent events hadn’t occurred. There seem to be
a lot of loose ends—too many of them, for my taste, to let them slide. These operations always make such simple sense when they’re conceived, but then they take on their own damn life. I promised my boss I would come back from this meeting with a clear view of where we are and where we’re going.” He looked at the others. “I hope I won’t disappoint him.”

“The report the agency received last night was confusing, Brett,” Wilson said. He knew Leighton well; they’d cooperated on a number of projects over the years. They bore a striking resemblance and might have been mistaken for brothers except for their accents, which they’d once explained away to someone by claiming that their parents divorced shortly after their births and had raised one of them in the United States, the other in Great Britain. The woman who’d noted their resemblance believed the story, which provided the two men with a good laugh after the party.

“Frankly, I’m not especially interested in your reports,” Malvese said in a voice that matched his bellicose face. “This whole affair has greater diplomatic implications than your reports consider.”

Admiral Zachary said to Wilson and Kapit, “Let’s bear in mind, gentlemen, that this is still an NIS operation. We appreciate what help the CIA and the FBI have given us, but it remains our ultimate responsibility.”