his small black eyes narrowed. “Tell me about it. Why didn’t you call?”
“We were about to. Who called you?” Smith asked.
“Anonymous female.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Hey, Mac, I ask, you answer. Who got it?”
Smith motioned for Finnerty to follow him up the steps and into the cathedral. The other two detectives followed. Smith stopped and said to Finnerty, “Have them wait outside for a few minutes.” Finnerty obviously wasn’t sure whether to honor Smith’s request, but he did, holding up his hand to halt the progress of his colleagues.
Smith led Finnerty through the transept and into theempty War Memorial Chapel. “What the hell am I about to get, confession?” Finnerty asked.
“Not unless you need it. Look, the funeral of Adam Vickery, the former attorney general, is about to start. A priest, named Paul Singletary, has been found murdered. Somebody put something heavy to the side of his head.”
“Singletary? The do-gooder?”
“The same. The bishop is concerned that this place not be turned into a zoo while the funeral is going on. Can you give orders to your officers to be less conspicuous? I’ll take you to the body and to the bishop. Once the funeral is over, the place is yours.”
“Give me a break, Mac. You’re telling me that this priest gets wasted here in the Washington Cathedral, and I’m supposed to ice it until Vickery gets planted?” His laugh was silly. “Vickery ain’t going to know what’s going on.”
“But his family will. Look, Terry, do what you want, but if you find it necessary to play war games for the TV cameras, count me out. I’m just a parishioner grieving at a friend’s funeral. I know nothing about murder. Nice to see you again.” Smith started to walk away.
“All right,” Finnerty said, “as long as you and I move on this now. Wouldn’t look good to sit through a funeral while a murdered priest lays around, but I’ll do my best to keep things quiet until the funeral’s over. It ever occur to you that the murderer could still be here?” Smith pointedly ignored the question, and Finnerty sensed his annoyance. “Okay, Mac, we’ll move as quiet as possible. But we have to move.”
“Good. This is, after all, a place of worship,” Smith said, not proud of himself.
Finnerty went back and told his detectives to brief the uniforms while they began to look around and to guard exits. He then fell in with Smith and they walked across the nave toward the north transept and Good Shepherd Chapel. They’d almost reached it when a television crew—a cameraman with a large VTR on his shoulder, a sound man wieldinga microphone, and a black woman reporter, Rhonda Harrison, with whom Smith had been friendly since she arrived in Washington eight years before—came through the north entrance. Rhonda flashed Smith a large, warm smile. To Finnerty she nodded: “Detective Finnerty.” The smile was gone.
“Hello, Rhonda, how are you?” said Smith.
“Who was murdered?” she asked. A powerful light on top of the VTR came to life and flooded Smith, Finnerty, and Rhonda in blinding white light.
“Turn that thing off,” Finnerty said.
“Can’t talk this minute, Rhonda,” Smith said.
“Come on, Mac, what’s going on?”
“Later, Rhonda. Sorry. Come on,” he said to Finnerty.
Two of the cathedral’s uniformed security police had just entered through the north doors. Smith stopped them. “I’m Mac Smith, and this is Detective Terry Finnerty. There’s been a problem here this morning, and I’m representing the bishop in this matter.” He turned and saw the television crew approaching. “Keep those people out of this area until you’re told otherwise.” He could see ambivalence on their faces. One of them said, “I’ll check with Captain Porter.”
“Go ahead, but one of you keep that crew out of here.”
As the remaining cathedral cop moved to block the TV crew, Smith led Finnerty past the armoire and into the Good Shepherd
“We were about to. Who called you?” Smith asked.
“Anonymous female.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Hey, Mac, I ask, you answer. Who got it?”
Smith motioned for Finnerty to follow him up the steps and into the cathedral. The other two detectives followed. Smith stopped and said to Finnerty, “Have them wait outside for a few minutes.” Finnerty obviously wasn’t sure whether to honor Smith’s request, but he did, holding up his hand to halt the progress of his colleagues.
Smith led Finnerty through the transept and into theempty War Memorial Chapel. “What the hell am I about to get, confession?” Finnerty asked.
“Not unless you need it. Look, the funeral of Adam Vickery, the former attorney general, is about to start. A priest, named Paul Singletary, has been found murdered. Somebody put something heavy to the side of his head.”
“Singletary? The do-gooder?”
“The same. The bishop is concerned that this place not be turned into a zoo while the funeral is going on. Can you give orders to your officers to be less conspicuous? I’ll take you to the body and to the bishop. Once the funeral is over, the place is yours.”
“Give me a break, Mac. You’re telling me that this priest gets wasted here in the Washington Cathedral, and I’m supposed to ice it until Vickery gets planted?” His laugh was silly. “Vickery ain’t going to know what’s going on.”
“But his family will. Look, Terry, do what you want, but if you find it necessary to play war games for the TV cameras, count me out. I’m just a parishioner grieving at a friend’s funeral. I know nothing about murder. Nice to see you again.” Smith started to walk away.
“All right,” Finnerty said, “as long as you and I move on this now. Wouldn’t look good to sit through a funeral while a murdered priest lays around, but I’ll do my best to keep things quiet until the funeral’s over. It ever occur to you that the murderer could still be here?” Smith pointedly ignored the question, and Finnerty sensed his annoyance. “Okay, Mac, we’ll move as quiet as possible. But we have to move.”
“Good. This is, after all, a place of worship,” Smith said, not proud of himself.
Finnerty went back and told his detectives to brief the uniforms while they began to look around and to guard exits. He then fell in with Smith and they walked across the nave toward the north transept and Good Shepherd Chapel. They’d almost reached it when a television crew—a cameraman with a large VTR on his shoulder, a sound man wieldinga microphone, and a black woman reporter, Rhonda Harrison, with whom Smith had been friendly since she arrived in Washington eight years before—came through the north entrance. Rhonda flashed Smith a large, warm smile. To Finnerty she nodded: “Detective Finnerty.” The smile was gone.
“Hello, Rhonda, how are you?” said Smith.
“Who was murdered?” she asked. A powerful light on top of the VTR came to life and flooded Smith, Finnerty, and Rhonda in blinding white light.
“Turn that thing off,” Finnerty said.
“Can’t talk this minute, Rhonda,” Smith said.
“Come on, Mac, what’s going on?”
“Later, Rhonda. Sorry. Come on,” he said to Finnerty.
Two of the cathedral’s uniformed security police had just entered through the north doors. Smith stopped them. “I’m Mac Smith, and this is Detective Terry Finnerty. There’s been a problem here this morning, and I’m representing the bishop in this matter.” He turned and saw the television crew approaching. “Keep those people out of this area until you’re told otherwise.” He could see ambivalence on their faces. One of them said, “I’ll check with Captain Porter.”
“Go ahead, but one of you keep that crew out of here.”
As the remaining cathedral cop moved to block the TV crew, Smith led Finnerty past the armoire and into the Good Shepherd
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