Murder at the National Cathedral (27 page)

Smith asked, “Should I be looking at Word of Peace as the place to find a murderer?”

“They’re as good a place to look as any. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about that.”

“Of course I have. Any aspect of Paul Singletary’s life has to be looked at, and I’m sure everyone with some official
connection to this case is doing just that. But I’ve been looking into narrower possibilities. Somehow, Cam, even though Paul was deeply involved in the movement, I can’t conceive of his being killed because of it.”

As another round was served, Bowes stopped talking. When the waitress had gone, he said, “Ever hear of a Korean named Jin Tse?”

“Yes. Bishop St. James mentioned him to me. Jin Tse seems to be the point man for Word of Peace here in Washington. Singletary told the bishop about him, and after the murder, Jin Tse sought out the bishop to be sure of the cathedral’s continuing support.”

“Mac.”

“What?”

“Jin Tse is not good news. Jin Tse works directly for Korean intelligence. He’s also a known assassin.” Bowes mentioned two political assassinations that had taken place over the years.

“Jin Tse did those?”

“That’s our best information.”

“Maybe he ‘assassinated’ Paul Singletary,” Smith said.

“Maybe. Rest assured that possibility is being given very careful consideration.”

“This has all been very illuminating, Cameron.”

“What are friends for, if they can’t illuminate their favorite people? Want to know what I think?”

“Only if you’ll be honest with me about your source of thinking.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I would like you to differentiate between what you’ve read in the papers like any other citizen, from what you’re telling me man-to-man, as a friend, and what you’re telling me because of the Company’s interest in this case. By the way, I assume the CIA’s file on this has gotten pretty thick.”

“Yes, and it includes material on Reverend Singletary’s
murder. I happen to know that by now a portion of it also has to do with Mackensie Smith.”

Smith started to say something, but Bowes continued, “Every move you’ve made since you became involved is known to those charged with following this case. Quite an interesting honeymoon you had in London.”

“That, too, huh?”

“Uh-huh. I don’t want to belabor this, Mac, but we’re talking big stakes here. If Word of Peace was involved in any way in Reverend Singletary’s murder, it shouldn’t take a genius to figure out that they will stop at nothing to achieve their goals, whatever they are, and that includes demonstrating an absolute lack of reverence for a law professor at George Washington University and his pretty wife. Be careful, Mac. There’s a war going on. Singletary was only a skirmish.”

The Next Morning, Thursday—Still Pleasantly Warm

If the FBI had not decided to arrest overnight a number of people in Washington involved with Word of Peace, the small story in the morning paper about the cathedral case would have been given a more prominent position on page 1, perhaps at the top, run in 24-point Helvetica bold. Instead, it was relegated to the bottom, its headline in 14-point Geneva, and in italics.

The lead story was the FBI’s sweep of Word of Peace leaders, including Jin Tse and some of his associates. Others caught in the net included a breakaway Catholic priest, the black leader of one of D.C.’s urban coalitions for the poor, a West German businessman, a South American embassy official, and a faith healer from Oklahoma who had somehow established a mission in Washington under the auspices of Word of Peace. Charges ranged from fraud to extortion, spying to conspiracy.

“Read this,” Mac said, handing the paper to Annabel.
She sat on the edge of the bed, and the widening of her eyes mirrored her reaction to what she was reading. “Wow!” she said, tossing the paper on the bed.

Smith had given Annabel a reasonable account of his conversation with Cameron Bowes at the Four Seasons, but had deliberately skipped the warning Bowes had issued. As he reflected upon it after parting from Bowes, he became increasingly concerned. Bowes was a straight shooter, not a bigmouth; he played it as close to the vest as any employee of a sensitive agency was expected to do. That he’d brought the subject up at all gave it, at least in Smith’s eyes, considerable weight. He hadn’t mentioned it to Annabel because he didn’t want to concern her, although he would continue to be concerned about her, but he knew she wouldn’t buy that decision. She’d want to know about any danger to him. She wanted to be a “partner,” but only a limited partner, she’d told him. That didn’t mean unduly upsetting your partner. Did it?

“How do you think this relates to Paul’s murder?” Annabel asked. The story had ended with a note that Paul Singletary, the murdered Episcopal priest, had been actively involved with Word of Peace. The final line of the article directed readers to a parallel story about new developments in the Singletary case at the bottom of the page.

The headline on the smaller story read
MURDER WEAPON FOUND
? According to Chief of Homicide Terrence Finnerty, an anonymous caller to the police late the night before had directed them to the National Cathedral’s Children’s Chapel, where, according to the caller, the instrument used to kill Reverend Paul Singletary would be found. The police responded to the tip, removed two candlesticks from the altar, and, according to Finnerty, discovered that the base of one was dented in a pattern consistent with Singletary’s head wound. Laboratory analysis revealed that a fragment of hair matching the deceased’s was found, and that a miniscule residue of human blood of the same type as Reverend
Singletary’s was on the holder. There were no fingerprints. Examination of the holder involved the use of a mass spectrometer and other sophisticated forensic devices. The police had no knowledge at the time of the identity of the anonymous caller, except that it was a male.

When Annabel finished reading that story, she asked Mac, who’d slipped into sweats in preparation for a brisk morning walk, what he thought of it.

“Hard to tell at this juncture,” he said, “but I have this nagging feeling about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That whoever put the holder on that altar and called the police is intimately connected with the cathedral, really knows it.”

“You mean the murderer? No, it wouldn’t have been the murderer who put the holder in that chapel and then called the police.”

“I wouldn’t think so. Why would a murderer successfully hide the weapon for this amount of time, then put it out in the open for the police to find?”

“Unless it served the person’s purpose. If Paul’s murder was not connected with the cathedral but the killer wants to have the investigation focus more intensely on cathedral people, it isn’t a bad move.”

Smith immediately thought of Brian Waters, the son of the woman who’d discovered Singletary’s body, and who, according to Tony Buffolino, had become a prime suspect. He’d told Annabel about his conversation with Buffolino.

“Could be Waters,” she said, as if reading his mind.

“Could be a lot of people, Annabel. I’ll call Finnerty later and see if I can learn anything else. In the meantime, I’m ready for some air. I’ll be back in forty-five minutes. Will you be here?”

“Probably. I’m not opening until ten.”

They kissed, and Smith started for the kitchen, where Rufus’s leash hung by the back door. He stopped in the
doorway and turned to look upon this beautiful female creature who was his wife. He’d shared almost everything with her—should he tell her about Bowes’s warning? He had to. “Annabel, I filled you in on what Cameron Bowes had to say last night, but I left something out.”

She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“Cam said he thought Word of Peace was a dangerous organization. He told me it’s been infiltrated by many intelligence organizations, including people like Jin Tse, who, according to Cam, is not only linked to Korean intelligence, but is a political assassin. He also told me that the CIA has built quite a file on Word of Peace, and that you and I have prominent space in it. Even our honeymoon was tracked.”

“That’s horrible,” she said. “What the hell did they do, put cameras in our hotel suites?”

“Probably not, but they certainly knew our movements in London. The reason I’m telling you this is that if there is some threat to us by virtue of my being involved with the cathedral and Paul’s murder, I want to keep you as far away from it as possible.” As he said it, he thought of his mother in Sevier House. Could she also be in danger because of him? No rational person would think so, but a reporter had tracked her down—or was it a reporter?—and there was a well-documented lack of rationality when it came to zealots and cause groups, to say nothing of intelligence organizations, including the CIA and MI5—and not forgetting Cosa Nostra and Colombian drug czars. None of them played by the same rules as the rest of the mostly rational folks. When groups like those decided the chips were down and the stakes were high enough, it was women and children first—forget about lifeboats.

Smith shoved his hands in the pockets of his blue nylon windbreaker. “I don’t know how much credence to give what Cameron said, but he’s always played it straight with me. I think he told me those things because he truly considers me a friend, and I can’t ignore what he said.”

“How much danger are we in?” she asked.

“I have no idea, Annabel, but we do know someone tried to run you down, trample you to death, in that sheep field. I know we’ve been watched. And now this bunch from Word of Peace has been arrested and charged with a laundry list including subversive activities, misuse of funds, money laundering, and God knows what else. Maybe you ought to go away for a while.”

Annabel laughed. “Mac, that’s grade-B black-and-white-movie stuff. We’re not on late-night TV. Go away? Where would I go?
Why
would I go?”

Her response nettled him, and he responded angrily, “Sorry if I come off as grade-B material, Annabel. I suggested it because I love you.”

Oooops, she thought. She crossed the room, wrapped her arms around him, and gave him a long and intense hug. “Mac,” she said into his ear, “you are anything but grade B. To me, you are the all-time leading man. I didn’t mean anything by it. Still, I’m not leaving you.”

“Please,” he said, “don’t ever leave me.”

“Have a good walk. I love you.”

“And I love you, Annabel Smith.” He turned to Rufus, who was sitting at attention. “Come on, beast, let’s go sniff up the neighborhood.” He looked back at Annabel. “One thing’s for sure, Annabel, nobody would mess with us with Rufus around.”

“Sure,” Annabel answered. “Any stranger with a gun and a dog biscuit wins. Go.”

Smith’s brisk walk with Rufus always gave him time to think, something he did better with legs moving and fresh air pumping into his lungs and circulating to his brain.

The first fifteen minutes were characterized by exuberance for dog and master. The middle quarter-hour found dog still charging ahead while master grappled with a damnable set of conflicting thoughts—questions, really—about recent weeks in his life. By the time the two were on the last leg of
their morning circuit of Foggy Bottom, dog had slowed down and was panting, and master had come to the conclusion that everything, including the walk, had gone on long enough. His only commitment to Bishop St. James had been to give his friend unofficial legal advice, and to perhaps serve as counsel should the accused murderer come out of cathedral ranks. That should have been it. Instead, he’d found himself playing investigator again, discovering the body of a priest in the idyllic Cotswolds, almost losing his bride in a sheep pasture, and now being warned by a friend who was up on things in the nation’s leading spookery that his involvement might cause harm to him and to those he loved. “For what?” he asked himself aloud as he opened the front door. “Enough!”

“Enough what?” Annabel yelled from the living room.

“Enough of this life. I’m a college professor, damn it, not a gumshoe! Let the police find out who killed Paul, and if it’s somebody I care to represent, I will.”

She appeared in the doorway. “What brought this on?”

“A walk with the beast and time to think. I’m sorry about all this, Annie. It’s my fault, getting us into something like murder. You and I are esteemed members of the academic and artistic communities of Washington.” He proclaimed it with exaggerated pomp, his hand on his heart. She started to giggle. “Therefore, the dirty business of murder and murderers shall henceforth be left to those of lesser stature and baser instincts.”

“Bravo!” She applauded. “But what about Reverend Merle?”

“I did him a favor. He’s not my client.” He bowed. “Time for this sage to shower, which I understand places me closer to God, and to bestow my infinite wisdom upon my class of misguided achievers. Gimme a hug and a kiss, baby.” He wrestled her into the living room and fell on top of her on the couch.

“You’ve gone mad,” she said, gasping.

“I have, and I love every minute of it.”

She rammed the heels of her hands against his chest and slid out from under. “Do you think you can sustain this burst of affection until tonight?”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, and I look forward to the evening.” She stood. “Now, learned professor, go get clean and teach. We need the money.”

Smith didn’t wait for his students to raise questions about what they’d read in the papers and seen on television. He announced, the minute he stepped to the podium, “Let us take what has become our daily fifteen minutes to discuss murder at the National Cathedral. You know what I know via the free press. Any comments? Any suggestions? Brilliant insights?”

Everyone in the room offered at least two of the above in the next ten minutes or so, but none of their speculations caused Smith’s mind to turn down a new alley with a light of revelation at its end. He shared with them one small bit of information he’d received as he was leaving the house. Jeffrey Woodcock called from London to say that the slain priest, Robert Priestly, had indeed been robbed. His wallet had been taken, and it had been found in a public trash can in the picturesque village of Chipping Campden. Whatever cash had been in it was missing; everything else seemed to be intact.