“Of course I wouldn’t mind,” Mother Andrew Loretta said. “I’d be happy to talk to you any time. But you must understand—”
Gregor never heard what it was he had to understand. He was already halfway across the back garden to the doors of the reception room.
3
HE REACHED THE DOORS from the reception room to the foyer just as a wedge of plainclothesmen came through the front door. He stopped and let them come to him, giving himself a chance to look them over. He was fairly sure he’d never met any of them before, in spite of the fact that he knew a good portion of the police personnel on the Main Line. The leader of this group was reasonably young—maybe in his early thirties—and very aggressive. He had an ethnically Italian face that reminded Gregor unpleasantly of Mario Cuomo. He seemed to be looking for trouble. Once he spotted Gregor, he seemed to have found it.
Gregor stood his ground. The young man came across the foyer and into the reception room, walked around Gregor the way a child might walk around a maypole, stopped so close that his nose and Gregor’s were very nearly touching and said: “Oh, my God. If it isn’t the Armenian-American Hercule Poirot.”
Chapter 2
1
THERE WAS AN EMACIATED figure of Christ on a crucifix on the wall of the foyer closest to the right-hand outside door, and Gregor Demarkian stood looking at it for a long time after he’d been called “the Armenian-American Hercule Poirot.” “The Armenian-American Hercule Poirot” was the name the Philadelphia Inquirer had given him in the middle of their somewhat overenthusiastic coverage of his first extracurricular case, and it was the name that had been picked up gleefully by everybody from People magazine to Oprah. By now, Australian aborigines and Trobriand islanders knew enough to call him that. Gregor had given up showing that he minded. It was useless to show that he minded. The description was now as closely connected to him as his hair. What he had every intention of showing that he minded was the tone in that young man’s voice, and the quick dismissal that made it clear that the young man regarded Gregor Demarkian as nothing better than an amateur. Gregor Demarkian had never been an amateur. As for the young man, anybody who looked that much like Mario Cuomo ought to be careful about the kind of fun he made of other people.
At the moment, the young man was not making fun of anybody. He was just standing five feet in front of Gregor’s face, looking past Gregor’s shoulder into the reception room. Gregor would have thought he was eager to get on with it, except that he looked so smug.
This was not going to be easy. Back in the Bureau, when Gregor had a title and a recognized line of authority, he had been able to command respect without ever raising his voice. Since then, he’d been able to command it without the title or the line of authority, just because he was that kind of man. “Believe you have the right,” one of his instructors at Quantico had said, “and everybody else will believe it, too.” That worked 99 percent of the time. Gregor didn’t think it was going to work here.
Still, he had to try. Reverend Mother General was expecting him to. He looked away from the crucifix and held out his hand. The young man was really very, very young. Gregor thought he had to be a good two to five years younger than most men would be when they made detective on a major suburban force.
“My name is Gregor Demarkian,” Gregor said, with his hand still out. “What’s yours?”
“I am Lieutenant Jack Androcetti.” The young man ignored Gregor’s hand. “I’m in charge here.”
“So I gathered.”
“You are not in charge here.”
“I never said I was.”
“You are not necessary to this investigation.”
Gregor cocked his head. “Not even as a material witness? I did catch the body as it fell.”
“Fell?”
“Sister Joan Esther. She was standing up and then she fell over. I caught her.”
“I think we ought to discuss this,” Reverend Mother General said.
She had been in the reception room when the police arrived, still hovering around the table where Sister Joan Esther had died. Now she came out under the arm Gregor was using to steady himself against the reception room door and glared nunnily at Jack Androcetti. “Mr. Demarkian is a friend of this Order,” she said severely. “Mr. Demarkian acts for us in many capacities. Mr. Demarkian is certainly authorized to act for us in dealing with you.”
Jack Androcetti was not impressed. “Is Mr. Demarkian a lawyer?” he asked.
“No,” Gregor said.
“Then Mr. Demarkian has no standing here,” Jack Androcetti said, smirking. “This is a murder investigation. We will therefore—”