Most of what Smith had had to say had to do with “that screwing interfering Cardinal,” for which Gregor thought he probably had cause. What it came down to was that he, Smith, had felt from the very beginning that there was something wrong about Cheryl Cass’s death. The parts didn’t add up to anything that made any sense. If it hadn’t been for Peg Monaghan coming forward to identify the body—and, therefore, bringing the case to the attention of the Cardinal and making it his business at the same time—Smith would have gone on investigating it in his own way. Instead, the Cardinal had turned out to have very definite opinions about what had and had not happened to Cheryl Cass. Maveronski was a good Catholic. The Chief of Homicide was a good Catholic. The Chief of Police was a good Catholic. Even the police commissioner was a good Catholic. None of that would have made any difference if the death of Cheryl Cass had obviously been a murder, but it hadn’t. There had been just enough hogwash lying around to make suicide look likely in the newspaper stories.
“The trouble with the Cardinal,” Smith was saying now, “is that he doesn’t just want to have his cake and eat it, too. He wants to have it, eat it, digest it, and shit it out. So when you called up asking about Cheryl Cass—”
“Wait a minute,” Gregor broke in. “I didn’t talk to you on the phone.”
“You talked to Maveronski. He told me. Special investigator hired by the Cardinal. Your name sounded familiar, so I went to the Tribune morgue and looked you up. I didn’t find anything so I went to the library. There, I found something. I’ve never met anybody who’s been in People magazine before.”
“Which case?” Gregor asked resignedly.
“You mean there’s been more than one? This was a couple of months ago. A story about some people named Hannandale.”
“Hannaford,” Gregor said.
“Whatever. That was a smart piece of work. People didn’t make you sound like the kind of guy who could be bought to put a gloss on something.”
“I can’t be bought at all,” Gregor said. “Believe it or not, I’m not in business. I don’t even have a private investigator’s , license.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“A favor for a friend,” Gregor said. He looked out over the church. Just before he’d sat down in this chair, when Smith was still being quiet enough to let him get a word in edgeways, he had made a suggestion. Now it was being carried out. The two uniformed policemen were stationed at the double doors that led to the foyer. The parishioners were being allowed to file out between them, presenting their driver’s licenses on the way. Since New York State driver’s licenses had pictures on them these days, the operation had a reasonable chance of being foolproof.
Gregor studied the scene at the door. He was glad to see the uniforms were showing more intelligence than he would have given them credit for. The ancient lady who had been talking to Father Declan Boyd had reached the door, unable to produce a driver’s license she didn’t have. The shorter of the two patrolmen was accepting a crumpled envelope she had pulled out of her purse. Very good, Gregor thought. Nobody but a lunatic could imagine that woman traipsing around this church, distributing nicotine with one hand while she clutched her walker with the other.
Gregor turned back to John Smith. The man was regarding him indulgently, but he was obviously eager to start talking again. Whether he was just as eager to listen was moot.
“That was smart, too,” Smith said, nodded toward the door. “Maybe you’re going to live up to your reputation.”
“You mean maybe I’m going to live up to my publicity in People.”
“Same difference. I could use a little help around here. I can’t believe the Cardinal would try to turn this one into suicide—”
“He won’t,” Gregor said. And then he wondered. He didn’t think the Cardinal had thought of suicide yet.
“—but if he did, I wouldn’t be knocked on my ass. If you know what I mean. The Cardinal does not like scandals.”
“Scandals,” Gregor repeated, suddenly reminded of something. He didn’t know how he could have forgotten it. It had taken up most of his morning. “Do you know anything about an incident that took place in something called Black Rock Park, maybe twenty years ago?”
Smith was surprised. “Of course I do. Everybody does. That was bigger around here than the assassination of Kennedy. Either Kennedy.”
“Some animals were killed,” Gregor prompted.
“A whole bunch of animals were killed. Five or six, anyway. Had their throats slit and their blood drained. God, there was blood all over the place up there. When we first saw it—I was a rookie patrolman at the time—we thought we had some kind of gang slaughter. You know, whole bunch of people gunned down with a machine gun. Then the lab guys came along and checked, and they didn’t find any human blood at all.”