Bishop as Pawn Read Online Free PDF

feast on. Bishops died from time to time, but they weren’t murdered.
    Cobb could envision the leads in newspapers, on radio and TV. “Only in Detroit …” The stories would enumerate the actual totals along with the per capita numbers of murders. Then the Cobb administration would try to find at least a bronze lining. Washington, D.C.’s murder rate was higher per capita. Or Los Angeles or New York had a higher total. Or Detroit’s record was not as high as last year’s. And that—the search for light at the end of this long, dark tunnel—made up the administration’s major effort to control this gun-crazy city.
    While Cobb and his police chief did confer on the necessity for and composition of this task force, still they were not in complete agreement.
    The chief was uneasy about putting Tully and Quirt on the same squad. It wasn’t that Tully was black and Quirt white: That was not a racial problem as far as those two were concerned. It was the disparity in their methods and personalities that occasioned the chief’s hesitation. Each was a lieutenant leading a homicide squad. Equal in rank, the two were, under the circumstances, likely to be on a collision course.
    As far as the mayor was concerned, he simply figured that Tully and Quirt were the two most effective detectives in Homicide. They’d make an airtight arrest in the briefest possible time.
    That Quirt was to be in charge merely indicated that the mayor wanted a speedy close to the case. Tully was more likely to be deliberative but accurate. Quirt tended to be swift and expeditious but slipshod. Cobb thought them a good mix. Quick but sure, with the emphasis on getting a body into jail in the least amount of time and the media off the mayor’s aging back.
    Not surprisingly, the mayor’s view won out.
     
     
    “Hey, Zoo, whaddya think?”
    Thinking was exactly what Tully had been doing before Quirt’s sudden approach.
    The two men were about the same height. Tully’s hair was close-cropped. He was lean, fit, and dressed conservatively. Quirt, almost completely bald, was noticeably overweight. He wore mostly bright colors and suspenders.
    “I dunno, Quirt. A little early.”
    “Good lookin’ guy.”
    “Who?”
    “The dead guy.” Quirt’s impatience was obvious. “The bishop.”
    “He didn’t look that good to me. Just dead.”
    “Yeah, kind of messy. But look here …” Quirt motioned Tully into the bishop’s office. “Look at all these pictures on the walls. Good lookin’ guy?”
    Tully had noted the pictures earlier. He had put them on the back burner for later study. Now that his attention had been drawn, he considered them more carefully.
    “Looks like a movin’-pitcher star,” Quirt suggested. “Looks like … who’s that guy … you know, the spic in those commercials for the car … the … oh, hell … the Cordoba?”
    “Montalban. Ricardo Montalban.”
    “Yeah. Don’tcha think?”
    The late bishop was, or rather had been, indeed a handsome man. But that was not what interested Tully. Each photo showed Diego with one or more people. Without exception, the others in these candid shots were among the wealthiest and most prominent men and women in the metropolitan area. Tully recognized almost everyone. Not one was or appeared to be Hispanic.
    “He was Latino?” Tully asked.
    “Yeah, sure. Whaddya think he was doin’ in this part of town? There ain’t many people left around here. But what’s here are spics.”
    Tully stepped back into the hallway. Quirt followed.
    By far the most conspicuous fixture in the long, narrow, ancient corridor was a larger-than-life bust, done in some sort of black material. The officers approached it with some curiosity.
    Quirt bent to read the identifying plaque. “‘Father Gabriel …’” He paused. “‘Richard,’” He pronounced the surname as the English given name.
    “‘Richard,’” said a voice behind them, giving it the French inflection. Quirt and Tully turned.