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shook his head. “Oh, no!”
    “Just think, we’d be the only civilians in this area who would know what the police know.” Her suggestion was made mostly in jest.
    “You make much—much too much—of my contacts with the police, Mary. Just because I know a few names in the department doesn’t mean I can get any special treatment,”
    He was being unassuming.
    He had, in the course of several homicide investigations, collaborated with the Detroit Police Department, and over the years he’d become fast friends with the head of the Homicide Division, In any case, it was the furthest thing from his style to bother an extremely busy police force just to get a little gratuitous information. But she was teasing, and he knew it.
    “Did the report you heard have any other details?” he asked.
    “The only other thing I remember is the address of the victim.”
    “Which was?”
    “Thirteen hundred Lafayette.”
    Koesler’s eyes widened. “That’s right in our backyard.”
    “That’s probably why I remember it.”
    The area in the immediate vicinity of St. Joseph’s church comprised a potpourri of cultures. On its northern side were a string of small businesses and a rundown residential area. Many of the houses were vacant. But between the church and the Detroit River were a series of high-rise apartments, some of them swank. In the latter group was 1300 Lafayette.
    Parishes in that area, principally Old St. Mary’s and Sts. Peter and Paul, as well as St. Joseph’s, more or less scrounged for members. But, of all the churches in that general location, St. Mary’s and St. Joseph’s were the most popular. Although Holy Family had its own faithful circle.
    Still, it was difficult to distinguish who of those attending the various Masses considered themselves parishioners and who were regular free-lancers.
    Thus the there fact that the deceased had lived in St. Joseph’s neighborhood and, being the sister of a nun, probably was a Catholic, was no indication that she had actually joined any of the parishes. Koesler would have to wait until the dead woman’s photo was inevitably published in the papers to see if he recognized her. “I guess I’ll have to wait till I see her picture in the paper before I can tell whether she looks familiar … or ever attended Mass here,” Koesler said.
    As usual, Mary O’Connor had a better idea. “Why don’t you attend the wake? Then you can get a better idea than any newspaper picture can give you. Besides,” she added, “I’ll bet Sister Joan would be grateful if you showed up.”
    “As usual, Mary, you’re absolutely right. I’ll do it. Sister probably could use a few extra friends just now.”
    Mary rose and moved to the hallway leading to the front offices. “I guess this means you’re not going to call your friends in the police department.” She was smiling.
    “Absolutely not. For one thing—though realistically there’s not much chance of its happening—I don’t want to be anywhere near police headquarters or even in the consciousness of any of the officers when they investigate this case. The murder of the sister of a nun is just the sort of case that I might get roped into. And, in the immortal words of the late Samuel Goldwyn, when they get going with this one, I want to be included out.”

4
    A vague sense of frustration rather than obligation prompted Lieutenant Tully to attend the wake for Helen Donovan.
    There being no other surviving close relatives, Sister Joan Donovan had made all funeral arrangements. A central west side funeral home was selected, mostly because it was handy to St. Leo’s where the Mass of Resurrection would be offered.
    Joan had expected some sort of opposition to her request for a Catholic burial. Helen’s Catholicism had been virtually nonexistent since she had escaped from parochial school. Joan was reasonably sure she’d be unable to locate anyone who had seen Helen inside a church—any sort of church—for a goodly