Tuesday 6:55 P.M.
Turner returned to entering Cehak’s information by company, date, people involved, parish named, and cross referencing it. He was checking each company listed with the Internet, if it was still in operation, any news articles connected to it. As with most detective work, it was a lot of filling things in, doing basic work.
“I got another whoa on Vern Drake.” He clicked at the keys. Fenwick walked over to the large screen monitor. Turner joined him. Fong had given them a wireless mouse. He used it to highlight several of the companies, then created a new column to the right of the one they were originally in, and moved these over to the new column.
Fenwick said, “I think a visit to old Vern would be in order. His businesses have come up any number of times in all these papers, including the items Jeanne D’Amato pointed out.”
Turner printed only three of the cells they had on Drake. He had no intention of giving away the slightest bit of data even if Drake was the head of the Cook County Board.
They stopped in Molton’s office and mentioned what they had and that they were on their way to see the commissioner. They weren’t about to accost a high-ranking county official without mentioning it to the boss.
Molton smiled and said, “Only be gentle if you have to.”
Vern Drake lived in a mansion in Evanston on the lakefront just north of the city and past the cemetery that formed a border along the lake between the two cities.
Vern Drake answered the door himself. He did not invite the detectives in.
Fenwick opened with, “Commissioner, we have evidence that a business you own was involved in kick-back schemes with the diocese.”
Drake tried to slam the door. Fenwick pushed his bulk into the opening.
Turner said, “Commissioner, we can be discreet about this here and now, or we can simply call the press.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Can and will,” Fenwick said.
Drake looked uncertain. It was the first time they’d met him without Pelagius in attendance. “What do you have?” he demanded.
Turner handed him the printout he’d made.
“What is this?”
“You can see dates, work orders, inflated prices.”
“These are all legitimate.” He threw the papers back at them and slammed the door.
Turner and Fenwick were back in the Loop by eight. The night was fine for early May with a full moon rising.
As they moved past Buckingham Fountain, Turner checked his notes. “We’ve got those old guard priests Garch mentioned Sunday we could stop and see.”
“Let’s do it.”
On 47th Street just north and slightly west of Hyde Park, they entered the shabbiest rectory they’d been in yet. The originally tan brick work on the outside walls was rust-stained and crumbling. An ancient woman led them into a parlor with threadbare rugs, garage sale furniture, and a lone crucifix centered on otherwise barren walls.
Fathers McGinn and Wiltse swept into the room. Both were in their seventies. According to Garch, this was the heart of the old guard that Duggan had purged from the previous Cardinal’s staff.
Turner said, “We’re here about the Cardinal.”
“Which one?” McGinn had a scraggly mustache. He brushed his left index finger across it.
“Both.”
Wiltse had a full beard. He said, “Good. We can give you everything.”
“You’re willing to trust us so quickly?” Fenwick asked.
Wiltse rubbed his beard. “We know you’re the detectives on the Kappel case. He worked for the Cardinal, and then poof, the Cardinal’s life blows all to hell on the Internet. Who else can bring down a Cardinal except a couple of Chicago police detectives?”
Fenwick said, “He did the dancing all by himself. His choice.”
Wiltse said, “It’s glorious.”
“Why’s that?” Fenwick asked.
Wiltse grinned. His beard was white, the top of his head nearly bald. He said, “Even if the Cardinal stays in his position, his power and influence will be diminished. The position may be the same, but the perception will be far different. How can you sit there to discipline some priest when you know they’re stifling gales of hysterical laughter at your expense right below the surface?”
McGinn went to a shabby desk that might have been used in a school seventy-five years ago. He unlocked a drawer with a simple key.
“We have this for you. This is all the information we have on the Cardinal.”
Fenwick said, “And on what was wrong in the last administration?”
An hour later Turner and Fenwick sat in their car outside the rectory. They’d listened to the two priests spew venom and speculation. Fenwick thumped the folder with the new information. He sighed and belched. “More repetitious drivel.”
“Yup.”
“They didn’t like Kappel or the Cardinal.”
“Nope.”
“They have alibis.”
“Yup. You want dull and boring or you want mad shootouts while careening down the streets of Chicago?”
Fenwick scratched his ass and wiped his hand across his chin. Finally Fenwick said, “Which one of us would be driving?”
“Not you.”
“Let me get back to you on that.”
They both sighed. Nothing to be done. Repetitive and boring was a big part of a cop’s job.
The detectives returned to the station. They spent several hours more cross-referencing all the new data from McGinn and Wiltse. At midnight, they gave up.