SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) by Lawrence de Maria

He was almost 90.”
    “I’m sorry. But he must have had a wonderful life.”
    “Yes, he did. Active to the end. We warned him about his mountain climbing.”
    I looked at Imogene Bulger, who face had unsuccessfully been trying to register sympathy. Now she just looked confused.
    “Please shut the door on your way out, Miss,” I said. “I’m sure you understand that this conversation has to be confidential.”
    After she left, Monsignor Barilla said, “What’s this about a bequest?”
    “I lied. I’ll say three Hail Marys. I’m a private investigator looking into the deaths of three of your parishioners, John Clifton, Ralph Lydecker and Mario Spinelli.”
    Barilla’s face went through several phases, starting with surprise, moving to anger, then frustration and finally arriving at what I assumed was Christian resignation.
    “And who do you represent, Mr. Rhode? If that is your name.”
    “It’s my name, Monsignor.” I handed across my card. “But I’m afraid that I’m not at liberty to identify my clients.”
    I’d taken a chance. The battleship in the outer office had given no indication that Isabella Donner had mentioned my connection to Father Zapo and I couldn’t imagine that Barilla would expect a poor old priest to employ a private investigator. If he thought I had more than one client, the Monsignor would be further confused and perhaps more cautiously helpful. For all he knew, I could be working for the men’s widows. Or an insurance company. Hell, maybe even the bishop. It wasn’t really a lie, if you counted Zapo, and, by extension, Marat Rahm. I would love to have said that I had, in effect, been hired by an octogenarian cleric and the Russian mobster who once tortured him, but sometimes the best lines have to be sacrificed for the greater good.  
    I took out a small Reporter’s Notebook and a pen. I rarely need to write anything down, but I suspected that Barilla might be less inclined to prevaricate if what he said was apparently recorded.
    “Now, what can you tell me about the deaths of Clifton, Lydecker and Spinelli?”
    “Absolutely nothing.”
    “You mean their demise is news to you?”
    I was enjoying myself.
    “Of course I know they died. They were very active in the parish. Their passing was a tragedy.”
    “You mean their deaths were not accidental, perhaps somehow connected?”
    I wrote something down. Barilla couldn’t see it. It was the starting infield for the New York Yankees. Assuming A-Rod’s hip held up.
    “I mean nothing of the sort! I didn’t say that. It’s always a tragedy when someone goes before their time.”
    This was too easy.
    “Well, maybe I’m the suspicious type, but I’d say that when three ‘someones’ kick the bucket before their time, maybe it’s more than tragic. Might not it be criminal?”
    There. I’d said the word. The Monsignor looked nervous. He didn’t know what I knew. Which made two of us.  
    “One of my priests may have had suspicions.”
    I was surprised he said that. Monsignor Barilla looked at me closely. He was no fool. He was fishing.
    “Indeed,” I said. “What’s his name?”
    “I’m afraid that I can’t tell you.”
    “Why not? I’m sure I can find out by just asking around. Do you want me to do that?”
    I’d boxed him in.
    “Father Zapotoski,” he said reluctantly.
    “How do you spell that,” I said, wondering whether I was overplaying my hand.
    He spelled out the name, which I dutifully wrote down. I wondered if Father Zapo could play third base. Now, unless Isabella Donner or Zapo himself spilled the beans, no one would know who first came to me.
    “Father Zapotoski is a good man,” Barilla said. “But he’s getting on in years. I hope you will take that into account.”
    I ignored him.
    “You didn’t act on his allegations?”
    “They weren’t allegations. He had no proof, other than the three obviously coincidental deaths of men of an age where death is not all that rare of an occurrence.