Free The Bad Kitty Lounge by Michael Wiley

gripping the steering wheel like I hung from it over the edge of the world.
    When I relaxed enough to let blood flow back into my knuckles, I knew what I had to do. I called Stan Fleming at the District Thirteen station house. Calling him felt about as good as putting my hands on a dead priest.
    He answered the phone, cheery. “You’re gone, Joe. You’re out of the picture. You’re no longer my friend. I’m a reasonable guy. If you’d stuck around when I asked you to—Hell, if you’d called me back when I called you—”
    â€œI know. I’m gone. I’m water under the bridge. I’m yesterday’s news. I’m—”
    â€œThen why are you bothering me?”
    I inhaled three short breaths. “To tell you that you’ve got another body at Holy Trinity.”
    That quieted him. When he found words, they weren’t much. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œA dead priest. His name’s Jerold Terwicki. You’ll find him in Judy Terrano’s bathtub.” Now when the police found my fingerprints in the nun’s apartment, Stan couldn’t say I hadn’t told him I was there.
    â€œHow did he get there?”
    â€œLooks to me like he was dragged over the floor—not very gently.”
    â€œJesus, Joe, you’re dangerous. You can’t go near that church without a body dying in front of you.”
    â€œThey usually die before I arrive.” It was a minor point but it seemed worth making.
    â€œYou in the room with the priest right now?”
    â€œI’m driving in my car.”
    â€œTurn around. Meet me there.”
    â€œSorry, can’t do it. I’ve got an appointment.”
    â€œDon’t test me, Joe.”
    â€œThere’s a book in the nun’s room that you might want to read, too.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œIt’s called
A Short History of Medieval Architecture
. I guarantee it’ll keep you up at night.”
    â€œWhat the hell are you talking about?”
    â€œYou’ll find the book in her desk.”
    â€œYou’re not going to meet me in Terrano’s room, are you?”
    I tried changing topics again. “Are you going to charge Greg Samuelson with her murder?”
    â€œI’m hanging up, Joe.”
    â€œDid Samuelson kill her?”
    â€œWho else?”
    â€œYou talk to Eric Stone?” I said.
    â€œWhat’s his motive?”
    â€œSamuelson burned his car.”
    Stan sighed into the phone. “The man’s got insurance. And he’s got Samuelson’s wife. Why bother chasing him? Why kill a nun?”
    â€œWhat’s Samuelson’s motive?”
    â€œWhy should I talk to you about it?”
    â€œI always call you when I find a body.”
    He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Samuelson’s home life is fucked, obviously. His professional life, too, apparently. A priest we’ve talked to says church accounting recently turned up some questionable money transfers involving the nun’s work—transfers that Samuelson controlled. He knows he’s about to be caught and, with his wife leaving him, he has nothing to live for outside work, so he takes out the nun and shoots himself in the head.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said, “but I don’t think so.”
    â€œBut it doesn’t really matter what you think, does it?” he said.
    I admitted, “Probably not.”
    Next I called Lucinda. She’d napped and sounded mostly sober. She was getting dressed and planned to head downtown to the library to look up Judy Terrano and William DuBuclet in the archives. I told her about the dead priest and she sounded more concerned about me than him. “Dangerous business working at that church,” Lucinda said.
    â€œRight up there with commercial fishing.”
    She said softly and bitterly, “Or becoming a drunk ex-cop.”
    â€œDrinking for a few days after you lose your