Sign of the Cross by Anne Emery Page B

years he wore the authorities down with a request to go somewhere of his own choosing. I asked whether he had any ambitions to rise in the hierarchy. It wasn’t hard to picture him lording it over others as a bishop. I got the impression that the opportunities were there for him if he wanted them. But it was apparent that he, like many people satisfied with their lives and impatient with others, had no desire to lead.
    We talked about music, without which, we agreed, life would not be worth living. He clearly saw it as his role to introduce children to the world’s great sacred music, hence his involvement with various choir schools. He was composing his first Mass, for four voices. On a theological note, he observed that some people had been inspired to believe in God by the simple fact that Mozart had been in the world. And he was convinced that Van Morrison was in direct communication (“unmediated communion”) with the divine. Like me, he enjoyed all forms of music with few exceptions, disco, country twang, and soft rock being among the exceptions. “If it’s rock, it ought to rock,” we agreed as we neared the midpoint of the second bottle of wine. The Irish intonation in his voice had become much more pronounced over the course of the evening. God knows what I sounded like.
    I leaned closer to the window and looked out at the street below us. Dark and still. “Is that Father O’Flaherty down there?”Burke looked down. “Yeah, that’s Mike.”
    “Where would he be going at this time of night? Sick call?”
    “I doubt it.” Burke craned his neck to watch as the old priest rounded a corner below us. “We don’t see a sprightly gait on the man,
ergo
no sick call. Besides, Mike reports all those to me before he trots off, every blessed one of them, forgetting that I wouldn’t know the person from Finn McCool. I’ve only been in the parish since the fall. I’m long past reminding him.” Burke glanced at the window again. “Maybe he’s bringing the Word of God to the street trade. Mike wants to save everybody: boozers, hookers, accountants, lawyers. He leaves the jailbirds to me. Wise man. I suppose I’m ministering to some of your clients. Taking up where you left off.”
    “You’re suggesting my clients do jail time, Brennan? Oh ye of little faith.”
    Even with the second bottle of wine, the subject I most wanted to hear about never came up. Whenever we got close to speaking of the women in our lives, he deftly steered the conversation in other directions. I did tell him that my wife and I were separated, that we shared custody of our two children, and that it took a superhuman effort for us to handle this with civility. He asked about Normie and Tommy Douglas, and enjoyed hearing about their antics.
    It was getting late, the pizza had been annihilated hours before, and the wine was down to the dregs. I could no longer avoid the topic I had come to discuss: Moody Walker’s planned meeting with the officer in charge of the Leeza Rae murder investigation. I was about to broach the subject when Burke left the table and returned with two big Havana cigars. I shook my head and he lit up, then regarded me with steady eyes as black as coal behind the pall of smoke.
    “Am I going to be charged with this, Monty?” he asked abruptly.
    “Not yet, if at all. But Sergeant Walker is meeting with the officer in charge tomorrow, to lay out his case against you. Whatever it is.”
    “Of all the things I’ve faced in my life — and it hasn’t all been sweetness and light — I could never have imagined being under suspicion of murder.” There was sadness and bewilderment in his voice.
    “Rowan has an in with the department, and he’ll know in advance if anything is going to happen. I wish I could tell you more. It sounds inane to say we’ll have to wait and see. But that’s what we’re facedwith. If the worst happens and charges are laid, then we get to work demolishing their case. We get their