The Organist Wore Pumps (The Liturgical Mysteries) by Mark Schweizer Page B

seconds later.
    “ Don’t scare the customers,” he said.
    Nancy pulled a sheaf of papers out of her inside overcoat pocket and put them on the table. “This is Sal LaGrassa’s dossier. The hit-man. Remember?”
    “ Of course,” I said. “Do I have to read the whole thing, or can you give me the highlights?”
    “ Highlights it is,” said Nancy. “But first, some breakfast.”
    “ Or lunch,” suggested Pete. “It’s eleven o’clock.”
    “ Breakfast,” said Nancy.
    “ Breakfast,” I agreed.
    “ I’ll order it in the kitchen,” said Pete, getting to his feet. “But don’t tell anything until I get back.”
    Nancy held her coffee cup aloft just long enough for Pauli Girl to spot her and come dancing over with a half-full carafe.
    “ Here you go, hon,” she said, filling both our cups and Pete’s as well. By the time we’d taken our first sips, Pete was back at the table.
    “ You’re getting omelets,” he announced. “And biscuits with gravy.”
    “ Sounds fine to me,” I said, then turned to Nancy. “Okay, what have you got on Sal LaGrassa?”
    Nancy thumbed through her papers. “Born Salvator Francis LaGrassa. Forty-five years old. Six feet even, a hundred and ninety pounds. Wanted for questioning in sixteen murders-for-hire. He’s also suspected in several major heists. Never arrested, never convicted, never even brought in for questioning. No siblings, no wife, no kids...no family at all, for that matter. His mother, apparently his only close relative, died in New York five years ago. He’s rumored to be one half of a team. The FBI suspects that the other person may be a woman.”
    “ Can they close any of these cases?” I asked.
    Nancy shook her head. “Nope. Ryan Jackson says they’ve got nothing substantial. No clear evidence at all. If they’d caught him, all they could do was question him and let him go.”
    “ But they’re pretty sure?” said Pete.
    “ Oh, they’re sure, all right. He was a seriously bad guy. They just couldn’t take him to trial.”
    “ What else?” I asked.
    “ Says here he spent the last few years in Montana on a ranch that belongs to a dummy corporation on Grand Cayman. He was in Montana when the feebs lost track of him.”
    “ That explains the clothes,” I said. “Real cowboy stuff.”
    “ He liked cars,” said Nancy, now skimming the pages. “Owned a Maserati GranCabrio and an Audi R8 4.2. Also a Hummer. A big one.”
    Pete whistled. “Those ain’t cheap.”
    Nancy continued skimming. “Several off-shore accounts that the FBI knew about. Probably more that they didn’t. He bought a couple of original sketches by Gustav Klimt last year from Christie’s. 10k apiece. But, at that same auction a painting disappeared. Something called The Holy Family with the infant St. John the Baptist and two shepherds. Oil and tempera on a panel. Circa 1500. Valued at between five and eight hundred thousand. The winning bid was three hundred two thousand, but when the buyer went to pick it up, the painting was gone. Mr. LaGrassa was a person of interest, but he was nowhere to be found. He also had an affinity for antiquities.”
    “ Man!” said Pete.
    “ The thing is, there were many more expensive paintings at the auction.”
    “ Opportunity?” I said. “Or maybe a buyer in hand.”
    “ I’d say the latter,” said Nancy.
    “ Okay,” I said, “cars, art, real estate, bank accounts...what else?”
    “ Wine,” said Nancy, with a big smile. “He really loved wine. Expensive wine.”
    “ That’s what he was doing at Old Man Frost’s!” said Pete. “He was trying to buy your wine.”
    “ He obviously knew what it was,” I said. “And how much it was worth. I saw him trying to dial his cell phone in the middle of the auction, but he couldn’t get any service out there.”
    “ It caught him by surprise, I bet,” said Nancy. “He didn’t expect to see something like that show up at an auction in the middle of the Appalachian