Chapter 7

Susan Fitzgerald Singleton found herself in an uncomfortable situation. She had never envisioned seeking the services of a private investigator, but she was told that Hartman and Hartman were the best. They came highly recommended by her sister Mary, a prominent New York attorney. Susan suspected that Mary was using the PI firm to keep track of her wayward husband.

Mary told Susan not to be misled by the firm name; there was only one Hartman.

“Theresa Hartman’s the least conspicuous person you will ever meet, but there is no better investigator in the business,” Mary told Susan.

Mary did not steer Susan wrong. The woman across an over large desk from Susan was small by any standards, perhaps five feet, but she was looking Susan’s five-foot-ten inches dead in the eyes because the desk chair was tooled up to its maximum extension with Hartman’s stiletto-heeled feet dangling above the floor.

“How can I help you, Ms. Singleton,” Theresa asked.

“My sister assures me that you are an investigator who can conduct their work without being noticed.”

“My staff and I are very discrete.”

“My husband is a lawyer, and more than that, he is a very astute and observant man. The worst thing would be for him to discover that I was having him followed.”

“I can give no guarantees, but we are extremely careful. However, to an extent, it depends on what you are seeking?”

“I believe he is having an affair. I need confirmation of that and, if possible, how serious the situation is.”

Theresa Hartman seemed to contemplate the request. She was a cool woman who appeared to be in her fifties. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, and she looked to be the last person you would suspect of being a detective.

“What you ask, in regard to your husband, is not difficult. As to determining how serious the parties are, in my experience, that depends on the woman more than the man. Is she seeking a permanent relationship or not? Accordingly, we will need to investigate her as well.”

No mention had been made of money, and Theresa knowing the woman’s sister had the feeling that it was of little consequence. Still, she said, “You may incur considerable expense.”

“No matter, my husband is worth whatever the cost. I’m not going to lose him to save some money,” Susan replied.

Theresa could only smile at how similar the Singleton sisters were. Mary might be a dozen years older than Susan, but neither woman would give up her man without one hell of a fight.

“Very well, I will get right on it,” Theresa said.

“Don’t you need anything from me, a picture, addresses ... anything.”

“If you have them, it will be helpful, of course, but let me assure you, I’m not so ill-informed as to be unaware of who Steven Fitzgerald is. By the end of this day, I will know where he is and who he is with.”

“Just what is it, you are proposing and when will you sue?” said the angry middle-aged man in the second row. It was a predominantly white crowd but evenly mixed between the sexes. Steven got the distinct feeling that most of the women present where there as supporters and not victims. The group had filled the small ballroom of what was a former Holiday Inn. The name had changed to Boulevard Inn with the loss of the franchise. Perhaps two hundred people had shown up to take part in what had been billed as a strategy meeting with the new counsel.

The meeting began with introductions mainly presenting Steven Fitzgerald as a lawyer and a former victim of abuse. If they expected him to recount a tale of sexual assault, they didn’t get it. Instead, he laid out what they could expect. It was clearly not what the crowd wanted to hear.

“I’m proposing to investigate nothing more, and as for suing that is a bridge we cannot cross until we have arrived with a cartload of evidence. Right now, all you have is a theory and no way to prove it.”

There was a chorus of “What about the file.”

“What file? Your only evidence is a statement from a dying man. That’s not proof,” Steven said, and he intended to say no more for he was sure that the audience was laced with spies, and in this, he was correct. Putting aside Theresa Hartman, who had relieved one of her better operatives moments before, and Tara O’Reilly, who had infiltrated the group, there were spies for the diocese, The Vatican ambassador, and several concerned politicians.

A public meeting was no place to discuss what Steven had already discovered. The file had the damning evidence, the diocese had lost control of it, and James O’Reilly was already at least a step ahead of him on the hunt for it. Steven was playing a game of deception now and praying at least some of the spies in the audience would be fooled.

“All right lawyer what do you propose,” said a sixtyish woman who seemed to have significant influence over the crowd because as she rose to speak the disgruntled noise from the audience ceased. Steven stood up straight and turned his piercing blue eyes on her.

“I believe if there existed a file it could contain nothing that could not be reproduced. Therefore, I propose to search for the evidence of the conspiracy you suggest in the public record. If it is there, I will find it. After all, I’m in a far better position to know where to look. It’s my story. It happened to me. I know what, when, where—And I’m pretty sure who.”

The woman sat down the crowd settled with her, and Jason Applewood took over the meeting which ended with an agreement to put off further discussion until next month’s meeting.

As the meeting broke up the older woman, who had spoken introduced herself to Steven.

“I’m Silva Keenan. My son Jeff killed himself three years ago. He led a troubled life. After his death, I discovered that he had been the subject of sexual abuse for six years as a child from two different priests.

“When I went looking for justice, I found that in this state, none existed for victims. That’s when I helped found this group. I just wanted to thank you for coming and for caring enough to lie about what you are really planning,” Silvia said.

To Steven’s frown, she responded, “It’s all right you lie pretty well most everyone believed you.”

But not all, Steven thought knowing the fewer people he fooled, the less chance he would have.

For his part, Jimmy O’Reilly was not fooled. Tara’s report left him in no doubt that he had Fitzgerald breathing on his heels. Jimmy began his search by making a list of high-ranking clergy who were for a variety of reasons no longer active. Illness and retirement mostly separated these men from their exalted positions within the Church. These were insiders who were no longer inside and could, therefore, hold the church’s secret safe. Once he had a list of possibles, he went looking for the most probable by checking for some circumstance that would explain the loss of the file.

He started looking for a reported break-in or robbery. That quickly proved a dead end. Then he looked for a death. Those were more numerous, but most of these men died in circumstances that did not give rise to the Church losing control of their possessions. There were two notable exceptions. Monsignor Robert Montgomery died in the home of what was described as a friend in Westchester County. In fact, the home was owned by an apparently wealthy couple, and the neighbors were all too willing to share the gossip that the wife had been the Monsignor’s long-term lover.

“Randy Porter got a free pass with the ladies because Cecilia had her live-in lover. We didn’t even know he was a priest until he died,” the housewife up the road told the operative Tara O’Reilly sent. This meant that the husband or lover wife could be in possession of the file, but this seemed unlikely to Jimmy.

The better prospect was the home of Bishop McManus. He had become sick and gone into the hospital. He had been in charge of diocese real-estate which brought him in contact with Edward Kincade Sr., the real estate lawyer for the same diocese. Kincade’s firm handled the Sullivan defense, and Edward Senior signed the Juvenile sentence sheet. McManus died only a year after being diagnosed with cancer, and he left a wife and children at odds with the church over the bishop’s large estate. To be safe, Jimmy decided he would brace both Cecilia Porter and Maryann McManus.

“I really don’t know what you are asking Mr. O’Reilly,” Cecilia Porter stalled.

“I simply asked whether Monsignor Montgomery left any documents in your care. He lived here, and I’ve been assured by your neighbors that you and he were very close.”

“Robert and I were deeply committed friends, but you must not believe idle gossip. The jealous old betties around here would have people believing that my home is a place of sexual experimentation. I can tell you that nothing could be further from the truth. I assure you Robert was a celibate priest.”

The stately sixty plus lady sitting in her own parlor in the mid-century Westchester Colonial would have been believable were it not for the extensive vetting that the O’Reilly investigative agency had performed. Cecilia Porter was not what she would have you believe. At seventeen in 1969, she married Randy Porter, like her an aspiring actor. She was several months pregnant at the time of nuptials.

There was little reason to believe that Randy was the father of the child since Cecilia was at the pertinent time living with a rich patron, but Randy stepped up to avoid positive proof of adultery, at that time the only sure grounds for divorce in New York. Mrs. Rich was seeking both out of her marriage and a large payday. The lady’s husband paid Randy well for stepping in to claim responsibility for the pregnancy. After what was designated a miscarriage, the Porters went on to rent the desirable Cecilia’s services out as a mistress to other wealthy theater patrons. Even though neither acting career succeeded on more than a minor level, the couple did rather well for themselves with Cecilia playing mistress and Randy accommodating husband.

Robert Montgomery entered the picture as the twenty-first century began. Cecilia was too long in the tooth for the major leagues, and the aging priest was looking for a quiet retirement berth. The Porters bought a pricey house in the wealth Westchester suburb, and Robert supplied the ongoing income from a generous diocese pension. Just what Robert had done to earn such a lavish pension was unclear. What was known was that he had been remarkably close to the Arch-Bishop before that prelate’s advancement to Cardinal. The Porters and Montgomery had been living for at least fifteen years in some sort of relationship in Westchester.

“Mrs. Porter, I can bring you before a grand jury and ask you questions regarding your exact relationship with Father Montgomery. However, I have no wish to do that. What I’m seeking is to recover what I believe are stolen government records. Records that I as special prosecutor need to recover.”

“I assure you, we were just close companions,” she said

“But a grand jury might think otherwise and indict you for say ... prostitution.”

“That’s outrageous. I could never be convicted of that.”

“Who said anything about convicted. Tried yes, and therein is your problem. No one wants those gossiping neighbors to have the real facts.”

Cecilia thought a moment then rose to her feet. She returned with a large ledger book.

“Here!” she said stiffly, “It’s the only document Robert left behind.”

O’Reilly looked at the ledger. It was for an account that had begun with a substantial deposit, but which had dwindled over the years until ending five years before. There were just two names with notations for the dates and amounts of payments. There was a list of bank account numbers, including a routing number for the bank. Whatever it related to, it was not what he was looking for.

“And there was nothing else. Possibly a file that someone came and collected?” he asked.

“No nothing. Now can you leave me in peace?”

“Yes, and thank you,” he said giving the ledger a slight wave. It meant something, he thought.

It wasn’t a bad hotel room, and the Mid-town Marriot was so large and busy Lynda had passed through the lobby and to the room without anyone noticing her. Steven had given her the room key when he met her for lunch. It was good not to have to take the train back to Westchester. It felt very exciting the clandestine meeting in the City. He had arranged tonight and tomorrow before he would return back north. They would take the train North together to where they each had left their cars in the Croton train station lot.

Steven had some meeting on a new case. He would be late, but not too, and they had arranged for a room service dinner about 9:00. She bought new lingerie for the occasion, a pale pink teddy with white lace trim. She hit the shower when she reached the room. After her shower, she put on the teddy and did her makeup. She was a bit lavish with a new perfume, Gabrielle by Chanel. She turned on the TV to CNN and lay down on the bed to wait.

She must have fallen asleep. She woke to him stealing a kiss from her lips. His hands moving commandingly over her body. He was naked, and his warm wet flesh smelled of the hotel’s scented soap.

“Wake up sleepy head. It’s almost time for dinner, and I need to fuck you before I eat,” he said.

“Isn’t a girl supposed to get dinner first?”

“Not when she leaves herself so temptingly in the path of a man’s cock,” he said.

Reaching down, she took hold of him, “Well I’m entitled to at least a snack,” she said twisting to reach his cock with her mouth. He moved her into a sixty-nine position and soon had her screaming for him to let her cum. He had moved to where he held her thighs trapped beneath his arms and his mouth sucking on her clit. As she neared orgasm, he would back off. She tried to keep teasing his cock with her mouth, but he had moved out of her reach.

When she was near crazy with lust, he suddenly stopped and flipping her onto her stomach and entered her from behind. He drilled her like a madman until they both orgasmed. A half hour later she was hiding in the bathroom while he dressed in a robe let room service in. Theresa Hartman saw the room service cart go in, and she knew there was dinner for two on it; but having followed Steven from his meeting, she had missed Lynda’s arrival at the room.