Smaller and Smaller Circles (2015) by F. H. Batacan

Author:F. H. Batacan [Batacan, F. H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime Fiction / Mystery
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2015-06-17T18:29:38+00:00

26

Saenz is in the shower, and his CD player is turned way up, Carlo Bergonzi singing Rossini’s rousing “La Danza.” He sings along with the Italian tenor, his own powerful, resonant voice bouncing off the bathroom walls, “Già la luna è in mezzo al mare / mama mia, si salterà! / L’ora è bella per danzare / chi è in amore non marcherà!” while the water beats on the shower curtain.

Suddenly the volume is turned way down. Saenz stops, turns off the shower taps quickly and listens. There is no other sound coming from the bedroom.

The priest draws the curtain aside, reaches for a towel, and wraps it around his waist. He cracks open the door and sees Jerome sitting at the foot of his bed, reading a newspaper.

The younger priest looks up.

“Most stereo component systems come with a control knob that can reduce the volume of even the loudest aria.”

Saenz pads out of the bathroom on wet feet. “But I can’t hear it from inside the shower,” he protests.

“No, but a bunch of very old and very grumpy Jesuits can hear you very well from downstairs.” Jerome folds the newspaper. “Heard the news on the radio?”

Saenz nods, then shuffles toward his closet to look for something to wear. “Arcinas called early this morning. Apparently the director came back over the weekend. Severely jet-lagged, still in pain from the surgery and crabby as hell.”

Jerome’s eyes widen in concern. “What? He’s barely three weeks out of surgery. How did he—Nevermind.”

Saenz nods. “Here’s the rub. He found out even before Arcinas did.”

“Oh boy. There’s one pair of shoes I wouldn’t want to be in.”

“Uh-hmmm. I doubt he enjoys being in them himself. What’s your schedule look like?”

“I won’t be seeing patients until late this afternoon.”

“Good. Have you taken a bath?”

Jerome stands and heads for the receiving room. “What, it can’t be that time of year already.”

Malou knows her boss is in trouble—big trouble. He was called to the office at the crack of dawn, and had spent the better part of three hours in meetings upstairs. When he came down, he looked like he had been bullwhipped.

Ill or not, the director is a terrible man to cross.

Now Attorny Arcinas is not taking any calls, certainly not from the media, who have been ringing the office nonstop since after 4 a.m., when news broke that another boy’s body had been found, and are now camped in the lobby, waiting for him to make an appearance. He refuses to talk to anyone. He has given strict instructions that the only people to be allowed in to see him are the two Jesuit priests and that they are to be ushered in immediately.

Malou brought him a cup of coffee about an hour ago, but he waved it away; she will try to convince him to snack on a cheese pimiento sandwich and a Zesto orange drink from the canteen in about fifteen minutes. She thinks, with an innocent loyalty and concern that would have touched him—if he were the type of person to notice or to care—that maybe a snack will cheer him up.

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