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Angels of Purgatoryis his latest.

Pleased to make your acquaintance. The priest crushed his hand in greeting.This is no gentle lamb of God, thought D'Agosta. He eased down in the chair, shifting, trying hard to get comfortable. He failed. The room, despite the sunny day outside, felt cold and damp. God, he would never make a good monk.

I see, Pendergast replied.

As I told the police, the call came to my home at 3:10 in the morning-the answering machine registered the time-but every year I take a two-week retreat here, and so I wasn't home to receive it. I check my messages upon rising-it's a violation of the rules, but I've got an elderly mother. I immediately headed out to Long Island, but, of course, it was too late.

Father Cappi laughed. "Very true, Sergeant D'Agosta."

I see, Pendergast replied.

D'Agosta cleared his throat. "Where'd he get his money?"

Pendergast nodded.

D'Agosta cleared his throat. "Where'd he get his money?"

He was very happily married. He adored his wife. And then, quite abruptly, she left him, ran off with another man. To say that Grove was devastated is not saying enough. He was destroyed. And he focused his anger on God.

Pendergast nodded at him to proceed.

Father Cappi laughed. "Very true, Sergeant D'Agosta."

D'Agosta mumbled his thanks. For the second time that day, he found himself feeling embarrassed. He would have to talk to Pendergast about sounding off about his abortive writing career.

Jeremy Grove and I go way back. We met at Columbia as students many years ago. I went on to the priesthood, and he went to Florence to study art. In those days, we were both-well, I wouldn't call us religious in the usual sense of the word. We were both spirituallyintrigued . We used to argue to all hours of the morning about questions of faith, epistemology, the nature of good and evil, and so forth. I went on to study theology at Mount St. Mary's. We continued our friendship, and a few years later I officiated over Grove's marriage.

Indeed. Anyway, while living in Florence, Grove had become quite devout. In an intellectual kind of way, as some people do. He loved to engage me in discussion. There is, Mr. Pendergast, such a thing as a Catholic intellectual, and that was Grove.

Sergeant D'Agosta is a writer of mysteries, explained Pendergast.

Pleased to make your acquaintance. The priest crushed his hand in greeting.This is no gentle lamb of God, thought D'Agosta. He eased down in the chair, shifting, trying hard to get comfortable. He failed. The room, despite the sunny day outside, felt cold and damp. God, he would never make a good monk.

I see, Pendergast replied.

You're right there, said D'Agosta with feeling. "Those who can't do, teach, and those who can't teach, critique."

Angels of Purgatoryis his latest.

Is that so I love detective stories. Give me a title.

Pendergast nodded.

Angels of Purgatoryis his latest.

As I told the police, the call came to my home at 3:10 in the morning-the answering machine registered the time-but every year I take a two-week retreat here, and so I wasn't home to receive it. I check my messages upon rising-it's a violation of the rules, but I've got an elderly mother. I immediately headed out to Long Island, but, of course, it was too late.

I see, Pendergast replied.

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