by Ann McMan
“Right.” She hung up.
Evan figured she might as well get up and go watch the news. There was no way she’d get back to sleep after Dan’s news.
She dressed and headed downstairs to find Tim already up and in the kitchen drinking coffee.
He held up his cup when he saw her. “This coffeemaker of yours really sucks.”
“Yeah? News flash . . . not.” Evan got a mug from a cabinet and poured herself some of the nasty brew, anyway. “How long have you been up?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think I ever went to sleep, really. I finally gave up and came down here.”
Evan joined him at the table and pulled out a chair. “Have you heard the news?”
Tim looked wary. “What news?”
“Relax.” Evan wanted to set his mind at ease. ”It’s not about ‘Billy’ or Maya Jindal. Cawley withdrew this morning.”
“No way! What happened?”
Evan shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to wait for that to be revealed. I can only guess that he had a heads-up about what was in the works to derail his nomination.”
“So it’s over.”
“If only.”
“Hey.” Tim reached across the table to touch her hand. “Julia will weather this. With you. Nothing will change what you two are to each other.”
“Is this a little pastoral encouragement, Father?”
He gave her a small smile. “I guess it is.”
“You’re pretty good at it, you know?”
“That’s funny. Stevie said the same thing to me on Saturday, when we were out practicing three-point turns.”
Evan smirked at him. “Are you sure she wasn’t talking about your defensive driving techniques?”
“I hadn’t considered that possibility. I suppose she could’ve been.”
“Well, don’t waste your time wondering. That kid is pretty damn perceptive.”
Tim nodded in agreement. “I guess that comes from the Cohen side of the family?”
“Fuck you.” Evan gave him the finger.
He laughed before slowly shaking his head. “This feels good.”
“What does?”
“This. Being able to laugh and joke about simple things. Is it wrong? Am I in some kind of shock or denial about what happened last night?”
“I dunno.” Evan considered his question. It was a good one. “I suppose you could be. You also could be at a point where you’ve found some answers to all those questions you had.”
“Not all of them. Many of them will take years—and a lot of outside help.”
“What kind of help?”
“The expensive kind,” Tim elaborated. “The kind that bills for forty-five-minute hours.”
“Ah. My favorite.”
“But I think I do have an answer to one question—and you get the credit for it.”
“The question?” Evan asked. “Or the answer? Knowing me, it could go either way.”
“I won’t argue with you about that,” Tim said. “But in this case, it’s the answer. It happened last night, when you were yelling at me after praying for . . . Billy.”
“I yelled at you?”
Tim gave her a deadpan look.
“Okay . . . I might’ve yelled at you. But we needed to get out of there before the cops arrived.”
“I’m not disputing that. But you said something about how you couldn’t understand why I ever doubted that I should stay a priest, because I had tarried to pray for the man sent to kill me.”
“I think my version might’ve been a bit more colorful that that,” Evan observed.
“I exercised editorial restraint.” Tim took his time getting the next bit out. “I thought about that comment. I thought about it most of the night. The truth is, no other action would’ve been possible for me. It wasn’t just a programmed response. It was what I needed to do—not because I’ve been trained to do it, but because it mattered to me to do it. It mattered more than anything else at that moment. More, even, than getting away.”
“Yeah, I noticed that last part.” Evan observed. “So, maybe you’re close to an answer?”
He nodded. “About this one thing, I am. Stevie said that maybe I was in a bad marriage—to the Church. And that I’d been feeling like the Church had broken its vows to me. I think her word was ‘cheated.’ Well, her simple metaphor was right . . . at least, it was half right. The Church has failed. But I’m not married to the Church—I’m married to God. And one of my solemn obligations is to protect and nurture His Church. And I think that means not turning my back on it when it loses its way.”
“I guess I have to agree with your police work on that.”
“It’s kind of a no-brainer, isn’t it? Can I be less charitable to the Church than God has been to me?”
“You?” Evan asked. “Not a chance. Me, on the other hand?”
“Trust me,” Tim said. “We don’t have enough time or crappy coffee to answer that one.”
Evan laughed and got up from the table. “How about some waffles?”
◊ ◊ ◊
Tim left shortly after they’d finished breakfast. He’d managed to hitch a ride back into town with Father Malloy, who was visiting with a sick relative in the West Chester hospital, about ten miles from Evan’s house. Father Malloy was happy to swing by on his way back to St. Rita’s and pick Tim up.
Evan suggested that Tim wait a while before trying to get his car. He balked at the fees he’d be racking up by continuing to leave it there, but she suggested he’d be better off paying those than having to sit for an interrogation with the cops, who would certainly still be working the scene for clues about what had happened.
Evan was back at her desk, putting the last touches on her report for Dan and halfway listening to cable news to see if anything else would break about Justice Cawley’s decision to withdraw from consideration for the high court. At noon, the local NBC affiliate broke into the broadcast to announce that an auxiliary bishop in the Archdiocese of Philadelphia had been found dead in his office from an apparent suicide.
What the hell?
Evan turned up the volume.
It appeared that Bishop Frederick R. Szymanski’s body had been discovered by a custodian who entered the bishop’s office at the archdiocese headquarters on North 17th Street a little after 7 a.m. No other details were available. A statement from the archbishop was expected soon.
Evan’s cell phone rang. It was J.C. Ortiz.
One guess what he was calling about . . .
“Yo,” she answered. “I’m just watching it on TV right now.”
“I guess we can dispense with preliminaries, then?” he asked.
“I guess.”
“So, Reed? You got anything you’d like to share with the class?”
“Me? What makes you think I’d know anything about this?”
“Well, shit. I don’t know . . . maybe the fact that the body count seems to be piling up around your ass like Stonehenge?”
“Oh, come on, J.C. You don’t seriously think—”
J.C. cut her off. “I’ll tell you what I think. Last night, some güey got capped, execution style, in a parking garage at the Center City DoubleTree. And he was killed with the same kind of fucking bullet they dug outta Joey Mazzetta.”
Shit. That hadn’t taken long. The Philadelphia P.D. was getting better at its job.
“I guess that means the same shooter is still at large?” she asked.
“Not anymore,” J.C. declared. “The bishop shot himself in the head—with a Tokarev 7.62. What do you think the odds are that there are two of those commie guns floating around this town?”
Jesus. Maya said she’d had an “errand” to take care of. How the hell had she pulled that one off?
“I got nothin’, man,” Evan confessed. “It sounds like a paradox to me.”
“A paradox?”
“That’s what I’d call it.”
“Yeah? Well I’d call it a fucking stink bomb with your fingerprints
all over it. If you know anything about this, Reed, you better come clean. You owe me,” he reminded her.
“I hear you, man. If I find out anything, your number will be the first one I call.”
“Yeah. Make sure it is. And, Reed?”
“What?”
“Stay the fuck outta my district. I’d like a goddamn night off.”
He hung up.
Holy shit. When Maya cleaned something up, she didn’t mess around.
Now the cops had the gun that had been used in three homicides. Correction: four. Evan needed to include the unsolved murder of Julia’s husband, Andy Townsend. And the kicker? She was positive Maya would’ve made sure that the only fingerprints on the gun would belong to Bishop Szymanski.
Talk about just damn deserts.
◊ ◊ ◊
After Evan finished her report and transmitted it to Dan, she tried again to reach Julia. She’d sent her half a dozen text messages and had received no response. She understood that even with a good international calling plan, cell service could still be sketchy—but it was starting to worry her. A lot. She had no idea what was happening in Paris or how Julia was managing. Nor did she have the slightest idea about when she’d be back. Julia had said her trip wouldn’t be long—and she hadn’t prepared for a stay of more than a night or two. But this continued radio silence was maddening.
How was she?
Evan didn’t do well with worry. She tended to digest her own organs if someone she cared about was in difficulty, and too much time passed without contact. And in this case, Julia wasn’t just somebody she cared about. Julia was . . . well. Julia was the apotheosis of that.
Evan was in the kitchen, making herself something to nibble on, when she heard tires crunching on the gravel out front.
Great. What now?
She sneaked out onto her back porch to steal a look to see who it was. She was ninety percent sure she’d choose to pretend she wasn’t at home. A black car she didn’t recognize was pulled up next to the sidewalk. The driver got out and opened the rear passenger door.
Evan uttered an expletive and took off in a run to reach the front door.
Julia was standing on the porch when Evan threw the door open. Her hired car was already backing out the driveway.
Evan held out her arms. Julia walked into them and the two of them stood there in the cold, hanging on to each other.
“When did you get back?” Evan muttered into her neck.
“Last night.” Julia had her face pressed against Evan’s hair.
Evan drew back. “Last night?”
Julia nodded. “I managed to snag a space on the 6:15 flight from de Gaulle. I got into Philadelphia a little after 11:00, so I went straight to the townhouse.” She shivered.
“Hey, you’re freezing.” Evan took hold of her arms. “Let’s go inside.”
“It’s supposed to snow,” Julia said distractedly. “I guess there’s another big storm heading this way from the Midwest.”
“That’s okay. We don’t have anywhere to go.”
“No. We don’t.”
Evan wanted to give Julia as much space as she needed to feel ready to talk about whatever had taken place in Paris. Given that Julia was already on a plane heading back to the states less than six hours after arriving was confirmation enough that things hadn’t gone well.
“Are you hungry?” Evan asked. “I was just making myself something to eat.”
Julia took off her coat and commenced rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “Yes. That would be great. I haven’t eaten anything but a few bites of some painfully indifferent airline food. I haven’t had much of an appetite.”
“I can fix that. Follow me to the kitchen.”
Evan led the way and Julia followed her. When they reached the kitchen, Julia perched on a stool and watched while Evan started pulling things out of the fridge.
“Don’t feel like you have to fuss,” she said. “Something simple is fine.”
“We don’t do simple here at the house of Reed.”
“Silly me. I forgot.”
“Did you?”
“No.” Julia confessed. “I don’t forget much of anything that relates to you.”
“Should I take that as a compliment?” Evan pulled the rest of the truffled Gouda out of the fridge.
“You’ll have to determine that for yourself.” Julia crooked an index finger and wagged it to summon Evan over.
When Evan got there, Julia took hold of her face and pulled it down so she could kiss her.
Really kiss her.
Really, really kiss her.
“Okay,” Evan croaked when Julia released her. “I guess that’s cleared up.”
“Let me know if you require more proof?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I will. I have some bad news, though.”
“What’s that?”
Evan held up the hunk of cheese she’d squeezed the stuffing out of during their object lesson. “I think this Gouda is toast.”
“Hmmm. Maybe you should just put it on some toast?”
“Capital idea.”
Julia seemed to relax a bit. At least she looked less furtive than she had when she arrived.
“You know what I’d like right now?” she asked.
“No. But if it involves me and a bed, I can stow all of this food in, like, two seconds.”
Julia actually smiled. It was a tiny, little baby of a smile, but Evan thought it still counted.
“I think it’s safe to assume we’ll get to that eventually,” she said. “But right now, I’d love a drink.”
“Say no more.” Evan walked to the cabinet where she kept her liquor stash. “Too bad we don’t have any of that French vermouth. I’d make you one of those wacky martini things.”
“No, thank you. I think I’ve given those up.”
“Don’t like ’em anymore?”
“It’s not that so much as it is the ‘French’ part. I’m not feeling much of a kinship with it right now.”
“Yeah . . . about that?” Julia’s opening gave Evan the courage to ask about the elephant in the room.
“How about we take our drinks, and that melted hunk of cheese you’re still carrying around, into the living room and I’ll tell you about everything?”
Evan regarded her fistful of Gouda. “Deal.”
Once they were settled on the sofa with their large cognacs, Julia half turned on her cushion to face Evan. “Do you want the long version, or the short version?”
“I want whatever version you feel inclined to share.”
“All right. To quote badly from The Godfather: today I settled all family business.”
Evan looked perplexed.
“Sorry,” Julia apologized. “I guess I just ruined the punchline. What I’m trying to say is that my mother and I are . . . finished. We have agreed to disagree—and on terms that do no credit to either of us. But the break is complete, and I won’t be going back.”
Evan was trying hard to follow the gist of what Julia was saying, but it was difficult.
“You quarreled?” she asked. She knew it was a simplistic question, but wasn’t sure how else to ask about Julia’s mother’s response to what Julia had uncovered about Lewis Donne’s trust and his involvement with the abusive and predatory behavior of the men in his circle.
“Oh, we quarreled. But not about what you might think. After her expressions of umbrage about my audacity to show up unannounced, I told her what the purpose of my visit was. I asked her some nonspecific questions about her knowledge of why my father set up his trust, and what she knew, if anything, about some of its more suspect disbursements.”
“How did she respond?”
“She was enraged—furious with me for bringing any of it up. You see? That was my greatest offense: asking her about it. Making her think about it. This thing . . . this horrible thing she’d known about my father for decades and had consciously chosen to ignore. She knew about it, Evan. She knew about it, and she did noth
ing.” Julia closed her eyes. “It sickened me to realize that she’d known about him—about that place and what they were doing—all those years. She turned her face away and hardened her heart—against him. Against everything. All so she could keep her money—protect her historic name and defend her rightful place in society.”
“Oh, god, honey.” Evan reached out to take hold of her hand. “I am so very sorry.”
“No.” Julia squeezed her hand tightly. “Don’t be sorry for me. Be sorry for them—the boys they hurt. The little stars . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Evan handed her the glass of cognac. Julia took a sip and nodded at her gratefully.
“She left me then—just grabbed her coat and bag and left. Told me I could do whatever I wanted, but that she had plans and wouldn’t be back until late.”
“Is that when you left to come home?”
“No. No, I wish it had been. I wish . . .”
“It’s okay.” Evan bent forward and kissed her forehead. “Honey, it’s okay. You don’t have to talk about this right now.”
“Oh, but I do. I want to tell you—myself. Before . . .” She hesitated. “I just want to tell you myself.” She took another sip of cognac before continuing. When she started speaking, she kept her eyes fixed on her glass. “When I was alone, I took a shower. Then I dressed and wandered through the apartment. I guess I knew I’d never go back there again. I went into my father’s study. It was exactly the way he’d left it—everything pristine. Everything unchanged. Everything. I noticed a small painting, half hidden by a door—one I’d never noticed before. I went to look at it and . . .” She looked up at Evan. Her eyes had darkened. They looked more steel gray than blue. “It was a Homer painting—an original. One of the studies for ‘Snap the Whip.’ Dated 1872, just like the one in the photograph. I was stunned. I took it down and turned it over to look for any indication of where he’d gotten it, and I . . . I found—something.” She closed her eyes again. “Dear god . . . I’ll never unsee it, Evan. Never.”
It took more self-control than Evan knew she possessed to wait for Julia to continue. It wasn’t really that long—but it felt like a couple of centuries.
Finally, Julia continued in a steadier voice.
