“You need to be comfortable.” Father Ricardo registered zero stress. His voice soothing, his smile wan—he spoke with the reassuring manner of a man from the pulpit. “But you’re right. Palmer and I reached a deal. We shook hands. The holdup is, well, it’s troubling.”
“Let’s start with Highly Intimate Pleasures.”
Father Ricardo looked at Biscuit, who said, “Liberty Point Plantations is my client.”
“Who?”
“A subdivision off exit 55. Military people for the most part. All of them churchgoers.”
“They’re unhappy?” the reverend asked Biscuit.
“It’s the view from their backyards. There’s a massive billboard promoting vibrators around the corner. How would you feel?”
Father Ricardo turned to Claire. “That store, however offensive to Liberty Point, has nothing to do with my money.” His mobile vibrated on the pad of paper. He studied the caller ID before switching off the phone.
“That’s true,” I said, searching for the right words. “But Maryknoll doesn’t know who you are. Which makes the Catholic Fund’s investment much more troubling.”
“I told you they’d disavow any knowledge.”
“I’m sorry, Father. But I need a better explanation.”
“You’re a stockbroker. You, of all people, should know the importance of discretion. Palmer did.”
“Did he know about Highly Intimate Pleasures?”
Claire and Biscuit watched us like tennis fans, their heads turning back and forth every time someone took a swipe.
“Would you accept money from the Kennedy family?” asked Father Ricardo. He was calm, but his voice was growing more and more assertive.
“Huh?”
“A donation.”
“I don’t see the relevance, Father.”
“Just answer the question. Would the Palmetto Foundation take money from the Kennedy family?”
“I suppose so.”
“And given the chance, you’d manage the family’s money, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Here’s what I don’t get.” Father Ricardo’s voice betrayed his exasperation.
“Okay?”
“Joe Kennedy broke the law. He ran illegal whiskey. And yet you’re willing to give the family a pass. Highly Intimate Pleasures was a gift from a wealthy donor—”
“That’s what the accountant said,” Biscuit interrupted.
“And I’d like to remind you,” Father Ricardo continued, “it is a completely legitimate business.”
I said nothing.
“Did we violate any building codes, Biscuit?” The father’s eyes, intense and determined, locked on mine even as he questioned the lawyer.
“No. But—”
“Has the bar ever been found guilty of serving minors, Biscuit?”
“No.”
“Has any female employee ever filed harassment charges, Biscuit?”
“No.”
“In fact, women are running the show at HIP. Right, Biscuit?”
“Yes.”
“And, Grove, you work on Wall Street, home of the glass ceiling. Can you name one woman CEO of an investment bank?”
“No.”
“And you need a better explanation? Even though our charity owns a legitimate business that’s never violated the law and, if anything, is a good community citizen, given its progressive hiring practices. What am I missing?”
“How do you raise money, Father?”
“We covered that last week.” He sounded less like a priest and more like a guy out $40 million. “My seller is declaring bankruptcy any second now—”
“But we wired twenty-five million.”
“Wasn’t enough, Grove.”
“But—”
“But nothing. I’m about to lose my chance to make a difference because you’re dragging your feet with our money.”
“There’s no way,” I replied, forcing myself to remain cool, “you’re raising big dollars from your websites. Not with the traffic you get.”
“How do you get clients?”
“Referrals, word of mouth.”
“Right,” he said, again steepling his fingers. “And how do you close them?”
“I visit them.”
“Right. So you should be the last person to question me. I visit donors. I make presentations. And when all is said and done, I ask for the order from really wealthy people. You know what that means, right?”
Snide or not, Father Ricardo had a point. Big money requires in-person meetings. But his explanation still troubled me. “Then why did you emphasize the websites?”
“They’re placeholders. I see rich people. We talk. We smile. We shake hands, and when I’m gone, they Google me. That’s what you did. Websites legitimize the Catholic Fund, and they cost nothing to maintain.”
As quickly as I was raising objections, Father Ricardo was knocking them back. “There’s one more thing, Father. I hope this question doesn’t offend you.”
“Why stop now?”
Claire’s eyes widened. Biscuit nodded at me. His expression said, “Go for it.”
“The Manila Society for Children at Risk invested in HIP. Why’s the cash going around in circles?”
The room went silent. Claire, Biscuit, and I stared at the reverend. After a considerable pause, he said, “Sweat equity.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My kids sew the clothes that HIP sells. They get paid. And just so there are no conflicts of interest, the orphanage owns a piece of the store.”
“Like a sweatshop?”
“Knock it off!” snapped Claire. “You’re badgering him, Grove.”
“I’ll pretend you never said that.” Father Ricardo’s tone chilled me. “Do you know what it’s like for my kids? The lucky ones are missing an arm or a leg. Some lose their eyes. How easy do you think it is for them to get jobs?”
I sat stone-faced.
“Answer me.”
“I don’t know, Father.”
“My kids will never worry about meals. We teach them skills and give them dignity.”
I was about to speak, Father Ricardo about to continue. Claire had said enough, and I suspected Biscuit might weigh in somewhere. That’s when the intercom buzzed, and Jill said, “I’m sorry to interrupt. There’s a delivery guy here, and he’s pretty insistent about giving you a package.”
“Just sign for it,” Claire instructed.
“He won’t leave unless I put it in your hands myself.”
All four of us shrugged our shoulders.
Claire punched the intercom. “Bring it up.”
* * *
Jill handed Claire a manila parcel and left the room.
It was a book mailer, bubble wrap inside, approximately nine inches by eleven. The contents bowed at the center. The item inside was neither big nor heavy. It was chunky and irregular. It bulged with what could have been a cell phone for all I knew.
“Are you expecting something?” Father Ricardo glanced at his watch.
“No.” Claire pushed the bangs from her forehead.
Biscuit watched.
There was no return address. There were no stamps. There were no labels from one of the major delivery services. The package simply read: “Claire Kincaid. Grove O’Rourke. Open Immediately.”
“You think it’s from JoJo?” I ventured.
“Not her handwriting.” Claire tore the mailer at its edges. She struggled with the tape and glanced around the conference room for scissors.
“Let me help,” Biscuit volunteered, his expression cautious. Father Ricardo, Claire, and I were more curious than circumspect.
The big man ripped open the top of the package and glanced inside, his quick peek imperceptible. But I could almost hear his thoughts as he handed it back to Claire:
Easy.
She pulled out a standard envelope, the kind used for business correspondence. It was flat. I assumed there was a letter inside. It contained
the same message as before, written in block letters with a black Sharpie: “Claire Kincaid. Grove O’Rourke. Open Immediately.”
A second envelope dropped onto the conference table. It was small, but there was something thick and chunky inside. There was no message. Only layers and layers of tape. The second envelope had been mummified.
Claire pulled a letter from the first, white copy paper, same neat black letters as the addressee.
Biscuit mumbled, “This isn’t good.”
“What’s it say?” The suspense was killing me.
She scanned the letter. A look of horror engulfed her features.
“Tell us,” demanded Father Ricardo. For the moment, he had forgotten his $40 million. He had forgotten the property in the Philippines. He was consumed by Claire’s angst. We all were. The three of us stared, every second an eternity.
Claire’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes brimmed with tears. When she read, every word proved arduous, every sentence a Herculean task to complete.
“‘We have JoJo Kincaid. You will do exactly as we say. If you don’t, the woman dies. If you contact authorities, the woman dies. If you look for us, the woman dies. If you alarm us in any way, the woman dies. And know one thing. Everything makes us nervous.’”
“Good lord.” Biscuit swept a meaty hand through his thick mop of hair.
“‘Wire two hundred million dollars to the address below.’” Her face ashen, Claire did not read the wiring instructions.
“Is there more?” Father Ricardo’s face was aging before our eyes.
“Yes.” She nodded, her expression grave. “‘We know you have the money. Our deadline is tomorrow, five P.M. Don’t miss it. Don’t ask for more time. We will send body parts, a different limb every day you are late. Unwrap the envelope, and you will see. We are the judge, jury, and executioner. You fuck up, and the woman dies.’”
Claire dropped the letter as though it were toxic. She backed farther and farther away from the table, distancing herself from the second envelope, which was layered in tape and still unopened. Biscuit wrapped his bear of an arm around her, instinctively comforting her. Father Ricardo followed the big man’s lead, flanking her from the other side.
I grabbed the misshapen envelope, pulling at the layers of tape. The work was infuriating. The tape would not come off fast enough. I tore. I yanked. Again, I checked the room for scissors. None. When I finally fought my way to the paper part of the package, Claire’s eyes widened in horror. She begged me to stop. “No, don’t.”
Too late. With one final heave, I ripped open the package. Ice, a big wad of plastic wrap, I wasn’t sure what. Bits and pieces exploded everywhere.
Something fleshy landed on my tie. Something bloody. Something hidden from the others by the conference room table.
I looked down and almost retched.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BOARD MEETING
It was most of JoJo’s pinkie.
To this day, I’m embarrassed by what happened next. Disgust, revulsion, nausea—that would be putting it mildly. I lurched backward, almost toppling over. JoJo’s finger disappeared between my legs onto the chair. I would have done anything to get away from the severed digit, as though it contained a contagious disease, some kind of necrotic leprosy.
“What is it?” Claire hid behind her bangs. She watched in horror.
Nobody saw but me. The finger was gray and withering in its gore. It was clean cut, severed two knuckles down from the nail, about an inch long. I never answered Claire.
I couldn’t.
That big wad of plastic wrap—I bent over and picked it up off the floor. Layers were stretched around and around a folded sheet of paper. Inside, protected from moisture and the melting ice that had scattered through the room, was a photo printed on 8½-by-11-inch copy paper like the ransom note.
There were no block letters this time. It was JoJo. Her mouth was wrapped in blue duct tape, her left hand taped to her cheek, her stump exposed and bleeding. But it was her face that got me, the terror, the dried tears, the loss of dignity.
For a moment I forgot JoJo’s finger, the mutilation that made me flinch. I wanted to kill whoever had done this—if only as an act of vengeance on behalf of Palmer. I wanted to find JoJo and save her. Some goon was watching us, reveling in his power. I wanted to reach down the fucker’s throat and pull his ass out his mouth. “Is there anything else in that letter?”
“No.” Claire craned her neck, trying to see over the table, but not daring to peek.
“A name, anything?”
“No.”
“Is that what I think?” Biscuit remained calm, his voice steady, military training in every word.
“Yeah.”
Father Ricardo crossed himself.
“Put it on ice,” Biscuit instructed.
No need to ask twice. I concealed the finger in my hands, shielding Claire from the sight. Downstairs in the kitchen, I wrapped JoJo’s pinkie in tin foil and stuck it in the back of the freezer, behind the ice bucket. Where nobody would discover the foil and investigate the contents. I had no idea when time ran out for reattaching it.
“I’ll call the police,” announced Biscuit, back in the conference room.
Father Ricardo stood up and shook his head, looking to Claire and me for support. “You heard the letter. ‘The woman dies.’”
Tears streamed down Claire’s cheeks. “Who would do this?”
“We’re in over our heads.” Biscuit reached for the conference room phone, one of those gray triangles, a big round speaker built into the middle, and started to dial 911.
“They’ll kill JoJo.” Father Ricardo was adamant, incensed. He punched down the End Call button before Biscuit pressed the final digit.
“They’ll kill her anyway, Reverend. This matter is totally out of our control.”
I agreed with Biscuit. “Every second we wait is too long. There’s nothing worse.”
“How about dead?” Father Ricardo leaned forward on the table, his wide physique imposing. “You call the police—you send JoJo to her grave.”
“What makes you so sure?” I had to ask. The priest was in the soul business, not hostage rescue. No matter what he did in the Philippines.
“Don’t you get it?” he snapped.
“What?” Claire appeared dumbstruck.
“Maybe you’d better level with us, Father.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
BOARD MEETING
“I know who these men are.”
Father Ricardo gazed out the conference room window at St. Philip’s, the Anglican church dating back to 1680. His eyes were glassy, his back bent, his wide physique no longer imposing.
The confidence and spiritual aura—they were gone. He was a man overwhelmed by circumstances. His tortured expression reminded me of JoJo’s face in the photo.
Despair?
The three of us waited for him to continue. Father Ricardo didn’t say anything at first, because he couldn’t. The silence grew ponderous, and I wanted to dial the authorities on the spot. “Who are they, Father?”
He leaned forward, elbows on the conference room table. And using his thumbs, he massaged his temples as though summoning a higher authority for strength. For a moment, I thought he was praying. But when Father Ricardo looked up, I was stunned. We all were. There were tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“What do you mean?” My voice was low, controlled, my heart pounding.
“I held back.” His suit was crisp, his face a mask of regret.
“What, Father? What did you hold back?”
“The kids. It’s not petty criminals who maim them. It’s a crime ring. A huge, sophisticated network of Filipino beasts that could teach the American Mafia a thing or two. I don’t know what all they’re into.”
“But you think they took JoJo?” The words were more accusation than question. I could feel my anger welling inside.
“I’m so sorry
.” The floodgates opened. Father Ricardo’s tears flowed like the Ashley River.
“I told you they’d come looking for us.” Last Tuesday, he was the one who threw up his hands in exasperation. This time it was me. “You said Cebu and the surrounding islands were safe. And by default, everyone in Charleston.”
“I’m so sorry.” He kept wailing, repeating himself. “We’re just not worth their time.”
“Goddamn it, Father. What have you gotten us into?”
Claire’s jaw dropped, dumbstruck by my temper. She was too numb to speak. But words weren’t necessary to understand her message. The man was broken. I had no right to badger him, a priest of all people.
Biscuit, his words soft and slow as molasses, tried to ease the tension. “Why did the gang come here?”
“I don’t know,” the reverend bawled. “These men have never followed us outside Manila. That’s why I thought the other islands were safe.”
“JoJo Kincaid!” I bellowed. “Two hundred million dollars! What were you thinking?”
“All our plans. I was so wrong,” sobbed the priest. “Now everything is at risk.”
He was frustrating me. I reached over to the phone, ready to call the police.
“Don’t,” Father Ricardo pleaded. “You don’t know these men.”
He wiped the tears from his face, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and blew his nose. Claire slid next to him, leaned over, and hugged him with her right arm. The sight—the man in black crumbling and a woman comforting him—stopped me from dialing.
But not from snapping. “Apparently, you don’t either.”
“Why Charleston?” pressed Biscuit, his voice gentle. “Why’d they grab JoJo Kincaid?”
“I don’t know.” His tears started to flow again.
The big man was onto something. His questions fueled my own curiosity. “Biscuit’s right, Father. The authorities will ask the same thing.”
“We’ve always been insignificant,” he started. “Nothing more than nuisance priests.”
“I get it. A gnat on an elephant. What changed?”
The Trust Page 18
