“Yes, sir.”
“And believe me, I’m going to come up with more punishment than the bleachers.”
“Yes, sir.” Hot Shot extended his arm to shake Sean’s hand.
Sean grasped his hand and the two shook.
“Now get out of here, kid,” he said. “I’ve got work to do.”
When Hot Shot had fled the gym, Aleta whirled on Sean. “So you’re a cop?”
He crossed his arms, staring after Hot Shot. “Yes.”
Wishing she were tall enough to get right in his face, she asked, “Why are you pretending to be a priest?”
“I’ve been sent undercover as part of a task force to curtail the gang activity in this area.”
“Undercover?”
“We’ve identified Sunshine Center as a prime recruiting location and hope to put a stop to it. That’s why I confronted Ice Pick so harshly the day I met you.”
She threw her arms into the air. “And Father Mac knows?”
“He requested me for the assignment. Father Mac was my priest when I was a boy.”
“Here?”
“No, a parish in North Dade.”
“Well, you pretending to be a priest is a horrible idea.”
“Maybe, but please keep the truth to yourself. The only way I can be effective is if the faithful believe I’m a priest and someone lets their guard down, gives me good information about how the gangs are approaching your kids.”
“The faithful? You’re taking advantage of a sacred trust.”
“Whoever is recruiting your clients is doing far worse.”
Aleta narrowed her eyes, but she had to give him that.
“Father Mac would never allow you to take confession.”
“Of course not.”
“At least that’s something.” She sucked in a breath in an attempt to calm herself. She’d known O’Malley couldn’t be a priest, but a cop? Working an undercover assignment in a church?
“Does your priest know about this sham?” she demanded.
O’Malley’s mouth tightened and he looked away from her. “That’s not important.”
“He would probably think so.”
He turned his piercing blue gaze on her again. “We’re getting off subject.”
“How so?”
“We were talking about Hot Shot, who, trust me, will end up in jail.”
“Not if I can help it.”
O’Malley suddenly grinned. How could he smile at her like that at a time like this? And how could that smile make her all gooey inside? She was pathetic.
“But right now I’m more interested in how you’re going to repay me.”
She blinked. “How I’m going to—what are you talking about?”
“You owe me. Hot Shot should be in jail right now, but against all my instincts you convinced me to let him go.”
“Oh.”
“You said you’d make it up to me. That’s a quote.”
Oh, God. Had she said that? Yes, she had, to save Hot Shot’s future. What was I thinking?
This guy was some piece of work. Hands on her hips, she said, “So I suppose you want me to do all your paperwork.”
“You know, that’s not a bad suggestion.”
“Fine.”
“But no,” he said. “I need to understand why you’re so insistent that every brainless punk in the world deserves a second chance.”
“That’s all?” she asked suspiciously.
“Not exactly. I want you to have dinner with me tomorrow night. You can tell me all about your theories over wine.”
* * *
HIDDEN BEHIND A DUMPSTER, Bubba watched patrons come and go at the fuel pumps. He needed a new vehicle. He’d ditched the refrigerated truck, which had been too easy to recognize, and had hiked for thirty long minutes to this multi-pump gas station.
Eventually some sucker would make a mistake and leave their keys in the ignition when they went inside the convenience store. He just needed to be patient. He hoped that someone had a cherry set of wheels.
An hour later, he watched a slim woman in her thirties dressed in a dark blue business suit speak on her phone while she fueled a silver Lexus. She kept yakking, balancing the phone between her cheek and her shoulder, as she replaced the hose. Checking her watch, she hurried inside the store.
And left the driver’s door open.
Bubba caught his breath and walked rapidly toward the vehicle. The bitch hadn’t locked her purse in the trunk, so odds were it was sitting in the front seat. He hadn’t seen a wallet in her hand as she’d entered the store either, so maybe he was about to get his hands on some cash. He could sure as shit use a cold beer. Or even better, a shot of fireball whiskey.
When he neared the Lexus, he could see keys dangling from the ignition. A lot of damn keys. Most likely he’d find her address somewhere in the huge leather bag sitting in the passenger seat.
Man, this was too easy. Or he was too good.
Bubba slid into the bucket seat, shut the door and shoved the Lexus into Drive. He didn’t look back as he turned south onto Highway 301 and floored his new vehicle. At the first stoplight, he braked and checked the rearview. Nothing yet.
He reached into the bag and withdrew a brown leather wallet. Inside he found $94.00 in cash, two Visas, two MasterCards and a gold American Express. He’d need to use the cards quickly before they got canceled. He’d find a liquor store first thing where you didn’t have to flash ID. He had no connections, so no way to score any blow in this dump of a town.
He could feel another damn headache coming on. Yeah, he’d like to go check out the home of the Lexus owner. Her address was on the driver’s license, and he deserved to have a little fun, but he had an appointment to keep in Miami, and something might go wrong. He couldn’t let anything go wrong.
So, okay, he’d better stay off the main roads. The Lexus bitch had no doubt called the cops by now, and there’d be an APB out on her license tag soon. He’d have to travel back roads even though the trip would take longer. He’d also switch vehicles a couple more times to make sure he made it to South Florida.
He couldn’t wait to see the expression on Delilah’s traitorous face when he placed his hands around her long neck and strangled the life out of her. He’d been waiting for that moment for eight long years.
And now he was on his way.
Maybe he’d look for a truck next. He always liked sitting higher than everyone else on the road.
CHAPTER FIVE
ALETA RAPPED ON the door to Father Mac’s office, surprised to see Deacon Alsobrook sitting in one of the guest chairs wearing his clerical collar. What was he doing here? She had made an appointment to speak with Father Mac.
The deacon swiveled his head and shot her an unfriendly look, but Father Mac smiled in his usual benign fashion.
“Do you want me to come back later?” she asked, hovering on the threshold.
“No. We’re finished here, aren’t we, Deacon?”
“Yes, Father.” Alsobrook stood and bowed. “Thank you for your time.”
“Of course, my son.”
When Alsobrook pushed past her, Aleta shut the door.
“Thank you for seeing me, Father,” she said, sitting in her usual chair.
“Certainly, my child. Have the authorities recaptured the escaped convict Myra was so concerned about?”
Aleta felt a surge of unease. She tried not to think about Bubba. He’d be a fool to come looking for her, but she was being extra vigilant about checking her immediate surroundings, never opening a door without checking who was on the other side.
She never went anywhere without pepper spray.
“Unfortunately, he’s still out there,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Then perhaps you’ve reconsidered moving into the shelte
r? I truly think that’s for the best until he’s apprehended.”
“No, Father.” She took a deep breath, unsure exactly how to start. How did one pump a priest for information about one of their former parishioners?
“I sense something is troubling you,” Father Mac said. “Does that trouble have anything to do with Father O’Malley?”
“How did you know?”
The priest folded his hands. “Wherever Sean O’Malley goes, trouble usually follows.”
“I know he’s not a priest.”
“Oh?” Father Mac asked, eyebrows lifted. “Did he tell you that?” The priest’s voice gave nothing away.
“He caught one of my kids doing something wrong and arrested him, so it was kind of obvious.”
Father Mac blinked. “I see. So he’s already discovered our thief?”
“No, Hot Shot is definitely not the culprit.”
“Then you’re upset because Sean arrested your star athlete?”
“Well, no,” Aleta admitted. “I talked him into giving the kid a second chance.”
Father Mac sat back and smiled. “Did you now?”
“It wasn’t easy.”
“Oh, I’m quite certain that’s true. I’ve known Sean since he was a boy, and he doesn’t easily change his mind.”
Aleta leaned toward Father Mac. Now they were getting somewhere. “He told me you were his parish priest.”
“Years ago, yes.”
“Is that why you asked for him on this undercover assignment? An assignment that I don’t approve of, by the way.”
Oh, God, had she really said that? Aleta swallowed. What was wrong with her? Who was she to approve or disapprove of a priest’s decisions? She’d have to confess to someone else, though.
“You don’t approve?” Father Mac asked with a frown.
She lifted her chin. “Definitely not.”
“Why not, my child?”
“Because he’s too harsh, too...violent. I’m not sure he’s a good influence on my kids.” Or me. All I can think about is our dinner date tonight. She hoped he didn’t wear his collar. That would be too weird.
“I see.”
Aleta sighed, wondering if Father Mac did see, if he understood what she was even talking about. He was a wonderful man, had devoted his life to helping others, but spent too much of his time on religious theory and dealing with the logistics of his community outreach programs. Not nearly enough time dealing with actual problems those programs were designed to help.
“I asked for Sean because I believed he was the right man for the job,” Father Mac added.
Aleta wanted to argue, but how could she disagree with her priest?
“Actually, now that I think about it, you and Sean have much in common,” Father Mac said, eyeing her speculatively.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Aleta said.
“Sean also endured a great tragedy as a boy, and that event changed him. In fact, I think it made him who is today.”
Aleta shifted in her seat. Yes, she’d gotten into some serious trouble as a girl, but her wild days could hardly be labeled a great tragedy. More like extreme stupidity.
“What tragedy?” she asked.
Father Mac sighed. His face changed, and he looked sad. Mournful. Father Mac still grieved over whatever tragedy he was remembering.
“His younger brother was murdered in a drive-by shooting.”
Aleta sucked in a breath. “Oh, my God. Please don’t tell me the shooting was gang related.”
But Father Mac nodded. “Patrick was an innocent bystander, attempting to help the intended victims during the middle of what the Miami Herald called a turf war. Many lives were taken around that time.”
“That explains a lot,” Aleta murmured. She couldn’t imagine such senseless loss. “So you knew Patrick?”
“Quite well. He declared at the age of eight he would become a priest.”
“Most little boys change their minds about entering the priesthood.”
“True, but Patrick was special,” Father Mac said. “So special that God called him home early.”
“How old was he?” she asked softly.
“Seventeen.” Father Mac shook his head. “And so full of ideals. Sean was eighteen, a high school senior who played on just about every athletic team. They were best friends.”
“Was the murderer found?”
“The killer was a juvenile already on probation, a member of my congregation.” Father Mac sighed deeply. “I vouched for the boy at his hearing, something I still pray about.”
“Oh, no.” Aleta closed her eyes. So the murderer had been given a second chance. No wonder Sean didn’t believe in them.
“Patrick’s murder was part of a gang initiation,” Father Mac said.
“Did Patrick or Sean know him?”
“Yes, from team sports.”
Aleta nodded in the silence that followed that statement. So Sean held a grudge against gangbangers. He blamed every one of them for the loss of his little brother. But this information would help her.
She’d tell Sean her own story, how she’d once been in a girl gang. She would make him understand that people were capable of change.
The evening would go much smoother if she thought of him as another one of her projects rather than a date.
“Then Patrick’s killer is still in prison?”
“He was knifed to death in a fight on prison grounds.”
Aleta sucked in a breath and didn’t reply. This tragedy just got worse and worse.
“After Patrick’s murder, Sean quit coming to Mass,” Father Mac continued. “But I followed him from a distance. He held several jobs after college, and I wasn’t surprised when he entered the police academy. I believe law enforcement is an excellent vocation for him. He’ll do well.”
“Yeah, maybe too well,” Aleta said under her breath.
“What was that?” Father Mac inquired, cupping a hand to his ear.
“Nothing, Father. So as far as you know, Sean never married?”
The priest frowned. “I don’t believe so, why?”
“Because he asked me to have dinner with him tonight.”
A smile spread across the priest’s face. “You are dating Sean O’Malley? How lovely.”
“Dating him? No, absolutely not. You know I don’t date. And even if I were, he’s not my type.”
“Because he’s violent?”
“And judgmental. Biased. He judges people by the way they look and dress.”
“And act?” Father Mac prompted.
She nodded. “I could never be with a man like that.”
“How do you judge people?”
She raised her chin. “I don’t.”
“Are you sure about that, Aleta?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Yet haven’t you judged Sean?”
Aleta blinked and looked down at her lap again. Oh, God.
She met Father’s Mac’s gaze and found him scrutinizing her with a bemused expression.
“Aren’t you the young lady who believes everyone deserves a second chance?”
* * *
AT THE PRECINCT, Sean pushed back from the computer and stretched his arms high overhead. He’d taken a day off from his duties at St. Theresa’s and spent hours digging through the digital mug shots and records of known members of the Devil’s Posse. He’d easily located Ice Pick, also known as Calvin Thomas, and wasn’t surprised the dude had been in and out of jail over the past ten years.
He found nothing on Hot Shot, also known as Washington, so maybe the kid hadn’t been into any serious shit. But then again he was a juvie, so his record could be sealed.
Sean rubbed his eyes. It felt good being back in the fold rather than living as an outsider at Sunshine Center, but he’d done en
ough for the day. He gathered the still-warm photos he’d printed of the leaders of the Devil’s Posse and shoved them into a folder. If any of these punks showed up at Sunshine Center, he’d have proof to show Aleta to get rid of them.
Before leaving, he placed a quick call to his dad, assuring him he was alive and perfectly safe coaching basketball at St. Theresa’s. He hadn’t checked in with the family in a couple of days, and he knew that made them nervous. They’d already lost one son to violence.
Staring at the phone, his thoughts drifted to Patrick and the last basketball game they’d played together. Sean grinned at the memory of that epic win. Man, but his younger bro had been good, had been able to sink a jump shot from almost anywhere on the court.
“Well, look who’s here. It’s Mother Teresa’s protégé.”
Sean glanced up. Dale Baldwin, a fellow officer and good friend from the academy, stood in the doorway of the media room.
“Bless me, Father,” Dale said, grinning, “for I have sinned.”
“Screw you,” Sean said.
“I didn’t think priests were allowed to do that.”
Sean gave him the finger.
Dale laughed, pulled out a chair, turned it around and straddled it. “I’m just jealous. What’s it like working undercover?”
“Pretending to be a celibate priest isn’t what I’d call glamorous.”
“Yeah, but, man, it’ll look great on your record. You’ll make sergeant before any of us.”
Sean shrugged. That had been the plan, but pretending to be something he wasn’t exhausted him. Being around basketball and gang violence forced him to remember events from his past that he thought he’d forgotten. He was softening, starting to like the young felons-in-the-making he worked with every day. He’d discovered he enjoyed coaching, showing the kids the right ways to play and behave. Hot Shot had disappointed him as much as he had Aleta, which was ridiculous.
“A bunch of us are meeting at Moe’s and Joe’s after shift,” Dale said. “You want to come?”
“Can’t tonight,” Sean said. “I’ve got dinner plans.”
“A new lady in your life?”
Sean smiled at that description, one that Aleta would surely take exception to.
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