“We have the Thanksgivin’ service meal coming up, and we coordinate volunteers for the school. . . .”
“I know, I just want to get to know you better.” Nice — flirting that could be construed as innocent. He shoved his hands in his pockets, pressing his wrist against the dial button on his low-tech spare phone in its dorky hip holster. “The parish, I mean.”
Molly’s laugh seemed forced, but her ringing cell phone cut off their conversation. As she pulled it out, Zach shifted to end the call. She frowned at the silent phone.
“Hey, I needed a new phone,” Zach said. “Do you like yours?”
“Not if you’re plannin’ on textin’. If it were a person, it’d be functionally illiterate.”
“What brand is it?”
She glanced at the phone. “Samsung. Not gettin’ one of those again.”
Perfect. He’d turn in her number, and the FBI could turn her phone into a roving bug.
“What kind of activity were you thinkin’?”
Zach tapped his hand on her desk. “We should see a movie,” he proclaimed. She flinched slightly, and he shifted out of flirting mode again. “As a parish. Do we have money for that kind of thing?”
“Should be grand, as long as we’re not plannin’ to rent a whole theater.”
“Are you sure? I mean, do we have an activity budget, or some surplus?”
“We’re pretty creative when it comes to budgetin’.” Molly pressed on before he could react. “And the school has a film projector. Know how to run one?” Her smile grew secretive.
“No, but I bet you do.”
Her eyebrows shot up. He’d guessed right. Zach rounded the desk to see her monitor. No accounting programs open on the menu bar. “Do you keep our calendar on here?”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Father. I keep just about everythin’ on here.”
That likely included the parish finances. Could he get her to open them?
Molly brought up the calendar. “We’ll have to find somethin’ on film, of course.”
“Right. Think it’d be okay if we watched a spy movie?”
“That’d be fantastic — but it has to be family-friendly.”
“I’ll e-mail you some ideas by Monday.” With a keylogger conveniently attached. They picked the twenty-fifth, a Saturday two weeks away, and she entered it on the calendar.
Zach turned around to lean back against the desk, and Molly rocked back in her chair. “Now, so,” she said.
He smiled. “How long have you been in the States?”
“Five years — almost six now, I suppose.”
“You never did tell me what part of Dublin you’re from.”
She lifted her chin as if rising to his challenge. “You never did tell me how you know I’ve a Dublin accent.”
The sound of a throat clearing made them both jump. A figure silhouetted by the setting sun stood in the open door. One of the mobsters? Was his cover in jeopardy?
“Good evening, Tim. Molly,” Father Fitzgerald said.
Oh. Zach straightened. Molly sat up, her chair creaking at the abrupt movement. “Evenin’.”
“Thought you were out for the night, Bruce.” He swallowed the rising guilt. He wasn’t a missionary; there was no rule against his cover being alone with a woman. He was doing his job.
“The Baileys had to go to Jenny’s recital. Just wrapping up, Molly?”
“I am.” She shut down her computer. Fitzgerald gave Zach a hard stare.
“I’ll walk you out,” Zach offered Molly — but he focused on Fitzgerald. Molly stood and collected her jacket. The priest cast them another meaningful look, but finally turned away.
Zach followed Molly out of the office. Okay, he’d been flirting, but Fitzgerald’s judge-in-Israel act really wasn’t necessary.
And maybe flirting wasn’t either. She thought he was a priest. They had no future in the real world. Unless terrorists’ kids got Top Secret clearance in the near future, he’d lose his job or be blacklisted for telling her the truth. As a covert operative, he couldn’t even tell his mom what he did for a living. But with how much time he spent undercover, he only had to avoid the topic with his family a few times a year. If even Mom wasn’t safe territory, he definitely couldn’t tell Molly.
Wait — had he just slipped into thinking about flirting with Molly for more than the case? Of course they had no future. They weren’t supposed to, unless you counted testifying at her trial — if she was with the mobsters.
They reached Molly’s car, a green Volkswagen hatchback. “Good night, Father.” The sun’s last rays lit her curls as Molly held his gaze, a faint smile on her lips.
Yeah, he’d really have to play this carefully. “Night.” He opened her door, but didn’t stand there to watch her leave. Once he was safe in the shadows near the office door, he glanced back to make sure she was gone.
And then he saw the maroon sedan across the street. Cars parked there weren’t uncommon, but hours after school and tutoring ended, a man sitting in a car set the hairs at the back of Zach’s neck on end. Had this guy been there before?
He made a note of the car, but tried to play it cool. Right now he had other work to do. He grabbed his keys. Normally, he liked to challenge himself with picking locks, but using a key was faster — and less suspicious.
Getting the parish’s financial records would only take a minute. Zach started Molly’s computer. As the computer slowly came back to life, he riffled through the desk drawers. Pens, compact mirror, hairpins. Nothing incriminating.
A noise echoed in the hall outside the office. Zach froze. Another noise. Outside the door.
An electric current sparked across his scalp. On training and adrenaline, Zach dropped to the floor, poised to draw his gun from his ankle holster.
As a priest, he probably had every right to be here. But skulking around in the dark — in the office where they laundered money — would be sure to raise the mobsters’ suspicions.
He silently retrieved Molly’s compact mirror from the drawer.
He flipped it open and held it so he could see the three small windows high on the door behind him, holding his breath as he counted to ten. No sign of a shadow. He reached twenty.
Nothing happened.
“Good job, Saint,” he muttered to himself. “Eliminate the church mouse.” Zach replaced the compact. He sank into the computer chair and found a password screen waiting.
Who would password protect a computer in a locked parish office? Sure, LDS office computers were password protected, but they had confidential files on — oh. Mormons weren’t the only ones with church records. And if she was innocent, Molly believed the story that an attempt to break into her office led to Father Patrick’s death.
But she’d also shut him down multiple times when the conversation came anywhere near parish finances or the mob.
He made two guesses at her password — it was neither of the most obvious choices, stadelaide or stadelaides — and stood in resignation. At the door, Zach made sure his pant leg covered his ankle holster. With a glance at the sedan still parked across the nearly-dark street, he headed back to the parish house.
He’d have to do a lot more flirting to get the “in” he needed with Molly.
When Zach walked into the parish house living room, Father Fitzgerald was waiting with arms folded. The old priest looked the part of judge from his condemning squint to his all-black attire.
Zach could’ve kicked himself. Walking Molly to her car shouldn’t take ten minutes, and in this context, his usual stealth probably seemed suspect. Still, this did seem over the top for Fitzgerald. But whenever your cover was on the line, you had to play it harder. Zach kept his tone light. “How’d it go at the Baileys’?”
“Almost as good as your evening with Molly.”
Zach shrugged with open hands, shooting for innocence in his wide eyes.
“I know whatever you were doing was probab
ly fine, but we have to avoid even the appearance of impropriety.”
“We were discussing an idea for a parish activity. That’s all.”
Fitzgerald relaxed his judging frown and shoulders a little and stepped away from the coffee table. “You know the priest and the parish secretary are always under scrutiny. How many times have you heard that story, ending with eloping or excommunication?”
Once, actually. “Bruce, we’re not —”
“Do you know what that does to the parish?” Fitzgerald nailed him with an earnest stare and moved closer. Zach fought the urge to retreat. The archbishop wasn’t joking when he said Fitzgerald was intense. “You’ve been given a sacred trust. Our parishioners just lost a beloved priest. Please — don’t deprive them of another.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Fitzgerald visibly relaxed and clapped a hand on Zach’s shoulder. “I’m sure you will. I don’t mean to be too hard on you, Tim. Better safe than sorry.”
“Definitely.” This could even help with his cover. He was supposed to be a newbie, after all. “Feel free to let me know if I’m ever off track. Seems like I still have a lot to learn.”
Fitzgerald nodded, and Zach went to his room and shut the door behind him. He shook the tension out of his shoulders. Almost a week in the parish and the closest he’d come to a confrontation was with Fitzgerald. Observing the church during confession tomorrow had better yield a target — one other than Molly.
With a sigh, Zach headed for his desk and the refuge of his secondhand Bible.
Molly arrived early, but Father Fitzgerald — at least she hoped it was Father Fitzgerald — was already in the other compartment of the wood-paneled confessional. She knelt on the worn velvet cushion and made the sign of the cross aloud. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession.” She held her breath. Though she hadn’t gone to confession this frequently since primary school, Molly still expected to do penance for less-than-weekly attendance. Or perhaps the priest would sense she was here mostly to keep her job.
But he didn’t. “Tell me what brings you here, my child.”
She allowed herself a silent second of relief. Not Father O’Rourke. But as she recounted her venial sins, she steered well clear of the topic of work and the new priest.
“Is that everything?” Father Fitzgerald’s leading tone said he knew it wasn’t.
“I suppose there’s somethin’ else.” She focused on her white knuckles. “I’m a bit worried about workin’ with Father O’Rourke.”
“Do you mean a romantic kind of concern?”
“Oh, no, not at all, no. Well, I mean, I couldn’t say I haven’t noticed he’s handsome.” Molly snapped her mouth shut, but her mind carried on with the vivid memory of the knowing light in his eyes.
“My child?” Father Fitzgerald broke into her thoughts.
“I just haven’t been completely honest with him.”
“About what?”
Perhaps this wasn’t something she was ready to confess — or discuss at all. “I’m only tryin’ to keep him from worryin’.”
“It’s kind of you to be concerned, but we always want to be honest.” He paused and Molly stared at the screen, as if she could read his expression through the shadows. “Are you absolutely sure it’s not a more . . . personal-level concern?”
“I’m certain, it’s only —” She swallowed a nervous laugh and rubbed her fingers against the wood grain of the kneeler armrest. “It’s somethin’ else. I don’t know how to explain.”
“All right. But please, be careful. I’d hate for anything to happen.”
Molly’s shoulders dropped. She was trying to be careful, but Father O’Rourke wasn’t only handsome — he was asking the wrong questions if she wanted to keep him away from the parish’s criminal element.
She’d have to work harder — on both of her problems with Father O’Rourke.
A few minutes after Fitzgerald left for confession, Zach staked out a place on the faded loveseat to watch the parking lot through the lace curtains. He was actually glad the archbishop had balked at the idea of Zach sitting in on confessions, and of course bugging them was out of the question. He might not believe in “mortal sins,” and he was used to doing whatever it took to close a case, but Zach’s stomach twisted at the thought of eavesdropping on innocent parishioners. Fitzgerald was right. This was a sacred trust, and he had no right to be here. And anything he discovered from confession wasn’t admissible anyway as “fruit of the poisonous tree.”
But anybody could see who walked into a church at a certain time.
As if on cue, a white car pulled into the parking lot. Zach searched his memory for a white car in the FBI’s files on the mobsters. Gerald Flynn, maybe?
The car parked on the row closest to the chapel, and out stepped a barrel-chested man with red hair. Flynn, all right. The mobster shut his car door and hesitated there, tilting back his head as he took in the bell tower’s full height. Tough to read him from this distance, but something about the set of his jaw said “grim determination” to Zach. The mobster trudged toward the chapel doors.
Was he just lucky, or did mobsters go through the motions at confession all the time? Zach waited until he was pretty sure Flynn would be in the booth — convenient that this church was built before they moved to face-to-face confession — before he headed over.
As he reached the top of the chapel stairs, the heavy wooden doors swung open to reveal — Molly. She drew a sharp inhale at the sight of him.
What should he say to someone leaving confession? He went for an Irish greeting. “How are you keeping?”
“Grand, you know yourself.” She massaged her elbow, practically slinking past him.
Man, there was an Irish phrase he hadn’t heard in a while — but what was with her edgy act? He’d missed something. Maybe Fitzgerald would fill him in, if he could. “See you at Mass tomorrow?”
“Of course, Father,” she murmured. “Bright and early.”
“Great.” Zach stood in the door to watch her walk to her car. She glanced back once, her wide blue eyes full of chagrin.
On second thought, maybe he wouldn’t ask Fitzgerald.
Once his vision adjusted to the interior, Zach surveyed the chapel. No sign of red hair, but Father Fitzgerald was marching toward him, his bushy eyebrows pulled together like silver storm clouds. “Molly was just here,” he whispered when Zach reached him.
“Saw her on the way out.”
“You need to watch yourself with her.”
Zach pressed his lips together and nodded. A priest wouldn’t press for details — and a real priest couldn’t give them. But whatever she’d said, Fitzgerald shot Zach a glare of censure. The man seemed to have a talent for blowing innocent details out of proportion. Would that end up blowing Zach’s cover, too?
Before Fitzgerald launched into another lecture, footsteps sounded behind them, and he rushed to the confessional.
Zach rubbed a hand over his face. These next seven weeks were going to be too long and not long enough. He headed for the votives, the opposite direction from the confessional. He reached the candle rack in time to see a woman with wavy red hair slip into the confessional.
So Flynn wasn’t spilling his soul to Fitzgerald, and he definitely hadn’t left the chapel. Zach crept through the side aisle, rolling his feet to silence his shoes, scanning the whole room. Where was Flynn now? Would anyone notice Zach’s search and think the new priest’s zeal was suspicious?
A woman sat in the middle of the chapel, her head bowed. As Zach came even with her pew, he could see the rosary beads dangling from her fingers. Obviously deep in prayer, she didn’t look up when he passed.
In front of the pews, the church widened to a smaller alcove to the side: the perpetual adoration chapel, where they kept the Eucharist and where parishioners sat vigil 24/7. Against the far wall, a white and gold altar topped by a gold sunburst scul
pture stood beneath a stained glass window. Two men sat facing the altar, their backs to Zach.
Zach checked the sign-in book: Gerald Flynn was the last name on the list. He checked the men in the adoration chapel. One had red hair. Did unrepentant murderers make time to spend an hour with the body of Christ? This could be his “in” — or better yet, someone who could give them everything they needed. Zach quickly crossed to the other end of the adoration chapel to get a better vantage point.
The blond adorer, a man in his thirties, studied the Bible. Zach leaned down to see past him. Flynn’s head was also bowed, but not over a rosary or a book. His face bobbed into view below the blond adorer’s — jaw slack, eyes closed — before he jerked up again.
He was falling asleep. Zach swallowed a sigh. So much for that potential lead. He returned to the parish house to wait out Flynn’s hour of adoration. Or naptime.
After ninety minutes with no sign of Flynn or any other mobsters, Zach headed back to the chapel. Confession was nearly over anyway. Halfway down the side aisle, he spotted Flynn coming toward him. Well, trudging toward him. They met in front of the picture of Jesus falling the second time as he carried the cross to Calvary. Zach introduced himself; Flynn didn’t. “In for the weekend?” Flynn asked.
“No, I’m Father Patrick’s replacement.” Zach fell into step beside him.
Flynn looked him up and down. “Permanent? Thought they’d learned their lesson about St. Adelaide.”
“Oh, we never give up on people.”
“Hm.” Flynn kept his pace deliberate. He was silent until they reached the end of the aisle. He slowed to a stop, staring at the painting of Jesus being led away from Pilate. “Never?”
Was he thinking about confessing? If this man was ready to come back to God, he might also be ready to talk to the FBI. The back of Zach’s neck tingled. This was it. Six days in, and he’d found the key to this case. Who had that kind of luck? “Of course not. Never too late for Christ.”
Flynn broke into a grin. “Good for Him.”
Zach tried to push aside the disappointment and followed Flynn as he strode away. Across the chapel, a stout man lumbered out of the confessional — Cally Lonegan, another of Murphy’s crew. He raked his dark, thinning hair across his forehead like the gesture brought order to his mind and his life. He saw Flynn and stopped short. Flynn, still a couple feet from the door, hesitated too. Zach tried to interpret the awkward silence, but Lonegan shuffled out before he could.
Saints & Spies Page 3
