She steadied herself. “Still tryin’ to finish up.”
“Cooking the books?” he teased.
“What better cover than a church?”
Her joke tempered his grin a touch.
“Father, I’d never do such a thing.” Molly tried to dispel the rest of her tension with a laugh, but it came out as shaky as her knees felt. “And I wouldn’t still be here if I did, would I?”
Suddenly his smile left altogether. “No,” he murmured. “You wouldn’t be.”
She let the somber silence stretch out. Had he believed her message? “I’m sorry about the Lonegans.”
“Yeah, me too.” He chewed his lower lip. “Don’t stay too late,” he bid her on his way out.
Molly drew in the first deep breath she’d taken all day. She’d saved him — for one day.
As if on cue, the phone rang. Molly glanced at the caller ID — Doyle Murphy. Calling after hours. The walls seemed to jump a meter inward.
Did he know she was still there, or that Father Tim had been by?
She ironed all trace of fear and anxiety from her voice. “Parish office?” she answered.
“This is Doyle Murphy. I want an appointment with Father O’Rourke.”
“Oh, Doyle, he’s runnin’ himself ragged just tryin’ to meet everyone.” She realized she was rubbing her fingertips on her desk and balled her hand into a fist.
“Great, then put me at the top of the list.”
She managed two disjointed bursts of laughter. “He’s booked out for the fortnight at least.”
He scoffed. “There’s not a single opening in the next week?”
There were no windows behind her, but she could almost feel Doyle’s gaze on her. Molly tried to inhale, but the office’s suddenly stale air wouldn’t cooperate. “Two weeks. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll see about that.” Doyle hung up.
Fantastic. She’d spared Father Tim from one dinner, but the mob was already poised to pounce.
Still wrapping his umbrella, Zach stepped off the elevator at the Lonegans’ floor — and almost ran into Gerald Flynn, his “drinking buddy.” The oddly solemn mobster nodded to him.
“How’s it going, Gerald?”
“Not so good.” He brushed a hand over his red hair.
“Sorry to hear that. Anything I can help with?”
Flynn contemplated the elevator doors. “Doubt it.” He rubbed his tongue on his canine tooth. “But if you’ve got a minute —”
“Where do you think you’re going?” a woman’s voice shrilled from the other end of the hall.
Flynn and Zach both looked that direction. A teenager sporting a shaggy mane turned back to a woman with wavy red hair. “Ian’s,” the boy said. “Math homework.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, my nephew Brandon.” Flynn made an exaggerated ta-dah gesture for Zach. “Pride of the family, future of the empire and teenager extraordinaire.”
Brandon’s mother thrust her hands onto her hips. “You think I don’t know Ian’s failing math? You think I don’t talk to Claire Murphy?”
Brandon snorted.
“Get back here,” the woman continued. “Father Tim will be here any minute.”
Flynn glanced back at Zach. “Guess Lisa and Cally probably need you more.”
“We’ll talk later.” Zach started for the mother and son. Down the hall, the teenager turned away from his mom.
“Don’t you need your backpack to do homework?” Lisa called after him.
“Thought you said he was failing,” Brandon snapped back.
Lisa shook her head. “He’ll end up just like Cally,” she muttered.
Apparently Zach should’ve angled for an invitation here sooner. He’d spent the last two evenings at Brennan’s, but it wasn’t like he could ask the bar’s regulars about the mobsters. Plus, seeming like a drunk wouldn’t get him in with Murphy — though it earned him another lecture from Fitzgerald.
Of course, actually getting this dinner appointment had been harder than necessary with Molly’s “help.” The evasiveness in her message had finally gotten to him, and Zach had to double-check. Lisa knew nothing about the appointment being cancelled.
Still shaking her head, Lisa stalked back into her apartment without noticing Zach right behind her. He stopped at the doorway, but her voice carried. “Couldn’t you hear, Cal?”
“What do you expect me to do about it?” Lonegan stepped into view, glaring at Lisa. He noticed Zach in the doorway and turned away, scratching the back of his neck.
Well, this would be an enjoyable dinner. Maybe he could even teach them about Family Home Evening; they’d already mastered the part where everyone stomped off to pout.
Lisa returned to the kitchen, her flushed cheeks growing pinker at the sight of him. “Father Tim — I’m Lisa. Come in. We’re ready to eat.”
Just like at confession, Lonegan avoided Zach’s eyes as he and the two younger boys filed through the kitchen. “Hi, Cally,” Zach tried.
Lonegan barely nodded and pushed past him. He focused on the loud floral pattern on the vinyl tablecloth when Zach joined them at the kitchen table. Zach spoke to Lisa to dispel the tension. “Thanks for having me.”
“Sure. We’re so glad you called.” Lisa swiped at the tablecloth with a rag.
“Me, too. Sorry about the mix up at the office.” He pushed away the nagging worry about Molly’s message. She was involved. Time to get over it.
“We’re glad to get to meet you.” Lisa offered a smile, forced but conciliatory.
“Oh, Cally and I have already met,” Zach said. Though that might be a bit of a stretch.
“Cally, did you actually go to church?” She shot a look of mock-surprise at Lonegan. He rolled his eyes and served himself some lasagna.
Maybe Lonegan would be more apt to open up without Flynn around. “I’ve heard some great stories so far,” Zach said. “Looking forward to more.”
“Thanks. You follow the Bulls?”
“Sure.” Zach tried to steer the conversation back to something material. “You know, Gerry was telling me about the city accountant and a spill. Sounded hilarious.”
Lonegan’s expression was dead serious, and he waved the topic away. “We don’t talk business at home.”
Zach nodded. So much for building on this relationship for quick inroads tonight. Maybe he’d have better luck with Flynn.
Molly hurried to lock up after work. Pausing in a portal of the arcaded hall, she scanned the car park for Father Tim — nowhere in sight. Not leaving for dinner at the Lonegans’. Of course he wasn’t. He couldn’t know she’d lied about them canceling. But every muscle in her shoulders was still as taut as a steel cable. She started for her car, dodging the car park’s puddles.
If she went home to her empty condo, she’d relive that phone call from Doyle Murphy all evening, worrying herself past the point of usefulness. But was there anything she could do for Father O’Rourke now? Should she just tell him the truth so he’d know to steer clear of those families?
Molly braced herself and marched to the parish house. Her first knock was all but tentative. After waiting an eternity it seemed, Molly tried again. She watched the lace curtains in the window — no light, no movement. And no one answered the door. She slowly started back across the wet car park. Had he gone to dinner, so?
“Get out of my face!” The shout and loud splash to her left brought Molly up short. Doyle’s son, Ian, stood in front of the school’s brand new math teacher, Lucy. A few papers fluttered to join the stack already in a puddle between them. Ian pivoted on his heel and marched off.
Lucy dropped to her knees, muttering.
“Appears you’ve had a long first week,” Molly said, coming to kneel next to her. “Let me help.”
“Thanks.” Lucy sighed as if this were the final act of the tragedy of her life and shifted her canvas bag to her other shoulder.
The brochures were smudged an
d ruined. “I hope these weren’t too important,” Molly said.
“Apparently not.” Lucy frowned after Ian.
Molly shook off the last paper. “It could be worse. At least it’s stopped raining. The entire car park usually floods ankle deep whenever I wear my favorite shoes.” They both stood.
Lucy examined the spots of wet grime on the knees of her khaki slacks. “Story of my life. I’ve spent most of our class time getting my students excited for college, but a bunch of them —” She gestured after Ian. “ — are not interested. And their parents are acting even worse.”
Tension slowly strung Molly’s shoulders taut again. What had Doyle Murphy done?
“I don’t understand why they’re even paying for private school.” Lucy shook her head.
“They’re not,” Molly said, shifting her weight. “Their grandparents founded the school trust, and it provides legacy scholarships.” And paid for the school, the teachers, and then some. Yet another example of Kathleen’s “heroes.”
“Figures. Free rides.” Lucy shuffled the soaked brochures. “What about Tommy Mulligan? I might actually be getting through to him. Don’t tell me he’s a legacy scholarship.”
Molly winced. “He is, sorry.” The school only had a few hundred students, many of them parishioners — or, this case, former parishioners.
Lucy paused in rummaging through her canvas bag. “Doesn’t he attend your church?”
For once, Kathleen’s gossip was useful. “He did until his father died.”
Lucy gave up her search. “Oh. His home life didn’t sound so good — I had to counsel him once this week. Grief counseling, I guess.”
They both paused solemnly at the allusion to the late priest.
Lucy hugged the soaked papers to her pale pink blouse. “How did his dad die?”
Molly couldn’t proclaim organized crime in the parish killed Jim Mulligan. All she had to substantiate that was conjecture. And according to the Tribune, all the police had was Mulligan’s severed hand.
“I heard it was work-related.” Molly swallowed hard. Somehow, this was no less stressful than worrying about Father Tim and Doyle Murphy.
Lucy glanced down and did a double take. She groaned and pulled the wet brochures away from her blouse, now wet and dirty, too. “What did his dad do? Wholesale too?”
“I think so.” Was no one safe from these people? “I don’t really know, you know yourself. It was before I started here.”
“A lot of my students’ dads seem to work in wholesale. Does that have something to do with the church?”
“No.” The answer came out faster and harsher than she’d intended. Molly loosened her grip on her handbag and added a tight laugh. Organized crime intertwined with the church was certainly not typical. No, not intertwined — even Doyle wouldn’t dare. . . . Would he?
“I’m sorry. It sounds like I think Catholics are freaks or something. I really don’t.”
Molly waved away her concern. “Every church has its nutters. I have to work with ours.”
“Kathleen?” Lucy glanced heavenward before digging in her canvas tote again.
“Ah, I’m only coddin’. She’s not that bad.”
“Yeah, well, she hates me.”
Molly pushed aside her apprehensions now that they were off the subject of Murphy’s crew. They weren’t after Lucy. Yet. “She probably just came off badly. What did she do?”
“I called for an appointment with the new priest, and she acted like I was propositioning him or something.” Lucy pulled a plastic grocery sack from her tote. “Is he really that good-looking?”
Typical Kathleen. Why did everyone assume someone was after a handsome young priest?
But someone was after him.
Molly realized she was clenching her jaw. She willed every muscle from her shoulders up to relax. “Kathleen thinks she knows what’s best for everyone else.”
“Guess you don’t have to worry about someone corrupting him with that bulldog!”
“She’s always eager to ‘help.’” Molly let the sarcasm ring in her tone. Kathleen wasn’t the one doing all the work to keep Father Tim safe.
“I bet.” Lucy changed the subject. “I have to say, I love your accent. Irish, right?”
“I am, thank you. Good ear — I get complimented on my ‘Scottish’ a lot. And sometimes my ‘Scotch.’”
Lucy smiled and stuffed the wet brochures into the grocery sack. “My brother lived in Ireland a couple years. I bet he’d love to talk to you. You know, if I could ever get him on the phone.”
“What brought him there?”
“He was a missionary. Loved it.” Lucy started down the row of cars.
“Oh?” Molly fell in step with her. “Didn’t see many missionaries in Ireland.”
“Our church has missionaries all over the world — Europe, Africa, even here.”
“You’re not Catholic, so?”
“No, I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You know, Mormons?”
“Right, right.” Molly recognized the name, but couldn’t quite place it. “What kind of church is it?”
“Well, we’re Christian. We believe in Jesus Christ, and that God still guides us through a living prophet — sort of like the Pope.” Hope lit up in Lucy’s eyes.
“Interestin’.” Molly slowed as Lucy stopped. “Well, appears you’re all set.”
“Yeah.” Lucy opened her trunk to stuff in the wet brochures and her tote. “I should go research the wholesale industry, so I can show the kids how they’ll use algebra someday. I’d send a note home, but that didn’t go over so well this week.”
Molly couldn’t imagine they appreciated Lucy’s interest. But before she told Lucy the truth about the “wholesale industry,” Molly realized dangerous criminals probably wouldn’t dampen Lucy’s zeal for her students. Would she research organized crime next? Math problems about hiring a hit man or extorting a juror?
Molly pasted on a smile. “Ah, don’t bother yourself with all that. You’d do better to play Xbox or read up on the Sox.”
Lucy grimaced, though Molly couldn’t be sure whether it was at the prospect of video games or baseball. “I’m sure you’re right. Hey, do you think you could — nah, I’m sure Father Tim is actually pretty busy.” Lucy slammed her trunk shut and pressed on before Molly could offer her an appointment. “Thanks for helping with my college brochures.”
“Any time. Good night!” Molly walked to her car and wished she’d ended the evening before they’d discussed Doyle Murphy’s gang. Her stomach sank like a stone.
One more person she had to protect.
“Thanks so much for coming.” Lisa Lonegan beamed at Zach, leading him to the door.
Zach forced himself to smile back. Although the tension from the beginning of the evening had dissipated, Lonegan had shot down a few more of Zach’s attempts to talk business. He turned to Lonegan for one last try. “You heading to Brennan’s?”
Lonegan raked his dark hair across his forehead. “Doubt it.”
Before Zach could ply him further, Lisa opened the door. “We’ll be sure to have you again soon.”
“Yeah,” Lonegan added quickly. “There’s something —”
“Hey, Gerry,” Lisa said. Zach looked to find Gerald Flynn in the hall. Flynn snapped his fingers and pointed at his sister as he passed.
“Thanks for having me.” Zach waved goodbye, grabbed his umbrella and hurried after Flynn. He caught up to the mobster at his door. “I’ve got a minute now. What’s up?”
Flynn wheeled around to scrutinize him, once again somber. “Just something I need to get off my chest. Before it’s too late.”
The back of Zach’s neck tingled despite the sinking feeling that this was too good to be true, but he kept his expression unchanged. “You’ve come to the right place.” As long as he didn’t invoke the priest-penitent privilege by making this a confession, anyway.
The elevator at the end of the hall announced its arrival with a chime. Before the doors opened, Flynn leaned closer. “Can you meet Tuesday? Say, seven?”
Zach nodded, though his adrenaline level took a nose dive. At least he had a chance of closing the case way ahead of schedule.
“Great,” Flynn said. “Your place.” He ducked into his condo before the elevator doors slid apart, revealing Doyle Murphy. The underboss of the South Side barely grunted to acknowledge his new priest as he passed. Zach allowed himself a smug smirk once Murphy was out of sight. His days of freedom were numbered. Soon they’d roll up the whole crew, from Murphy down to Molly.
Zach punched the elevator button. There was still a possibility she wasn’t involved, no matter how hard she’d tried to keep him from Lonegan. Right?
He’d have to test her one more time.
Thursday afternoon, Molly knew without checking who darkened the office door. Frowning, Father Tim grabbed the chair by the extra desk and dragged it over to hers, though they both knew his basketball partners would track him down soon. “You know,” he said, “I called the Lonegans to see if we could reschedule, and Lisa had no idea they’d cancelled last night.”
Molly did her best to keep her hands steady over the keyboard. “Did she? Oh, now that I think of it, Cally was the one who wanted to reschedule.”
“Hm. He must’ve changed his plans. Can’t blame him — Lisa does make a great lasagna.”
A lead weight landed on her heart. “Sounds like you had a lovely time.”
“Yeah, I’m really surprised how nice people are here. Not like where I interned. Very cliquey.”
She rubbed her elbow. He hadn’t met everybody, but he’d met all the wrong people. “I’m sure we’re no better than any other parish,” she managed.
Father Tim gave half a smile, clearly not convinced. “I know every parish has its problems, and some are worse than others — but some are better.”
He was already attached to the parish, and its mobsters. How could she tell him the truth and ruin his vision of paradise? She couldn’t. “I suppose you’re lucky — blessed — so.”
Saints & Spies Page 6
