Zach waited until Molly was at least halfway to the office before fully turning to Doyle Murphy. Clearly Molly wouldn’t introduce him, and Zach would have to make his own way in the mob. These guys responded to power plays — and Molly resisting made it look better, even if his heart nearly stopped when she tried to stay. He didn’t need to witness — or cause — two murders this week.
The mobster nodded in acknowledgment. “Nicely handled. Doyle Murphy.”
“Father Tim. Can I help you with something?”
“We’ll see. Getting used to the parish?”
“Just fine.” Zach gritted his teeth. He did not interrupt Molly and Murphy’s “business” meeting to make small talk. He hadn’t waited two of his allotted weeks to chitchat.
“Let me know if there’s anything we can do to help. We like to take care of our own, and they take care of us.”
Sure they did. That was exactly why neighbors didn’t rat out the mobsters. If they said nothing, the mobsters kept the neighborhood free of petty crime, but if they spoke up, they’d get two to the head — like Flynn.
But Zach wasn’t supposed to know about that. He caught himself clenching his fists and forced himself to relax. He glanced at Murphy, then across the street. “You know, there might be something.” He took Murphy by the shoulder and rotated him toward the maroon sedan once again parked there. “I haven’t met a lot of the parishioners yet. Maybe you know this guy?”
“He bothering you? Want me to take care of him?”
“No, I just wish he’d gather the courage to come and face his problems head on.”
Murphy cut his eyes at Zach. “Yeah.”
Did he understand Zach’s meaning? He had to double-check. “I know I’m new, and it takes time to build up trust. Maybe it’d be easier for him if Father Patrick was still here.”
He scoffed. “The way he ended up speaks for itself.” His cool tone made the casual remark seem like a threat. Or maybe it was how Zach had seen him kill a man last night. “If you’re still getting to know the ropes,” Murphy continued, “I’m sure Molly could help me —”
“I’ll take care of anything you need. I do have to go check on her, though — you know how it is.”
“Got to keep an eye on people every second, huh?”
Zach lifted his chin but held Murphy’s gaze. “Some people.”
Although he wanted to do all he could to pry into the mob’s affairs now that he had Murphy here, Zach squelched the urge. If he appeared the slightest bit curious about Murphy’s illegal activities, he’d be risking his case — and his life. Not like the mob took applications.
Looking good was the best he could hope for in this meeting. Zach took the opportunity to end the conversation with the upper hand and walked away. He hoped that was enough to make an impression on Murphy if looking drunk wasn’t.
Molly was at her computer when he got to the office, but she was watching the door. The mask of determination she’d used with Murphy had cracked, and now Molly seemed drawn. “Good visit?” she murmured.
“Riveting,” Zach bit off. He took a deep breath to release the tension in his chest.
“Father, there are some people in this parish you shouldn’t get too close with.” She met his eyes, somber; he stared back.
When he spoke, his voice was just above a whisper. “Like Murphy?”
Molly looked away.
“Why?”
Her gaze slowly fell, and she swallowed audibly. Zach felt himself tensing — was she about to admit something?
“I know them better than you do,” she finally said. “Stay away. While you still can.”
What was she saying — that it was too late for her?
Molly focused on her monitor. “I’m clearin’ your schedule for Monday. We’re havin’ a funeral.”
Flynn. Zach nodded and turned away, toward the printer/copier. The machine warmed up and spat out a sheet. A page of the kids’ money.
“Found it on the Internet,” Molly said. “Will that do?”
“Fine.” Although he’d barely glanced at it, he put the page on the copier part of the printer and checked the paper tray. Empty. He hunted for more paper. A filing cabinet stood by the printer, in the opposite corner from the one behind Molly’s desk. He tried the top drawer. Locked. “Is this where we keep the paper?”
“No, I think that’s Father Fitzgerald’s, or Father Patrick’s.” Molly directed him to the paper, but Zach spent the rest of his time in the office surreptitiously eyeing that filing cabinet.
If he couldn’t make them pay for Flynn’s death directly, he might still be able to make the case without him — or Molly.
By the end of work Wednesday, Molly still hadn’t shaken the melancholy from Kristy Flynn’s phone call. She let Kathleen answer a knock at the door. The setting sun cast the tall figure in the doorway in shadow. Doyle, back again?
No, too thin. A somber young man with ash blond hair stepped into the office — the one she’d seen with Lucy yesterday. “I’m here to see Father T — er, Father O’Rourke?”
Molly checked the calendar. “Paul Calvin?”
Before he could respond, Father Tim walked in. “Hey, Paul. Shall we?”
Paul nodded and followed him. Molly turned back to her computer, but couldn’t focus on the bulletin. She rubbed the wood grain of her desk.
This was all in her head. Doyle’s visit was totally innocent. Though Father Tim hadn’t bothered to tell her anything about it yesterday, and she hadn’t dared to ask.
The door opened again and Molly tried to fight the dread closing her throat. But this time Lucy walked in. “Hey, Molly, is Father Tim around?” An uneasy smile twisted Lucy’s lips, and she glanced at Kathleen. “Still haven’t been able to catch him.”
“He just stepped into a meeting. Not sure how long he’ll be.”
“He didn’t say anything about avoiding me, did he?” Lucy joked. “I’m getting suspicious. Every time someone tells me where he is, he disappears.”
“Can’t imagine it’s intentional.”
Lucy leaned against the door frame. “Guess I’ll try again tomorrow.” She puffed out a breath. “I so don’t want to cook tonight. Any recommendations? Something close, though — my GPS always gets me lost.”
“What were you wantin’ to eat?”
The other woman shrugged. “I could really go for some Southern food — but it has to be good.”
Kathleen glanced up from her computer. “There’s that place at Navy Pier.”
“What’s Navy Pier?” Lucy looked to Kathleen, a hint of trepidation in Lucy’s eyes. Had Kathleen been that mean to her?
“Oh, it’s a tourist attraction.” Kathleen gestured in a vaguely northeast direction. “Out by the lake. Restaurants, shopping and a pier.”
Lucy hesitated. “Is it hard to get to? I’m not so good at navigating outside of my neighborhood yet.”
“Sure now,” Molly reassured her. “Do you know how to get to I-90?”
Lucy frowned.
“I-94?” Molly tried.
“No.”
“I-57?”
Lucy’s frown turned to almost a grimace. “I can really only find my apartment, the school, the seminary and the grocery store.”
And yet she’d already come to the attention of the mobsters in the parish. Maybe this was Molly’s chance to dig deeper into that situation. “How about I navigate for you?”
“Are you sure?”
“I am.” Molly grabbed her handbag and bid Kathleen goodbye. Molly followed Lucy to her gold Mazda, and she couldn’t help but comment on its dealer-pristine interior.
“In case any hot guys need a ride home,” Lucy explained. “I mean — it’s just seminarians that volunteer at the school. I mean, not that they’re hot guys. Well, not that they’re not — do you know what a bus costs? I wouldn’t wish two dollar fares on my worst enemy.” The fare didn’t seem that high, but Lucy was vehement.
>
“I’m sure you haven’t any enemies anyway.”
Lucy sighed as if every imaginable stress crashed onto her shoulders. “I wish.”
Had something happened with Murphy’s outfit? Molly scanned the car park for his car as Lucy pulled to the exit. Or maybe the teenagers were tormenting her again. “I’m sure the students aren’t that bad. Played some Xbox, didn’t you?”
“Nah, but I shouldn’t complain. I’m not the only one who has to deal with . . . ‘workplace hostility.’” Lucy inclined her head toward the office.
“I do have a couple coworkers who seem to like me.”
“Father Tim?”
Though she flinched mentally, Molly forced herself to smile. “I meant you.”
“Oh.” Lucy laughed. “Well, I hear he’s nice, too. The students love him. I’m glad, after what happened with Father Patrick.”
“Poor Father Patrick.” Molly fingered the seat belt. Could she keep Father Tim from the same fate as Father Patrick and Gerald Flynn?
Zach took Paul, Our Seminarian of Perpetual Concern, the long way around the church building, listening to Paul’s worries about his calling. Zach tried to keep his side of the conversation vague. When he’d given his life to the Lord, his calling had come on church letterhead, with a built-in end date. But Paul wasn’t doubting holy orders; he just wasn’t getting enough support from his parents.
They entered the building in silence, their footsteps echoing as they wandered to the front pew. “Anything else?” Zach asked.
Paul pointed out the adorer in the side chapel — Zach always forgot there was someone in the church at all times to adore Christ in the form of the Eucharist. His first slip in front of Paul. Hoping it’d also be the last, Zach led the retreat to the back of the chapel.
“I don’t know how to say this.” Paul bit his lip, staring straight ahead. “There’s this girl.”
Zach probably wasn’t the best priest to be giving advice on that subject. “Okay. From before?”
“No, a teacher I met at the school.” Paul slumped into the last wooden pew.
Zach joined him. “Wish I could tell you once you’re ordained —” He snapped his fingers. “ — it all goes away, but it doesn’t.” The words echoed eerily. Zach tried to lower his voice.
“I know.” Paul looked down at the hymnal rack. “I just feel so guilty. I can’t think about anything else.”
“I think we always love the people we work with.” Zach hurried to correct himself. “The people we serve. We just have to separate romantic love from . . . the pure love of Christ.”
And that was a Book of Mormon phrase.
Paul stared at Zach like he could see through the cover and the collar. The collar that grew tighter each second. Was that approaching footsteps or blood pounding in his ears?
Footsteps. Paul turned around and Zach checked behind them, too. Maureen Bailey, the organist, waved to Zach and continued to the side chapel for perpetual adoration.
Paul pulled a red hymnal from the rack. “I want to stop this without hurting her. Us.”
“Hm,” Zach hedged between catching his breath, “you think she feels the same way?”
Paul scratched the back of his neck like that could hide the color rising in his cheeks. “I think she’d be interested, if I wasn’t — you know.”
His pulse almost normal again, Zach regarded the stained glass window behind the other man. Telling Paul to go for it while he still could probably wouldn’t be smart. “Have you ever broken a bad habit, like biting your nails?”
“No, have you?” Paul asked gravely.
This kid really was cut out for the priesthood. “Yeah, biting my nails.”
“What’d you do?”
“Took up piano.” Not helpful — what was Paul supposed to do, take up the saxophone? He had a tough time picturing the constantly-concerned Paul wailing the blues.
“So . . . I should replace this habit with another one?” He mulled that over, pulling three fingers down his chin. “I could pay more attention to tutoring the kids instead of L — the teacher. But I worry this is a symptom of a bigger problem.” Paul flipped through the red hymnal he still held. “I keep getting opposition from every side.”
Opposition? These priestly discussions would be so much easier if he could use the Book of Mormon. Zach gathered his courage and hoped this wasn’t false doctrine to a Catholic. “If we didn’t have opposition in all things, we wouldn’t really be making choices.”
Paul contemplated the idea. “Hadn’t thought about it like that.” The pages of the hymnal fell shut, leaving the inside cover open. The nameplate said the hymnal was paid for by Doyle Murphy.
“I mean, think about who doesn’t want you to become a priest. We face the most opposition when we’re doing something right.” Zach tried to ignore the hard rock of guilt in his throat. Watching a man get killed and doing nothing was more than “opposition.”
“I guess you’re right.” Paul grinned. “Thanks for letting me get this off my chest.” He stood.
“Any time.” Zach led him to the chapel doors. “Hey, no basketball Monday. Funeral.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Paul bid him goodbye and headed out.
The guy wasn’t the only one facing opposition. Zach wished he had someone to tell him that going up against Doyle Murphy was hard because it was right.
No, he knew that. Hadn’t Flynn’s murder proved that? He just had to make headway before Murphy came after anyone else. And tonight, once Father Fitzgerald was gone, Zach could see what Fitzgerald — or Father Patrick — had been hiding right under Zach’s nose.
After a meal at a jazz-themed barbecue restaurant, Lucy paid for dinner, and Molly promised to return the favor. They left behind the hot oil smoke and vinegar tang of the restaurant for the busy, mall-like food court.
Lucy nodded, apparently coming to some conclusion. “Not bad, actually — and I’m, like, tenth-generation Southern. I should get my brother to come out and try this place. If he’d talk to me more than once a year. He’d love the live band.” She gestured toward the restaurant. “He says jazz is the country’s greatest achievement.”
“Maybe I’ll appreciate it once I’m officially an American.”
“You’re becoming a citizen? That’s great.”
“Thank you. I still have to pass my test in a fortnight.” Staring at the patterned tile floor, Molly pushed away the apprehension gnawing her stomach at the thought of the impending exam.
“I hope loving baseball and hot dogs aren’t a requirement. Otherwise, Immigration will be after me. But maybe my brother could bail me out. He works for the government.” Lucy dodged a group of dog-collared teenagers.
“Oh, INS — I mean, ICE? Or whatever they’re callin’ themselves these days?” Not Molly’s first choice agency, but still a possibility — if Immigration hired immigrants.
Lucy paused a moment. “You know, he’s never actually said exactly where he works. But we haven’t spoken since . . . before I moved here.” She shook her head. “Okay, it’s a sorry reflection on your life when even men related to you won’t return your calls. When did I get this sad?”
Molly smiled sympathetically, though she hardly believed a cute, petite blonde like Lucy had trouble getting any man to call her. “I know what you mean.”
“What, no nice Catholic guys in your life?” They slowed in front of a jewelry kiosk.
For some reason, Father Tim sprang to mind. Molly blinked away the image and pushed past the ring display. “Why, were you lookin’ for one?”
“Nah, I’m all set on disastrous relationships that burn out on the first date — or before.”
“Amen.” Molly willed herself not to remember that moment in the office last week.
“I’m too old to make myself unhappy like this. As Charlie Brown says, ‘Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.’” Lucy stopped at the handbag shop and touched the
glass in front of a camel-colored leather clutch. “I always thought I’d outgrow this before I was old enough to be chaperoning instead of dancing at Homecoming.”
“You’re volunteerin’ at the dance, so? You’re a saint.”
“All my life,” Lucy chirped.
“Sorry?”
“Oh, lame family joke. I’ve been a ‘Saint’ all my life, in more ways than one — it’s my last name, and then I’m a Latter-day Saint, get it?”
“Pity you’re not Catholic with a name like that.” Molly spied the exit and took Lucy’s arm. “Come see this.” She led Lucy out of the building and across a landscaped patio to the white metal railing. Molly swept an arm over the lower pavilion and Lake Michigan. The sunset’s last orange-pink glow silhouetted the city’s famed skyscrapers.
Lucy gasped. “Check out that view! The skyline — it’s beautiful.”
“The best part of Navy Pier.”
They watched in silence while the sky faded to black, and the skyscraper lights sparkled in the lake’s reflection.
Once it was dark, the spell wasn’t quite as strong. Lucy pushed away from the railing. “You could be a saint, too, and chaperon with me.” She rolled her eyes. “Just what you want to do on a Saturday night.”
Molly started for the car park, but glanced back at the checkerboard of city lights. She didn’t have plans, and she could see how Lucy’s students acted, to see if she had anything to worry about from Doyle Murphy’s gang. And that, at the least, would be worth her while. She smiled at Lucy and accepted.
If Father Fitzgerald or Father Patrick seriously thought the lock on this file cabinet would deter someone who wanted in here, he’d been mistaken. Zach surveyed Father Patrick’s filing cabinet. The moon in the windows lit the office enough for him to work amid the long, eerie shadows.
Maybe another church mouse would come by to freak him out.
He laughed at himself and pulled out his lock picks. He was just glad to find a possible hiding place for the missing connection between Father Patrick and the mobsters.
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