Saints & Spies

by Jordan McCollum

  Zach started on the lock. He applied light pressure on the torsion wrench, then raked the pins a couple times with the pick. The cylinder gradually turned a little, but one or two of the pins held. He pushed the pick to the back of the cylinder and used a rocking motion as he eased it out. Halfway through, the cylinder turned, and the lock popped out.

  Too easy.

  The priest couldn’t have sprung for the expensive model? Maybe there wasn’t anything important in here. Of course, if that were the case, the key would have been on the ring with the rest of Father Patrick’s keys. Unless this cabinet was Fitzgerald’s.

  Zach pulled out the top drawer. If either priest had anything to hide, he couldn’t be stupid enough to stick it right in the top drawer, but there might be something in here to indicate who owned the cabinet.

  The first folder held copies of a contract dated two years ago. Kincaid Wholesalers — one of Murphy’s fronts — pledged to provide “goods and/or services” to St. Adelaide Catholic Parish. A second contract in the folder renewed the agreement a year ago, but didn’t yield any other information. He flipped to the last pages in both, but they were unsigned.

  The next drawer held loose sheets from a day planner. The names were familiar: Murphy, Lonegan, Hennessy, O’Leary, Gallaher, Flynn. Zach ignored a guilt-kick to the gut. Notes by each name: “doubled amount.” “Dropped off contract.” “Took $.”

  But no indication who the planner belonged to. Zach didn’t have much of a handwriting sample to go on — someone had cleared out Patrick’s personal effects down to the shopping lists.

  Then he’d eliminate known samples. Was it Fitzgerald’s? He checked again. Nah. Fitzgerald’s descending loops were open; these were closed.

  Zach glanced at the empty desks behind him. Could it be Kathleen’s? The untidy stacks on her desktop offered him plenty of exemplars. Her ‘y’ loops were practically check marks, like q’s — aggressive and angry.

  Then Molly? They’d joked about her cooking the books, but could she really?

  Zach strode to her desk. Neat. Too neat? There was almost nothing on it.

  The trash was more likely to yield a writing sample than her desk drawers. He raked through the garbage can: mostly paper, a candy wrapper and trash from lunch. He grabbed a couple slips of paper.

  The first sample, a phone number, was angular, aggressive — oh. Kathleen’s again.

  “Pizza party.” The second was Kathleen’s writing, too.

  The third, “St. Gregory’s, Tuesday,” was more curved. Closed descender loops. Was it the same as the day planner pages?

  Zach hurried back to the filing cabinet and pulled out one of the folders, jumping back and forth between the page and the note.

  The papers fluttered with his exhale. Molly’s descender loops were smaller. He dug back through his Quantico training. Small descender loops meant a closed personality. Harder to get to know.

  But that didn’t matter. He tossed the phone message back in the trash and headed back to the filing cabinet. The third drawer was empty. The bottom drawer held a lockbox.

  Just like Molly’s drawer held a cash box. Coincidence, right?

  Right. Molly’s drawer and cash box locks wouldn’t stand up to an agent with a hairpin and half a brain. The file cabinet lock was marginally better, but the lockbox was a miniature safe, with a fingerprint scanner.

  Great. He had to get in there, but his tools for that were back in his room. If Jay Gallaher and his maroon sedan were watching the office — watching over whatever required a biometric mini-safe — lugging a safe out of here would definitely put Zach in the mob’s sights, and not in the way he wanted.

  Now what?

  Molly finished her story about the misadventures of the last math teacher just as Lucy pulled into the parish car park. Their laughter died out and Lucy sighed, taking a spot and shifting into park. “All right, well, I guess I’ll see you on Saturday, if that’s still okay.”

  Saturday? Oh, the dance. “Sure now, of course it is.” Molly leaned down to retrieve her handbag — but she found only the beige floor mat at her feet. “Lucy, did I have my handbag?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I could’ve sworn I brought it to the car at least.” Molly frowned. “Would you mind terribly waitin’ while I check the office?”

  “Oh, I’ll come with you.”

  They started for the office door, the clacking of Molly’s heels echoing eerily in the arcaded hallway.

  Zach jerked his head up at the sound of footsteps — high heels? — in the arched hall outside the office. This was no church mouse. He pushed the drawer almost shut, not risking the clank-nk of the drawer fastening.

  The footsteps were coming closer. Coming to the office? Who’d come in at nine thirty?

  The footsteps slowed. Was it his imagination — or his pulse in his ears — or was there a second set of feet? Either way, they were definitely coming to the office.

  He could probably hide in the open in a dark office with his black clerical clothing, but he didn’t dare risk it. Zach silently slipped across the room, sliding to sit under Molly’s desk and wait out whoever this was.

  If these people found him, there wouldn’t be a good explanation for why a priest was in the office alone with the lights off in the first place, let alone hiding under Molly’s desk. Could someone have seen him come in? Was this Gallaher from the maroon sedan?

  Zach readied himself to draw his gun from his ankle holster. He’d pocketed his picks. The filing cabinet drawer was just open a crack. He could only pray this person wouldn’t notice.

  The doorknob rattled.

  As she reached the door, Molly saw the problem with her plan. “My keys must be locked in there.” She fiddled with the knob. It turned. She glanced at Lucy, who mirrored her surprise and dread. The door was unlocked?

  Was this how it happened with Father Patrick? His murderer was still out there. Unless he’d returned to the scene of his crime. Icy fingers trailed down her spine.

  Steeling herself, Molly opened the door and peered into the office. Her vision hadn’t adjusted to the dark, but slowly she made out the office furniture and equipment. All in order.

  Molly tried to shake off the foreboding that still pulled the hair at the nape of her neck to attention. She rounded her desk to search the drawers for her handbag.

  Molly.

  Even if he could cover his gun before she found him, Zach would look really suspect — and really stupid — hiding under her desk. He tried to force himself further into the shadows. Good thing she had a deep desk, and she hadn’t bothered to switch on the lights, either.

  But wouldn’t any normal person with a legitimate reason to be in their own office after hours switch on the lights first thing? Was she here for something illegal?

  She’d been here after dark on a Saturday night when Murphy dropped him off. And yesterday he’d interrupted them “getting down to business.”

  Zach’s stomach sank like he’d missed the game-winning basket. He’d missed something a lot bigger than that.

  Molly searched the top drawers on either side of the desk. She picked up the phone.

  “I’m goin’ to call my mobile,” Molly said. To someone. “Will you listen at the car?”

  “Sure,” came the voice from the door. Her footsteps trailed away. A woman — who sounded really familiar. Whose voice would he recognize in the parish? Kathleen’s?

  Above him, Molly dialed. In the silence, she shifted her weight from one attractive ankle to the other — he’d never realized ankles could be pretty.

  She released her relief in a sigh. “Oh, under the seat, of course. Be right there. Thank you.” She hung up the phone and headed out of the office. The doorknob rattled and her footsteps paused. Looking over the office? Zach closed his eyes, fervently hoping she’d find nothing amiss.

  He’d done something right, apparently. Molly closed the door and locked it behin
d her. The echo of her footsteps receded, leaving him alone in the dark to finally breathe again.

  After hiding his gun, Zach crawled from underneath the desk and locked the file cabinet. He waited until he was sure Molly would be gone before he returned to the parish house. As he walked through the parking lot, he took note of the maroon sedan parked across the street. But he was more worried about the owner of a pair of pretty ankles.

  He had to know, once and for all, how deep she was in. Time to either work her like a suspect or an asset — not a prospect.

  The office phone rang Friday evening, and Molly checked the caller ID — the parish house. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Molly.” Father Tim’s greeting was warm as ever. “Would you and Kathleen like some dinner?”

  She glanced at Kathleen’s empty desk. “I’m afraid she’s already left for the day.” And it was Friday. Father Fitzgerald had to be on his way to the Baileys’.

  “Then would you like to join me?”

  Molly hesitated a beat. No matter what she’d thought last week, she’d never cross the line with a priest, and she couldn’t imagine Father Tim allowing it either. The invitation had to be innocent. “I suppose I could.”

  She straightened her desk, ignoring the anticipation building behind her rib cage. No need to get wound up over a handsome man — a handsome priest — even if he did understand her Irishisms and help her and respect her. At the parish house door, she paused for a heartbeat before she pulled her keys from her handbag and let herself in. The familiar aroma of boiling potatoes greeted her, relieving a measure of the anxious pressure on her chest.

  Molly couldn’t see Father Tim from the front door, but a pan clanged against the sink to give him away. She found him in the kitchen. She almost expected some sort of electric current to pass between them, but meeting his familiar eyes brought reassurance — a peace she hadn’t felt since she’d discovered the office door unlocked.

  He beamed at her. “Hey there. Hope you like champ.”

  He was cooking an Irish dish for them. The breakfast bar was set for two. That lead weight slowly lowered onto her heart again.

  She was here for a private dinner with Father Tim.

  Zach busied himself rummaging through the junk drawer. Molly had unfettered access to the priests’ quarters. She could’ve admitted the murderers to the parish house and laid out the money laundering as a frame up. She could’ve even killed Father Patrick herself.

  Ridiculous. His body wasn’t in the parish house; he was outside her office. Which didn’t help clear her. And that was exactly why he’d called her here — to test her.

  Disarming and innocent. That was how he needed to play this. He flashed her a grin and moved to the next avocado-green drawer for a mixer or mallet or other weapon — er, utensil for mashing the potatoes. Could Molly be a danger to him?

  “Just finishing up.” He found a masher and held it aloft.

  Molly walked behind him to take a pot from the stove. She poured the scallions in milk into the waiting potatoes. “You never did tell me how you knew I’ve a Dublin accent.”

  Zach attacked the potatoes with needless vigor, wracking his mind for a believable explanation. Was it his imagination or was the kitchen a lot smaller with her in it? “I lived in Ireland a while,” he managed. “Study Abroad.”

  “You certainly absorbed the culture. Or at least the recipe for champ.”

  “I tried.” He grabbed the potatoes and turned to the breakfast bar. “Go ahead and sit.”

  She settled onto a barstool. “And where are you from, Father?”

  “Virginia.” He took the stool next to her. “Would you like to say grace?”

  Molly bowed her head. As she offered a short prayer, Zach sized her up. The calm on her face and in her voice as she addressed God, her hands relaxed — she’d never killed anyone. But did she know anything about the money laundering?

  He echoed her amen, and they tucked into their meal. He was supposed to be assessing her, flirting if necessary, but the parish finances were the last thing he wanted to discuss.

  “You’re mixed up, aren’t you?” she said.

  Zach looked up. She pointed at his hands, the fork in his left, the knife in his right: European style instead of American. He laughed at himself. “Oh, yeah. It’s easier. Erin go bragh.” He gave a little fist-pump with the Irish nationalist slogan.

  “Éire go Brách,” she echoed with far better pronunciation. After all, there wasn’t a more appropriate response. Especially if her father was an Irish republican terrorist.

  “Was it your heritage that brought you to Ireland?” she asked.

  “I’m not very Irish.” Zach shrugged.

  Molly furrowed her brow. “But — your last name —”

  He kicked himself mentally. “One great-great-grandfather way back there. Practically doesn’t count.”

  “Ah. Where in Ireland did you stay?”

  He filled his mouth with a bite of champ to buy himself another minute. Best not to pin himself down to one lie. “All over. One of those traveling things. And you?”

  “Well, I was born in Derry.” Northern Ireland. Derry was no Belfast, but it had a long history with the IRA, too. “But we moved to Castleknock when I was little.”

  The LDS mission home was in the same suburb — but he definitely couldn’t say that. “I got to visit Castleknock Castle.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Yeah, thanks for having me.” He grinned.

  Molly smiled indulgently. Was she leaning closer?

  Zach resisted the urge to loosen his collar. This was not helping him figure out if she was involved in the money laundering. He shifted gears. “Sorry about the other day. I didn’t like the way Doyle was looking at you, but I should’ve known he wasn’t a threat. Hope I didn’t step on your toes.”

  “Not at all.” She bit her lip. Had he ever really noticed her lips? If her ankles were pretty, her lips —

  Zach cleared his throat. “Which side of your family does the Black Irish come from?”

  “Both, my grandmothers. So I’m told, anyway. I didn’t really know them.” Her gaze grew distant, and she fingered one of those dark curls that gave the Black Irish their name.

  He tried to lighten the mood — and then he could ply her again. “Okay, I have to ask: what were your parents thinking, naming you Molly?”

  Molly glanced heavenward. “It’s my sister’s fault. She couldn’t say ‘Mary.’”

  “Is your family still in Dublin?”

  “We all came here together: Mum, Da, my sister and her husband.”

  Irish terrorists in the States? Great job, Immigration. “Why haven’t I met them yet?”

  “Ah, they go to Old Saint Pat’s.” She poked at her fish. “Have you ever been?”

  “No.” Hopefully the church wasn’t a place any real priest would make a point to visit.

  “It’s fantastic — a hundred and fifty years old, motifs from the Book of Kells in the stained glass and on the walls.” Her enthusiasm for her native culture shone in her eyes. “You shouldn’t miss it, even if you’re not that Irish.”

  “I’ll have to check it out.” And time for the segue. “Y’know, it was weird — Doyle never did tell me what he wanted the other day.”

  “Didn’t he?” She popped a forkful of green beans in her mouth without meeting his gaze.

  “What was it?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  His stomach seemed to shrink around his dinner. Why did he care so much?

  Molly looked up, a defiant spark in her eyes. “Had my toes stepped on before he asked.”

  Zach returned her smirk, finally relaxed enough to swallow his bite of fish. He was enjoying this back-and-forth — other than the tension ratcheting across his chest. Just one more try. “Seems like something’s up there. You said you know Doyle?”

  “Just enough.” Her simple shrug seemed to hide no guile. Eithe
r she was good — or she was really good. Either way, he couldn’t push much harder before she shut down.

  “Is he one of the people I shouldn’t get too close to?”

  Molly held his gaze, calm and steady. “He’s one of the people you should let me handle.”

  And that was it. He could tell he was hitting her limit. Time to change the subject. “The school’s homecoming dance is tomorrow, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “It is. I’m supposed to chaperon. Don’t suppose we’ll be seein’ you there?”

  “No.” He sighed ruefully. “Can’t be seen on a dance floor. Can’t dance anyway.”

  Molly finished her champ and pushed her plate away. “Pity. I’ll have to be content to spend the evenin’ standin’ in a corner.”

  “Nah, I bet you’ll spend at least half the time out on the dance floor.”

  “How did you know? I’ve always been quite the magnet for teenage boys.”

  “I’m sure they’re not the only ones.”

  A blush crept up from the collar of her off-white sweater. Zach stood and cleared their plates, though he was only half done. “Thanks for helping me with dinner. I forgot Bruce was at the Baileys’ tonight.”

  She rubbed one finger on the breakfast bar. “Every Friday.”

  “This is only my third one here.” He set the plates in the sink. “Can I walk you out?”

  Molly had her purse before he turned around. He escorted her to her car in silence. At her green Volkswagen, they came to a stop. She stared up at him like she was trying to read his mind.

  The wind drew two dark curls across her face. Without thinking, Zach tucked her soft curls behind her ear. She closed her eyes. It would be so easy to kiss her now, if he just — her eyelids fluttered and he faltered, his hand still lingering by her cheek.

  Everything had its reasonable limit. Including how far he’d go in flirting to get to Molly. Er, the mob.

  Before he could pull away, a woman’s voice called Molly’s name. They both looked to find Kathleen. “I left my glasses. Did you see — oh, Father.” Her gaze darted from him to Molly and back. “Should’ve known. Surprised it took this long, really, the way you hang around the office.”