Molly squared her shoulders. “I think it’s nice Father Tim takes an interest in helpin’ us.”
Kathleen turned her disapproval on Molly. “I’m sure you do. Appreciate his interest, I mean.” If she testified in that tone, Jesus would’ve sounded like the sinner.
“Do you need me to give you somethin’ to do durin’ work — somethin’ to keep your imagination occupied, Kathleen? Because clearly it’s run amok.”
“Imagination?” She shot Zach another glare. “Is that what’s out of hand here?”
“Kathleen.” Zach kept his voice gentle, but firm — the same as he’d use with a dog. “Let he who is without sin.”
She folded her arms, but averted her gaze.
“See you Sunday.” He nodded to both of them and headed back to the parish house.
This was stupid — he was stupid. He was supposed to be getting information from Molly, not toying with her emotions and driving Kathleen nuts. Wasn’t like he and Molly had any future. Once this assignment was over, he couldn’t tell her who he was, unless he wanted to get fired and blacklisted. And he couldn’t expect her to be okay with a guy who could lie to her and her parish.
No, no — that didn’t matter. He shouldn’t even be thinking about Molly in his real life.
Then why was he?
This was not a direction he needed this case to take.
Molly rearranged the store-bought cookies on the plastic tray. She took a bite of an overly sweet gingersnap, as if that would settle the jitters in her stomach.
Last night was all in her imagination. Hers and Kathleen’s.
Guilt piled another stone on her shoulders. She took a second cookie and checked the punch station. She’d hoped a dim cafeteria festooned with stringy crepe streamers would be enough to keep her from remembering the way he’d looked at her, how much she’d wanted —
“There you are.” Lucy filled a cup with punch and gave it to Molly, then filled one for herself. She waved a hand toward the empty dance floor ringed by wallflowers. “These guys are a little depressed. Lost to Saint Michael’s.”
“Really hurts when it’s a girls’ school.”
Lucy smirked and checked the gym doors. “The hard part will be getting them dancing. Thanks again for coming, especially since it looks to be a boring evening.” She surveyed the dance floor again. “So what’s going on with Father Tim?”
Molly startled so violently she spilled half her punch. “What?”
“Still can’t catch him.” Lucy turned her head to regard Molly at a wary angle and offered her a napkin. If Lucy didn’t know something was wrong before, she certainly did now. But rather than asking, Lucy glanced at the doors again.
“We keepin’ you from somethin’?” Molly nodded toward the doors.
“Oh, just looking for . . . someone.”
“Someone?” Molly let her tone tease her friend a little.
Lucy blushed. “A volunteer at the school. It’s nothing. Won’t go anywhere.”
“You do know women can ask men out these days.”
“Yeah, not this guy.” She leaned closer. “He’s in seminary, studying to become a priest.”
Molly offered a smile she hoped would show she understood. “A James Bond/Miss Moneypenny kind of thing.” Pointless and yet irresistible.
Lucy set down her punch and pressed a hand to her stomach, visibly nauseated. “Molly, Paul and I actually had dinner together. It was — you have no idea. We were only talking about school, but his ex-girlfriend showed up and screamed that we were on a date!”
Molly cringed. That scenario was a little too familiar — and how would she react to someone who’d dated Father Tim before he’d taken his vows?
“I’m even more confused now,” Lucy said. “I wish we hadn’t gone.”
Molly used the same furtive tone. “I know what you mean.”
“You do?” Lucy shook her head. “Of course not. You wouldn’t even dream of doing —”
Molly held up a finger and made sure no one was close enough to overhear her. “Full-on priest.”
“Not . . . Father Fitzgerald?” The horror in her wide brown eyes verged on comical.
“No, no. Let’s just say it might be my fault Kathleen’s kept you from the new priest.” At the admission, some of last night’s guilt lifted from her heart.
“You’re kidding.”
“Wish I were.” Molly studied her half-empty cup. “I wonder if I’ve brought this on myself, as penance.” Perhaps if she were more devout, she wouldn’t be so susceptible to this struggle.
“I don’t think God usually gives trials to punish us. The Book of Mormon says He gives us weakness so we can come to him and be humble, and the Savior’s grace makes weak things strong.”
Molly considered that. She wasn’t terribly interested in catechism, but she’d never really got away from a basic trust that the Father and the Son were real. Could this be more than just a cross, a burden? A little more of the guilt melted away. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. That’s lovely.”
“Thanks. I’m still not making progress.” Lucy stared at the punch and hugged herself. “I can’t stop wondering what if — but it’s only false hope, because nothing will actually change.”
“It could. Though I suppose if your man doesn’t join the priesthood, you’d still have to handle the interfaith issue.”
“I know. And I guess if Father Tim,” she dropped her voice to a whisper to mention his name, “left the priesthood, he’d be out of your church, too.”
Molly stared at the pink streamers fluttering overhead. That wasn’t guaranteed. Then again, if Kathleen hadn’t come upon them last night — “I have to be better at this.”
Lucy bit her lip, then took a deep breath. “We’re having this potluck thing at my church Sunday after next. There’s a speaker afterward, and the topic is actually overcoming weakness. Want to come?”
Couldn’t hurt — Lucy’s scripture carried hope for both of them, and if it was to be more of that, why not? “Sure. What time?”
“We eat at six. I can pick you up, if you want. If you give me good directions.” Lucy glanced at the door again — still thinking of Paul, apparently. She looked back and laughed self-consciously.
They both checked the dance floor. A few couples had ventured out. Molly spotted a student edging his way toward them. “Maybe he could keep your mind off your man.”
“Don’t think he’s my type. You know, legal?” Lucy peered through the low light at the approaching student. “That’s Ian. He hates me.”
Ian? Molly squinted in the low light. Doyle’s son ambled toward the exit.
“Hey, Ian,” Lucy called. “You know once you leave, you can’t come back in, right?”
“Uh, yeah.” Ian fixed her with a menacing glare just like his father’s. Despite her warning, he stalked out with a final glower.
“What was that about?” Molly took a sip of her punch to make her question seem casual. But how much would it take for Ian to complain about Lucy to his father?
“We can’t let them back in because they might bring in alcohol or come back drunk.”
Although that wasn’t what she meant, Molly let the subject slide. “Should’ve brought my baton and handcuffs.” Not that she still had her Garda equipment more than five years after leaving the force.
Lucy spotted a couple dancing suggestively and left to break them up. Molly saw another couple and did the same. By the end of the evening, she almost wished she did have her baton, but she joked with Lucy that she was pretty sure they’d kept kids out of the confessional. After a quick goodbye, Molly paused at her car in the drizzling rain. Just last night, he’d stood right here, his fingertips caressing her cheek.
No. She could work with him — and still protect him — and not lose her head. Molly straightened herself to her full height and opened her car door.
Last night was definitely her imagination.
On
ce Kathleen left for her daily meeting at the school Tuesday afternoon, Zach headed in. This was his best chance to get the mini-safe out of the office and leave Gallaher in his maroon sedan across the street none the wiser.
But it also meant facing Molly for the first time since their dinner Friday night. Zach pushed aside that memory and marched into the office. Molly looked up from her computer with an amiable but not flirtatious smile. Now he just had to get her out of the office.
“Hey.” He grinned back to sell his lie a little more. “The school has some counseling files for me. Can you go get those while I take care of this?” He nodded at the box of books and held his breath. Would she buy that flimsy excuse?
Molly scrutinized him a moment. “Of course.” She left without question, giving him maybe three minutes for his task. As soon as she was gone, Zach dumped out the box of books — mostly ones he’d bought at the thrift store yesterday and snuck into the donation box at the mobsters’ building last night.
He turned to the file cabinet, popping the lock on the second pass of the pick. Perfect. He grabbed the mini-safe from the bottom drawer and set it inside the cardboard box. Standing, he kicked the drawer shut and popped the file cabinet’s lock in again. He peeked out the windows high on the office door. Molly was coming. He fell to his knees again to throw books back into the box.
Zach had barely covered the mini-safe with books when Molly returned bearing the folders — the files he’d requested from the school first thing that morning. She took her seat at her desk. “Almost done?”
“Most of these will end up at the thrift store.” He held up a risqué romance novel — not one of his picks. “I don’t think a high school library is the place for Sinful Desires.”
“I’d hope not.” She gave him the same smile, pleasant yet platonic.
Zach collected the rest of the unsuitable books, but set aside one special find. He stood and hoisted the now-considerably-heavier box onto one hip, with Escape the Turkmen Prison, the prequel to the spy novel from the last set of books, in his free hand. He held up the book. “Have you read this one?”
Her eyes lit up as soon as she saw the cover. “I’ve been lookin’ for that book for . . . ever.” She accepted the tattered pulp paperback like a priceless first edition. “Thank you, Father.”
“Sure thing.” Zach started out of the office. He’d made it: totally work-focused. Flirting wasn’t even necessary. Friday night was a fluke.
“Oh.” Molly lifted the folders. “Don’t forget your files.”
He held out a hand. “Right, thanks.”
“Want me to take the books to the charity shop?” she offered as he took the files.
“That’s okay.” He patted the box with the folders. “Wouldn’t want to give you Sinful Desires.” Zach choked on his quip. Molly’s jaw went slack in horror. “The book,” he added belatedly. After a second of awkward pause, Zach pivoted to leave. To make his exit even clumsier, the door swung open before he could reach it and smacked into the box of books. Zach stumbled backward, struggling to keep his grip on the heavy box with the folders.
“Let me help you with that.” The man who’d hit him with the door moved closer.
Zach shifted the box and its evidence out of reach, finally able to catch the other corner. “I got it, thanks.” Though he probably didn’t look it, halfway to a squat to regain his balance.
The stranger turned to Molly. Zach pulled himself to standing. The other man was a few inches shorter than Zach. He wasn’t a known mobster, but that didn’t put him in the clear. His curly bronze hair was a little too perfectly styled, his suit a little too slick and the smile he was giving Molly a little too winning.
Or did Zach not trust him because that winning smile was aimed at Molly?
“I’m Cathal Healey.” He grabbed a chair and set up in front of Molly’s desk, his back to Zach. Zach sent Molly a skeptical look over Cathal’s head. Maybe the guy’s parents had never heard the Irish name aloud, but apparently they’d missed the memo that the ‘t’ was silent.
But Molly smiled back at the newcomer. “What brings you in, Mister Healey?”
“I’m with Stockman Developers. You know that empty lot a block over?”
She nodded. Zach readjusted his grip on the box, which was growing heavier by the second. He needed to get the mini-safe back to the parish house, but how could he leave Molly alone with this suspicious stranger?
Healey continued his pitch. “We’re scouting locations for a youth center, and we figured you guys could give us a real feel for the area.” He pulled a sheet of paper from a leather attaché case and slid it across her desk like a casual, five-figure bribe check.
Zach resisted the urge to scoff. A youth center in a mob-run neighborhood? Yeah, that’d keep them out of trouble. The box slid an inch lower.
“Oh, sure now.” Molly picked up a pen and leaned over her desk. “We may not be a perfect fit, so.” She marked the church/parish house/school complex on the map.
This didn’t seem right. “Who’s funding the center?” Zach asked, testing Healey’s story. Molly and Healey turned to him.
“The Marcus Williams Foundation.” He gave Zach the same winning grin he’d given Molly, but Healey’s eyes held no warmth. “They’re a community outreach NGO.” Though he’d waited the exact right amount of time to answer, it still felt too slick, too pat.
Molly waved him away. “I’ll take care of him, Father.”
The box slipped two more inches. Maybe the guy’s salesman vibe was what set him on edge. Zach bid them goodbye and headed for the parish house. Halfway across the parking lot, he dared to check the maroon sedan’s usual parking spot. Was it his imagination or was Gallaher on the phone?
That night, Zach waited to check through the curtains until Father Fitzgerald left on one of his usual family visits. The maroon sedan was still parked across the street. Zach locked the front door and took the mini-safe to his room. He turned the metal box over, hefted it, tapped on it. The dull echo sounded like reasonably thick steel. Probably two locking bolts, maybe half-inch diameter. Electronic fingerprint scanner.
Unlike the filing cabinet, this had been purchased by someone who knew what he was doing. Zach retrieved his small toolkit from under the bed, replaced his lock picks, and pulled out a pencil and notepad.
If he didn’t have his tools with him, of course, he would’ve found a way to cut the safe open without damaging its contents. Any safe small enough to carry around was usually small enough to steal and crack — literally. But this time he was prepared, as long as the last person to open this hadn’t thought to wipe off the scanner.
Once the pencil was sharp enough, Zach rubbed the lead on the notepad. He blew the resulting graphite powder onto the fingerprint scanner. At an angle, the beam from his flashlight showed a good print.
Perfect. Zach grabbed the Silly Putty from his toolkit. He carefully pressed the pliable putty onto the scanner to lift the print. Low-tech indeed — though once he’d seen a TV show where they used a print photocopied on acetate to break into a lock. But now he had to be careful. If he didn’t lift this right, the print would be destroyed. Then he’d have to resort to cutting the safe open, and he wouldn’t be able to sneak it back without anyone knowing. Did he need to put it back? Who would check? Molly?
Zach steadied his breathing and slowly peeled off the makeshift thumb. He turned it over. The print was intact in the putty. The tension in his chest melted. Father Patrick was gone; Zach probably didn’t need to worry about returning the safe. With the fake thumb on the scanner again, the lock beeped and the metal-on-metal grind indicated the steel locking bars were opened. He pulled open the door — and laughed at himself when he realized he was whistling the James Bond theme song. Between the low-tech crack and the celibate cover, he couldn’t picture fiction’s most famous spy in this job. Zach finally extracted the safe’s contents.
Bank statements. He didn’t know what he’d been h
oping to find, but this wasn’t it.
The statements were less telling than the contracts had been, but they were all addressed to St. Adelaide Catholic Church c/o Colin Patrick.
Between this and the information in the filing cabinet, he’d definitively tied a dead priest to a money laundering scheme. “Good work, Saint,” he muttered. Zach set his jaw and started on the statements. He was on the fourth month when a knock on the parish house door made him jump despite his training. Had he locked Fitzgerald out? He stuffed the paperwork inside the mini-safe and shoved it under the bed.
Before whoever it was knocked a second time, Zach opened the door. Molly. How did she always manage to catch him — or nearly so — whenever he touched this safe? “What’s up?”
“Sorry, Cally Lonegan’s been tryin’ to reach you — said your line was busy?”
Zach glanced at the phone behind him. Seemed fine. “Huh. Would you set up an appointment with him this week?”
A crease of concern formed between her eyebrows, but she nodded. “Indulgin’ in some Sinful Desires?”
He followed her gaze over his shoulder again to the stack of thrift-store books on the couch next to his thrift-store Bible. “I am only human.”
“As are we all.” Molly lingered there another moment. “Father, I hope I haven’t done anythin’ or said anythin’ to make you think . . .”
“Think what?” Playing dumb was the only safe option.
Molly gripped her purse strap, bracing herself. “That I see you as somethin’ other than a priest.”
She might as well have punched him in the gut. “I thought we were friends.”
“Friends?” The blood drained from her face.
“I mean, Father Fitzgerald and Kathleen are better at lectures than jokes, and —” He sighed. “I’m sorry if I’ve done anything to make you think otherwise.”
“Not at all,” she choked out. “Have a good evenin’.” She turned to leave. Zach shut the door on the sight of her springing step. Why did she have to come by when he was going through the statements? She couldn’t know he had the safe.
Saints & Spies Page 10
