Saints & Spies

by Jordan McCollum

  Unless she had a key to that filing cabinet, and she’d checked. After all, Molly was there alone after regular business hours. All the time. He’d have to get at her keys in her desk —

  Zach froze. The mini-safe had been in a drawer just like Molly’s cash box. Molly’s cash box held bank account documentation. Papers that account owners kept track of — terms, rates, PINs. When the account was opened. Signatories.

  If those documents weren’t in the safe, could they be in her cash box?

  His gut tightened. No. He couldn’t do that.

  Zach rolled his eyes at himself. He was already bugging her computer and cell phone. Why should breaking into her desk be any different? She was a suspect. He had to think of her that way. Cool. Calculating.

  She might be right — it might be her fault Father Patrick was dead.

  Molly tried to concentrate on the balance sheet in front of her Wednesday afternoon, but couldn’t focus on anything but rubbing her fingers over her desktop. Father Tim would stop by any minute to pick up the budget for the movie night.

  Why should she be nervous? There’d been no repeat of the single incident of flirting last week. They were friends, just as he’d said last night. And a priest wouldn’t lie.

  No, she knew why she was worried — that meeting he’d requested with Cally Lonegan. She couldn’t fix things so easily if Father Tim was the one asking for the appointment. With the mobsters even turning on themselves, Father Tim didn’t stand a chance on his own. She’d have to resort to damage control, so.

  Father Tim strode into the office. “Hey, Moll. Everything ready?”

  She gave him the folder of flyers and decoration ideas for the movie night. “And I made you an appointment with Cally at eight.”

  “Thanks.” He finally nodded a greeting to Kathleen.

  She beamed as if Father Tim had never shown the kindness to acknowledge her. “Anything I can help you with?”

  He hesitated a moment. “Sure. Do we do anything as a parish for Halloween?”

  “We don’t have anythin’ planned until our dinner for the homeless at Thanksgivin’.”

  “What did you want to do, wear costumes to the office?” Kathleen snorted.

  Molly looked up in time to catch Father Tim’s grin. Her heart rose in her chest.

  “That’s a great idea,” he said. “What do you think, Molly?”

  “Let’s — sounds massive.” At her support, his smile broadened.

  “Massive?” Echoing Molly’s slang, Kathleen’s shrill voice shattered their moment.

  Not this, not now. “Oh, Father, here’s another list for the . . . yokiemabob.” Molly offered Father Tim the tentative food price list.

  “Yokiemabob?” Kathleen squeaked. “Do you even speak English?”

  Frowning, Father Tim took Molly’s paper. He turned back to Kathleen, his voice carrying the same low tone of rebuke he’d used with her last week. “I understand her perfectly.”

  Maybe it was her imagination, but Molly received the distinct impression Father Tim understood more than her Irish slang.

  Oh, she hoped not. Molly bowed her head to hide her warming cheeks as he walked out. Could he really believe they were just friends?

  Zach joined Cally and Lisa Lonegan on their brown leather couch. Lisa covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders shook. Lonegan patted her knee. Two weeks had certainly changed the mood at the Lonegans’. Or maybe it had something to do with burying Lisa’s brother two days ago.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Zach offered again. Sorrier than he cared to admit. Sure, it would’ve been three on one — not counting Flynn — and he might’ve blown his cover, but wasn’t a man’s life worth that?

  Lisa wiped her tears, straightened the stack of People magazines on the coffee table and murmured her thanks.

  “You should go wash your face.” Lonegan’s suggestion was probably about as gentle as the guy ever got.

  Lisa met his gaze. “Tell him.”

  Her husband engaged the coffee table in a staring contest.

  “What do you have to tell me, Cally?” Zach leaned forward.

  “It’s about Gerry,” Lonegan said.

  “No.” Lisa’s voice was suddenly firm. “It’s about you. Start with Father Patrick.”

  Zach tried to look appropriately concerned instead of excited, despite the anticipation quickening his pulse. He hadn’t botched the case yet — and Flynn’s death might be the last.

  Lonegan jerked his head toward the back of the condo. Lisa sniffled, stood, and shuffled away. Zach waited until he heard a door close in the back. “So, Father Patrick?”

  Lonegan hesitated, then crossed himself. “Bless me, Father. I sinned.”

  Great. If Lonegan made this a confession, anything even as small as a clue would go out the window in court — and there was that whole authority thing. Zach allowed a nod.

  “I — I tried to do this with Father Fitzgerald a couple weeks ago, but . . . I don’t know.”

  Relief doused Zach’s adrenaline rush. No break in the case, but at least he wouldn’t have to give Lonegan penance or absolution. “What did Father Fitzgerald tell you?”

  “Said I’m not ready yet.”

  “Because?” Zach scrutinized him in the silence that followed. Staring at his hands, Lonegan still bore the slump of a soul burdened by guilt. He’d tried to confess, but he hadn’t repented. He wasn’t ready to change. Even Zach’s relief dissolved — no confessions of any kind tonight. “What did you and Father Fitzgerald decide you should do next?”

  “He said I have to think about a new direction for my life. ‘Make a commitment to change.’” Lonegan raked his hair across his forehead. “I just don’t know if I can. Get out.”

  Yeah, the mob wasn’t known for its cushy severance and retirement plan. “I might be able to help you better if you could tell me what exactly we’re talking about.”

  “You name it, I done it. Except breaking my vows. Never done that. And I never killed anybody, not personally. Not directly.”

  Zach pulled back, faking shock. “I thought you said this was about Father Patrick?”

  Though it hardly seemed possible, Lonegan’s shoulders fell even further. “After what happened with him and now Gerry — I gotta stop while I can. If I can.”

  “What do you mean, ‘If I can’?”

  Lonegan smoothed his thinning hair again. “What I seen, what I done — it’s all so much.” He tugged at the cuffs of his shirt.

  “Do you like your life? Those things you’ve seen and done?”

  He pondered the faux wood coffee table a long time. “Thought I did. Thought it was the best life there is.” He rubbed his mouth. “But now . . .”

  “You want something better?”

  “Don’t know what I want. Don’t know if I have a right to want anything, after all I took.”

  “Hey.” Zach waited for him to look up. “We all have a right to lead a righteous life, if that’s what we really want.”

  Lonegan focused somewhere behind Zach.

  “Do you want that, Cally?”

  He stared past Zach. At length, he nodded. “Guess so.”

  “It won’t be easy, and it could take a while.” Zach offered a silent prayer that Lonegan could set a world record in turn-around time. “But I know you can change. The Lord can help you — I’ve seen Him do it. And it is worth it.”

  Lonegan squinted and slowly shifted his gaze back to Zach. Was he pondering or doubting? “You see the Bulls’ opener last night?” he asked.

  “You see Rose’s steal?”

  Zach’s “research” paid off: Lonegan’s face lit up for the first time that night. “What do you think of the Bulls’ chances?”

  Maybe he was letting him off too easy, but Zach let him steer the conversation to basketball. If he was still questioning a commitment to change, Lonegan wasn’t ready to even think about the FBI. But Zach couldn’t affor
d to wait long until he pushed Lonegan again. He was nearly halfway to the archbishop’s deadline.

  Molly was finishing the bulletin to take to the printer Friday afternoon when Father Tim came by the office bearing two brown paper sacks. The first pretty day in three weeks, the thin fall sunlight was warm enough he could leave the door open. “Happy Oíche Shamhna.”

  “Oíche Shamhna shona duit.” She nodded, automatically steadying the pipe cleaner halo on her headband. Could she ask whether he’d met with Cally Lonegan without tipping Father Tim off?

  Her efforts at keeping him from the mobsters were failing worse and worse.

  Father Tim flashed a smile. He placed one of his parcels on Kathleen’s empty desk and handed the other to Molly. “Happy Halloween.”

  The sack held a loaf of raisin-speckled bread. “Barmbrack! Oh, thank you — now it’s really Oíche Shamhna.”

  “You’re welcome.” Father Tim glanced at the other two desks, vacant. “You know, I heard something interesting the other day.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He said Doyle gives you a deal on your rent. That’s nice of him.”

  Molly cocked her head. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Um, Cally Lonegan.”

  She steeled herself against the sinking feeling in her stomach. So he had seen Cally after all. But Cally said . . . ? “He must be mistaken.”

  Father Tim mirrored her questioning posture.

  “You pay my rent,” she said. “I was told it came with the job. The parish has the contract.” Could Cally be half-right, though?

  “Oh, really?” He stepped back to lean against Kathleen’s desk for a moment, until Kathleen traipsed in, her red patent leather stilettos clopping over the linoleum tile. Molly held her tongue about her coworker’s high heels and devil horns. In Ireland, that was part of the tradition, but here, some of the parish might object.

  Father Tim raised an eyebrow. “Did you answer the door like that, Kathleen?”

  “No,” she chirped, “but I answered the phone, ‘Second circle of hell, how may I direct your call?’ Speaking of, did you hear what happened to Maureen?”

  “What?”

  “She broke her wrist. No surgery or anything, but she can’t play for the rest of the year.”

  Father Tim grimaced. “Does she need us to do anything for her?”

  “No. But she’s the only one in the parish who plays the organ,” Molly said. “I was about to ring ’round to see if anyone had an organist to spare.”

  Father Tim’s blue eyes sparkled with a secret. “Don’t worry. God will provide.”

  “A ram in a thicket?” Molly held in a laugh.

  Kathleen tossed an envelope on Molly’s desk as she passed. “Donation for the trust.”

  Molly opened her drawer for the cash box. She unlocked it and, as if it enjoyed embarrassing her in front of Father Tim, the cash box flipped its contents onto the floor.

  Father Tim knelt to help her. “Sure Jeez,” Molly muttered.

  “Molly.” Kathleen frowned, the judgmental lines on her lips pinching together. “I assume something specific brings you by, Father?”

  He glanced at Molly, then turned to Kathleen. “Ah, tearin’ away, actin’ the maggot.”

  Kathleen’s jaw dropped, as did Molly’s — though probably for a different reason. Remembering the Irish name of Halloween was one thing; being fluent in Dublin slang was another. “Go ’way.”

  Father Tim grinned.

  “Molly, I can’t believe you’d say that to Father Tim.” Kathleen scoffed. “How rude!”

  Molly checked Father Tim’s expression — he definitely knew the phrase was the equivalent of the American “aw, go on” and not a dismissal. And he was antagonizing Kathleen on purpose. “Has a tongue that would clip a hedge, hasn’t she?” he remarked to Molly.

  “Sure now, normally the office craic is rapid, mar dhea.”

  “Yeah, someone’s on crack and it’s not Maria.” Kathleen completely misinterpreted the last Irish phrase — which changed the original sentence to sarcasm — and snorted.

  “Kathleen.” Father Tim handed Molly the last of the bank notes and stood. Drawing himself up to his full height, he towered over Kathleen. “You are always giving out to Molly,” he continued, using yet another Irishism. “So what if she uses some Irish phrases? She’s Irish.”

  Kathleen folded her arms across her chest. “She may be Irish, but she’s in America now.”

  “And, what, if she wants to use Irish words, she should go back to Ireland? Come on. She’s done plenty to accommodate you. It’s time you did the same for her.”

  Kathleen shut her mouth for all of four seconds. “Thought you were dressing up, Father.”

  “I thought you were, too,” he murmured for Molly, and slipped out the door.

  Molly took a bite of her barmbrack to stifle her laugh. She hadn’t had barmbrack in years. The nearest import shop wasn’t far, but Father Tim didn’t have a car of his own.

  Kathleen discovered her brown paper sack. “What’s this?”

  “Barmbrack, a sweet bread with raisins. An Irish Halloween tradition. Father Tim picked it up for us.”

  Kathleen poked at her loaf and curled her upper lip.

  “It’s good.” Molly took another bite of her loaf to prove it. Luckily, Kathleen turned back to her computer before Molly bit into something solid. Oh, she’d forgotten the ring baked into each loaf. Traditional barmbrack had half a dozen objects baked in to predict fortunes, though store-bought loaves generally only had the toy ring.

  Molly drew a silent breath as she brushed the breadcrumbs off the gold-painted plastic. The person that found it would marry within the year. She placed the ring in her desk drawer and started to crumple the sack — but something solid was still inside. A Crunchie bar. Molly could almost taste the smooth chocolate as she slipped the bar into her desk drawer. Could he possibly know it was her favorite chocolate bar? And was she really this foolish?

  Zach stepped out of the office and reminded himself he was just doing this to keep Molly close. The sheer delight in her eyes was a fringe benefit. That was all.

  He’d only made it a few feet from the office when he spotted a guy with a disturbingly perfect shirt and tie, matching his magazine-cover curls. Cathal Healey waved to Zach. “How’s it going, Father?”

  “Fine.” Zach watched Healey walk to the office door. Healey pasted on that trying-way-too-hard grin before opening the door. Zach caught sight of the one chink in the other man’s armor — a pair of vertical worn patches on his belt — and Healey disappeared inside.

  Zach tried to quash the self-satisfied smile he could feel coming. Molly wouldn’t notice or care that Healey needed a new belt. And Zach shouldn’t care whether Molly did.

  Back on track in his cover, he headed for the organ manuals in the choir loft. He’d made it through a couple familiar standards when he heard the footsteps echoing up the stairwell. He shifted on the bench to make his gun more accessible, then recognized Molly’s step. Had she left Cathal Healey to come see him? That self-satisfied smile tried to make a comeback.

  Molly walked into view, no longer wearing the pipe cleaner halo for her costume. And no Healey. “I didn’t know you played the organ,” she said.

  “I’m from one of those obnoxiously musical families — but we all have our hidden talents.”

  “I suppose you never really know people, sure.” Molly leaned against the closest corner of the organ, silent a little too long.

  “You okay, Moll?”

  She hesitated a beat. “Thinkin’ about whether to share . . . those hidden talents.”

  “A talent show? Awesome — or should I say lethal?” He thought he dropped the Irish slang casually, but Molly still raised an eyebrow. He pressed on. “What’s your hidden talent?”

  Molly looked down. Dread crept into Zach’s chest. Not money laundering.

  No, that would be
a good thing. He leaned over until his chin almost hit the organ keys to catch her gaze. “Is it some sort of sin?” he asked in a mock-serious tone.

  “No. Irish dance.”

  The muscles in his shoulders released, whether in disappointment or relief, he couldn’t say. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I amn’t — er, I’m not. I just don’t want to be the entertainment at every parish function for the rest of my life.”

  Zach nodded. “My mom still wants me to sing in church for Christmas.”

  “An organist and a singer, are we?”

  He ran his fingers over a C scale. “I’d rather play. How long have you danced?”

  “All my life.”

  “Should’ve guessed. You move like a dancer — I mean, uh —” He cut himself off with a self-conscious laugh and looked at the manuals. Flirting was one thing, but he’d blow his cover with more lines like that.

  “Tell you what: I’ll dance at this talent show of yours if you’ll sing.” She extended a hand with her offer.

  “Okay.” He took her hand. Her soft skin felt a little too good against his. Molly withdrew into fist a second before fidgeting with the leiblich gedeckt stop.

  Zach tried to push past the increasingly awkward silence. “We can start on that after the movie night. Oh, tell me you chose a movie.”

  “I’ve even ordered the film.”

  “Fair play to you,” Zach said, again using Irish slang, this time the equivalent of “Good one!”

  And this time she didn’t let it go. “How long did you say you were in Ireland again?”

  “A school year — like eight months.”

  Molly squinted at him. Could she tell he’d really spent more than double that there? At least she hadn’t asked where he’d studied. He’d have to watch it on the mission slang. She started for the stairs. “Oh.” She doubled back, holding out a piece of paper. “Almost forgot the reason I came up. The hymn schedule.”