He thanked her and turned back to the manuals as Molly walked away. But she returned within seconds. “Before I go, Father, do you know anything about Mormons?”
Zach’s hand slipped and he hit dissonant chord. Grateful for his FBI training, he managed to keep his expression only mildly curious. “Why do you ask?”
“A Mormon friend invited me to an activity this weekend, and I just wanted to be sure it wouldn’t be anythin’ . . . ‘different.’”
Molly had found the Church on her own. A priest should discourage this, right? But maybe he could subtly help her investigate. He opted for a sage nod. “Can’t imagine it’d be too ‘different.’ Be sure to invite your friend to our movie night.”
“Oh, I will. I should be off now, though — kept Cathal waitin’ long enough.” Molly smiled and started for the stairs with that graceful spring in her step.
She’d left Healey waiting while she came to see him, even it if was only for three minutes. Zach shook his head, consulted the hymn schedule and pulled the leiblich gedeckt stop. He was here for mobsters, not Molly. Besides, if she liked Healey, obviously she wouldn’t be interested in Zach Saint. Even if Healey did need a new belt.
He stopped short. He’d seen that wear pattern before — all the time. Was it just out of place at a church, or did Molly have him so distracted he didn’t recognize wear from a gun holster?
Molly. His heart crawled into his throat. Zach ran downstairs, out of the chapel, and around to the office. She wasn’t at her desk. “Where’s Molly?” he panted.
Kathleen copped a perfect what’s-it-to-you? face. “Mister Healey took her to lunch. Or maybe I should say she took him.” She looked nearly triumphant. “She drove.”
Zach nodded and fought off the dread filling his gut. Whoever Cathal Healey really was, he didn’t work in real estate.
It was really too late for lunch — and Molly had had Tim’s barmbrack — but she tried to be polite as Cathal ordered a heavy alfredo dish for her.
How could his parents name him Cathal without even bothering to look up an acceptable pronunciation?
“I really can’t imagine what else I could tell you about the neighborhood.” She added a note of apology to her voice. How would the badly-lit Italian chain restaurant Cathal had chosen help them discuss the neighborhood twenty minutes away?
He beamed back at her. “I was getting a feel for the area before, talking to people on the ground. Once we narrow it down to two or three possibilities, we go in depth.”
“We’re one of the top choices?” Molly twisted her napkin in her lap. Did they need more impressionable youth in an area already dominated by the mob?
“Oh, absolutely. But like I said, we really want to go in depth now.” He pulled a sheet of yellow legal notepaper from his ridiculous attaché. “Mind if I ask you about a few things?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Cathal read over his notes. “Let’s see. . . . You’ve got just under three hundred students at the school, about a third of them from the neighborhood?”
“That’s right.”
“What else?” he murmured, tapping his lips with his fingers. “Chicago PD says the area is usually low in petty crime — but they did find a body half a mile away from the site two weeks ago. Did you hear anything about that?”
Molly nearly choked on her water. “He was from our parish.” And Doyle Murphy’s gang.
“Sorry to hear that. Mugging?”
She shrugged, rubbing at the corner of her napkin. Kathleen heard that Gerald Flynn had been shot in the head, execution style, and still had his expensive watch on. Hardly a typical street crime.
“And a couple months ago, you had another murder in the area. A guy named Patrick?”
Her stomach lurched. “Father Patrick, one of our priests — you know, I did say we might not be the best choice for your youth center.”
The waiter delivered two plates of pasta drowning in cream sauce as Cathal laughed away her concern. “Molly, we’re in Chicago. We don’t expect to find a hundred-percent-crime-free area.”
She speared three pieces of penne with her fork.
“But just so you know, a couple other people we talked to seemed to feel very safe in the neighborhood, especially thanks to this one guy. Sounds like a real hero.” His paper crinkled when he flipped it over. “Here it is. Doyle Murphy — know him?”
“Not really. But from what I’ve heard, he’s more like a school yard bully.” Molly set aside her fork. She wasn’t hungry in the first place, only going along with Cathal because he was handsome and charming. And now he was asking all the wrong questions — especially for a real estate developer.
Cathal took a few more minutes of small talk to realize Molly was finished eating. He got her alfredo to go, and she drove them back to the parish. He walked her to the office door. “Give me a call if you think of anything,” Cathal said, offering his card along with her Styrofoam container.
Molly held up a hand to refuse both. “I’m more of a marinara kind of girl, thank you.”
He slid the card off the box. “Then just take this. You can be our eyes and ears on the ground. For the kids.”
She pursed her lips but took the card. He had better not expect her to phone. She already had enough people to protect from the mob.
Sunday afternoon, Molly tried not to think of her own chapel — and those minutes in the choir loft — as she and Lucy stood in the queue for food in the carpeted gym inside the squat, stone-façade building. Molly glanced around the room and caught herself searching for the group of all-too-self-assured, shady parishioners she was used to seeing. But that was impossible. Mobsters in any church were an anomaly. Weren’t they?
At a tap on her shoulder, Molly turned around to find a curvaceous woman in a tailored jacket. She thrust a hand on one ample hip and looked Molly over as if assessing a rival — or meal. “You must be new. Hannah Byrd.” Her inflection revealed nothing of her appraisal.
“Molly.” She looked to Lucy, who was talking to the girl in front of them.
“Just move in?” Hannah asked.
“No, I’m a friend of Lucy’s.”
Before Molly could be at least civil, Lucy saved her. “Oh, guess you met Hannah. Molly, this is my friend Susan.” Lucy gestured to the woman in front of them. They made small talk while they served themselves and found a seat. Hannah joined them at the round plastic table a moment later. The clatter of metal doors silenced the room. Three fellas strode in, one holding two jars of salsa aloft. “Let’s get this party started!”
“Brian,” Hannah called. “You owe me a hug.”
Brian saluted with a jar. He handed the salsa off, then came over. As he released Hannah, he ogled Molly from tip to toe, craning his neck to peer under the table. “Who’s this?” he asked.
“Molly.” She tucked her legs under her chair, out of his sight.
“New in the ward?” Brian squared his broad shoulders and adjusted his over-gelled, highlighted hair, leaning closer to Molly.
She cocked her head. “The ‘ward’?” She turned to Lucy. “I thought you weren’t much for charity work. Are you volunteerin’ with a mental hospital?”
“He means the congregation.” Lucy frowned at Brian. “And it’s a branch.” She pointed to the food table. “Your friends are eating.”
Brian left for the queue, but rather than staying with his friends, he returned with three plates of food and took the vacant chair next to Molly. An awkward silence descended as Brian devoured his tacos.
Hannah pushed away her half-eaten enchiladas. “How’s your knee, Brian? He hurt it playing football yesterday,” she added for the other women’s benefit. Lucy covered her face.
“It’s stiff, but I’ve had way worse.” He shrugged and turned to Molly. “You should come cheer for us, too.” Brian leaned in and raised his voice, drowning out Susan’s attempt to change the subject. “We’d always win if you distracted
the other team.”
Molly tried to keep her laugh more polite than condescending.
Hannah cleared her throat. “You know she’s not a member, right?”
A hunting gleam sparked in his eyes, and Brian angled his shoulders to exclude Hannah. He smiled, though it was closer to a leer. “We can fix that. Learned about eternal marriage yet?”
“No. Lucy only asked me not to judge her church by its nutters.” Molly made her return smile cloyingly sweet. His appreciative leer spoke volumes — he really thought she was flirting back.
“So you’re Scottish?” he asked.
“Irish,” Lucy corrected. “But she’ll be an American soon.”
“There’s easier ways to get a green card.” Brian winked at her and stood. “I’m going to get some dessert. Can I get you anything?” He leaned into Molly’s personal space, apparently having forgotten his several plates’ worth of tacos. “I could bring you some of me lucky charms.”
“I’d better visit the ladies’ room before the fireside starts.” Lucy stood, clearly cutting off his come-ons.
Hoping her relief wasn’t evident — all right, she didn’t really care — Molly leapt to her feet. “I’ll come with you.”
In the white tiled bathroom, Lucy hopped up to sit on the beige Formica counter, her feet dangling high above the floor. “Sorry about Brian. He’s always that obnoxious, unfortunately.”
“Pity he can’t see your wan is perfect for him.”
“My one what?”
“Oh.” Molly tried to think of how to explain the Irish loanword. “Wan — woman. That girl.”
“Who, Hannah?” Lucy threw her head back, her laughter echoing off the walls. “Did I tell you about how I went to a ‘party’ at her place last month, and it was me and her and eight guys?”
Molly grimaced. “Maybe dealin’ with Kathleen isn’t so bad.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I don’t know; I think Kathleen’s goin’ to be changin’ after Friday.” She launched into the story of Father Tim giving out to Kathleen.
Lucy sighed. “I wish he could solve my problems at work.”
Molly forced herself to smile. Lucy couldn’t mean Doyle and his crew. “Or Paul could.”
“That would be my main problem.”
“Don’t know if Father Tim can help with that one.” But hadn’t Father Tim had a meeting with a Paul last week? “Wait, Paul’s blond, right? Somber lookin’?”
Lucy half-nodded. “Dark blond. Tall. Hot. Almost always serious. How’d you know?”
“He came by the office for an appointment the other day. Maybe Father Tim is solvin’ all your work problems.”
The door swung open, and Susan leaned in. “We’re about to get started — but Brian’s still on the prowl, so be careful. He was following me around grilling me about you, Molly. Just so you know, now he thinks you’re a big fan of dog-sledding and NASCAR.”
They hid their snickers on the way back to the gym, where they joined the other diners filing through accordion-pleated doors to a chapel. This seemed much more church-like, albeit rather plain without stained glass or art.
They settled into an upholstered pew, and Lucy pulled a small spiral notebook from her handbag. “Better write this stuff down. I need all the help I can get when it comes to being weak.”
As soon as they were seated, Brian wedged himself into the narrow space between Molly and the armrest. He leaned into her face again, still ignorant of his taco breath. “You disappeared on me.”
“Oh, I —”
“I know how girls are. Always have to pee in a pack.”
Lucy stifled a groan with both hands. The meeting began with a prayer — no one else crossed themselves. Brian whispered about his Iditarod dreams through the speaker’s introduction until finally Hannah whipped around to shush him.
Molly focused her attention on the speaker’s tales of adversity and tragedy, which made her struggles seem rather insignificant. But when the speaker moved on to quoting the Lord, something about his words resonated with Molly. She borrowed a piece of paper from Lucy to capture the ideas she’d never heard before: weakness wasn’t a sin, as even Christ had human weakness, and He had experienced all sorrows so that He could comfort others.
Her own troubles were nothing compared to His suffering. She tried to remember the reference on the last scripture, but it wasn’t familiar. Molly continued to note the speaker’s points contrasting the causes and effects of sin and weakness.
Brian peered over to read her notes. Molly tilted the paper away from him, barely able to concentrate on the conclusion of the address, learning to accept and slowly progress from weakness. After the speaker closed, the meeting ended with a prayer.
Glancing over her scribblings, Molly followed Lucy back into the gym, Brian trailing behind them. “What’d you think?” Lucy’s voice and her eyebrows rose hopefully.
“Interestin’ — some lovely thoughts. You?”
“Yeah, I thought it was great. Very helpful.”
Molly read over her notes once more. Twice the speaker had mentioned a common, yet unfamiliar name. “Who is this Joseph Smith? A saint?”
“Joseph Smith was the first prophet of the Church in this dispensation,” Brian said.
Lucy had mentioned a prophet before — but a dispensation? A church law exemption?
“That’s right,” Lucy said. “We don’t have saints.”
“Other than you.”
“All my life. Hold on, let me introduce you to someone.” Lucy turned and called for some elders while Hannah cornered Brian. Good riddance.
Two young men — teenagers, it seemed — approached. In a split second, Molly was on her guard. Sure, their dark suits were a bit cliché for mobsters — but these young men stood out from the sea of khakis and pastel Oxford shirts, and they obviously had some special status here. Lucy introduced Elders Ehrisman, a lanky blond, and Franklin, a lean brunet.
Before they spoke further, both young men reached into their suit coats. Molly edged back a step.
And the room was plunged into darkness. Echoing calls to switch on the lights rang through the room along with eerie laughter.
Large hands clamped down on Molly’s shoulders from behind. A cold jolt of fear shot straight down her spine. Reverting to long-ago training, she grabbed both of her assailant’s wrists. Molly ducked between the arms, pivoted and twisted free. She kicked out in a blind guess at her attacker and connected.
The lights flickered back on a split second before her assailant hit the ground. Molly was too shocked to even gasp. She should have known it was him, though he’d just walked away.
Brian clutched his knee to his chest, squeezed his eyes shut and screamed.
As Zach expected, the drawer and the cash box locks yielded easily. A hairpin from Molly’s desk was close enough to a warded lock pick to do the trick. For once, Molly hadn’t gotten in the way. Good thing, too. He’d already lifted Healey’s card from the top drawer.
The top tray of the cash box was empty — she made one of her semiweekly deposits Friday night. Zach pulled out the tray to reveal the bank paperwork below.
He just had to see if any information here matched the account number from the mini-safe, 277135847. Zach scanned the visible tabs in the box.
The first account, a checking account — 219632754.
The second account, a savings account — 388763827.
The third account, a certificate of deposit — 589273852.
Molly was in the clear, and Zach could get on with his investigation without involving her further. He shifted the cash box, reaching for the money tray — and saw another tab, hidden beneath the top file. Holding his breath, he lifted the top folder to reveal the tab underneath.
277135847.
Impossible. Zach read the number again, not bothering to suppress a groan. He opened the thin folder and started through the documents. First, the welcome l
etter, addressed to the church, care of Colin Patrick. Dated two years ago. Next, the sample checks for the account. None used. Then the sheet the ATM card came with, card gone. Zach tilted the heavy paper in the low light to reveal a reverse impression of the card number. He wrote down the card number and flipped to the last page in the folder.
Next he found a copy of the signatory card with a note in Molly’s neat handwriting, “Original on file at bank.” Two people were authorized to make withdrawals: Colin Patrick and M. M. Malone.
Way more incriminating than her coming by while he was working on a safe.
She couldn’t have done this — and he couldn’t afford to get any closer to her. Yeah, it might be efficient, but he couldn’t toy with her emotions — er, blow his cover by flirting more openly. He had to get back to Lonegan.
Molly cleaned her fingernails for the fourth time in twenty minutes, trying to concentrate on anything but that antiseptic smell. Lucy frowned at the man snoring two rows over.
“Nicest hospital I’ve ever been in,” Lucy murmured.
“Only hospital I’ve ever been in.” Even in her few months as an active-duty Garda, she’d never had the “pleasure.”
The double doors to the treatment area swung open. Lucy and Molly looked up in unison. A man in a Cubs jersey emerged with a bandaged forehead.
Lucy edged away from the busy aisle. “What’s up for you this week?”
“Parish movie night on Saturday. You?”
“Tutoring, practicing. I’m singing in church Sunday. Hey, would you like to come?”
“Sure now. Would you like to come to our movie night?”
“Yeah, that sounds great,” Lucy said.
One door pulled open again, held by unseen hands. Molly ignored the rising anticipation. No one appeared. The other door swung open. An orderly held it, blocking her view. She slid to the edge of her chair. They’d taken Brian through those doors over an hour ago. Had she really hurt him that badly?
Lucy rose, her hands clasped in front of her. Molly found herself on her feet, though her stomach felt like she’d left it in the seat.
Saints & Spies Page 12
