She saw the crutches first. She’d crippled him.
Brian hobbled in, a hinged black brace strapped over his khakis from mid-thigh to mid-calf. He flashed Molly a wink and turned to the orderly. “That’s the one, officer! Arrest her!”
She and Lucy managed nervous laughter as he clomped over to them. “Thanks for the ride, ladies.”
“The least we could do,” Lucy said.
He shrugged. “Well, yeah.”
Molly finally dared to ask. “Is it terribly bad?”
“Looks like an ACL tear.” He grimaced. “But it’s so swollen they can’t tell how bad yet.”
Lucy clucked sympathetically. Brian didn’t acknowledge her, though she was really the one who’d driven him with GPS guidance. She didn’t seem to mind his oversight. “Let’s get you home so you can rest up.”
“I need a prescription.” He gave Molly a slip of paper. “You could get it for me.”
Lucy took the paper. “I’m sure your home teachers would love to help you.” She led the way out. Molly tried to follow Brian, but he kept falling back to walk with her.
“You know what they say, Molly.” He settled into Lucy’s front seat. “You break it, you bought it.” He winked. She shut his door and found herself massaging her elbow. Stupid nervous habit. What had she bought herself, indeed?
Monday night, Zach rounded the corner in the mobsters’ apartment building as a doorknob rattled somewhere down the corridor. He fell back behind the corner, hidden from the door to the Lonegans’. If it was Lonegan’s place, no way would Zach tip him off until he had to.
“You’d better come.” Doyle Murphy’s voice carried down the hall. Zach froze so suddenly his blood could have turned to ice. “They say you’re going soft.”
Zach puffed out a silent breath, marveling. To wield that kind of power, that he could discuss mob business openly in the halls of his building. So secure, so smug.
So going down.
“Not going soft, Doyle,” Lonegan’s weary voice answered.
“Better not.” Silence. “One more thing. Heard you’re getting close to the new priest.”
Lonegan said nothing. Not daring to breathe, Zach strained to interpret the pause.
“You just remember, Cal. We’ve got plans for him. I don’t need you screwing things up like the last priest did.”
“’Course not, Doyle. Only reeling him in — for you.”
Zach’s ribs felt like a steel cage too small for his lungs. Was Lonegan’s penitence and reluctance all part of an elaborate act to build a relationship with him?
That was fine — no, it was good. The mob was reaching out. He wouldn’t have to worry about Lonegan flipping or entering witness protection. But as Zach edged his way back to the elevators, he was less worried about his case than about Cally’s soul.
As soon as Zach walked into his room in the parish house, Father Fitzgerald sprang up from behind the bed. Zach jumped back — until he saw the safe-cracking kit in Fitzgerald’s hands.
Zach’s hackles jumped to full alert. “Why are you going through my things?”
“No, I’m not, I’m just —”
Zach crossed the distance between them and snatched his kit away. The zipper was still closed. He released half of the breath he held. Still highly suspect, even without Fitzgerald’s nervous shuffling.
“I’m sorry.” Fitzgerald wrung his hands. “I was only gathering up the dry cleaning, and I knocked your clock down, and I was just . . .”
Zach forced his expression to remain the same despite the fear screaming in his veins. Was Fitzgerald about to blow his cover?
Playing his part harder was his only option — for Zach’s sanity if nothing else. “Did you open this?”
“No.” Fitzgerald bent to pick up the suit pants on the floor. Guilt haunted the older priest’s eyes — because he’d found out more than he claimed?
“You’re allowed to have a personal life,” Fitzgerald continued. “I don’t want to invade your privacy. You had me worried with Molly and all, so I thought I . . .”
Zach drew in air, trying to calm down. “Not a big deal.”
“I shouldn’t have snooped. I just know what it’s like to be tempted.”
Zach scrutinized the older man for a moment. What was he saying — he’d had some tryst with a parish secretary once?
Whatever the old man’s secret, it didn’t matter to Zach. Time to smooth things over. “Jesus was tempted in all things, and I expect we will be, too, if we’re trying to become like Him.”
Fitzgerald pondered that for a moment, staring at the worn rug. “Better take that dry cleaning.” He disappeared into his room and returned with an armload of dark suits. With a final nod, he left.
Once the door closed, Zach could finally get the oxygen he needed. Was Fitzgerald on to him, or was he just worried?
All along they’d said it was better if Fitzgerald didn’t know, in case he was involved with the mob. Could that be his struggle with temptation — or why he’d gone into Zach’s things? Zach turned to the mail basket, riffling through the envelopes to find the most recent cell phone bill in Fitzgerald’s name. The call records showed no numbers in the mobsters’ names.
Well, two could do laundry. Zach was three steps to Fitzgerald’s bedroom when he realized there wouldn’t be any pants pockets to search — and what was he hunting for, anyway?
Shaking his head, Zach returned to the cell phone bill. He wrote down all the phone numbers. Time to look closer at Fitzgerald.
Molly finished reading through the page on the county website for the fourth time and pushed the keyboard away Wednesday afternoon. She’d wasted her entire break from Kathleen searching for her condo’s property records. If Cally was right, and Doyle owned their building, she had to get out once and for all.
But the county was trapped in the mid-Bronze Age. The best she could get from here was the property PIN. For the rest of the record, she’d have to take off work and go to City Hall.
Lucy walked into the office. “Hey, Molly. Father Tim isn’t around, is he?”
“Afraid not.”
Lucy glanced around the office. Kathleen’s desk was empty. “That’s okay.” She lowered her voice. “Paul wants to talk to me about something. Don’t know if I’m ready for this, so I said I had to see if Father Tim was in.”
“Sorry, I haven’t seen him at all this week. Wouldn’t want to keep you from Paul anyway.” Molly finally acknowledged the guilt tugging her heart. “Any word about Brian?”
“He posted online that he’s waiting for an Irish angel to come nurse him.”
“Do you think he’s meanin’ Hannah by any chance?”
“She’s probably doing her family history now. Oh, I brought you something.” She pulled a black book with gold lettering, half the thickness of a Bible, from her handbag. “If you didn’t recognize a few of the verses on Sunday, it’s because we actually have some additional scriptures. In case you wanted to read them again.”
“Oh, thank you.” Molly accepted the book and read the cover: Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants, Pearl of Great Price.
“I marked some of the verses for you already, so they shouldn’t be too hard to find. Maybe you can read a few and pray for me.” Lucy tugged on her ponytail, looking back at the door.
Molly set the book on her desk. “I’d better pray for you first, hadn’t I?” She stood, ostensibly to show Lucy out — but mostly to see if she recognized the man waiting in the sunny car park. “Yes, that’s the Paul that talked to Father Tim. Oh, do you want me to try to get you on his schedule?”
“Sure, that’d be great.”
“I’ll see what I can do. It probably won’t be till next week. Too busy gettin’ ready for the movie night.”
“Good luck with that. I’m looking forward to it, actually.”
“Grand.” Molly smiled. “Good luck with Paul.”
“Thanks.” She twirled one
blond lock around her finger, her eyes on the car park.
Molly patted Lucy’s arm. “See you Saturday.” Molly closed the door behind Lucy and returned to her desk. She reread the cover to the triple combination before thumbing through the pages. With a sigh, she slipped Lucy’s book into her desk drawer next to the barmbrack ring. All she really knew about the Mormon church was that it had its share of nutters, too.
But they had more than nutters in this parish.
Molly’s gaze settled on the file cabinet Father Tim had asked about. Father Patrick’s filing cabinet. Not for the first time, she pushed away the idea. The criminal element in the parish, involved in Father Patrick’s murder?
Though he had that separate account — for money sent to the parish for the school, he’d claimed. He’d never let her see the bank statements, and never asked about donations coming into the office. She handled the other accounts; why lock those away?
Growing suspicion settled uneasily at the base of her neck. She had the account documentation. Maybe she could access statements online. Just to be sure.
Molly opened her desk drawer and pulled out the cash box. She moved the money tray for the stack of folders. She flipped open the second file, but something wasn’t right — Father Patrick’s account was in his name, and this information was addressed to Father Fitzgerald.
She closed the folder and scanned all the tabs. Father Patrick’s account was on top. Out of order. A cold prickle ran down her neck. She always put these back in order.
Had someone else been in here? Molly rubbed at the gooseflesh at the nape of her neck.
The phone rang — the Lonegans again. Third time today. She sent the call to voice mail. Cally was part of that outfit, and he and Father Tim were getting far too close for her comfort.
Molly glanced back at the filing cabinet just before Kathleen walked in. Could all these be pieces to the same puzzle?
She could find out.
Zach peered around the underpass late Wednesday. Could Sellars have picked a creepier place? It was night; did they really need to meet somewhere even darker?
Then again, he had let it sound urgent when he asked for this meeting. Zach approached the man standing underneath the overpass, discernible mostly by the dull glow of an ember between his fingers. Once Zach was a few steps closer, Sellars flicked away his cigarette and held out his hand — wearing half-shredded fingerless gloves. Zach gave him the folder of photocopied bank statements.
The ASAC used his cell phone backlight to read the contents of the folder, illuminating him like he was telling ghoulish stories around a campfire. Now Zach could finally appreciate the ASAC’s disguise: five o’clock shadow, threadbare knit cap, stained coats and layers. At least he blended in under the bridge.
Sellars wasn’t as impressed with Zach’s work. “A month in, and this is all you’ve got? These withdrawals look like a typical bank account — there’s no pattern here, no schedule. He’s an ATM to these people.”
“But they match up to the datebook. And there is one pattern.” Zach tilted the folder and pointed to the line for the check written on March 13. “Some time between the tenth and the fifteenth every month, there’s a check for $450.”
Sellars turned to the copies of the month’s checks and squinted at the page. “Made out to cash. What does the memo say?”
Zach shrugged. He’d puzzled over the scrawl on each check without success. But he didn’t need to detail his failures.
Sellars pulled a paper from his pocket. “A couple of your priest’s calls are to our guys’ landlines, but mostly clean. How’s your guilty new friend?”
Zach stared at a cement piling. “Heard him tell Murphy he’s reeling me in.”
Sellars nodded. “Good. And your girlfriend?”
He rolled his eyes. At least he hadn’t brought up Healey. Until Zach got a bead on the guy, he wasn’t about to discuss what might be a distraction.
“Keep working Molly,” Sellars said. “You never know with these people.”
He pursed his lips. As much as Zach hated to admit it, Sellars was right.
As soon as Kathleen left for her meeting with the school Thursday afternoon, Molly locked the office door. Time to find out what Father Patrick had been hiding.
Blessing her da for teaching her this skill, she fished her lock picks from her handbag. She twisted the torsion wrench and began tapping each pin gently. On her second pass through, the cylinder rotated, and the lock popped out. After testing the top drawer — success — she returned her picks to her bag.
The ringing phone startled her halfway back to the cabinet. She glanced at the open file cabinet drawer, the doorknob, the phone. Murphy blinked on the caller ID.
The ringleader of the whole crew, the one who’d had his greasy grasp slowly closing around Father Tim since he’d arrived, calling as soon as she touched the cabinet. A coincidence?
She couldn’t let him think anything was amiss at the church — who knew? He might take that as a cue to close his snare. If he wasn’t already. Her chest taut, Molly focused on breathing the suddenly-stuffy air for a moment before she lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“Doyle Murphy here. I want an appointment with Father Tim.”
She forced a light tone. “I’m sorry, but he’s terribly busy.”
“Oh, he’ll make time for me.” The menace in his voice drew a shiver through her spine. He hung up before she responded. Molly replaced the receiver and turned back to the filing cabinet. Doyle Murphy wanted to see Father Tim. The criminal wanted Father Patrick’s replacement. All the times Father Patrick had avoided her questions played in her mind. She knew he’d kept something from her, but could he have been in trouble?
She yanked open the top drawer to find — a contract? She didn’t recognize the supplier. Kincaid Wholesalers? Providing goods and/or services? Molly frowned. The second drawer held pages from a datebook, filled with familiar names. Parishioners. Her neighbors. From the dollar amounts indicated, somehow she didn’t think Father Patrick’s notes of “Murphy doubled pymt” or “Gallaher took $” were for the annual spaghetti dinner.
Wait — hadn’t Kathleen once said Kincaid supplied the school’s lunches? But the amounts listed here were outrageous.
It was all related. It had to be. Could Father Patrick’s death be any random robbery, or was it someone searching for this? And now they were after Father Tim.
She had to do something. She placed each page of evidence onto the copier next to the file cabinet in turn. After replacing the originals in the drawer, she stooped to fetch a manila envelope from under Kathleen’s desk. Before Molly could stand, the jangle of the doorknob stopped her short.
She froze to the spot. It had to be Kathleen, and she’d use her key, and then Molly could laugh at the fear slithering around her stomach.
But no key slid into the lock.
The snake of fear wrapped tighter. She looked at the tray where all the evidence lay. Something flickered past the window by the photocopier, a shadow against the half-shut curtains.
The shadow grew smaller, drawing closer. The silhouette of a man’s head. Doyle Murphy? He was tall enough to reach the high window.
She was below the line of sight from the window, she told herself. He couldn’t see her.
Molly was next. First Father Patrick, now her. The shadow slipped away. The python of fear slithered up to squeeze her lungs.
No. She would not succumb to these common criminals, nor to the maddening panic threatening to close in on her. She was a Garda, even without her badge or handcuffs or baton — though now she wished she had a weapon.
Any short stick would do, but where — Kathleen’s miniature bat. Molly slid the photocopied datebook into the envelope, and the envelope into Kathleen’s desk. Keeping well away from sight of the window, she grabbed the Louisville Slugger souvenir off Kathleen’s desk.
Molly prepped the battleground — shed her high heels, hit the lig
hts to give her the advantage, unlocked the door and positioned herself behind it. She steeled herself to wait. If they wanted something here, they’d have to fight for it. She might not be able to win this fight, but before they got to her, she’d give them a beating they wouldn’t believe.
Zach rounded the corner of the building and checked the parking lot. Yep, Molly’s green Volkswagen still stood in the unseasonably warm November rain. The office lights were on when he peeked through the window, but the office was locked in the middle of the afternoon. Had she left with Healey-the-wannabe-gunslinger again? His mouth went dry.
He was supposed to be cracking her. What if she was involved?
Before he could answer his own question, Zach reached the office door again — and now it was unlocked. He pushed the door open a crack. The column of light fell across Molly’s empty desk. The office lights were off? Had he imagined the scene through the window? “Moll?” Zach called gently. He stepped into the office and switched on the lights. He slowly scanned the room, and found her at last — behind the door, stick in hand, poised to strike.
Molly seemed to brace herself, her stance unwavering. He automatically tensed into a defensive posture, shock reverberating through him. “Holy cow, woman! What did I do?”
Molly blinked twice, and relaxed. “Father — were you the one just peerin’ through the window?”
He nodded, his brow still furrowed. “I thought it was weird the office was locked. Is that why you’re coming after me with a stick?”
“Hm? Oh, that’s not for you.” She tossed the stick — Kathleen’s miniature bat — onto the empty desk with a nervous, forced laugh.
“Then who was it for?”
Molly brushed past him with an air of false cheer, until she had to stop and circle back for her shoes.
This time he didn’t let her pass, moving to block her path back to her desk. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She didn’t look at him.
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