by Susan Rohrer
Time was ticking away. Time Laurel might not have. At this point, it was hard to know anyone else he could call. He bit at his cheek and speed-dialed a familiar number.
Joe lifted a single slat of his window blind, his phone to his ear. “Yeah, they’re still out there. The black sedan, three cars south of mine. I’m on my way out, now.”
Joe hung up. He slipped into the hallway and up the basement stairs. As mind-bending as this whole thing was, something about it was eerily invigorating. It got his reporter’s blood pumping all over again. He would get to the bottom of this abyss, wherever it took him.
Rain pelted Joe’s jacket. He hurried down the darkened walk.
Lou’s headlights swept across as he eased his van up beside McTier, completely boxing the detectives into their space.
Joe hustled into his car.
Already, he could hear McTier fuming. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Joe glanced back as Lou reached out of his window toward McTier. “You know that memory card of photos I loaned you? I’d like to have it back, now.”
McTier smacked Lou’s palm away. “Move the car!”
Joe pulled out and sped away. The last thing he heard was the sound of Lou popping his clutch and stalling his van out, right in the middle of his street.
Joe pounded the heel of his fist against Debra’s brownstone door. She wasn’t the type of woman who wanted to be disturbed once she retired for the night. She wouldn’t like being seen without her makeup or hair being just so, as if that mattered.
He rapped at the door again. His only ace in the hole was that, most of all, Debra wouldn’t want her neighbors up in her business, sniping at her about some lunatic raising the dead on her stoop. Again. Eventually, propriety would get the better of her. She’d drag herself out of bed and come down, if only to shut him up. This wouldn’t be pretty. But then again, it wasn’t like he had a choice.
The peephole flap swung open. Debra’s half-mast eyes burned him.
“It’s an emergency.”
She slapped the peephole shut, unbolted the door and cracked it open. She snugged her robe around herself. “Didn’t happen to notice the time?”
Joe strode in past her. “If you’d have picked up your phone, I wouldn’t be here.”
Debra closed the door behind him. She ran a self-conscious hand through her hair. “Could this have waited?”
“Debra, where’s Adele on Zoring?”
“Still following the story.” She shuffled into the living room and gestured toward the clock on the hearth. “Three, Joe. As in three a.m. I don’t do business at this hour.”
He dogged her steps. “Do you know... Has Zoring landed anywhere? Is he working a job since Oliverio’s?”
“The church hired him. Not like anybody else would. The story is running in tomorrow’s paper.”
Joe’s jaw slacked. “What church?”
“Same church that ousted him.” Debra yawned. “Go figure. They’ve got him in housekeeping. Why could that possibly matter at this hour?”
“Debra, please.” Joe took her by the shoulders. “Use whatever you can. Pull every string you’ve got, but I really have to talk with the Cardinal at the archdiocese—I mean, face to face—first thing in the morning. Before office hours.”
She brushed him away. “What are you onto?”
“I swear to you, Debra. I’ll tell you everything. I will give you the exclusive if I’m right about this. But for now, I’m begging you. Forget about our personal issues and trust me.”
She studied him wryly. “Trust. You.”
He scrubbed a weary hand over his face. “Look, I know I haven’t given you all that much reason to do anything for me. I know I’ve let you down in the past. But yes. I’m asking you to trust me.”
Shana savored her morning coffee. As much as she had materially, there were very few things that truly gave her pleasure anymore, but a hot cup of coffee was one of them. There was something so soothing about it. The aroma. The bittersweet flavor, coating her throat. Maybe it was just those moments of silence it gave her, before she faced the day.
Not that the day hadn’t already started, more rudely than she’d anticipated. Apparently, Detective McTier had no compunction about calling, rousing a household from sleep at the break of dawn. Something always tightened in Shana’s chest when the phone rang at that hour. If it were anything other than a wrong number, it always meant bad news.
How she would tell Grace about her mother’s disappearance, Shana didn’t know. It was one thing that her father had been killed. That was hard enough to accept. But it was at least some small comfort that he hadn’t left his only daughter, not of his own accord. Whether or not Frank had betrayed their vows—thus far, there was no way to know. So many nagging questions remained. Should she even be grieving him at all?
Shana twisted her fingers. What could have gone wrong between them? What possible reason could Frank have had for returning from his trip early? He’d gone to the convention. The hotel concierge had borne that out. But for some mystifying reason, he’d checked out quite abruptly. He’d flown home the night before. Well, not home really. Apparently, he’d gone straight to his office. All without calling. Not since the evening before when he’d phoned to say goodnight.
The front door opened and shut. Helen would have the paper. So many years, Shana had read it cover to cover. It had started with the blitz over her parents. No one had braved to tell her anything much when it happened. “You’ll understand when you’re older,” they’d said.
No matter. What they hadn’t told her, the papers had. Eventually, the furor had all died down. Till now, at least. She drew in a long sip from her cup. Perhaps she would cancel her subscription, till Grace was older. She would explain things herself.
Helen walked over to the table. She set the newspaper down. An envelope was in her hand. “I found it on the walk.” Helen extended the letter to Shana. “Just Gracie’s name. No stamp. But that’s Laurel’s handwriting. She must have left it there during the night.”
Shana examined the envelope. “I gather you haven’t said anything to Grace about this yet.”
“No, Ma’am. I wouldn’t.”
Grace descended the stairs. “I got a letter?”
Shana slid the envelope into the pocket of her dressing gown. “Oh. Grace, why don’t you come sit down with me here while Helen fixes us a nice breakfast.”
Grace padded over. “But is that mine?”
Shana exchanged a glance with Helen, and then turned back to Grace. “Yes, Honey. Yes, it is. And I will give it to you. I promise, I will. But first I need to talk to you. It’s about something very serious, okay?”
Grace’s shoulders slumped. “Okay.”
Shana patted the chair beside her. “Could you sit down with me?”
Warily, Grace slid into the seat. She looked up at Shana, her eyes begging for the truth.
Shana composed herself. She took Grace’s hands in hers. “There’s been some news this morning, Darling. It’s from the detectives. The ones who’ve been looking into what happened to your father.”
Grace’s eyes searched hers. The color drained from her face.
“Sweetheart.” Shana said. “I’m afraid this news, it’s not good.”
Joe squinted at the morning light, streaming in through the Cardinal’s office window. Debra had certainly worked her wonders. Say what you would about the woman. She had pull in all the right places.
Steam rose as an aide poured tea for the Cardinal. “Would you like a cup?” the Cardinal asked. “We have English Breakfast... Let’s see...a variety of black, green and herbal teas if you’re so inclined.”
Joe tapped at the back of a chair. As much as his body ached for sleep, he knew better than to take a seat. “To be honest, I don’t have time.”
The Cardinal selected a lump of sugar with a pair of tongs and deposited it into his cup. “People rush so much these days. I pity the poor soul who doesn’t take time for a cu
p of tea.”
“It’s urgent.” Joe stepped closer. “It’s about the late councilman, Frank Fischer.”
The aide handed the Cardinal his cup of tea and, with a slight bow, left.
The Cardinal took a sip. “Tragic. Frank Fischer was a good friend of the church.”
“Yes. So I understand,” Joe nodded. “I’ve also learned that the church has employed a recently paroled former priest, Tom Zoring.”
The Cardinal set his cup aside. “I take it you disapprove.” Silence settled between them as the man watched for Joe’s response. “If it’s any sort of consolation, please know how profoundly grieved I am over what happened to your brother. The church is doing everything in its power to address this terrible problem.”
“Actually, that’s not why I’m here.” Joe broke the man’s gaze. He would have to tread carefully. It would not do to offend him, not after he’d agreed to see him this early. “I’ve read that you served alongside Councilman Fischer. At a soup kitchen, during his campaign.”
The Cardinal straightened. “As it happened, we volunteered to help the homeless that Saturday, independent of each other. It wasn’t intended as an endorsement of Mr. Fischer’s campaign, no matter what some may have assumed from the article.” A pleasant smile crossed his lips as he took another sip of his tea.
Sit with him.
Joe rounded the chair and took out a small pad. “Can you tell me...” He settled into the cushion. “I need to know if the church in any way encouraged Councilman Fischer to back the parole of Tom Zoring.”
The Cardinal arched a brow. “If that were the case, I suppose I’d defer to our legal staff. However, in actuality, it was quite the other way around. You see, it was the councilman who lobbied the church to advocate parole with the governor’s office.”
Joe’s eyes widened. He clicked his pen open.
“Given the magnitude of the overall scandal, naturally, the church was more than reluctant to weigh in on the matter.”
“Which is why this was kept out of the press?” Joe scribbled a note.
“The councilman’s support of Mr. Zoring’s release was carefully kept at a discretionary level. It seemed best to avoid the incorrect assumption of impropriety.” The Cardinal leaned in and lowered his voice. “But privately, it could be rightly said that Frank Fischer was Mr. Zoring’s greatest ally.”
Joe rubbed his brow. This made no sense. “But why? With all respect, why would a politician risk doing anything for a defrocked priest? I mean, Frank Fischer? I don’t get it. He wasn’t even Catholic until he converted to remarry.”
Genuine understanding, almost sadness, glinted in the Cardinal’s eyes. “Precisely,” he said.
Joe sat back. He pinched his lip as the new pieces fell into place. At least part of this disturbing picture was starting to come together.
Joe lingered beside a column outside Howard Berg’s posh downtown office building. Towering over the city, encased in granite and steel, the structure reeked of old money. This was the place the wealthy came to protect their concerns in life, to wield power over the less privileged. Like Laurel.
Joe checked his watch. She’d been missing more than a day now. Was she even still alive? She had to be. It was the only possibility he could face.
The automatic doors swished apart. Joe tucked himself behind the column as Howard Berg led Shana Fischer out, toward the valet stand.
Shana handed her ticket stub to the valet. “Promise me you’ll prioritize this, Howard. The judge should know.”
“Shana, you have my word.” Howard nodded agreeably, then retreated into the building.
There wouldn’t be much time. Quickly, Joe sidled up to Shana. When she cut a glance his way, he flashed his press badge. “Joe Hardisty, Mrs. Fischer. Tom Zoring, he was your priest years ago, wasn’t he?”
Shana bristled. “Five minutes worth of research would have turned that up.”
“Me, I’m just wondering how you could support a man like that. And how you could ask your husband to.”
“Everything is black and white with the press.” Shana checked the street toward the garage. “A man is either canonized or vilified. There’s nothing in between.”
“He molested children.”
“He didn’t molest me.” She turned ever so slightly in Joe’s direction. “On the contrary, he was there for me. He confirmed me in the church. He was the one adult I found that I could trust when my parents died.”
“So you got Frank elected on your inheritance, then lobbied through him for Zoring’s release.” Joe fished into his pocket.
“What’s the point, Mr. Hardisty?” Finally, she faced him. “There was nothing improper about what I did. There’s no scoop. It was all there on the record for anyone who took the time to notice.”
He raised the envelope from the letter the councilman had posted to Clay. “Did you know your husband wrote a letter to my brother?”
Shana blanched at the sight of the envelope.
“That’s right,” Joe said. “Small world. Cruel one, too. This isn’t just a story to me. It’s personal. Just like it was for you. My brother, Clay, was one of Tom Zoring’s victims.”
Shana dropped her imperious bearing. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Hardisty. That must have been awful.”
Joe watched as Shana’s car pulled out of the garage. There would not be much more time. “Any reason you can think of that Frank would write to my brother the week before Zoring’s parole hearing?”
Shana paused.
“Please, Mrs. Fischer.”
She exhaled. “He wrote to each of the victims personally, encouraging them not to protest Father Zoring’s parole. I hardly see why that matters now.”
It was all coming together in Joe’s mind. “Laurel saw it. I don’t know why I didn’t.”
Shana’s expression tightened at the sound of Laurel’s name. “Let me tell you something about Laurel’s visions. Laurel sees what she wants to see. She killed Frank to get back at me and to get Grace. It had nothing to do with Father Zoring.”
“Laurel didn’t kill Frank. But I’m thinking his death had everything to do with Tom Zoring.”
The color drained out of Shana’s face. The idea must have been as disturbing to her as it was to him.
Shana’s sedan glided to the valet stand. “Mr. Hardisty, this conversation is over.” She pressed a twenty into the cashier’s palm and stepped off the curb.
“Feel the need to wash your hands?” Joe could only shake his head as she tipped the valet and left. He’d gotten what he’d come for, but there was no victory in it for Joe.
Not the way this picture was coming together.
Joe wiped the perspiration from the side of his neck. Hastily, he retreated toward the municipal parking lot. Joe bludgeoned himself mercilessly. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Why had he said the things he had?
The seemingly disparate threads that dangled around Laurel’s disappearance cinched about Joe’s throat. They all added up to a singularly horrifying conclusion. Neither Rene nor Kevin Cox had anything to do with this. It was someone else. Someone with knowledge, foresight, motive. And opportunity, not only in connection with the slaying of Frank Fischer, but also in Laurel’s abduction.
His brother, Clay.
sixteen
Laurel slumped against a metal support beam, her hands and feet bound. Musty odors assaulted her nostrils. Stale cigarettes. Mildew. And something—she dared not guess what—something that had been rotting.
How long this club had been shut down, she didn’t know. Where it was—that was a mystery, too. The blindfold he’d used on her hung loosely around her neck. She only knew she had to stay conscious, no matter how faint she grew.
She wrestled to wrap her mind around the truth. This was Joe’s brother, Clay.
Her captor.
Clay drew insulin into her syringe. A revolver rested on the bar behind him. Without that injection, she’d soon slip into a coma. But the wrong dosage, that could be ev
ery bit as lethal.
Why was he keeping her alive? It was hard to know. Perhaps he hadn’t figured out what to do with her yet. Maybe he didn’t have it in him to actually pull that trigger.
Swallowing was next to impossible, as dry as her throat had gotten. She studied a large poster on the wall behind Clay, a likeness of Marilyn Monroe. Could this slight man in front of her really have posed for that picture? Her eyes wandered from Clay to the poster, over and over again. His fine bone structure, his frame, the pout of his lips. So, this was why she’d heard the name, Marilyn.
She rested her weary gaze upon him. “You’re the blonde.”
“Always thought I should have been.” Clay flicked the air bubbles out of the insulin syringe.
Stay awake, she reminded herself. “You’re the one I saw Frank with, the one I warned him about. I thought you were a woman.”
“Occupational hazard.” Clay shot a tiny bit of insulin out of the syringe. “I’ve heard you have to be careful with these. Leave a little bit of air in there and it’ll totally shred you.”
Laurel nodded. He was too familiar with needles for her comfort. “They’ll look for me, you know.”
He swatted at a fly. “You offed a councilman. Of course, they will.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
“They don’t,” Clay said. “That message I had you leave for Joe...that wasn’t the only loose end I tied up.”
Her breath caught. No, not Grace. Dear Lord, nothing to do with Grace. “What did you do?”
“Enough.”
Laurel buckled. “They won’t believe I did this.”
He let out a derisive laugh. “You give the system entirely too much credit.” He studied the syringe. His mouth dropped open as he settled his gaze back on her. “So, just curious... What happens if you don’t get this?”
