Saints & Suspects

by Jordan McCollum

  Just before Molly left Tuesday afternoon, Kent approached her desk, balancing a thick stack of papers. “Oh, hey, Malone, having a tough time cross-referencing these cases. Any idea how to start?”

  Her gaze jumped between the stack and the earnestness in his eyes. They’d sat in the same classes at Quantico — at the exact same time. Why did he always come to her for the most mundane tasks? “Start with the interviews closest to the time of the crime, and go from there. Unusual for a witness to recall somethin’ later. At least not reliably.”

  “Good idea.” He ran a thumb down the folders’ tabs. “Guess I should put these in chronological order, huh? Or maybe subject’s last name?”

  What order had he put them in? Subject’s favorite color? “Just use the standard system. It should all be in the computer.” Molly pointed at his desk, then mentally winced. Kent could find his own computer. She didn’t need to insult him.

  He looked at his desk, then to her again. “Could you help? I’m trying to put together all the mentions of foreign sales across the interviews.”

  “I thought you did that last week.”

  “I started, but . . .” He frowned at the stack.

  “Maybe tomorrow.” She stood, gathering her purse a few minutes sooner than planned. “I’m afraid I can’t now.” Tonight she had to teach dance — and then hope her parents had remembered something useful.

  Molly stopped by their house for a late dinner after dance. The familiar kitchen with its mismatched chairs, all painted cream, and the table’s comfortably worn dark wood didn’t feel so comfortable tonight, waiting for them to tell her more.

  “Would you like an ice cream?” Da offered.

  “Naturally!”

  Da served the ice creams, but still, neither he nor Mum alluded to the subject.

  Leaving it to Molly. She kept her tone businesslike. “How did you come to be in the IRA for Special Branch?”

  Mum and Da telegraphed a silent caution, but Mum began to answer. “I suppose it started after I graduated university and came back to Derry.” She bowed her head, her glasses’ thick purple frames hiding her eyes at that angle. “When Teague was killed.”

  “Sorry — killed?” The story she’d always heard was that Mum’s younger brother died in Lough Foyle at age seventeen.

  Mum kneaded her fingers against the table as if to rub the woven flowers out of the pastel damask. “He didn’t drown. Got himself blown up by an IRA amadán who didn’t know how to build a proper bomb. The first time someone in our neighborhood had died that way.” She pulled her fingers into a fist.

  Da placed his hand over Mum’s. “I was already talkin’ to Special Branch when I heard about Teague, and I went to the funeral to see your mum.”

  “I was so angry.” Mum stared down at her blue bowl and her white knuckles. “I didn’t expect Teague to know better — teenager, furious with the world after our parents died, thought he knew everythin’. That fool with the bomb, though, he was an adult. Any eejit could see violence wouldn’t help the political situation — if anythin’, their efforts hurt the cause of Irish independence.”

  “And turned people who might’ve been more sympathetic against the movement altogether.” Da took Mum’s bowl and started brewing the coffee. “The Gardaí tried a few undercover agents, but it was a long slog. We happened to have better connections.” He traded a conspiratorial look with Mum. “Once I recruited your mum.”

  “How’d you become the Ryans?” Molly asked.

  “We didn’t have to.” Da finished with the coffeepot and joined them at the table. “I was born a Ryan.”

  “Ah — your da.” Even Molly sometimes forgot her father’s father had died just before he was born.

  He nodded. “He was a Ryan, and everyone knew me as a Ryan. I didn’t take my stepfather’s name until we were in Dublin, before I left for university.”

  “We had to be so careful.” Mum spoke gingerly, as though even now, she measured and weighed each word before releasing it. “Northern Ireland’s like a village — everyone knows one another — and we knew we’d have to get out one day. We wanted a clean break.” Mum smiled. “He had Ryan church records and everythin’.”

  He wouldn’t be the only one: when she’d met Zach, he was undercover as her parish priest, complete with fabricated records of his own. But, as her parents didn’t know that about Zach, Molly declined to bring up the parallel.

  The aroma of roasted coffee began to fill the kitchen. Da got up from the table, the chair creaking under his wiry frame. “When we got married,” he added, “we had to elope to Dublin. Your grandparents wouldn’t have even been invited if they hadn’t already moved to Dublin.”

  “Then we went back to Derry for our fake weddin’ there — and a good eighty percent of the guests were Provos from our battalion.”

  “And Grace was the world’s first neurotic weddin’ planner.” Da suppressed a grin, but only just, before turning to rummage through the pantry.

  “You know, she’s why you’re called Molly.”

  That wasn’t the story they’d always told. “I thought Bridie couldn’t say Mary.”

  “She said it ‘Mah-wee.’ Grace decided she was tryin’ to say ‘Molly,’ and there’s no song called ‘Molly Ryan’ to raise an objection.”

  Da returned from the pantry with brown sugar. “Then it stuck. It fitted you.”

  “Have you any stories I might know — somethin’ I can use to build rapport with them?”

  Mum chewed her lip and looked to Da, checking the coffeepot. “Can’t think of anythin’.”

  “Could you email them to reminisce?”

  Mum sighed. “Afraid that’d arouse their suspicions.”

  Probably right. “What was it like, workin’ with them?”

  “Have you read The Blood-Dimmed Tide?” Da asked. “It was like that.”

  Mum and Da exchanged a nostalgic smile, apparently finished. Da collected their empty bowls and deposited them in the sink, then ducked out.

  Mum kept her gaze on the woven poppy in front of her. “How’s it workin’ with Zachary?”

  Moments from yesterday flashed through her mind: Zach horning in on her assignment, him arguing with her at her flat, the acute torture of getting engaged to Zach-but-not-Zachary. She couldn’t lie to her mum — and no American English word expressed the true depth of the awfulness. “Wojus.”

  “Aw.” Mum leaned around the table to slide a comforting arm around Molly. “Have you considered askin’ him why you broke up?”

  “‘Our lives are headed in different directions’ was pretty clear.” Even Zach couldn’t explain it better. Talking wouldn’t change anything.

  Mum clucked over her. “At least you have Nate, right?”

  Right. Nate the Nearly Perfect. So why didn’t that make her resent Zach less? Zach had blindsided her with a breakup before and second-guessed her now. Nate loved her and wanted to marry her.

  At this rate, she’d end up pretending to be married to Zach.

  “Mum,” Molly began tentatively, “did you marry Da for the assignment?”

  “Of course not. We wouldn’t have bothered with goin’ to Dublin for all that.” Mum grew contemplative. “But part of me wondered if we shouldn’t wait until things were more settled.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Mum met her eyes. “Would’ve meant puttin’ it off too long. Because I loved your da.”

  Speaking of the devil, Da returned, and Mum gave Molly’s shoulders a squeeze before sliding back to her seat. “Hazelnut creamer in your coffee, Molly?”

  She drew an inward sigh. The sacrifice still wasn’t easy. “No coffee for me, thank you.”

  “Oh, that’s right, your church. Sorry, love.” Da busied himself pouring and doctoring their mugs.

  “Did you accomplish your objective?” Molly picked up the conversation where they’d tried to end it.

  Da’s usual terseness returned as he gave Mum her favorite purple mug. “Somewhat. Shut d
own operations, laid the groundwork with supergrasses.”

  The IRA turncoats’ testimony was only a vague memory from Molly’s history lessons — but she had a stronger recollection of the convictions that were later overturned.

  “When they started releasin’ the prisoners again, we knew it was time to get out.” Mum began worrying the tablecloth again. “We had you girls, and it wasn’t how we wanted you two to grow up. We tried to retire in Derry and relocated to another neighborhood.”

  “But Ed and Grace found us,” Da murmured. “So we moved house down to Dublin.”

  Even that only lasted fifteen years. “I remember that part — and I remember how they showed up in Dublin right before we had to leave Ireland.” Days after Molly had met the Canavans again, she and her family were in Chicago.

  Mum took a long pull of her coffee. “We could’ve come alone, but we couldn’t leave you or Bridie and Fionn, either. Special Branch worked out the details while we put Ed and Grace off. We did it for you,” her mum concluded softly, her fingernails rasping against the damask threads.

  What? She’d spent her first two years in the States resenting her parents for dragging her here. How was ripping her away from the life she loved for her? “We emigrated for my sake?”

  Her da nodded, fixed on his gray mug. “We knew if they found you — the real you, Garda Malone — you’d be in danger.”

  “They were no great friends to any police officers,” Mum said.

  No, the IRA never was, even in the Republic. Molly could list a dozen IRA offenses against the Gardaí. “I thought we left because they were tryin’ to recruit you.”

  Mum shifted uncomfortably, and Molly finally recognized the expression she’d seen from her a few times tonight: she’d been caught in a lie. “They tried. But if they realized we weren’t who we said we were, I could see them exactin’ revenge on our Garda daughter.”

  The unspoken conclusion hung in the air, trailing a chill down Molly’s back. If they ever saw through her cover, the Canavans would do the same to Special Agent Malone.

  Wednesday evening, Zach finished the last interview summary from the fringe militia group he was investigating and stood, but Xavier drifted to a stop in front of Zach’s desk before he could leave.

  “What do the Canavans drive?” X asked over the top of the paper he was reading.

  “Mostly they take the bus or the ‘L.’”

  “They have a car, right?”

  Zach riffled through his mental Canavan file. “Mid-eighties Mercedes.”

  “Diesel?”

  His memory came up empty. He hit up his computer. “Eighty-seven Mercedes-Benz S300D.”

  Xavier screwed up his mouth like he was thinking. “Diesel.” He placed his paper on Zach’s desk. Yesterday’s log of the Canavans’ activities. “Surveillance saw her buying diesel last night.”

  Zach leaned down to read the line X indicated. “What’s off-road diesel?”

  “It’s for tractors. Doesn’t have the same taxes, so it’s cheaper — but it’s illegal to use in your tank.”

  Gasoline was always more likely to burn than explode. Zach ticked off the possibilities on his fingers. “Arson, Molotov cocktails, . . . BLEVE?”

  “They’re boiling the diesel?” Xavier repeated the suggestion, incredulous, then circled back to more viable ideas. “How much beer are they drinking?”

  “Probably enough to collect plenty of bottles.”

  “Let’s search their recycling. And rule out illegal diesel in their tank.” X walked away, leaving Zach to relay the message to the usual surveillance guys, Dantzler and Garrido. He finished up and made sure he’d saved his file on the fringe militia group, but he had a feeling they weren’t the most immediate threat in his caseload.

  That worry nagged him the whole drive home — Molly was right about the commute to the South Side — and to his sister’s apartment. Lucy let him in, and he held out her birthday gift. “How’s everything at St. Adelaide School for Wayward Teens?”

  Lucy took the present. “You know it’s not like that anymore. Father Gus cracked down on the dress code, sent kids home — finally got through to parents.”

  “Father Gus must be a vast improvement over the last two priests.” He grinned. Undercover, he’d been one of those priests for the Catholic church and school where Lucy worked. Then he’d arrested the other priest and a raft of mobsters from the congregation. Not the parish’s finest hour.

  And the reigning gossip queen loved to complain to Lucy. “I bet Kathleen’s relieved.”

  Lucy’s gaze wandered to the side. “You have no idea.” Her tone implied there was more to that story, but Lucy didn’t give him time to ask. She unwrapped the book and broke into a smile. “To Know as We Are Known — ooh, by the same guy as The Courage to Teach. Thanks, Zach. I loved that book.”

  “I heard. Eight thousand times.” She’d hardly shut up about it for the last two months. “Happy birthday.”

  “Thanks.” Lucy led him to the coffee table and a flotilla of cupcakes shellacked together into a misshapen heart. She glanced at the clock nestled between their family photos and a print of Jesus Christ on her floating shelves, then extracted a cupcake for Zach.

  He examined the dessert. Seemed okay, but . . . “What’s that supposed to be?”

  “Internet joke — Cake Wrecks?”

  Uh, sure. Zach took a bite. Mostly tasted like sugar, but he wasn’t complaining.

  “My friend Brittany made it. From upstairs.” Lucy looked her watch.

  “Well, the cake’s good.”

  Lucy’s tone turned sing-song. “You should take her out.”

  This was getting old. “Same one you’ve been trying to set me up with for three months?”

  “She’s really nice, Zach. I think you’d like her.”

  “Because she makes ugly cakes?”

  Lucy shot him a sarcastic smirk. “Because she runs her own company —”

  “So she’ll try to sell me essential oils all night?”

  “You don’t know JingleJangle makeup?” She looked at him like everyone with a pulse and half a brain knew this company.

  “How could I forget my favorite eyeshadow?”

  “She’s got a whole Internet empire.”

  Whoa. Zach let his reaction show and Lucy pressed on. “She’s funny and pretty, and the kind of girl you’d be dating if you actually went out. Remember how hard it is to get married if you don’t date?”

  She’d never let him live down that moment of weakness when he’d admitted he was tired of the single “scene” and ready to move on. Usually he’d feed her a line about being too busy for a blind date — but usually he wasn’t spending work hours around Molly. He had to do something to get his mind off her. Discussing that situation with Lucy would do anything but help. “Fine, Luce.”

  “Really?” She whipped back from checking her clock to beam at him. “When — is this week too soon?”

  Zach nodded. “Working this weekend.”

  “How about next week? Paul and I could double with you Friday.”

  He folded his arms. Lucy’s boyfriend still acted strange around Zach. Considering they’d met when Paul was in Catholic seminary, and Zach undercover as Father Tim, he couldn’t blame the guy too much. “Sounds super fun. A blind date doubling with a guy that still sees me as a priest and my sister, who loves to make me look bad. Good way to guarantee our first date will be our last. Plus, I still need to punch him.”

  “Why? Because we had a fight?”

  Zach leveled her with a get-serious expression. Sniping at one another didn’t quite constitute a fight, but he’d have to be blind, deaf and stupid not to see his sister’s relationship imploding.

  “Fine, go out with her alone.” Lucy glanced at her watch. “If you’re so set against hanging out with him, you’d better go. He’ll be here in ten.”

  Zach grumbled. “I’m not the one with a problem. It’s been, like, eighteen months. He’s gotta get over this.”<
br />
  “Guess we all have our hang-ups.” Lucy opened the door.

  “Happy birthday, Lucy.”

  “Thanks, bro. See you Sunday.” She hugged him, then practically shoved him out.

  Grace wasn’t an expert at corporate espionage, but when her support was as dense as Ed and Pearse, she’d do whatever necessary to pick up the slack. Wednesday night, that meant arriving to clean O’Connell Publishing before her coworkers.

  As part of the staff for the office park, she could’ve easily entered their offices during business hours — but she’d be sure to arouse suspicion if she riffled through the company’s filing cabinets. Far easier to start her regular shift a few minutes early.

  If only her job included cleaning the warehouse, or even access to it. But the doors were locked tight, and she’d tried every key in the place.

  Tonight would be different. She ran the extension cord for her vacuum cleaner to the lobby outlet, indicating to any other early crew member that she was already hard at work inside the generic offices. Apart from no one else taking the initiative to come early, her only other stroke of luck was that the filing cabinets weren’t the locking kind.

  After half an hour of searching, however, even that seemed a small victory. Finally, in the very last drawer, she found what she wanted. Grace pulled the single-leaf form from its file, turning the folder on its side to mark its place.

  DONTRAIN PARADE FLOATS, the block letterhead read. She snapped a picture of the rental receipt with her mobile. She groaned at the cheesy slogan beneath the company name: Use DontRain on Your Parade.

  She dropped her mobile into her handbag and replaced the receipt with plenty of time to spare before any other custodians arrived. One more piece she needed.

  Over Nate’s objections, Molly let herself into Lucy’s flat. The living room was empty, but Lucy poked her head out of the back hallway. “Hey! Paul called — he’s running late.”

  For some reason, Molly’s heart sank. She definitely wasn’t that disappointed Lucy’s boyfriend wasn’t here yet.

  No, no, she wasn’t disappointed. She couldn’t be. Sure, she’d almost expected to find Zach here for his sister’s birthday, but she didn’t want to see him. Wanting to see him would mean more than simple, reflexive attraction.