by Dianna Love
Biddy licked the foam off his upper lip and studied his mug with the interest of a glass collector contemplating an auction bid. “We only need one ratings point to make the three for your contract. Might have gotten that with this story, but if I’d handed him the film, Lehman would have used it and left you out in the cold.” Biddy turned to Riley. “Would you have called another cameraman this morning if I couldn’t have met you?”
“No.”
Biddy sat on the film even though he could have gotten his job back.
Riley took a look around. He’d bet there wasn’t a man in here that wouldn’t follow Biddy out in the street to face an unknown threat. Biddy was the kind of man who lived by his word and expected Riley to live by his.
That had never been a problem for Riley. “Thanks.”
Biddy nodded. “What’s next?”
“We might pick up that last point for WNUZ with this killing if we can tie it to the Stanton one.” Riley paused, calculating then seeing no way around his limited choices. “Except, I can’t break the story on Stanton yet, not if we want to keep any kind of relationship with the police.” And Riley wouldn’t jeopardize Enrique’s life. He’d err on the side of caution this time.
“Same people that arrested you this morning?”
“Not J. T. It was all Massey, posturing to make a point, and her little show backfired on her.”
“How you figure that?”
“Now she knows we’re on the right track and she wants to talk. I’ll help J. T. and his men, but she’s crazy if she thinks I’m sharing one iota with her. She can’t take my phone, or she’ll risk the killer will call and not talk to anyone else. Screw her. I need J. T. to know I’m being straight with him, and that’s why I told him about Enrique’s blanket.” Riley flashed on that scrap of bloody material and kept telling himself Enrique might still be alive. Had to be alive.
“Any news on the blood samples?” Biddy asked.
“No. Doubt I’ll get an answer from anyone but J. T., and he’s up to his neck in bodies and a lost kid.” Riley leaned forward to keep his voice low and still be heard. “Still interested in working on this?”
Biddy leaned forward, too, crossing his thick forearms on the table in front of him. “Whatcha got?”
“The monsignor at St. Catherine’s is a crack shot with a .38 and he runs on ice water.”
“Never heard of a priest who shoots, but doesn’t take a crack shot to kill at point blank range if you’re thinking that way.”
Riley scoffed. “Even I’m not going to point a finger at a priest, especially one who shoots at the police range, but this Monsignor Dornan is tough. He gets pushed he’s going to push right back and probably harder. I asked about Sally’s murder, if he could shed any light on it. He blew me off. Said to pick up a press release from his office, so I did and tried to get something out of his chief of staff, but she’s evasive.”
“She?” Biddy’s eyebrows perked up.
“Yeah, quick, sharp, protective. Too groomed to be new, but she doesn’t want me around. You’d think with them developing this outreach center they’d try to get some free publicity, but she couldn’t hustle me out fast enough when I asked about another Philomena House resident murdered a week ago.”
“Told you ‘bout the media shittin’ all over St. Catherine’s. Might just be gun shy.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I need information on any killings with a .38 shot to the head and the body moved. Want to focus on Philomena House and St. Catherine’s parishioners. Narrow it down to a ten-mile radius. They released the name on the victim from the cemetery. Bruno Parrick. We need to find out if he’s connected to Philomena House or St. Catherine’s.”
“If we drag St. Catherine’s into this mess and find out they didn’t need to be involved the WNUZ board will never put you back on as anchor. Might not get another anchor job. Anywhere.”
Riley met Biddy’s steely gaze straight on. “You don’t want to do this, that’s fine, I’ll understand, but I don’t care who goes down with a kid missing. And the only shot we have at getting our jobs back is breaking a major story. This case is all we’ve got.”
No more questions, no extra clarification, Biddy just said, “Okay. Let you know when I have something.”
There hadn’t been a lot of times in Riley’s life that he’d been given unconditional support, but he knew when he’d just received it. His cell phone chimed.
The caller ID was unknown. “Walker.”
“Kirsten Massey here. Don’t hang up.”
He hadn’t hung up on her today, but he had let her prior calls roll to voice mail. “What, Investigator Massey?”
Biddy eyed him with a this-should-be-interesting expression.
“I’ve got a deal for you.” She let that hang between them without another word.
“Why should I care?”
“To help Enrique.”
Damn, she played her top card, first hand out. “What’s your deal?” Riley heard a tone beep on his phone that indicated a text message being delivered.
“You agree to meet so we can talk and I share information.”
He ground his jaw, wanting to shut her out, but in the end he’d do a lot more than shove his temper and pride aside to help find Enrique and nail this murderer. “Okay, deal.”
“The blood on the blanket is not Enrique’s. It all belonged to the vic.”
That earned her a few points. “What else?”
“The victim was killed at the location we found him. If you’ll meet me, I’ve got something else to share about the bodies, but not over the phone.”
She’d made Riley an offer he couldn’t pass up. “When?”
“I can’t get away until this evening.”
“Meet me at the Alma de Cuba at seven.”
“I’ll be there.”
Riley ended the call, not quite sure what had just transpired, but curiosity had sent him into worse situations than dinner with a woman. He told Biddy, “The blood on the blanket all belonged to the vic. Massey’s willing to trade information tonight.”
“Guess it was worth getting my ass crawled by Lehman this morning if it means Massey’s gonna play ball.”
Nodding, Riley lifted his phone again. “Had a text message from Lilly. I asked her to let me know if we got any movement in ratings.” If anyone at WNUZ knew the pulse of the station, Lilly would. He normally talked to the receptionist everyday and brought her coffee that was drop-shipped in from Chicago because she liked it as much as he did.
“She’d know.” Biddy nodded. “But I doubt WNUZ got a decent hike today since the crew was shut out of filming.”
Riley read the text message. “Ah, shit! WNUZ dropped a point.”
He’d felt pretty good about gaining one point in the next week, but two?
Not odds he’d put serious money on.
Chapter 34
“We need that done now! Why haven’t you – ”
Margo’s head jerked up at the angry words that jumbled into a mottle of garbled sniping. That had sounded like Icky’s snotty tone way down the hall. She quickly finished checking off electrical supplies being unloaded at the back door of St. Catherine’s, calling goodbye to the delivery guy.
Once she shut the door and hung up the inventory clipboard, she took a fortifying breath to find out what Icky had started this time.
She hurried down the hallway past all the offices, making a mental note when she caught a glimpse of Monsignor in his office. When had he come in? Didn’t matter. She had to see him, but not until she found out why Icky was on the rag again. She pulled up short at an eye-to-eye face-off, punctuated by Icky’s low-eyebrow scowl and Baylor’s defiant, jutted-out chin.
Baylor stood there holding two brand new five-gallon buckets of paint that had to be straining his arms. “Told you I called the company today. Can’t do a thing about them not showing up to get the roll-off Dumpster. Don’t know what’s the big deal. Nobody’s behind on the remodeling. You talk to
them if you want to.”
“I don’t have time to deal with Dumpsters.” Icky had probably perfected indignant by the age of five.
“My time’s important, too,” Baylor countered.
“What’s wrong?” Margo asked calmly then prepared herself for the reply. Icky was as apt to snap at her as give a civil answer.
Grizzle walked out of the men’s room. He was ghost-pale until he started coughing, then his face flushed more with each painful sounding draw of breath.
“What’s wrong?” Icky asked, dragging out the last word. “What’s right?”
Margo didn’t know who to help first with Grizzle hacking so horribly he sounded as though he needed oxygen, but she couldn’t stand by and let Icky berate Baylor, who sort of reminded her of her da some days. She offered, “I’ll check on the Dumpster, but it’s after four so I may not be gettin’ them until the morning, Father Ickerson. Will that suit you?”
Icky turned his scowl on her.
“Probably be picked up by then.” Baylor turned dismissively and walked toward the stairs. “You want to do God’s work? Come upstairs and get your hands dirty.”
“Can I help you with those?” she asked, worried about Baylor carrying so much up the stairs at one time.
“No.” Baylor shook his head, waving off her question as insulting. “I got it.” He disappeared into the stairwell.
Icky was getting all worked up. “This building is not going to be ready on time.”
Grizzle started to speak, but Margo held up her hand. “Save your throat. It sounds raw.” Then she turned to the walking hissy fit. “We’ll be fine, Father Ickerson. We have a good two weeks until you-know-who visits.”
“This place is nowhere. Near. Ready.” Icky stomped back and forth, pacing the short width of the room. His face turned red as the top of a thermometer. “The police are crawling all over Philomena House as if they expect to find a killer visiting someone and that guy from the media has been there asking questions. Why isn’t Monsignor dealing with that? I had Philomena House all cleaned up and now I have to send Valdez back over when we need him here.” He stormed off.
Her anger flickered to life. Icky had no reason to take that tone or criticize Monsignor, who worked endless hours for this place. And Valdez might not be the best person to send to Philomena. The guy gave her the creeps some days and that was when she could find him.
Grizzle gave her a look of commiseration and strode down the hall, hacking behind Icky. Poor guy sounded worse by the day.
Margo followed until she reached her office and stepped inside to find Monsignor’s office door still open, but he was on a phone call.
She was not moving from her desk to do anything until she had a chance to speak with him. The stress of waiting to discuss her meeting with Riley Walker yesterday had ruined any chance of sleeping last night.
Monsignor had left St. Catherine’s right after finishing his late confession yesterday. She’d been upstairs going over a question the construction crew had on the remodeling, then returned to her desk to find a note in Monsignor’s script explaining that he had a dinner appointment.
The press release had been yesterday’s crisis.
New day. New disaster. She went to her desk and scrolled through the online news stories once more. There was the headline again: Brutal Murder at Laurel Hill Cemetery.
She drummed her fingers. Riley Walker would be all over this the minute he figured out where Bruno and Lisa Parrick worshipped.
Margo had to tell Monsignor about Walker’s insinuations yesterday. Insinuations...or threats?
A deep chuckle floated from Monsignor’s office. He ended his phone conversation with, “I think we can work this out. See you tonight.”
That was her opening. Margo grabbed the paper from her desk and scooted over to his office. “Could you spare a moment, Monsignor?”
He looked up, scratching his jaw. “Sure, if it’s not a confession.”
“Why?” She smiled at his teasing tone.
“Seems Father Ickerson was in the building yesterday after all when Bruno came in, but no one knew he’d returned. He takes confessions too personally, as if Bruno Parrick had snubbed him by speaking to me.”
Icky had a temper tantrum over the smallest things.
Margo had no sympathy. Icky hadn’t had to face Riley Walker yesterday, which reminded her...
“About that, first I want to give you the press release.” She handed him the document.
“I don’t have much time. I’ve got two appointments downtown and need to be gone in forty-five minutes to make the first one by five-thirty.” Monsignor took the document and lowered his gaze to the page.
Margo should be used to so many meetings, but it seemed as though Monsignor had a lot of appointments lately, particularly in the evenings. Just like San Francisco. She’d arrived at the St. Peter Covenant House a week after he’d moved to the south side location. Inside a month, Monsignor had been booked with dinner appointments and late night meetings. He’d always been a night owl, which had been in his favor at that time, when he had to stay up all night for two weeks straight to deal with the pair of warring gangs.
When she’d expressed concern over his riding around with the gangs at night, he said he had no choice and in the end everyone would benefit. He’d said, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”
Margo stifled a shudder at that memory. Bloody memory.
Members from both gangs had died in shootings at night during the time Monsignor rode with them.
He could have died, too.
Settling deeper in his leather chair, Monsignor read the press release.
She’d sat in that chair once. The leather swallowed her, reminding her no one could fill his chair or his shoes. He was St. Catherine’s best hope for rebuilding.
He lifted his gaze. “Okay, what else?”
“I think we may have a problem with the media.” Margo tried for unconcerned and hit halfway between that and shaky.
Monsignor’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “The press release is fine. Well done, in fact.”
She’d like to enjoy the moment, to bathe in the pleasure of his comment, but couldn’t preen with a possible disaster on the horizon. “Thank you, but after meeting him I don’t think he’s going to be satisfied with just a press release.”
“He who?”
“Riley Walker.”
“Was there a problem?”
“Walker’s got it in his mind that Clayton Howell – you know the Philomena House resident who was killed two weeks ago? – that his death is somehow connected to Sally’s.”
“What is it with this guy?” Monsignor put the press release down slowly, perplexed at first, then the muscles in his face shifted. He showed irritation on occasion, such as yesterday with Bruno’s lashing out at Valdez, but Margo rarely saw Monsignor’s face turn to stone as it did now. “How does he think those deaths are connected?”
She ignored the frigid undercurrent since that hadn’t been directed at her, but the newsman. “Both were killed with a small caliber weapon and both bodies had been moved to a second location after death.” Margo rubbed the bridge of her nose with two fingers, buying a few seconds. “I told him to talk to the police, that we were more concerned with the families left behind. I got the impression he wants to do a story on St. Catherine’s and you.”
On her, too, but she was so insignificant that would never happen so why mention it, right?
Monsignor sat back, arms resting at each side and palms together in front of his chest, contemplative. “If we push Walker away, he’ll work that much harder to get what he wants. He’s no rookie. He knows how to turn anything into a story.” Monsignor cocked his head to the side, eyes distant as he sifted through information mentally. “Walker’s with WNUZ, the only station that didn’t rip the bishop to pieces last year. Based on that alone, I’m surprised he’s coming at us this way,” Monsignor mused absently.
>
“I didn’t realize one vulture missed the frenzy. Why did WNUZ hold back when the others attacked and, if that was the case, why would Walker come snooping around here now?”
“I recall the bishop telling me a board member at WNUZ had a personal interest in St. Catherine’s – something about having come here as a child – so he called his news hounds off the hunt. But Riley Walker wasn’t here when all that happened so he may not know the station’s position on causing us undue problems.” Monsignor raised his eyes to Margo, a gleam of confidence twinkling. “He needs to be informed. I’ll contact Bishop Gautier as soon as I get a moment and find out who can enlighten Walker on showing the church respect.”
Margo’s chest relaxed like someone had opened a pressure valve. She smiled. “Great. But we have a new problem.”
Monsignor sat forward, elbows on his desk, hands clasped, but the taut posture said her job was to solve problems. “What?”
“Bruno Parrick was found dead this morning. He was killed in Laurel Park Cemetery.” She waited, but couldn’t read what was going on behind Monsignor’s closed mask.
“That’s awful. What do they know about the murder?”
His undisturbed expression surprised her, but Monsignor had seen so much in over fifty years on earth than her mere twenty-nine, that she attributed his non-reaction to being better prepared at hearing of unexpected deaths.
She lifted her shoulders. “Nothing much other than his...hands had been cut off before he died.” How gruesome. She didn’t think Bruno was redeemable, but she’d never wish for anyone to suffer that way. “I’m worried about what Walker will make of this once he realizes Bruno and Lisa worshipped here.”
If the police weren’t holding the bodies for now there would be back-to-back funerals and that would draw every news station around like flies to syrup.
She wouldn’t want that, but the dead deserved a funeral.
Monsignor stood calmly. “You’re the computer whiz. Find whatever you can on Walker.”
She wasn’t exactly a whiz, but Monsignor spent as little time on the computer as possible, using it more as a word processor than a communications tool for other than email. “I thought you said you knew him.”
