A Righteous Kill (24 page)

Her brother’s dark amber head had to bend far as he murmured something into Hero’s ear that made her smirk. In answer, she reached across his body and poked the ribs beneath his arm causing him to flinch and release her with a jerk. But immediately after, she rested her head against his shoulder to smooth away the offense. They both smiled.

Luca watched the exchange with a queer fascination. He
should
be scanning the crowd for someone who seemed out of place. Studying the two priests at the dais for signs of maniacal obsession with Hero. Playing the concerned but relaxed boyfriend for her family. But he’d spent the past hour doing that, to no discernible outcome, and he was getting tired of sitting in the stuffy room and trying to keep his eyes off of Hero’s intriguing hemline.

Rown leveled an inscrutable green gaze at him over Hero’s head, and Luca found it hard to meet. But he did, thrusting his chin out in acknowledgment. The fellow agent was the only one who knew of their deception, and he’d made it clear that he didn’t like it. In the end, he’d accepted that constant, twenty-four-hour monitoring was the only way to ensure Hero’s safety. Of course, he’d demanded Vince’s position for himself, and was denied for obvious reasons. He’d definitely given the keep-your-filthy-hands-off-my-little-sister schpeel to both Luca and Vince before they’d taken their places in her home.

Apparently, he’d neglected to give the same lecture to his not-so-saintly sister. Or she’d ignored it, which was the more likely scenario.

A guilty flush crept from beneath his collar. So they’d kissed. So what? They’d have to do that and more in public if anyone was to believe they were in a relationship. Besides that little mistake, what other carnal sins had they committed? None. Words. Just words. Fantasies, innuendos, and salacious promises did not a slimy bastard make.

His notice slid back to where her dress crawled up her thigh.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that, homeboy. See how far it gets you.

The stress was getting to her. Though she tried to hide it behind a cheerful disposition and positive affirmations, the wear was finally beginning to show. Hero’s little display of temper in the car had confirmed it.

Her willful denial was frustrating, but Luca couldn’t blame her. She had a lot to lose. Besides her life and her dignity, she clung desperately to her optimism and illusions. To her, the world was a place full of promise and potential, full of colors she could capture and objects she could shape with clay. She’d grown and flourished in the protective bubble of her rare and devoted family. The indulged and adored baby, easily able to charm and smile her parents and older brothers under her complete control, careful to never use her powers of manipulation for evil.

Up until that horrible day in October, she’d had the advantage of a completely clear conscience. A spotless record. Maybe a few white lies or a smudged relationship karmically smoothed over by a volume of unpretentious kind services and selfless good-nature.

Her place in heaven was assured, though she didn’t worry about what form that would take, pearly gates or a fortuitous reincarnation. What did it matter? Death was always a distant abstract to someone so young. A thing that happened to the elderly and the careless.

Now she faced violent mortality. The possibility of leaving a life unfinished. Not only that, but the cheery world into which she’d been born, full of life-long relationships and loving trust-worthy people was suddenly shadowed by an unknown and constant threat.

Luca hadn’t realized just how much that aspect affected her. Of course, the idea that someone you knew and trusted wanted you dead would be horrible for anyone. But for someone like her, it was devastating. An inconceivable mind fuck. And not for the first time he wished like hell it had happened to someone else.

God he was in trouble.

To his exquisite relief, the benediction began and he planted his thoughts firmly back to where they should be. On the case. This afternoon he needed to speak with the intrepid priests of St. Andrews. Tonight he would play devoted and respectful boyfriend to Hero’s family, all the while keeping one ear to the ground in case a killer should decide to make his move.

After the benediction finished, Connor shot to his feet, startling everyone in the surrounding pews as he cleared Demetri’s knees in one long-legged stride. His hasty exit was covered by the bustling of the congregation at large. Luca regarded his broad, rumpled retreating back as the rest of his family exchanged concerned glances. The guy looked like a giant running from midgets, his shaggy head and shoulders carrying over the sea of people. Something wasn’t right there, and Luca started to wonder if he should be worried.

Hero stood and turned, holding her hand out to him with a sunny and inviting smile that stopped the heart in his chest. “Let’s go, I’m
starving
.”

Luca unfolded from the bench and took Hero’s hand, pulling her to the side where they wouldn’t hinder the rest of the row’s exit.

As they filed down the crowded aisle at the pace of a stoned turtle, it was agreed they’d all congregate back to Hero’s parent’s house for the sake of expediency. Luca bent to murmur into Hero’s ear, enjoying the feel of her small hand in his. “Hang with your brothers for a minute. I need to ask a few questions while I’m here.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Sure. I’ll stay with Rown.”

The Katrova-Connor clan walked to the door where the two Priests stood offering handshakes, blessings, and well-wishes. They each perfectly represented the two ages of the modern Catholic Church. The traditional and the progressive.

Father Michael easily and graciously accepted compliments regarding his charismatic sermon on having faith in miracles and strength in the face of adversity. His disarming brown eyes crinkled with genuine pleasure as he greeted Hero’s parents. His cheerful voice seemed to carry regardless of the noise level. White vestments and purple sash seemed at odds with beach-blond good looks that would take a good couple of decades to gain maturity.

In opposition, Father McMurtry was a stooped, soft-spoken old man. Though he rarely smiled, kindness and compassion sparkled from startling blue eyes, whose glimmer of youth contrasted with the deep grooves of his aging skin.

Luca detected the differences in their response as they noticed Hero simultaneously. They each deftly masked their initial reactions to the amount of thigh exposed by her dress, enough to raise eyebrows at a church, but not necessarily on the streets. Father McMurtry smothered a mild look of disapproval as he accepted a warm and familiar hug from her, and Father Michael struggled with a look of not-so-mild masculine interest. All interest evaporated like a Texas turd-floater when he caught sight of Luca’s own not-so-mild look.

“I see you brought your new lad,” Father McMurtry’s voice danced with similar Irish inflection to Hero’s father. “Nice to see you again, Agent Ramirez.”

“
Padre
,” Luca acknowledged.

The old man kept Hero’s hands clasped in his gentle one, the other leaning heavily on his cane as he leaned forward conspiratorially. “Izolda tells me your young agent is also a doctor. I think you’d better keep this one.”

Hero laughed merrily, the sound drawing the appreciative notice of those close by.

“It’s a PhD,” Luca muttered, wondering just how in the hell a fake boyfriend could feel real embarrassment.

“Even so.” The ghost of a smile touched his thin, weathered lips. “Agent Ramirez—I have plenty of Latin folks in my fold. We even do a separate Mass in Spanish on every second and fourth Sunday. One of Father Michael’s many visionary suggestions.” He lifted a voluminous eyebrow at them both. “I hope to see you two around more often. I feel like Hero’s a little lost lamb of my flock.”

“Aww.” Hero offered him a tender smile. “Not lost, Father, just wandering. And you’ll see us Christmas Eve for Midnight Mass.”

Little lost lamb? His dying ass, she was a succubus in the form of a fucking saint. “I’d like to see you in private actually.” Luca told the priest.

Father McMurtry faltered. “How about tomorrow afternoon? I need to say goodbye to everyone and then I have a few—”

“I can wait.” Luca knew the savvy priest understood exactly what he was saying. They were going to talk here. Today. One way or the other.

Blue eyes that sparked with intellect narrowed into his with challenging assessment. The kindness and compassion had disappeared, replaced with pious condemnation. “All right,” the Priest finally conceded in a soft tone laced with steel. “All right, my boy, follow me to my office. We’ll chat there. Father Michael, if you’ll excuse us, please.”

Luca sent a look to Rown, who nodded and took up watch behind his sister. “I’ll be a few minutes,” he said to them both, ignoring their nearly identical frowns.

The old priest set a maddeningly slow pace as he limped the way from the vaulted opulence of the handsome grey stone chapel through a short maze of simple but elegant dark wood hallways. St. Andrew’s was more than a stained-glass and stone cathedral. During the week it offered such services as day care for low-income working mothers, Sunday school, confessional, and a rec room provided an open space for everything from youth basketball summer camps to nighttime Alcohol and Narcotics Anonymous meetings.

Father McMurtry’s office was exactly how Luca remembered it. He couldn’t decide which was older, man or desk. They both looked like they’d once been large, thick and well-built, but were now lined and weathered with much time and use. The somber wood-paneled walls were bare but for an intricate Celtic crucifix over the large executive chair tucked neatly into place.

Father McMurtry pulled it out, and motioned to one of the two studded universal office chairs facing the other side of the desk.

Luca remained standing.

The glint of assessment was back in the old man’s eyes, but tinged with a bit of amusement. “I assume you’re here to talk about making an honest woman out of our Hero?”

“I’m here to ask you where you were Friday night.” Luca kept his tone light, un-menacing, but serious. He retrieved a yellow pad from its case, using the action to press the button on the hidden recorder inside.

“Oh?” His bushy eyebrows crawled up toward his hairline, and he paused in the middle of divesting himself. “In that case, I think we’ll need a drink.” His limp was more pronounced as he left his cane leaning against the desk and hung his vestments on a special rack on the wall before making his slow way to the old cupboard. “Hero’s father, Eoghan, gifts me with a bottle of Middleton every Christmas. It’s about time I lay this old soldier to rest, don’t you think?” He shook the almost empty bottle at Luca and grabbed two whiskey glasses with his free hand before making his painstaking journey back to the desk.

“Well now!” he exclaimed with the force of settling his brittle bones into his chair. Setting one glass in front of him, and the other at Luca’s end of the desk, he uncorked the bottle and poured the last of the fine Irish whiskey in equal amounts. “So this is a visit much like the one you paid me the day after that tragedy at the river.”

“I’m afraid so.” Luca stepped in front of the visitor’s chair to the left and conceded enough to lower his frame into it.

“A pity, I’d like to see that girl settled down. Let’s see… Friday.” The priest took a sip, and Luca followed suit, enjoying the smooth velvet bite of the fine liquor. “We didn’t have anything going on here at the church, so Father Michael and I spent a quiet night at our residence in back of the rectory.”

“Scripture studying? Praying? Writing sermons?” Luca prompted.

McMurtry chuckled and took another sip. “Actually, Agent Ramirez, Manchester United beat the socks right off Ireland and I was eating dinner and shouting blasphemy at the television.”

“Soccer?”

“’Tis not all sermon writing and do-gooding around here. We do enjoy ourselves from time to time, you know. I even watch every single one of young Lennox’s fighting bouts. Religiously, if you’d believe it. I was quite the pugilist back in my day.”

Luca smirked in spite of himself. The old Irishman had a charisma all his own. Quieter, introspective, and ultimately likable. Though Luca wrote on his pad that Father McMurtry had once been a boxer. “So, you two were here together, all night?”

The priest leaned forward, his eyes as brilliant as Irish crystal. “Not exactly all night. Father Michael was called away rather late to help in a domestic dispute.”

“How late?”

“Ohhhh, about eight thirty or so.”

Maybe eight thirty was late to someone like Father Michael, but that gave either priest plenty of time to leave the rhododendrons at Hero’s door. Luca watched Father McMurtry’s features very intently as he asked his next question. “You or Father Michael visit any flower shops lately?”

“Definitely not. No need.”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of guilt or fear. He was either really
really
good, or he told the truth. “What was the name of this family that Father Michael was called to visit?”

A shrug upset the McMurtry’s glass, as though he’d forgotten it was still in his hand. He saved any liquid from risk by lifting it to his lips. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Father Michael.”

“Don’t you think that you two should encourage people to call the police rather than a priest during a domestic dispute?” Okay, so it was off topic, but this kind of thing really chapped his ass.

Father McMurtry remained unruffled by his obvious disapproval. “We believe that sometimes conflict and danger is better solved by God than by guns,” he said gently.

“Not in my experience.”

“Well…” The old man let the gentle word trail into a voluminous silence, the useless argument passing between them without a word spoken. For neither of them would change their minds.

“What are your plans for tonight?” Luca asked pointedly.

“I’ve been invited to the O’Rourke’s for dinner, and before you ask, Father Michael is planning to feast at the Mendez household, or was it the Murphy’s?”

“What about after?” Would there be a little stigmata and a quick ‘baptism’ for dessert?