A Righteous Kill (25 page)

“Well, after committing the sin of gluttony, Father Michael and I will absolve each other and likely go to bed and sleep it off. We’re not without our own weaknesses, you know. I’ll confess to feeling some envy of you and not a little bit of lust when it comes to Lennox’s chocolate and Guinness potato cake. So that’s three serious sins in one night for me.”

Would murder make it four?

“Father McMurtry.” Luca leaned forward in his own chair, grasping his glass with both hands. “Do you think Father Michael is capable of being John the Baptist?”

“Absolutely not.” The answer was brusque, sincere.

“What about you?”

To his surprise, the old priest’s wrinkled features arranged themselves into a droopy kind of wistful smile. “’Twould be difficult for a man of my age and—limitations to crucify six grown women, don’t you think?”

Luca left it there. According to his file, Father Alistair Patrick McMurtry immigrated to the states about thirty years prior. He aged early and handsomely like Patrick Stewart or Anthony Hopkins, perhaps adding only a decade to his features in that span of time. His driver’s license put him in his mid-seventies, but he could have been a younger or older man.

“If you don’t think Father Michael did it, why not provide him an alibi on Friday night? Why not protect him?”

“My boy, the truth has a way of eventually coming out. Why cast suspicion on either of us by lying to you? Investigate our whereabouts on Friday night. I have absolute faith in Father Michael, and therefore don’t have a reason to resist bearing false witness to you.”

Luca nodded thoughtfully, and they each took a sip.

“May I ask what happened on Friday? What’s this about flowers?”

Luca considered him. A genuine anxiety shined in the elderly priest’s eyes. “Hero was threatened on Friday, that’s all I can tell you.”

“What a shame. I pray for her every night and every day. Always such a sweet girl. She doesn’t deserve this.” Shifting in his chair, McMurtry winced and clutched at his hip, before settling.

“If I may ask, how did you injure your hip?”

The priest considered him for a long moment over his glass, swirling the amber liquid and breathing in the sharp fumes. He seemed to come to a decision and set his glass down on the desk. “I’m going to share with you something that I tell no one. Not since I confessed it and made it right with the Lord. You’ll be the only soul on this continent who knows.”

Luca leaned intently forward. This was either going to be a murder confession or one of those stories that old people tell that had nothing to do with the original question and was never simplified for context.

“I was born in Belfast, Ireland, in a time when the city was split by war. When I was a boy, my father was hanged for violent crimes he committed during The Troubles. The loss broke my mother, and she turned to the bottle.” Father McMurtry stared at the glass in his hand with a wry sort of sadness. “She also turned to any man who would provide the next drink. Needless to say, life was a struggle and I became an angry and violent youth, roaming the streets up to no good. When I came of age, I left whatever squalid hell my mother had moved us into, and made my living as a disreputable boxer with a gambling addiction.” A surprising sparkle of humor worked its way into his features.

“I had many Gods before I found this one, Agent Ramirez. Money, violence, women, thrill, and pain. I worshiped them all. My hip was shattered and some of my spine broken when my book maker hit me with his car over a five hundred pound debt. I was told that I would never walk again. And wouldn’t you know they sent me to the St. Andrew’s Hospital to recover. It was there I found my calling in life, and my salvation. It was in that hospital, through pain and loss, prayer and miracles, that I purged myself of my demons and regained the use of my legs. I joined the clergy the moment I could stand on my own. Once my mother’s own demon claimed her life, I made my way to America to let go of the past. The rest, as they say, is history.”

The silence between them was comfortable as they each nursed their drink. Luca searched the priest’s eyes for signs of the man he’d just described, and found only knowing, compassionate regard.

“The reasons I have for revealing my past to you are two-fold. You’re a sharp and determined lad. I believe God has chosen you to help put a stop to the evil threatening these women. I want you to be looking in the correct direction for this evil, not sidetracked by personal causes, temptations or needless questions. I believe you are strong. That you’ll overcome.”

Strange and pervasive warmth spread through Luca that had nothing to do with the heat of the whiskey. It made him uncomfortable and quiet. It was the same kind of feeling he’d get from Coach Peck from time to time, an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment at receiving the praise and trust of a respected elder. Not that Luca respected the old priest, he
suspected
him and would do well to remember it. He looked down, inspecting the toes of his
Berluti Brunico
Tobbaco
bis
ankle boots.

McMurtry continued as though unaware of Luca’s discomfiture. “I also shared this because I have the suspicion that you and I have more in common than you might think. Similar childhoods, maybe? Perhaps we’ve even made some similar choices when it comes to the directions our lives have taken us?” He waggled bristled eyebrows at Luca, daring him to put the parallels into place.

Luca shot the rest of his drink and set the glass down on the desk harder than he may have meant to. “Trust me,
Padre
, I am
no
priest.”

This pulled a warm laugh from McMurtry, lent a rich note by the strong drink. “Of that I have no doubt, but maybe we’ve both devoted our lives to the same goal. Bringing hope to the downtrodden. Trying to facilitate a sense of balance and justice. Battling the darkness threatening the souls of this city, each in our own way.”

Luca’s eyes narrowed at that last one, suspicion warring with a growing admiration for the man. “Maybe we’re both fighting on the wrong side of a losing battle.” And maybe Hero had been right. Was he looking for a killer in the eyes of a saint? Or did he recognize a killer with a soul like his own? The jury was still out.

“You say that like a man who’s lost his faith,” Father McMurtry said softly.

Luca made a caustic sound. “You have to have faith before you lose it.”

The old man tutted and sighed, regarding Luca with something akin to long-suffering pity. “Faith is not possession, son, it’s an action. ‘Tis why they call it
a leap of faith
. You cannot simply stand on the ledge and expect it to find you. You have to jump. You have to fall. It is in the plummet that you will find your soul.”

Luca stood, deciding he’d had enough. “This is where you lose me,
Padre
. Thanks for the drink. And… thanks for the confidence.”

Father McMurtry also stood, using the desk for support.

“I’ll see myself out.” Luca didn’t want to cause him any pain.

“Agent Ramirez.” The old man put out a hand as though to stop him. “I recognize the demons in your eyes as the same ones that used to live in mine. Anger, violence, wrath, hatred, of yourself and of others. They’ll consume you if you’re not careful.”

Luca fought a spike of temper, but shoved it back down with both hands, not willing to prove the sanctimonious, frighteningly observant priest right. “I don’t know if I believe in demons. No offense, but I tend to believe that a man is the master of his own actions and emotions. His choices belong to him, alone, along with the consequences.”

“I don’t disagree. Demons can be figurative as much as literal, lad. We all likely have a few of both kinds.”

Compelled by an overwhelming urge to escape the conversation, Luca strode to the door and opened it, inviting in the cool, circulating air of the hallway. It swirled into the room like a ghost, cooling skin warmed by good liquor and elevating blood pressure. Something caused a catch in his step before he could make a full retreat, and he turned back to the priest.

“How do you propose I do it,
Padre
?” he asked quietly. “How do I rid myself of these demons?”

The old man’s smile was filled with an almost divine tenderness. “There are many ways to exorcise a demon, Agent Ramirez. Though I have a feeling yours could be chased away with a little hope, dare I say some faith? In yourself, in others, and in the forgiveness of Heaven.”

Luca let a sarcastic laugh that came out sounding bereft. “Just like that, huh?”

“If you think that’s too difficult, we can consider some of our more traditional ways to exorcize demons.” McMurtry gave a mischievous wink.

“No thanks, I’ve seen the movie.” Luca paused. “Thank you again—for—for the drink.”

“Come and see me any time.”

Nodding, Luca left, closing the door firmly behind him. He stood on the flip side for a moment, his composure rattled. He couldn’t shake the feeling he hadn’t been the only examiner in the room. The priest’s story intrigued him. The injury, in addition to his age, did cast off a good deal of the suspicion. Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try to get his hands on some medical records, and perhaps even put a call into the Irish Embassy to request some verification. He’d been a boxer. Hero had been punched in the face by a man wearing a cassock. Too many parallels to ignore.

“Demons,” he muttered, feeling a little foolish. “What a load of—”

His phone vibrated against his jacket pocket and Luca took a few long strides away from the office before answering it, making his way back to the front of the church to collect Hero from her brother.

“Why didn’t you tell me the news about our bendy friend, Two Rivers?” Vince quipped into his ear.

“What news?”

“Didn’t you get the email? It was sent yesterday.”

“I have twenty million emails in my inbox. I’m only caught up on the urgent ones.” Yesterday was mostly spent researching saints, working out, and catching up on some recorded HBO as it was supposed to be his day off.

Luca usually left the correspondence to Vince. He got off on it. Another reason their partnership worked out so well.

“This one’s not marked urgent, but it snagged my eye.”

“And?”

“His name is Reese Donovan. He’s wanted in California and Arizona for some violent crimes dating back eight years, including three separate cases of sexual battery against women. In fact, there’s an extradition order already signed by a federal circuit court judge because one of the Arizona cases has a suspicious death attached to it. Get this, it’s a drowning.”

“I knew it!” Luca victoriously slapped one of the open doors to the rec room. “I knew that tree-hugging, hippie son of a—”

“Are you still at church?” Vince cut in.

“Oh. Shit—
I mean
—shoot.” Luca glanced around, relieved to find he was alone in the hallway.

The smile in Vince’s voice carried through the receiver. “Anyway, the field agents and Portland’s finest are keeping their eyes peeled for Donovan, but heads up in case he’s got a hard-on for our girl.”

An urgency to have Hero back within his sights intensified at the news, and he sped through the labyrinth of halls back toward the chapel.

“Still…I don’t know if I like him for this,” Vince continued. “I mean, he has no documented religious background and his other crimes are kind of small-sauce, you know? Violent, spur-of-the-moment, my-mom-didn’t-hug-me-enough bullshit. JTB’s so methodical, so precise, and there’s the opposite of sexual intent apparent in his crimes.”

“I’ve been thinking along the same lines,” Luca agreed. He reached the chapel and made his way across the nearly empty room and down the center aisle. A few people lingered in conversation. “But this Donovan is in Hero’s orbit and either way, I want him
gone
.”

“Then again… What if he
is
JTB?” There he went, playing devil’s advocate again. “What if this
Two Rivers
is a front for a serial killer and we extradite him to become another state’s problem? What if he’s released and reinvents himself again? He’ll have slipped through our fingers.”

“Let’s worry about getting him into custody first.
Then
we’ll have some decisions to make.”

“Sure. Good plan,” Vince said. “How did church go?”

“Weird.” Luca answered.

“How weird?”

“Like show-me-on-the-doll-where-the-priest-exposed-your-demons, weird.”

“That’s wicked weird,” Vince laughed. “What do you think we should do about the two intrepid Fathers tonight?”

Luca thought about it. “We should put a tail on them both, and the professor, if we can. Even though we won’t be there, I want someone on Hero’s house. Trojanowski is all over this, so we should be able to scare up the man power, you think?”

“Oh yeah, shouldn’t be a problem.”

Reaching the doors, Luca found Rown chatting with the grey-haired women from the row in front of them. He’d recognize the back of that head anywhere. The rain had cleared up, but the clouds still hung low in the sky. Hero was conspicuously absent. Luca made a
what the fuck
gesture.

“She’s with Demetri,” Rown said over the matron’s heads. “They both needed to hit the head.”

The news didn’t distress Luca, as Demetri worked private security, among other things, and was an acceptable guard for Hero in his opinion. Though Luca would kill to see what was on her brother’s expunged record.

“All right. I got to go do dinner with the parents,” he told his partner.

Vince laughed again. “You’ve had worse gigs, right?”

“Can’t think of any at the moment,” Luca grumbled. Meeting the parents wasn’t exactly his
modus operandi.

“Just give them your best I’m-not-banging-your-daughter smile, you’ll be fine.”

“I’m
not
banging their daughter.”

Vince snickered, “Yeah, but they don’t know that.”

Luca turned around to find the bathrooms when the unmistakable roar of a Harley coming to life in the parking lot drew his attention. A leather jacket filled to the brink over loose-fitting black slacks straddled the heavy bike. Demetri slicked his shoulder-length black hair back with one hand, and wedged his helmet on.