Justifiable (28 page)

Didn’t take much to push her pissed-off button.

Her eyes narrowed to the point of slits. “What is it with you and St. Catherine’s? Haven’t we been under the microscope enough with the media? We’re doin’ all we can to help our parishioners with programs like Philomena House and the youth center, not to mention our other community programs. We worry about
all
the wee ones and will do anything to help the police. What else do you people want?”

You people? As if newsmen were all a bunch of vultures. Some might be, but he resented constantly being lumped into that group. His tone was no longer accommodating.

“
I
want to find someone who’s willing to do whatever it takes to get a child back. You act like I’m accusing you of something. I’m not, but I am challenging you to share everything you and the rest of St. Catherine’s staff can on Sally and Enrique Stanton.”

Her lips closed tight. She shoved at a thick lock of curly hair that bounced right back into place alongside her smooth cheek when she let go. “We all want to get Enrique back, but I don’t personally have anything to give the police.”

“And the priests?”

“They’ve shared anything important already and you know they can’t divulge what they hear in confession.”

“I can appreciate the sanctity of confession, but a child’s life is at risk. Doesn’t that bother any of
you
people?”  He dished that back with a heavy slap of sarcasm.

Restraint and fire clashed in her gaze. The blaze won. “You dare to question our priests who hold the trust of every member, no matter how important or insignificant those people and their problems may rank on your personal scale? And what about
your
interest in Enrique? You’d have me believin’ you have a righteous reason for investigating these deaths?”

Deaths, as in plural? The first death two weeks ago wasn’t tied to this killing, just something Riley had tossed at her to get a reaction. Did she know something she wasn’t saying about that one or Bruno Parrick’s body found in the cemetery today? All J. T.’s office had shared with the media about the body so far had been a name and that the man was survived by his widow. No children mentioned, which threw a new inconsistency into the mix of profiling.

But Margo’s slip sent a quick surge of adrenaline through Riley that he could be on the right trail. “You don’t think finding a child is enough reason for someone to show an interest?”

She lifted her chin and met him eye-to-eye. “For someone other than a newsman.”

“You always so distrustful of the media?”

“I never trust a man who flirts with me, because I don’t know his motives. Just as I don’t know your motive for hunting Enrique or knocking the scab off a wound St. Catherine’s is just startin’ to heal.”

“What would prove to you I’m sincere about finding Enrique and not just searching for a story?”

“You’d have to convince me these people matter and I don’t think you can do that. You expect everyone else to bare their souls and tell all but what about you?”

“What about me?”  He didn’t give a damn if he sounded hostile. He had an idea where she was heading with this. 

“Bare
your
soul for once. Tell the truth about your darkest secrets. What was your motive for interviewin’ a killer in Detroit? Would you have interviewed the Kindergarten Killer if you couldn’t have told anyone you had an exclusive interview with a serial killer?”

Where others raised his fighting hackles when they took pot shots at him, this woman’s direct questions sliced deep to the core.

He’d asked the man in his bathroom mirror harder questions than that since last year. Yes, he’d wanted to find that little boy, but any newsman would have been jacked up at the chance to get this guy on camera. The hole inside him opened and burned with pain, a black vortex that threatened to pull him in. That’s why he couldn’t go there, couldn’t think about that day again. His heart pumped harder and harder. He swallowed down the anguish and forced the misery into a mental locker he slammed the door shut on.

He had to get through today and find Enrique, stay away from that bottomless hole he couldn’t climb out of if he fell all the way in.

Riley forced his words from between tight jaw muscles. “What happened in Detroit is in the past. A child is missing here, today. What purpose would baring my soul serve?”

“I’d know if I could trust your motive for pushing this investigation, because I don’t think you even know why you’re doin’ this.” 

She’d driven a spike deep into the core of the infection eating him inside out. He didn’t want to think about the whys, just function, put one foot in front of the other with a purpose for each day. He resented the hell out of her disturbing the balance beam he teetered along between sanity and insanity. If he dipped too far one way, he’d fall back into the lost existence he’d lived in right after the Kindergarten Killer’s suicide.

The waitress delivered a Shepherd’s Pie and served it to Margo Cortese then left.

“I’d take care what you say about St. Catherine’s,” Cortese warned in a calmer voice as if she suggested using the correct fork. She’d regained her control, stabbing at the crust on her Shepherd’s Pie. “Your television station was the only one wise enough not to attack us during the embezzlement debacle. Since you’re suspended right now, I doubt your superiors would approve of your visit to St. Catherine’s or even know about it. You might be wantin’ to check with them before chasin’ a wild-hair story involving St. C’s that could have a negative connotation.”

Riley had hit his limit of threats for the day. “I have no intention of putting St. Catherine’s in a negative spotlight based on speculation.”

She smiled, genuinely pleased and clearly relieved at his admission.

“But,” he continued. “If solid evidence points to St. Catherine’s or Philomena House being at the center of this, and it’s clear that you and the monsignor’s staff had prior knowledge I’ll personally break that story wide open. And I don’t care who on the board of WNUZ doesn’t like it. I guarantee you I’ll find a station to carry
that
story.”  Riley stood. “Thanks for the tip.”

“What tip?”  Worry wiggled in her voice.

He stepped aside and politely shoved his chair back under the table then leaned down and placed one hand on the surface for support so he could crowd her space. This was another wild shot, but he had her concerned about something. “When you referenced
deaths
, as in more than one. That tells me I should take a closer look at Bruno Parrick’s murder.”

Riley lifted up to his full height and peered down at her. “And since you’re so keen on soul searching, ask yourself how much
you’re
willing to risk to protect an organization when a child’s life is at risk.” 

Chapter 37

The night belonged to the wicked and desperate.

He would take it back from the wicked, by using their desperation. Wind howled through the trees towering over each side of the dark path he followed, lit by his small LED flashlight. He’d grown up in dark places, lived in Montana where night fell like a widow’s cloak over the entire house.

Used to scare him, late at night when the wolves howled and the coyotes yodeled to each other.

His father said facing your fears made a man tough.

Made a ten-year-old kid wet his pants when he’d gotten locked outside all night on the porch without even a flashlight.

He’d survived though and maybe if his dad saw him walking alone through these woods at night he’d finally say, “I’m proud of you.” 

Never would happen now with his dad long dead and buried.

It hurt to know he’d miss the chance to show his dad how tough he’d become, but he had a duty now, a way to prove himself to someone more important. When he got St. Catherine’s straightened out, he’d be acknowledged for the results of his carefully executed plan. But success would slip from his grasp if Margo didn’t keep Riley Walker reined in.

The newsman had been his best choice as a phone contact. Someone who understood the cost of failure. Walker’s history would prevent him from becoming too ambitious. He was brilliant and recognized excellence. The time approached, and Walker was the perfect choice to show the world God’s hand in action.

But if the newsman cost St. Catherine’s a visit from the pope, Walker would pay the price.

Crack.
Something else moved in the woods, hunting. He’d prefer the noise belonged to a deer instead of a dog.

A light glowed through the branches.

Just as he’d figured. The cabin was buried in a thick section of woods alongside the Evansburg State Park twenty miles northwest of Philly. The perfect place for someone to hide sinful actions.

But no one hid from God. 

He hoisted the duffle bag with everything necessary for his task. He needed an armload of righteousness tonight. But he only had enough space for one small body to rest in peace, so he had two decisions to make. Which child stayed in God’s care? And what to do with the other one?  

He’d make it Riley Walker’s problem. That should keep him away from St. Catherine’s.

Chapter 38

Riley strolled into the Alma De Cuba a couple of minutes before seven, searching for a head of black satin hair. He nodded at the maître ď who knew his face, then tilted his head toward the bar, indicating his destination.

Cuban music throbbed at just the right level to allow conversation yet protect a private discussion. Located on Walnut Street, th
e restaurant served Rittenhouse Square residents. Alma de Cuba was relatively new to Philly, at least compared to restaurants established over past decades that had been built in neighborhoods of territorial ethnic divisions.

The mayor and DA preferred rubbing elbows late at night in those secluded neighborhood settings instead of the newer restaurants.

Another reason Riley had picked this place.

He wanted Massey out of her element and couldn’t picture her frequenting a flashy nightspot that was so out of character with her power suits and inflexible attitude.

There she sat at the bar in a silky white blouse loose over a short black and green skirt. He didn’t know why he noticed the polar difference between Kirsten Massey’s designer look and Margo Cortese’s not-quite-together appearance right then.

Maybe because both women made strong feminine statements in their own ways.

Either one would be an interesting – and challenging – dinner companion given better circumstances.

A female bartender in the restaurant’s signature red blouse and black pants paused in front of the DA investigator to ask, “Everything okay with your club soda?” 

“Yes, thank you.”  Kirsten smiled politely and took a sip from a tall glass that appeared untouched.

Riley stopped behind her, ready to get this meeting over with when the delicate scent lifting off her skin stalled his thoughts. When was the last time he’d had dinner with a woman just to be with her? He couldn’t remember.

But this was not a date.

He shouldn’t start off by antagonizing her, but he still smarted from this morning. “You’re early. That mean you’re anxious to see me?” 

She jerked in surprise then calmly swung around to face him. Her entire body shifted into immediate composure. “I’m always on time for a business meeting.”

He glanced past her shoulder, nodded a silent message at the one bartender who winked a reply acknowledging she got his order before he settled on the barstool.

Massey might sound all hard edge and business, but she twirled the straw in her club soda, fidgeting.

He generally made it his priority to put a woman at ease in any social setting, but Massey had set the ground rules when she’d deemed this business. Plus, he’d been skewered by her prickly nature a couple of times and needed to capitalize on any advantage tonight.

She either didn’t notice or chose to ignore his glare when she said, “Let’s get one thing clear. Everything we discuss tonight is off the record.”

Dalia, the bartender Riley had exchanged a silent message with, carried his drink to him on long legs that seemed to reach from the floor to her shoulders. Her flashy red shirt was slit from her cleavage practically to her crotch.

A fact that Kirsten Massey hadn’t missed. She fiddled with her straw, not turning her head to outright look, but her eyes held a silent opinion. 

“Here’s your mojito, Riley.”  The mid-twenties bartender leaned forward a little extra when she served the drink. Sunny blonde hair flowed over Dalia’s shoulder until the long strands almost, but not quite, covered the free show. As if that hadn’t showcased all her attributes, she finished off the picture with ruby lips framing a bright smile.

“Thanks, Dalia. How’s your mother? Get her out of the hospital yet?” 

“Yesterday. Thanks for the number of that group who donates time to the elderly. I don’t know how I’d be able to work and care for her without them.”

“Glad it worked out.” 

Dalia served his mojito and glided away, giving everyone behind her a great retreating view in tight black pants.