Justifiable (37 page)

“You have
no
evidence connecting these crimes to us,” Monsignor continued in a voice hardening more with each word.

“I can’t comment on all the evidence collected so far – ”

“The fourth death, the Howell man, had no ties to St. Catherine’s, wasn’t even Catholic.”  He steepled his hands beneath his chin, speaking as though he was educating her. “There must be other common threads between the four victims – like all lower socio-economic situations, drugs involved with two of the victims’ families, at least two had recently been to the local hospital, three from New Liberties which meant they shopped at the same grocery stores, frequented the same pubs.  Surely, you and Philly PD have come up with a better connection than St. Catherine’s.”

She had the oil on the wrists, but that still meant nothing if the oil didn’t match the sacrament oils from a specific church. “We aren’t jumping to conclusions, but we are open to all possibilities.”

“I haven’t asked for help with this...yet.”

He was insinuating his powerful contacts in the city. Was he threatening her?

Kirsten sat forward, her fingers gripping her knees. “I have a great respect for God and the church, Monsignor, but you should know one thing about me. I come from a family of men who are pros at intimidating. Far more powerful than you. I am in awe of God.  Not you. But if you’re really serious about smothering any speculation that these deaths could in any way be linked to St. Catherine’s I can offer you a simple test.”

His eyes narrowed so imperceptibly she wouldn’t have noticed if not for learning as a child how to watch for that in her father’s gaze. She’d intrigued Monsignor Dornan.

“What?” he asked with an air of indifference she didn’t believe.

“Give me a drop of your sacrament oil.” 

Right after she’d gotten the Monsignor’s phone call asking her for a meeting, J. T. Turner had caught her on her way out the door. She’d told him where she was headed and that with any luck she’d leave St. Catherine’s with a sample of oil.

If the Monsignor didn’t throw her out of his office.

And call the mayor.

Chapter 52

Margo washed her ceramic soup bowl in the parish kitchen. Eating here by herself didn’t feel so alone as when she ate at home in the little rental house a half-mile away. The kitchen still smelled of butternut squash soup she’d heated from a can and Baylor’s stinky sardines.

Yuk. How could he eat those things?

Television chatter played in the background behind her. Baylor sat with his attention glued to the television in the middle of their white pinewood table. He liked to watch the six o’clock news while he ate, but left the racket box on every time as he finished his meal...like he was doing now.

He carried his plate and utensils to the sink where he washed everything and set the pieces in the drain rack. “Won’t be in ‘til seven in the morning. Picking up supplies on the way.”

Took her a minute to realize he was talking to her and not just mumbling. “That’s fine Mr. Baylor.”

“Don’t want Ickerson jacked up when I’m not here.”

Neither did she. “I’ll make sure he knows. Father Ickerson is – ” 
Anal, cranky,
annoying...
“ – particular about things, but I’m sure he appreciates the fine job you’re doing. We all do. Monsignor comments all the time on your work.”  Sometimes more than she wanted to hear, but telling Jack Dornan so would make her sound guilty of some sin. She had enough faults without coveting the Monsignor’s attention to an old man.

Baylor shrugged off the compliment and left. The television blared on, but Monsignor expected her to stay in the know so she tuned into the chatter. She dried her hands on a dishtowel and swung around to give the news her obligatory few minutes of attention.

A squawking commercial ended then the polished talking head flashed on the screen for a few seconds. The next image was of police dragging a woman dressed in a corporate-looking skirt suit out of a high-rise building downtown.

Margo lifted the remote control from the counter and stepped closer, because the woman being arrested seemed vaguely familiar.

“Where was Deacon Grizzle this afternoon?”  Monsignor came sliding into the kitchen with an empty mug he placed in the sink.

“He sounded so awful at three I suggested he leave and get some rest before his cough turned into pneumonia.”  Margo returned to the news report and raised the volume.

A disembodied reporting voice said, “Police say Lucinda Myers has been arrested for threatening to kill her husband.”

Monsignor’s sharp intake of breath snatched Margo’s attention. Her gaze bounced between the television and Monsignor. “What?”

But he didn’t answer, his eyes locked on the disturbing images. When Margo turned back to the monitor the camera had zoomed in tight on Lucinda Myers’s tear-streaked face.

Margo’s mouth fell open. 

Wasn’t that the woman Monsignor had taken confession for after hours on Tuesday?

Lucinda struggled against the police, crying her heart out and begging anyone who would listen to save her baby. The reporter followed up with a last bit about how Lucinda had admitted taking their daughter Kelsey to a well-known child therapist, Dr. Adelaide Ziegler, without the adoptive father’s knowledge. Then they showed a canned shot of Dr. Ziegler’s photo from her new weekly talk show with the voiceover touting a high-profile child abuse court case involving a celebrity earlier this year, then segued to her celebrity status in her own right with her own weekly television show.

Margo backtracked mentally to connect events.  Ziegler was the doctor Monsignor had asked Margo to locate contact information on
after
hearing Lucinda Myers’s confession.

But Margo hadn’t known who Lucinda was that day. Based on the timing and this news report, Monsignor’s request for the doctor’s information now made sense. Did that mean if Kelsey’s father didn’t know about the doctor visit, and Lucinda was threatening his life, that Lucinda thought her husband had physically abused her daughter?

A logical conclusion based on the facts presented, but Margo had learned a long time ago not to assume anything.

Especially when someone was tried and convicted by the press.

When the news changed to a car crash, she lowered the volume and flipped around to find Monsignor’s face ashen.

“You obviously recognized her,” Monsignor said, indicating the television with a dip of his head. “I have to go see Lucinda. She’ll be in jail for at least several hours, if not overnight depending on whether she can be bonded out. The media is going to be a problem once I walk into the jail, but that woman needs someone to help her.”

“But you’re the PD’s chaplain,” Margo argued in what she thought was a reasonable counterpoint.

“That won’t matter once the news vultures find out I’m there on the heels of these killings.”  Monsignor stared off, thinking. He muttered, “Who would have thought...”  He shook his head, returning his gaze to Margo. “While I’m gone, find Riley Walker and figure out a way to stop him from creating a sordid special on St. Catherine’s. If he discovers Lucinda came here and went to Ziegler on my recommendation, I don’t want him using her pain to smear St. Catherine’s.”

“I put in two calls to him, but he hasn’t called back so maybe he’s not interested in us anymore.”

“He’s still interested, but he’s lying low until he finds something juicy to use. He’ll get wind of my connection to Lucinda the minute I enter that jail.”

“Maybe someone else should go to see her.”  Margo regretted the words as the last one slipped from her lips. The censure in Monsignor’s eyes told her she’d just disappointed him.

“The only other person who could do this is Father Ickerson and he left a little while ago to drop his car to get tires put on for tomorrow. The weather is supposed to be sleeting and he’s running on bald tires. Besides, I wouldn’t ask him anyhow as I’m the one she trusts. Priests can’t sift through problems that land in their laps, choosing which ones to handle and which to avoid. I have a duty to help Lucinda and her family. She needs to know her child is safe. First I’m going to find out how much trouble Lucinda is in and reassure her she has someone to turn to then I’m going to...”

“What?”  Margo had twisted the dishtowel in her hand to a spastic looking rope.

“I’m not sure, but Kelsey is at the center of this and her needs come first.”  Monsignor gripped his forehead with his hand. “And to think I came here to rebuild the members’ faith in St. Catherine’s.” 

He dropped his hand. “I’ll see what I can do about Lucinda, but I need you to deal with Riley. Find him and stop him from making this any worse, which he will once he connects me to Lucinda.”

Margo didn’t envy Monsignor’s wading through the media chaos to see the Myers woman, but she would’ve taken that over facing Riley Walker.

Stopping Riley from reporting
any
story would be about as likely as preventing Monsignor from walking into that jail tonight.

Chapter 53

Pete’s Trapdoor didn’t seem to have a rush of business whether it was mid-afternoon like yesterday or now at almost seven at night.

Everyone tipping glasses of beer and mowing through platters of food had problems, but at this moment Riley doubted any would trade places with him. He needed Biddy’s expertise now more than ever.

The same reason the cameraman who had stood by Riley should walk away.

Biddy chomped down on a hand-pressed hamburger loaded with all the trimmings. Pete didn’t skimp on food for warriors. Juice ran down the side of Biddy’s chin. He swiped the liquid with a paper napkin and slugged back a swig of his draft beer before he leaned back and pinned Riley with a squint. “What’s so important that you had to buy me dinner?”

Riley looked away and chuckled. He hadn’t offered to buy squat, but could still manage a couple of brews and burgers. Maybe eating something would back off the headache chewing its way through his skull.

“Lehman called me in today.”  Riley gave up on finishing his own gut grenade and put his hamburger down to give Biddy the short version. When he finished sharing the conversation in Lehman’s office, Riley said, “You should cut your losses and walk away from this. I can’t tell you I’ll have Enrique back by noon tomorrow. Give Lehman that video. It’s still the best tape of the week and the stations are hungry for anything new. Use it to negotiate your job. If you don’t, Lehman will bury you right behind me.”

Biddy listened, not rushing to voice his opinion. He lounged in the chair, fingers tapping on the wooden arms.

Someone had changed the overhead music to an acid rock tune. Riley wished for the days when beer and music would solve most problems.

“What are you going to do?” Biddy finally asked.

Riley wished he knew. He only knew what he couldn’t do. “I’m going to do whatever I can to find Enrique and I’ll do nothing that will jeopardize his safety. But that doesn’t mean you should get screwed over in the process. You’ve got a child to worry about, too. You’re one of the best cameramen I’ve ever worked with. If Lehman doesn’t take you back, I still have some friends at stations in other cities who’ll give you a job.”

“Can’t move from Philly now that we’re here.”

“Why?”  Riley hadn’t expected that since Biddy’s wife wasn’t tied to a job at the moment.

“This is home. I grew up here and so did the wife. We want to raise our kid here.”

Just the fact that Biddy hadn’t said kids, as in plural, told Riley the cameraman believed he and his wife might be blessed with only one child. If that.

“What is it about Philly? The history?”  Riley had rolled from place to place without looking back. He’d lived here as a teen, but couldn’t understand what appeal any one town had over another.

“Philly’s always been a blue collar town, rough around some edges, but it’s a city with heart. People care what happens here. I want my kid to grow up somewhere that feels like they got roots.”  Biddy scratched his nose and exhaled a long, slow breath. He stared at Riley the whole time. “Besides, I can’t move Sissy for a while once the baby’s born.”

Riley hadn’t considered that. He liked knowing the name of Biddy’s wife. Didn’t know why, but he liked it.

“The only mistake you’re making right now – ”  Biddy paused. “ – is not trusting your instincts.”

Riley raised his hand to stop that direction of conversation. He’d trusted his instincts once.

A little boy had paid the price.

Riley’s hand signal went wanting. Expecting a former SEAL to be slowed down by anything less than catching a live hand grenade was foolhardy.

Biddy didn’t miss a beat as he pressed on. “We lose men in combat sometimes that are closer than our own flesh and blood brothers, but that don’t mean the team made bad decisions or lacked in performing their duty. Just meant the bad guys sometimes got a break. The trick is to limit the number of times the bad guys come out ahead. If we stopped trusting our abilities and instincts every time we lost a soldier the other side would eventually win.”

Riley had never thought of it that way, but then he’d never lost someone in the heat of battle. He’d been a loner most of his life and didn’t consider his short marriage an exercise in bonding.