Justifiable (9 page)

Riley hadn’t expected the “we,” but wouldn’t turn down help from a guy with Biddy’s military intelligence skills who had grown up in Philly. “The only thing I have right now is the Stanton murder, but I think it was premeditated.”

“I don’t see somebody killing out of rage and taking the time to move the body, but what else have you got?”   

“The caller said something about ‘her fault’ at one point, which makes me wonder what Sally did. When I asked the caller who he was and how he was involved, the guy said ‘I’m cleaning up.’  He was calm and sounded like he was just taking care of business. None of that fits the MO for a domestic killing. I’m going to find out what I can about Sally and her son, and anyone connected to them.”

“I see your point.”  Biddy scrunched his mouth to one side, pondering on something. “I know this ain’t your favorite topic, but what about a piece on Sally’s kid?”

“No.”  Riley answered so fast and hard he expected Biddy to snap right back at him. “I’m not doing anything with any kids. Ever.”

I thought after you did that special on the child abuse doctor you might – ”

“No kids.”

“Okay, your deal.”  Biddy raised his hands in a just-trying-to-help motion. “If this don’t work out, I might have a lead on another story.”

That surprised Riley. “Like what?”

“Pope’s visit to Jersey in a couple weeks.”

“Old news and we need something in Philly.” 

“There’s some behind-the-scenes scuttle going on.”

He wanted Biddy thinking much bigger. “I haven’t heard anything significant about the Catholic Church recently and pedophilia is yesterday’s story – ”

Biddy shook his head. “Not that. Let me check out what I got and I’ll get back to you.”

Screw it. If the Stanton murder fell through, Riley needed something so he wasn’t about to discourage Biddy. His cell phone played the default jingle, meaning caller unknown. He pulled the phone out of his coat pocket. “Walker.”

“This is DA Investigator Massey.”

Riley lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “What can I do for you Investigator?” 

“Be in my office in an hour.”

“Why?”

“To answer questions on the Stanton case.”

Riley checked his watch. A little before noon. “Why don’t you meet me for lunch?”

The hesitation should have warned him, but the control behind her smooth voice didn’t waver. “This is not a social call, Walker. Be in my office at one o’clock or I’ll send an officer to give you a ride. Got it?”

“Consider it a date.”  The phone line died. 

Riley killed the call on his end. What had happened in the last couple of hours for Massey to want to talk? “That was Investigator Massey. Wants me in her office at one. That might produce some answers.”

Biddy gave a little shake of his head. “Better be careful with her. She ain’t been here long, but longer than you have and she’s tough as nails. Not a good one to jerk around. Doubt even your slick routine will charm her.”

Riley grinned. “Ye of little faith.”

“Telling ya, she ain’t got a soft corner on her.”

“The bigger the challenge, the sweeter the prize.”

Biddy scowled and walked away. Not that Riley expected Biddy to turn into a happy guy any more than he expected Kirsten Massey to give up one of her secrets without a fight.

Or did she have word of Henry’s newspaper legal eagles filing an assault charge?

His cell phone rang. Another unknown caller.

He keyed the button to talk and smiled when he asked her, “Change your mind about lunch?”

“Careful who you talk to. You’re being followed.”  The line died.

Riley pulled the phone away slowly and stared at it. He raised his eyes and took in the parking deck, but no one loitered.

He’d heard that voice before. Just after midnight this morning. The killer had his cell phone number.

Chapter 10

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession. I...I had impure thoughts about the teenage boy who shovels my driveway.”  Crying and sniffles, then Mrs. Feldman cleared her throat.

Here it comes again. Same thing I heard two weeks ago.

“I know it’s wrong, but my husband travels all the time with his job.”

Can’t criticize him for that, besides getting away probably keeps him sane around you. Change of place, change of perspective.

“He doesn’t appreciate me, father. I’m stuck home raising three kids and doing their homework at night, plus dealing with anything that needs to be fixed around the house or the car while he takes people to dinner.”

Get a life. Or better yet, get a job during the day while the kids are in school.
He waited through the pause as she made squirming noises.

“I tried to talk to him about it, but he just ignores me, or if we argue he tells me to find something to do during the day.”

See?

“I know it’s wrong to think about a seventeen-year-old boy, especially being a married woman, but Cody makes me feel special.”

Not special, young. You want to relive your youth.

“He makes me happy, but not like we’ve done anything, just that he brightens my day. When I’m happy, I don’t hit the dog or my kids.”

You hit the kids?

“My husband doesn’t understand how tiring it is to raise three children alone. I’m exhausted all the time and stressed out. I deserve some peace and rest, too.”

Yes, you do deserve rest. Eternal rest.

Chapter 11

If I died right now I could ask God why humans hurt one another.

Margo Cortese considered praying for a swift death before her brain exploded from an excruciating headache. She could suffer the pain in her head better than that in her heart.

Poor Sally. And what about Enrique? Where could the wee one be? 

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Margo licked her dry lips and kept trudging down the street toward St. Catherine’s. Thankfully, temperatures were still in the mid-thirties at lunchtime, warm by Philly standards in January. Her black dress pants, raspberry cotton turtleneck and sturdy canvas jacket were ideal in this cool breeze, but she could do without the endless blue sky and bright sunshine she’d send a prayer of thanks for on any
other
day.

How about a few clouds, huh?
Just until my head stops feelin’ like a swollen melon about to split.

Sunglasses spared her the worst of the glare blazing off the snow, but the bright light still aggravated her pounding head as she picked her way along the narrow strip of half-shoveled walkway running from Second Street to St. Catherine’s stone-and-mortar chapel.

Had to remind Valdez to clear a wider path for church and outreach center visitors. This would be a treacherous walk for the elderly, who seemed to make up most of St. C’s parishioners. Not that St. C’s was much different from any other inner-city parish, but after only seven months here, Margo was still adjusting to feelin’ so young in comparison. At her last parish in a suburb of San Francisco, she’d been considered middle-aged at twenty-nine years.

She was
not
middle-aged.

Just as Monsignor often said, “Change of place, change of perspective.”

When she reached the steps to the chapel, Margo made a right turn, taking the walkway that led to the entrance of the three-story, brick addition attached to St. C’s by an enclosed breezeway.

Her head throbbed, but her heart hurt more.

If vengeance belonged to the Lord, she wanted to ride shotgun for him.

Tomorrow. When she felt better. Hopefully.

Extreme stress triggered really nasty head-bangers that forced her to spend some nights slumped over a toilet. Hearin’ about Sally Stanton and wee Enrique qualified as extreme. Margo swallowed the misery climbing her throat over the news she had to be givin’ Monsignor soon.

And over havin’ to explain her delay in returning from lunch. Opening the weathered pinewood front door to the administrative offices and outreach center, she kept her dark shades on when she entered. No one should have to face all that yellow paint in the foyer without eye protection.

Couldn’t Baylor have chosen a different color than sunshine? But Baylor was so indispensable to St. C’s running, not to mention the restoration work goin’ on, he could have painted the whole interior Pepto Bismol pink and Monsignor would have only nodded and been happy.

A glare flashed off the newly stained hardwood floors.

Did
everything
have to reflect the sun?

Just kill her now.

Her queasy stomach balked at the smell of fresh paint. More of Baylor’s doin’.

Maybe she should be passin’ out a memo – Margo Cortese, not the mornin’ person. The school clock on the wall corrected her. Okay, not a just-past-noon person either.

She snatched off her glasses when she reached the quieter central hallway that fed to all the offices. The hall ended in front of the door to the kitchen and had an exit door on the left for the parking lot in the rear...that Valdez was slipping out of at the present moment.

Wasn’t he supposed to be upstairs tidyin’ up the construction area? The smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, partnered with carrot-red hair, didn’t look like the mug shot of a young man convicted of burglary and assault. She couldn’t reconcile the name Valdez with all that red hair either.

But then she was Irish as the day was long and didn’t have the first freckle – and hair more auburn than red.

Valdez was Father Ickerson’s problem, not hers. She hadn’t figured out Valdez yet and was willin’ to give anyone the benefit of the doubt, but she knew lazy and sneaky when she saw it. Father Ickerson, on the other hand, had high expectations for his protégé.

She would leave it to the good Father to deal with his underling. Dismissin’ Valdez, she headed to her office that smelled of history like the rest of the original building. Of being inhabited by many others long before her time, quite a contrast to all the remodeling happening on the second floor.

The remodeling was going slowly, but construction workers were donating their time and skills, plastering and painting the new outreach center up there. All under Baylor’s watchful eye for detail work and his love for St. C’s.

Not that she didn’t appreciate his skill and sincerity, but...did he have to be so talented?

Monsignor loved art and admired the man’s ability to shape things with his hands.

The only thing she could do with her hands was type.

Jealousy is not attractive
. Especially when the old guy just wanted to do a great job. And he was far more spry and pleasant than some people, like Icky.

Just thinking about the cantankerous Father Ickerson sharpened her headache.

Rolling her shoulders, she worked on mind control, fighting the potential migraine that had become an unpleasant companion since her first menstrual cycle. Almost as unpleasant as when she reached the third doorway on her right to find Father Angus Ickerson inside her office with his back toward her. 

Icky stood too close to Monsignor’s door on the far side, his head cocked at a snooping angle, hands squeezed together behind his back. No doubt trying to look more clerical and less like an accountant with a perpetually pinched expression.

What was Icky doing in here? Waiting to see Monsignor? Wasn’t Icky supposed to be listening to noon confessions? St. C’s always had a few on Tuesdays.

She stepped inside.

Icky swung around, startled, then lifted those chicken lips into a tight little grin. What had him all in a tizzy?

“Can I help you, Father?”  She paused several feet from him, shrugging out of the faded red canvas jacket that had been a decade old when her brother passed it down to her.  She tossed the coat over file folders blanketing the top of her desk.

Father Ickerson, who boasted of havin’ studied in Madrid and Rome before comin’ here, smelled like garlic or curry most of the time, the reason the kids nicknamed him Icky.

She had other reasons.

“Big news about the Pope,” he tittered, hands now squeezed together just beneath his weak chin. Wavy brown hair, wide-set small brown eyes and a mass of freckles. If not for the pale skin as a backdrop he’d look like a tree trunk. A tree trunk listenin’ in on phone calls happening in the next room now that she heard Monsignor Jack Dornan’s voice.

That sneakin’ stinkpot Ickerson. She ground her teeth. She should have been here sooner. Monsignor expected her to watch his back and protect his privacy. To be the layer between him and everyone else when necessary.

“How would you be learnin’ this big news about the Pope?” Margo asked, crossing her arms. “And what news might that be?”

A loud thump, thump, thump on the ceiling pounded as though God drove nails the size of railroad spikes into steel beams. Plaster chips trickled down over her jacket and desk. Her ten-foot high ceiling had yet to be covered with the new hanging tile system, but that was a low priority with so much more goin’ on.