Never Alone (17 page)

“What's that, sir?” Nappa earnestly asked.

“Keep them safe from the world you brought them into.”

Megan and Nappa knew there was nothing for them to say. They couldn't even begin to understand the level of loss.

“I'm going to see if I can help Mrs. McAllister with anything.” Megan excused herself from the living room and found her way to the office.

She found Mrs. McAllister leaning over the desk so heavily it looked as though she were trying to keep it from blowing away. Megan lightly knocked and walked in. The room was small and dark. Deep cherry wood shelves lined the back wall behind the desk. Framed diplomas filled the first shelf. An encyclopedia set filled the rest. Family photos, golf trophies, and a desk lamp lined the windowsill. Megan noticed the faint smell of pipe tobacco when she entered. “Mrs. McAllister?”

She didn't look up. She pretended she was still searching for the contact sheet, but it was right in front of her. “Found it. And please, call me MaryEllen.” She turned on the fax machine. “I can make a copy of it for you, it'll just take a few moments.”

“Thank you.” Megan looked around the room, trying to think of the most delicate way of asking the next question.

“Detective McGinn?” she asked.

“Please, call me Megan.”

“Megan. What is it you'd like to ask me that you can't ask me in front of my husband?”

“Well …”

Mrs. McAllister's small smile contradicted her pink, swollen eyes. “Believe me, nothing you ask could come close to the pain of receiving the phone call I did a few days ago. If it will help find the son of a bitch who did this to my baby, you can ask me anything.”

“Was Shannon on any medications?”

“Yes. She occasionally took Tylenol with codeine for a back injury when it'd flare up, but that wasn't often.”

Megan waited.

“And birth control. She was on the pill. Mr. McAllister is some
what conservative, so we kept that one to ourselves. Shannon
started taking it to help clear up her skin, reduce her cramps, regulate her cycle, that sort of thing.”

Right, and most nose jobs are done to correct a deviated septum
, Megan thought to herself.

She handed Megan a sheet of paper. “Here's the contact list. He's the only Matt.” Mrs. McAllister sat down at the desk. “He's married, isn't he?”

“I'm sorry, who?” Megan was perplexed.

“The professor Shannon was dating. He's married, isn't he?”

“Yes. Yes, he's married. I wanted you to know in case that comes out in the papers. I wanted you to know first.”

She nodded. “I'll tell my husband later, in private, if you don't mind. If you could give me a minute, I'll be back in the living room in a moment.”

“Of course. And thank you for this.” Megan folded the contact sheet, placing it in her pocket. She couldn't leave the room without saying something to help ease Mrs. McAllister's disappointment.

“MaryEllen, I know this is none of my business, and I don't know if this will help anything. My mother and I weren't as close as you and Shannon, but I can tell you, sometimes daughters keep things from their mothers because we think it will hurt them, or worse, they'd be ashamed of us. So, please, whatever Shannon did or didn't tell you about her life, it doesn't take away from your bond. It never will.”

Mrs. McAllister gave Megan a small smile. “Thank you. I'll be out in a minute.”

Megan rejoined Nappa and Mr. McAllister in the living room; Mrs. McAllister followed a few minutes later.

“Also, there's one more thing. We've been going through Shannon's day planner and she would write initials in on certain dates. I assumed it was whomever she was meeting up with on that day. There are a number of initials that we haven't been able to find corresponding names to, even with her phone records.” Megan showed her the list of initials. “Do any of these ring a bell for you?”

Mr. and Mrs. McAllister looked at the list and then at each other. They shook their heads no in response to the question.

“Well, if you think of anyone, please call.”

“Of course, and you'll keep us updated on any progress?” Mrs. McAllister asked. She looked more together now than she had in the office.

“Absolutely.” The fire made an exceptionally loud snap, grabbing Megan's attention. She glanced up at the mantel above. A card propped up against the wall caught her eye. It was different from the other sympathy cards around the room. Megan walked over. “May I?”

“Of course.” The McAllisters continued their conversation
with Nappa.

Megan stood speechless staring at the card. A small cross composed of dried reeds, similar to the one that fell from above Shannon's doorway, was attached to the front of the card. Megan avoided handling it as much as possible and used her fingernail to open it slightly. There was a printed poem, but no signature.

Megan interrupted the conversation, “Excuse me, Mrs. Mc­
Allister? May I ask you a question?”

“Yes?”

“When did you receive this card?”

“Which one?”

“This one. The one with a cross on the cover.”

The question caught Nappa's attention immediately.

“I believe that came this morning or maybe it was yesterday, I can't be sure. We've had neighbors and friends helping out quite a bit, and I haven't opened any of the cards.”

“Do you still have the envelope it came in?” Megan asked.

“Oh, no, I'm sure it was thrown out.”

“Do you know who sent it?”

“No, but we've been getting a lot of cards, especially after … well … after Shannon was in the newspapers.”

“Would you mind if I borrowed this?” Megan asked.

“May I ask why?” Mrs. McAllister asked.

“I'm just curious about something. I'll get it back to you.”

“That's fine.”

Megan took it delicately by one corner, placing it in her coat pocket.

twenty-six

“These two crosses are
no coincidence, Nappa.” Megan took the condolence card out of her jacket. “I'm dropping this off to forensics when we get back into the city.”

“I agree, and I thank you for sharing.” Sarcasm noted, he continued, “Here's an idea, why not call Aunt Maureen and ask her what it may mean, the reeds? If anyone would know, she would, or you could be up-to-date and search the Internet using my iPhone.”

She looked askance at his smartphone. “I'd rather deal with a human being until I can get home to my computer.” Megan called the Murphys.

“Aunt Maureen, hi, it's me.”

“Ah, Megs, good to hear from you. How are you doing? We saw the papers. What a terrible thing done to that girl.”

“I know, I know.” She changed tone. “I'm hoping you can help me with something.”

“Me? Your uncle Mike is in watching TV. Want me to get him?”

“No, I need your help. You're much more Irish Catholic than I've ever been.”

“You don't have to say that twice. Give it a go.”

“I'm holding a cross that—”

“You should have told me to take a seat first, Meggie. That news alone could make me faint.” Aunt Maureen would do what she could to lighten the mood for her goddaughter.

“Nice, Aunt Maureen, very nice. Anyway, I'm holding a cross, and it's oddly shaped. It's made of some type of dried grass. The middle is a woven square, and the four radials are tied at the ends with the same type of grass.”

“Dear, what you're holding there is a Saint Bridget's cross.”

“Hold on, Aunt Maureen, I'm putting you on speaker for
Nappa to listen in on. You said it's a Saint Bridget's cross? Um … she's
…”

“You've heard of Saint Patrick? I
know
you've celebrated him,” Aunt Maureen laughed.

“Of course. I'm just trying to remember. Saint Bridget was the saint of …” Megan's attempt to answer was on the verge of crash-and-burn territory. A question on astrophysics or global economics would have taken less time to answer. “Saint Bridget is one of the biggies, right?”

“Biggies. Yes, that's how our Lord and Savior described them:
biggies
. They're also called
saints
. Saint Bridget is one of the patron saints of Ireland. Haven't you ever seen our Saint Bridget's cross?”

“What? No. Where is it?”

“Above the entranceway.”

“No shit?”

“Megan Alanna McGinn!”

Megan cringed. “Sorry.”

“Thank you. What I know of Bridget is that she was a nun. Her mission was to relieve misery and hardship of the poor. The cross protects the house from evil, fire, you know. I'd have to look her up again for more information.”

“You've been a big help, Aunt Maureen.”

“Oh, and it's not made of grass, exactly, but reeds, directly from Ireland, if you're that much of a fanatic.”

“That's enough to start on. We'll see you as soon as we can.”

“I hope you mean you
and
Mr. Samson Nappa.”

“Love you, bye.” Megan politely ignored her question.

The rest of the drive was spent in silence. Meeting with the
McAllisters had been draining. Megan stared out the passenger-side window ashamed at the thoughts running through her mind. She thought back to Mrs. McAllister's story about Shannon's birth control, how they kept that from Mr. McAllister. She envied their close relationship. She and Rose didn't share the level of intimacy needed for keeping secrets. Megan and her father, on the other hand, had plenty.

Every so often Pat would stop by Megan's school and take her out for lunch. It was usually after closing a difficult case that required long hours and a lot of time away from home. He'd lie to the nuns, saying Megan had forgotten a scheduled doctor's appointment. They'd go to a diner or, if it was nice, split a sandwich outside at a park. It wasn't often, but when Megan got called down to the principal's office without cause, she knew her father would be waiting for her.

The memory of their playing hooky together brought a smile to her face, until she went to hold the cross that no longer hung around her neck.

twenty-seven

The smell of burning
incense filled the air in St. Thomas More Church. Megan arrived a few minutes before the service began. She tiptoed over to the wooden pews so the clicking of her heels wouldn't echo throughout the church.

Oh, Christ
, Megan thought. Right before she was about to sit, she turned back toward the entrance to dip her finger into the cup of holy water she'd inadvertently passed. After performing the sign of the cross at bionic speed, she returned to her seat in the back of the church.

St. Thomas More was quaint and surprisingly understated for a Catholic church. Double wooden doors opened to earth-toned tiles that continued from
the foyer all the way up to the pulpit. Cement walls divided into archways distinguished each section of pews. Large lanterns suspended from the ceiling on black iron rods replaced the overstated chandeliers typical in Catholic churches. An enlarged color photo of Shannon was placed on an easel near the pulpit and was surrounded by multiple arrangements of white roses. Megan assumed it was Shannon's favorite flower due to the sheer number of them. As expected, the church overflowed with
family, friends, and coworkers. Untimely deaths brought people
out in droves.

Megan double-checked that she'd switched her cell phone to vibrate mode before the service began. She placed it back in her coat when she felt something in the side pocket. She'd forgotten the last time she'd worn that particular jacket was mere days ago, a lifetime away. She'd thought it was a business card. Embossed black letters at the top read,
In Loving Memory of Patrick McGinn.

Megan's stomach tightened when she turned the card around and realized she was holding her father's mass card in her palm. The memory of her father's funeral would forever be etched in her mind as deeply as the pain of missing him would remain carved within her heart. She'd read from a book of Irish prayers at her father's funeral. It had been one of his favorite blessings. She knew it word for word and repeated it softly to herself as she traced over his name with her finger.

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind always be at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

and rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

“May God hold you in the palm of his hand,” Megan whispered the last sentence to herself as she returned the card to her coat pocket. She swallowed and took a deep breath, hoping the service would soon get under way.

The wooden doors opened and closed again moments before the priest approached the pulpit. The parishioner's entrance went unnoticed by Megan and the other attendees in St. Thomas More Church.

Nappa entered the pew Megan was seated in and sat beside her. She whispered the same question he was about to ask her. “Anyone here pique your interest?” She continued to glance around the room, eliminating all the females and elderly in view, focusing on the men in the church. There were quite a few young men attending the service, but no one that struck a chord with Megan.

“Not really. I had no idea such a small church could accommodate so many people,” Nappa said.

The priest began cleaning the chalice and silently repeating
prayers before sprinkling the incense. Megan always hated the smell of incense; not for any religious reason, she just found the odor harsh. The service continued when Father Gallagher asked everyone to kneel for prayer. Megan knelt forward, bowing her head on top of her clasped hands. Shannon McAllister's crime-scene photos darted through her mind. Bended knees. Fingers intertwined close to her face. A tsunami overcoming a village would have been less powerful than the connection she just made. “Jesus Christ!”

Nappa placed one hand on his forehead, lowering his head even farther in prayer, a vain attempt to block out the gasps and stares Megan's declaration for the Son of God received from nearby mourners.

She nudged Nappa. “Nappa.” He didn't look up. “Nappa!”

“Shhh. We're at a funeral.”

She whispered loudly, “She wasn't sleeping.”

“What? Who wasn't sleeping?”

“McAllister, in the crime-scene photos. She was
praying
.” Megan made eye contact to how she and Nappa were positioned. “Her body was placed in prayer.”

Nappa took in Megan's discovery, and then whispered, “Jesus Christ.”

She was relieved when her phone started vibrating. It was Rasmussen. She nudged Nappa's arm, showing him the call coming in. They quietly walked out of the church to take it. “Hey, it's me.”
Rasmussen's next sentence made Megan stop in her tracks, and
Nappa followed suit. “Really, uh … huh.”

Nappa waited patiently for Megan to finish. She'd never have been able to return the same courtesy if Nappa had gotten the call. A few “what's” and a “tell me, what'd he say,” along with a tug on Nappa's arm would have been more probable.

“Excellent. Nappa and I were just at the service. We're leaving now and should be back in about twenty minutes.” She slapped the phone closed and pointed a finger at Nappa. “One print came off the receipt from
The Catholic Times.
”

“You're kidding.”

“I have a helluva sense of humor, but no, I'm not kidding. No matches have been made yet, but—”

“If there are any,” Nappa interrupted.

Usually Megan was the pessimist and Nappa the optimist, but she needed to feel like the case was moving forward, especially after
attending a victim's funeral. Still, she knew Nappa had a point. “I know, but at least it's something.”

“True.”

“We don't meet up with Matt Garrison until later this afternoon. Let's get back to the office. I want to do some more research on Saint Bridget and the crosses.”

Megan's cell rang again, “McGinn.” She waited, “Wait, I'm sorry I don't understand. Why did you have to go into my apartment?”
She spun in Nappa's direction, “Don't touch anything! Nothing!
Do you hear me!”

Megan emulated the video game Frogger as she ran through the traffic on Park Avenue, barely avoiding being flattened by yellow taxis and New York City buses. “Fuck! Fuck!”

“McGinn, wait!” Nappa raced after her. He was only able to
grab every third word from Megan as she sprinted down 93rd
Street.

Oven? Burning?

She made it to her building just as Nappa caught up with her. Megan had her gun drawn as she exited the elevator. Alberto, the building's super, jaw dropped as he lifted his hands in the air in surrender. She mouthed for him to step back. Megan leaned her head in when Alberto whispered, “It's empty.”

His observation didn't fill her with ease. She quickly turned into the kitchen, aiming her gun toward the blind corner between her refrigerator and the open stove. She traced back her steps and inspected the bathroom, bedroom, and closet. When she acknowledged to herself all was clear, Nappa cautiously approached the living room.

“Empty.”

They walked into Megan's kitchen, where the obvious baker's aroma stemmed from, their guns not as postured as before. She used her sleeve to open the oven door. An aluminum bread pan was centered in the middle rack, its contents partially burned.

“Irish soda bread,” Megan said.