Tangled Souls (12 page)

“Who planted the bomb?”

“The New IRA.”

Avery’s eyes flared. “Good God, they killed one of their own?”

“They’d kill the Holy Trinity if it served their purpose,” O’Fallon replied, gall in his voice. “All the men in the pub that day were Catholic; not a one was a Protestant. It cost the bastards dearly. Some blamed my dad, but most felt the bombing was just plain murder.”

Avery crossed himself and handed the rosary back. O’Fallon kissed it and dropped it into his inside jacket pocket. He thought for a time, allowing the stillness of the courtyard to cradle his sacred memories. His father would have loved Saint Bridget’s just as much as his son did.

In time, he turned back toward the priest. “So what do I do?”

“It appears you have a choice. You can deny that this woman spoke of matters that only you and your grandmother know, or you can accept that God does indeed work in mysterious ways.”

O’Fallon sputtered in protest. “But she’s a pagan, Avery. You know what the church thinks about them.”

The priest nodded. “I know what they think.” He glanced around to insure they were alone. “Nevertheless, I know that there are cases in which the Almighty shares His gifts with those outside the fold, though Rome probably wouldn’t like me saying that.”

“You think she could be on the level?” O’Fallon asked.

“I’m saying you should give her the benefit of the doubt. Either she’s a very clever fraud, or God reveals things to her that others do not see.”

“But why would He do that?”

Avery gave him a gentle smile. “Why? Who better to teach you that your gift is a treasure than another psychic, even if she is a pagan?”

“Jesus,” O’Fallon muttered. He shook his head. “I can’t buy that.”

“Being closed-minded isn’t going to help.”

O’Fallon shook his head more vehemently. “No, I’m not buying this. Somehow she’s done her homework on me. God, she was smooth. I’ve never been played like that.” A sense of righteous indignation filled his breast. He’d make her pay for playing that game.

Avery raised an eyebrow. “What was the first lesson I taught you as a detective?”

O’Fallon gave a quick smirk. “Don’t call the captain a dickhead where he can hear you?”

“Besides that.”

O’Fallon knew where this was headed, and even though it came from Avery, it pissed him off. “I’m not bringing my own bias to this case.”

“Could have fooled me. You say you accept having your gift yet every chance you get you deny it exists. You will continue to deny it until hell becomes an ice skating rink, or you can just accept He has a reason you’re that way.”

“No, I’m not going there. She put a spell on me.”

“God, you can be stubborn,” Avery grumbled, shaking his head.

“Stubborn? I never expected to hear you defend a damned witch, Avery. We used to burn these people like kindling. Why the hell are you taking her side?”

Avery’s eyebrow went higher, and his voice grew more intense. “Her side? Listen to yourself, Doug.”

“That’s what it sounds like.”

His friend rose, a deep frown on his face. “Just to set the record straight, I only take
God’s
side.”

“Not in this case.”

“Okay, then I ask you: Would your father have cared if this woman was a pagan? Would he have served her in his pub? I think you know the answer and I think you know you’re not following in his footsteps, but being just as bigoted as the men who killed him.”

O’Fallon stepped back, his face reddening. An oath sprang to his lips, but he slammed it down.

“I don’t need this, not even from you,” he growled, spinning on his heel and marching toward the arched gate that led to the street.

“Call me if you need to talk,” he heard over his shoulder.

“Not damn likely,” he muttered, storming through the old iron gate, resisting the urge to slam it behind him.

* * *

Gavenia inventoried her kitchen from the doorway: the counters gleamed, a Crock-Pot simmered, and the scent of baking cookies filled the room. Bart stood suspiciously close to the oven, as if intending to pounce on them the moment the timer chimed.

“I never pictured you as a domestic goddess,” she said to Ari, who fussed with her laptop at the kitchen table. Gavenia’s cat, Bastet, was curled up on her lap.

“I got bored,” her sister replied, turning on the laptop.

Gavenia watched with mixed feelings. She found computers intriguing, but technology wasn’t always her friend. She used it only when necessary, like when she had to do translations for a client.

“Okay, what do you want to know?” Ari asked, looking up. As usual she was in head-to-toe black.

Gavenia sat next to her and peered at the glowing screen.

“I want you to check out a guy for me.” If the PI could dig up her past, why not do the same to him?

“Is he a hunk?”

Gavenia scrunched her face in thought.
O’Fallon a hunk?
“Well, yeah, at least when he’s not smirking.”

“But what about the rest of him?”

More thought. “I can’t tell, he wears suits. He looks like an insurance salesman.”

“Ew . . . What kind of car does he drive?” Ari asked, tapping on the keyboard as she spoke. Bastet took that opportunity to hop down and head for her food bowl.

“Why does that matter?”

“It tells you a lot about a guy. You are what you drive.”

“So I’m a fast woman with no headroom?” she said, referring to her Miata. Ari didn’t rise to the bait. “He drives a beige Chevy.”

“Hmmm. A nondescript kind of fellow. Sensible. Stable. You know the kind.” Without waiting for a reply, Ari asked, “Name?”

Gavenia pushed the PI’s business card across the table.

“Lord, this connection is slow,” Ari complained, tapping a fingernail in frustration. “How did you meet him?”

“He’s been tailing me. Mrs. Pearce hired him to find out if I’m sleeping with her son-in-law.”

“Are you?” Ari asked eagerly, leaning forward, typing again.

“Nooo! I don’t sleep with clients.”

“Whoa, this guy is definitely out on the Net.” Her sister clicked links; opened, scanned, and closed pages in swift succession. It seemed a jumble to Gavenia. “Most of them are from the
LA Times.
” More typing. “Okay. You’re registered. I made your password
Tinker Bell
.”

“Password?” Gavenia asked in all innocence, just to annoy her house guest.

Her sister gave her a sideways glance and then returned to the monitor. She flipped through more news articles and whistled when O’Fallon’s photo appeared on the screen.

“Not bad. Not bad at all,” Ari said. “Get him in a pair of blue jeans and you might have something.”

Gavenia fidgeted in annoyance. “So what did you find?”

“Used to be a cop. He worked some real high-profile murder cases. This guy got around. Lots of press.”

“What else?”

Ari read for a while and announced, “Oops . . . not good.”

“What?” Gavenia pressed, leaning forward and peering at the screen.

“This article’s about a week in the life of a homicide detective. It says your guy’s got two divorces under his belt.” Another pause. “He’s got lots of commendations. Sounds like he’s on the level, unless you intend to marry him.”

Refusing to be sidetracked, Gavenia asked, “Can you check international news stories?”

“Sure.” Ariana slid the mouse around and tapped a few keys. “Okay, now what?”

“You can change countries that fast?” Gavenia asked.

“Faster if you didn’t have dial-up.”

“Yeah, yeah. Same thing: check for O’Fallon.”

Ari performed the search. “Well, there are a zillion of them. What are you looking for?”

“A pub bombing.”

That earned her a strange expression. The oven timer chimed, and Gavenia rose to retrieve the cookies. As she slid them out of the oven, Bart eyed them hungrily.

“Keep your fingers out of them,” she teased. She placed the cookie sheet on top of the oven, wondering if there was fresh milk in the refrigerator.

“What?” Ari asked.

“Sorry. Bart is coveting your cookies.”

“He can have some if he wants,” Ari replied.

“Guardians don’t eat,” Gavenia said.

“They can’t eat cookies? That’s awful.”

Tell me about it
, Bart said, inhaling deeply. After a deep sigh he vanished, as if the olfactory torture was too great.

Ari appeared by her side. “I didn’t find a bombing connected to the name O’Fallon. What were you looking for?”

“Just wondering,” Gavenia said, pulling two hot cookies off the sheet and placing them on a folded paper towel. She handed them to Ari; hopefully they’d distract her from asking further questions. “Milk?” she asked, heading for the refrigerator.

“Please.”

Gavenia poured their drinks, took them to the table, and then selected a couple cookies for herself.

While munching, Ari clicked back to one of the main articles.

“This guy must be pretty smart,” she said, taking a gulp of milk. “Right before he quit the force, he and his partner were tracking a pair of serial killers. They caught one of them, but the other got away.”

Ari’s seemingly innocuous comments caused the warm moment to evaporate. Unwelcome memories rose. In response, the tremors in Gavenia’s right hand increased.

“My hip is bothering me. I’m going to take a shower,” she said, desperate to be alone.

Her sister remained engrossed by the computer screen and murmured, “Okay. Dinner will be ready in a little bit.”

* * *

The hot water rolling over her body granted little comfort. That wasn’t the reason for the shower; in the midst of the pouring water she could cry and no one would hear her. She began her personal ritual, soaping every inch of her body and scrubbing hard with the rough washcloth, attempting to remove the taint, desperate to cleanse her internal agony. The ritual had begun the night after she was freed from the cage in the woods, pulled from the nest she had made within the cold steel trap.

Why had she lived? Why hadn’t her captors murdered her? They had killed the other girls, or so they claimed. Her right hand quivered violently now, as if
he
were still near, demanding she touch him again.

The soap slipped from her grasp and tumbled to the bottom of the tub, causing her to ease down and retrieve it with her left hand. Tears erupted, mixing with the hot water. Her personal ablution. She leaned against the cool tile wall, sobbing as the water carried her tears away. When would the past no longer hold claim to her future?

Once she was out of the way, O’Fallon asked, “So why did you get out?”

Archie glanced around, lowering his voice. “When you gotta compete with the cops, it’s time to hang it up. They don’t play by the rules, and you can always count on getting fucked over.”

O’Fallon leaned back and nonchalantly stirred his coffee. He knew Archie; if he left him alone, he’d vent. They’d sparred over the years, and never once had O’Fallon been able to tag the guy with anything more than a busted taillight, though Archie was one of the most ambitious bookies he’d ever met.

“So they’re giving you grief?” O’Fallon hedged.

“Not yet, but it’s coming.”

“So what I hear is kosher, that downtown has sticky fingers?”

“Not all of them. Most are straight arrows. I pity those bastards. It’ll only be a matter of time before the others pull ’em down in the mud.” The man paused. “Why are you asking about this? You’re not thinking of taking up the shield again, are you?”

O’Fallon shook his head. “Don’t worry, our conversation won’t go any further.”

“Don’t matter anyway. Me and the missus are driving to Mexico tomorrow night. Bought a condo down there. I can live like a king, and if I grease the right palms, I’ll never have to come back, even if they prove I killed Kennedy.”

O’Fallon chuckled. He’d always like Archie. Now he wished he’d listened to the bookie’s stock tips over the years. If he had, he wouldn’t be living in a one-bedroom apartment with a parrot. After another sip of coffee, he swept his eyes around the diner. It was early and most of the booths were still empty, and he’d made sure to choose a site well away from the precinct’s stomping grounds. It never hurt to be cautious.

“Then if you’re flying south, I need your help one last time,” O’Fallon said.

“Gotta be something in it for me,” Archie parried.

“Hell, you got more money than I’ll ever have, and my client is a priest.”