The Trust (7 page)

Nothing but the best for Father Mike.

Almost on cue, the hoary old priest appeared. Father Michael Rossi was wearing a long black cassock and walked down the center aisle toward Bong. The pews to the right and left were all empty, no Mass for several more hours.

“You’re kind of casual,” he said, noting Bong’s khaki pants and oxford shirt, the brown paper bag.

“Lots of running around today,” explained Bong, shifting the sack and shaking the priest’s hand.

“What couldn’t wait?”

“You need to hear my confession.”

“Okay.” The old priest, his eyes somewhat confused, gestured toward the confessional.

“I prefer face-to-face.” Bong nodded at the pews.

“Me too. There’s something about getting on your knees that makes people go into grocery-list mode, don’t you think?”

Father Mike slipped past Bong and sat on one of the long wooden pews. The younger man followed and pulled a twenty-ounce can of Great Stuff Big Gap Filler from his bag. It was the spray insulation used for tough jobs, the sealant that would expand and plug cracks greater than one inch wide. He undid the yellow top and fixed the long straw to the can.

“What’s that for?” asked Father Mike.

“A little work before I leave.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“You know what they say. ‘Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.’”

“Yes,” the priest said, looking at the can, his face dimpled with uncertainty. “Let’s get started.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been—”

“We’re long past the formalities,” Father Mike interrupted.

“I suppose you’re right.” Bong’s eyes glowed with discomfort.

“Go ahead. It’s okay.”

“I’ve killed a man, Father.”

“Who?” Father Mike’s jaw hung slack for the first time in fifty years of hearing confessions. “Who’d you kill?”

“You.”

Bong lunged at the priest. With his left hand, he grabbed the old man’s forehead and slammed skull and brains hard against the high back of their pew. One lightning motion. A sickening crack. And the sound of pain echoed through the church.

“Ugh.”

That grunt was the opening Bong needed. He pinned Father Mike’s head down and shoved the Great Stuff straw into the old man’s gaping mouth. He pulled the trigger on the aerosol assembly, which hissed from the discharge. “I fucking warned you to keep your mouth shut, old man.”

Twenty ounces of Great Stuff emptied from inside the can, twenty ounces that expand into 420 lineal feet. The priest could not gag. There was no room inside his esophagus for anything to escape as the foam swelled on contact. It grew bigger and bigger.

Father Mike writhed. His eyes bulged. His feet kicked. His throat burst at the seams. And suddenly the spasms stopped, save one final flinch of his left leg. The smell of urine wafted through the air.

Bong checked around the cavernous hall one last time. Nobody was there. Nobody saw. He pulled the straw from the dead man’s mouth, packed the can into his bag. He rose, headed for the door, and before stepping into the daylight, touched his forehead with holy water from the marble urn with ornate marble carvings.

Nothing but the best for Father Mike.

CHAPTER NINE

MPDC FIRST DISTRICT SUBSTATION
THURSDAY

“Jimmy Hoffa might be buried here.” Murphy hoisted a cardboard box from his cluttered desk with both hands. “Let’s grab a conference room.”

“Lead the way.” Agent Izzy Torres swept her arm with a flourish. “After you.”

She liked Murphy. He was old-school, had a lovely voice for a guy. Better yet, the detective was respectful. He never called her “Dickless Tracy.” Or “Agent Arriba,” which was a nickname she hated. Through the years, she had heard just about everything from the D.C. police force.

Torres was one of nine children, five boys and four girls. She was the first of her siblings to drive, the first to get married and have babies. She was the first to attend both college and graduate school. She was also the first to abandon her profession, because like most attorneys she hated the practice of law.

Sitting around an office had been bad enough. But the constant pressure to goose billable hours was a nonstarter. She refused to pad the numbers, which had been a problem with the partners at her firm. Torres once told her younger brother about the FBI, “I found my people.”

Through eleven years with the Bureau, she had seen plenty. Meth heads. Her share of gore. Some things would never be comfortable. But the savage murder of an elderly priest, Father Michael Rossi, rivaled the worst of her past investigations.

“Any witnesses, Murph?”

“You know Anacostia. Everybody clams up.”

“But a priest, for crying out loud. You’d think somebody would grow a pair.”

“Why the interest, Izzy?”

“Father Rossi was part of an ongoing investigation.”

Less is more,
she thought.

“You gotta give me something.” Murphy dumped the cardboard box on the conference room table. “The chief rides my ass every time you Feds get involved.”

“Tell him we’ve been watching Rossi for some time. That we won’t intrude on your homicide. That I’ll share anything I can.” Torres pointed to the contents in the box and asked, “May I?”

“Knock yourself out,” he grumbled, not happy with her reply.

“Any theories about the weapon?”

“Yeah. Some fuck knows ballistics don’t work on spray foam.”

Torres pulled a cell phone from the box. Father Rossi’s mobile was sealed in an evidence bag. She scrutinized it through the plastic, holding the contents up to the light. “You have the call log?”

“Next to Jimmy Hoffa,” Murphy confirmed. “I’m worried about this one.”

“Why’s that?”

“The Catholic Church gets enough bad press as it is.” The detective shook his head in dismay.

“You’re thinking sex revenge?”

“What else can it be?” Murphy was fishing. “Nothing’s missing best we can tell.”

Torres knew the detective’s game, two arms of law enforcement asking questions until somebody gave in. She paused a moment, taking time to craft her words, allowing silence to create an awkward divide. Her boss had demanded absolute secrecy.

“This case is a huge PR problem for the Church.” Torres placed the mobile phone, bag and all, on the table. “But our interest has nothing to do with sexual predators. That’s all I can say for now.”

Murphy gestured for the FBI agent to sit on one of the conference room chairs. The two stared at each other, uncomfortable and uncooperative. They could have lingered in silence another ten seconds.

“Sex crimes aren’t your thing anyway,” the detective noted in resignation.

As he spoke Father Rossi’s cell phone rang, and an out-of-state number popped up on the LCD display. Torres reached into her jacket pocket, searching for the pad and pen she always carried.

“Answer the phone,” Murphy demanded.

Second ring.

“No.” Torres looked like a statue. Immobile. She made no effort to reach for the evidence bag with the ringing phone. “We get the number and do the research first.”

Third ring.

“They’re probably calling from a disposable phone. Answer it.”

Fourth ring.

“That’s a coin toss, Murph. I’d rather go in prepared.”

Fifth ring.

“Give me that.” The detective snatched the evidence bag from the table and exhumed the cell phone in one fluid motion. He was desperate to answer before the caller went into voice mail.

“Hello.” Murphy spoke in a whisper, calm and under control. He reined back the clipped hints of an Irish brogue that Torres found so lovely. JFK or Charles Manson—his phone voice could have belonged to anybody.

The caller spoke.

Murphy winked at Torres. “Who’s calling?”

He frowned, as though surprised by a pushback response.

“Father Rossi isn’t available.”

Torres mouthed the word “speakerphone.”

Murphy wrinkled his brow and shook his head no at her.

His attention returned to the caller. “Then you’ll be holding a long time, pal. This is Detective Murphy. We have your number. We have your location. Maybe you should answer my questions.”

Torres rolled her eyes. She assumed the caller would hang up.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Murphy screwed up his face, making Torres wonder what the caller had said.

CHAPTER TEN

FAYETTEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA, AND MPDC FIRST DISTRICT SUBSTATION

“No joke. Everybody calls me Biscuit. Why are you answering this phone?”

“I’m investigating a crime. Why are you calling Father Rossi?”

Murphy’s words rocked the lawyer. Except for the occasional problem with a tenant, Biscuit seldom spoke with Fayetteville police. And contact with D.C. authorities was out of the question. “Is he okay?”

“Are you a friend?”

“I’m a lawyer,” replied Biscuit. “What’s this about?”

“I’ll call you from a landline.”

Biscuit hung up and considered his chaotic desk. The phone was vying for space with legal debris and junk-food wrappings. “What the hell.” He slapped his meaty palm on the tabletop.

Ten seconds later, Murphy and Torres connected with Fayetteville. “This is Detective Murphy. Can you hear me okay?”

“Fine. Is anybody else on this call?” Biscuit recognized the tinny sound of a speakerphone. In his profession, there were innumerable horror stories about unidentified listeners.

“Agent Torres from the FBI.”

“Good morning, Mr. Hughes.” She tried to sound cordial. She might need his help later.

The surprises kept coming. Biscuit had never expected to connect with the police, let alone the FBI. “I take it there’s a problem.”

“Father Rossi is the victim of a homicide,” answered Torres. “Why are you calling?”

“To discuss the Catholic Fund.” The lawyer sipped a supersized Coke.

“How was Father Rossi involved with them?” For the moment, Murphy was concealing his lack of knowledge. He knew nothing about the Catholic Fund.

Torres scribbled on her notepad.

“Sacred Heart Parish and the Catholic Fund,” drawled Biscuit, “share the same address.”

The Southerner’s slow speech irritated Murphy. He rolled his index finger in circles, trying to speed Biscuit’s answers. “Why do you care?”

Torres remained silent. Murphy’s questions were fine. And she’d rather eat nails than disclose anything to some attorney from Fayetteville, North Carolina. Lawyers were all the same. They’d turn her investigation into the three-ring circus known as ABC, NBC, and CBS. She had seen the media spoil too many cases before—both in private practice and with the FBI.

“I represent a subdivision outside Fayetteville—”

“North Carolina,” Murphy interrupted, finishing the sentence, still rolling his finger.

Biscuit decided the cop was boorish. “For the most part, my clients are military folk. And right now they’re pissed.”

“Why’s that?” pressed Murphy.

“Because an adult superstore named Highly Intimate Pleasures is opening in their backyard. Because real estate prices will tank when truckers stop for burgers and blue movies. Because my clients are NCOs. It’s all they can do to scrape together a down payment for their homes. Soldiers put their lives on the line every day, and they sure as hell don’t need twenty thousand square feet of peep shows dragging down property values.”

“Noncommissioned officers?” asked Torres. She knew what “NCO” meant. She asked only to curry Biscuit’s favor. She already smelled problems around the corner.

“Right.”

Biscuit’s outburst surprised Murphy. The force, the passion, made him think there was more to the story. “Just real estate—that’s the only connection between Sacred Heart and your adult superstore.”

“It’s not mine.”

“You know what I mean.”

“The Catholic Fund owns Highly Intimate Pleasures. I want to know if Sacred Heart’s passing a collection plate so they can sell vibrators in my neck of the woods.”

Annoyed, Torres stopped writing. “Not helpful, Mr. Hughes.”

“Neither are perverts.”

“Do any of your clients know the victim?”

The big lawyer stopped to consider Murphy’s question. “They’re not suspects, are they?”

“I’ve got a badge, a dead body, and a motive. What do you think, Counselor?”

“My clients live in North Carolina. They learned about the Catholic Fund last Sunday.”

“I need their names.”

“Why?”

“Father Rossi died two days later.”

“You should focus on the Catholic Fund.” The unexpected turn in the conversation annoyed Biscuit. His lather was growing, his drawl dissipating, his words coming faster and faster.

“Leave the investigation to us.” Murphy was just as angry. This lawyer bugged him.

“Maybe I should bring in the press. Reporters make great sleuths. And they’ll have a field day with this one.”

Biscuit had shut down Cavener with help from the media. He knew journalists would leverage his time and make the cops play defense. He’d dial them in a heartbeat.

“What do you mean ‘field day’?” asked Torres.

“Want me to spell out the headlines?”

“Go ahead.” Her eyes narrowed.

“‘Forget Bingo. Vatican Sanctions Porn to Raise Money.’ That’s catchy, right?”

Torres had heard enough. Her investigation could not afford the publicity. Nor did she welcome another pubic relations disaster for the Church. Her Catholic brethren always got a bum rap, even when they weren’t to blame.

In the old days, Attorney Torres would have jumped down Biscuit’s throat. That’s how it was growing up in a big family. Sometimes, she uncorked just to be heard.

At that moment, her FBI training took over. And it was Agent Torres who stayed calm, no matter how intense. “I doubt the press is in your clients’ best interests.”

“A bunch of sergeants are depending on me. I don’t care who we annoy.”

“Suit yourself,” Torres replied, her tone mocking and indifferent. “But you’re interfering with a federal investigation. My dad was one of those sergeants you keep describing. And I know NCOs don’t have time to answer questions when the Federal Bureau of Investigation comes knocking. We burn through hours and mess with day jobs. It could take forever to interview any one of those soldiers. I really don’t want the press involved. We clear?”