Justifiable Read online

  She could be damned pretty when in full happy mode.

  The sound of keys clicked rapidly behind him. He stepped over to an oak bookcase, the antique kind with glass doors covering each section. The model of a sailboat with graceful lines and a tall sail rising almost two feet high sat on an onyx base. The brass nameplate said “Emily’s Dream.”

  He reached toward the glass door and heard, “Please don’t touch that.”

  More typing.

  Feeling like a scolded kid, Riley shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and turned around. “What do you know about Sally Stanton’s murder?”

  “Only what you and your associates report in the news. I’m almost finished with the press release. Give me a minute, and I’ll have it for you.”

  Her jaw ground back and forth. A frown drew fine lines in her forehead. Was she stressed over writing the press release, or his presence?

  A part of Riley wanted to leave her be, to type in peace, but the news dog in him could smell an opening to poke around. “I swung by Philomena House on the way here and asked a few questions.”

  She paused in typing, but didn’t lift her head.

  “Don’t you think the circumstances of Sally’s murder are a bit odd?” He didn’t have anywhere to go with this, but that had never stopped him from scratching around until he found something of use.

  “I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the investigation into her death.” She pecked out a few more words on the keyboard.

  “Probably wouldn’t be so odd if not for Sally’s death being the second Philomena House resident killed in the last two weeks.”

  Cortese placed her hands on the desktop and chewed on her upper lip as if she counted to ten before answering. “Yes, we’ve lost two parishioners in the last ten days.” She lifted her head slowly. Eyes narrowed, hard as her battered wood desk. “This is a difficult time for everyone at St. Catherine’s and Philomena House. I wish you’d respect our need to mourn in private.”

  He read the rest of her thoughts in the disgust lining her voice. She considered him one of the news vultures who ran down the families of victims to ask how they felt about losing a loved one who had been killed in a heinous way.

  How would anyone feel who had lost someone that way? He shared her disgust and didn’t care to be included in her loathing.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d faced that prejudiced attitude, but for some reason having her look at him that way stabbed him. “I didn’t harangue your parishioners. I have sources in that area.” Five punks not old enough to grow beards who’d better have answers the next time he saw them. “The other killing from Philomena was a gunshot to the head, too.”

  “So what?” Cortese countered, temper percolating. “The one two weeks ago was a drug-related death. Sally didn’t do drugs.”

  People said too much when they got angry, stressed or both.

  Why was she on edge? The monsignor Riley had met at the gun range wouldn’t turn a press release over to a novice or leave her to face a reporter unless she had what it took. And he doubted they’d put a woman in the position of chief of staff who wasn’t made of steel.

  After what’d happened with the embezzlement and Philly’s apologetic attitude since then, Riley would have expected a more confident air. Would she slip and give away something if he pushed a button or two on her?

  Or did she even have buttons to push?

  Riley offered a thoughtful look. “You sure that prior death was drug related?”

  Her lips moved with silent words then she waved a hand, dismissing his question. “You’ll have to be askin’ the police about that. I wasn’t there. We deal with the aftermath of these deaths.” She bent her head and returned to typing.

  That fit the confidence level tied to her position.

  He’d let her stew a minute while she worked on the press release. People generally worried themselves more on their own once he planted an idea they hadn’t considered.

  She moved the mouse, clicked twice and the printer on the table behind her purred into action. When it finished printing, she reached over and snatched the paper off the tray then turned around and stood, shoving the document at him. “This should answer all your questions.”

  “So I contact you if I have more questions?”

  “You shouldn’t have any.”

  He reached for the paper and offered a slow grin. “Matter of fact, I do have a few more.”

  The disbelief that swiped across her face was priceless. A tiny slip in her facade. “About what?”

  “St. Catherine’s, this outreach center, Monsignor Dornan...?”

  “You’re just digging for no reason – ”

  “Everybody’s got a story. Take you for example – ”

  “I don’t have a story.” She answered too quickly.

  He dropped his voice. “When I hear that tone it just makes me want to dig deeper.”

  She clamped her lips shut and crossed her arms.

  “Doesn’t the fact that both victims were killed in one place then moved to another spot, that both were residents of Philomena House and both were killed by a .38 round to the head make you wonder if there’s a connection at all?” Riley folded the paper without reading it, sure there would be little of value in the text. He could find two or three similar characteristics between murders in any low-income area so that didn’t mean those two killings had any link, but he doubted Cortese would realize his ploy.

  “You have our press release,” she answered with rigid professionalism. “Discuss your theories with the police, if you actually do any research before reporting a story.”

  Scared animals attacked. Riley understood this, but his temper still flamed. “It’s not always about a story. There’s a kid at risk. Sally’s little boy. The longer it takes to get him back, the less chance anybody has of finding him alive. Philly’s police can only do so much with what they’ve got to handle.”

  Her stiff bottom lip softened, but she didn’t give an inch.

  “I’m going to push for answers with or without your and Monsignor’s help. By not helping me, you ensure Sally’s child stays in danger.” He thought he’d pushed too far when she just stared in silence.

  Her little finger trembled. “I gave the DA’s office everything we had on Sally and Enrique. What do you want from us, Mr. Walker?”

  Had that been a plea to back off or an honest offer? And what had she given the DA’s office that Kirsten Massey hadn’t shared? Riley had to give Cortese a reason to talk to him. “We can either work together or against each other. I believe there’s a tie between the two killings and the common link is Philomena House.” When she showed no sign of offering another shred of help, he used the only hammer he had in hand. “I’m running with this story soon unless you help me.”

  “Me?”

  “You...or Monsignor. Somebody familiar with Philomena House or from St. Catherine’s has got to answer questions.”

  She had a cocky little chin she shoved up at him, but she failed to hide the worry in her eyes that spurred his curiosity further. “I’m the media contact for St. Catherine’s. We want Enrique found, too, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to help you exploit his tragedy or use this situation as a means to attack St. Catherine’s.”

  “Good enough. Looking forward to working with you.” He said that to let her know he took her reply as agreeing to answer his questions. He wouldn’t hammer on a church secretary who didn’t get paid to deal with someone like him, but Cortese had made her position here very clear, and that she was the go-to person. That worked for him. She wouldn’t be nearly as difficult an adversary as Monsignor.

  “One warning, Mr. Walker – ”

  He sort of liked this tough side of her...

  “ – screw me over and hell’s going to look like a good place to hide.”

  ...or not.

  Chapter 21

  Riley found his way back outside since Cortese didn’t offer to walk him to the door. She might not be as eas
y a nut to crack as he’d thought. But what had she given the DA that Kirsten hadn’t shared? Now that his temper had cooled, he wanted another shot at Kirsten. She’d know if the police had anything on Enrique.

  He just had to rile her enough to loosen her up, get her to say something. They mixed like a lightning strike and dry wood, so stirring her up shouldn’t take much.

  Getting her to meet him for dinner, now that would be the challenge. But then he hadn’t been born of stubborn Irish blood for nothing.

  When he reached the rear parking lot, he gave his truck a minute to warm up so the defroster could melt the ice on his windshield.

  A flash of blurred silver sneaking slowly into the parking lot drew his attention. The car parked close to the building, forty feet away from his truck. He couldn’t see through his iced up glass.

  A cell phone beep alerted him to a text message. Lifting it into view, he read:

  Philomena House 6 pm. Baby G.

  The possibility of learning something on Enrique jacked his pulse.

  Riley consulted the digital clock in his dash. He had eighty minutes, plenty of time, so he rolled his window down and tilted his head into the brutal air for a better look at the silver car.

  Mercedes sports car, newer model...a striking woman with a scarf covering her head got out. She pulled on a black fur coat that might not be real fur, but based on the rest of the picture he’d bet someone in that household had dropped a nice chunk on it.

  More telling than the scarf on her head were the darting glances as if checking her surroundings. She donned a pair of dark shades. Something about her tugged at a memory that wouldn’t gel.

  Interesting. Who was she? And who was she hiding from here?

  Cortese indicated Monsignor was currently taking confession.

  What had brought this socialite slumming? The need to confess a sin she couldn’t tell her own priest?

  One too embarrassing to admit?

  Riley waited until she disappeared around the corner of the building before he revved the engine and turned his defroster on high. He drove down the row where she’d parked.

  Her vanity tag read “KELSEY.”

  His cell phone rang again and he glanced at the ID to see if this meant Biddy had something new. The monitor ID displayed UNKNOWN. He answered, “Walker.”

  “You lost your job.”

  Riley’s eyes bulged. His heart thumped fast. That voice. This time he was sure. The killer had called him back. Think. Talk. “No, just got suspended. What can I do for you?” He’d managed to keep his voice even and calm when he wanted to ask about Enrique in the worst way, but fear of making a misstep forced him to be cautious.

  “We have a duty to the citizens of Philadelphia. To tell them the truth, let them know about the dangers of sin without repentance.”

  We? “I understand.” Not even. With that opening, Riley had an idea he wanted to believe was a safe approach, but life had taught him there was no such thing. His skin felt clammy. Don’t screw this up. He spoke carefully. “Sally must have been a sinner, but her little boy was innocent. You know where Enrique is?”

  “Sally repented. Her soul is safe.”

  “But – ” Riley swallowed and took a steady breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead. No risky statements, no gambling with this child, but he couldn’t let this guy go and not find out what had happened to Enrique. “Is her little boy alive?”

  “Of course he is. Children are held in God’s hands.”

  Excitement rushed through Riley, rippling across his skin. “How about letting him go?”

  “Not yet.”

  Riley closed his eyes. Not yet. What did this guy want with Enrique? Don’t make a misstep. Just keep everything nice and calm. But his voice came out raw when he said, “Please, let the little boy go.”

  “We all must sacrifice in this war against Satan and his followers. For Enrique’s sake, you must perform your duty and not fail me.”

  The bottom fell out of Riley’s stomach. “What do you want? Just say it and I’ll do it.” Riley had answered in a level voice that hid the throbbing beat of his pulse. He’d do whatever this guy wanted even if it was to walk off a cliff.

  “I’ll be in touch.” The line disconnected.

  Chapter 22

  Climbing the flat stone steps to St. Catherine’s chapel was like navigating a tiered ice rink. Lucinda thankfully made it to the doors without breaking a bone, which would have created even more problems since she did not want to expose her identity.

  She had no choice but to find someone who didn’t know her, and it had to be now. All she needed was an objective sounding board to figure out which way to go next.

  She needed to talk to someone she could trust who would understand her confusion. The church had battled troubles over abuse recently. Priests had spoken frankly with parishioners about the problem, sharing how they now knew where to look and what to look for to prevent the past’s repeating itself.

  By the time she left here she wanted to have a clear idea of her next step, no matter what the consequences were. Nothing mattered more than Kelsey’s well being.

  Still, she couldn’t talk to her own priest about this. Stan had attended the same cathedral for the past ten years. The priest would never look at Stan – or her – the same way again if she spoke to him about her concerns.

  A wave of nausea hit every time she considered what she’d have to say and the shame she faced, whether she was right or wrong. If she was right, she’d missed the signs before now and had allowed her daughter to be harmed. If she was wrong, she’d committed a betrayal by even thinking something so hideous about her husband.

  Inside the front door of the chapel, Lucinda found a lean, gray-haired man in coveralls standing on the top two steps of a ten-foot ladder. When the door closed with a soft nick, he paused from sanding the molding above an archway made up of curves and scrolls, and turned to her.

  She waited for him to say something, but he must have had the same idea so she said, “I’m looking for the priest.”

  “Which one?”

  She had no idea. “I, uh – ”

  He saved her by pointing at the door to the chapel. “Should find one in there.” Then he returned to sanding.

  Glad to not answer any more questions, she stepped inside the quiet chapel where her dark sunglasses blinded her. She removed them and pulled the cashmere scarf off her head. Her eyes adjusted. The chapel could hold about a hundred parishioners. Why had the parking lot been so empty?

  Maybe because the majority of members in this parish had to work the kind of jobs that prevented them from going to confession during a workday.

  These hallowed buildings always gave her a sense of awe, no matter the size or the condition. This one was on the road to recovery. Sleet heavy skies dulled the light seeping through the stained-glass windows.

  Each side of the room had a confession booth built of dark-stained wood.

  But the size and worn edges of this chapel gave it a lived-in feel that offered comfort. That and the loving polish someone had applied to the older wood so it shone. The touch of someone who cared.

  Soft footsteps tapped down the center aisle toward Lucinda. She swiveled around.

  A woman in black pants and a deep pink turtleneck pullover walked toward her. “Can I help you?”

  “I called about confession.” An hour ago, once she’d gotten Kelsey settled at home with Janeen.

  “I’m Ms. Cortese.” The late-twenties woman extended a pleasant hand with her welcoming smile. “I’m sorry, but I’m sure I mentioned confessions are only taken until 4:30 on Tuesday afternoons.”

  But it was only ten minutes past that. Lucinda couldn’t go another week with this problem. “Yes, you did, but I have to see the priest, really, this is important.”

  A young man entered from the other end of the chapel and walked up onto the stage to the podium.

  Ms. Cortese swung around, frowning at the young man. “What are you doing, Vald
ez?”

  His head shot up from where he’d leaned down to look at something behind the podium. “Uh, trying to find the short in the audio system. Father Ickerson asked me to look into it.”

  “I see.” Ms. Cortese took her time turning back around, as though she pondered his answer. When she faced Lucinda again, she started to speak but both doors to the confessional booth on Lucinda’s left opened, snagging her attention.

  One man stepped out sideways to allow clearance for his barrel gut, sort of a roughneck construction worker look. He mumbled something under his breath that might have been “thank you,” but sounded like the same thanks a driver gave a cop for receiving a speeding ticket.

  “Tell Lisa we’re praying for her,” Ms. Cortese told the heavy-set man as he lumbered past. The comment had sounded sincere, but had held another meaning that was hard to read.

  The guy glared at Ms. Cortese and left without a word.

  Lucinda didn’t know what had just exchanged between those two, but she had her own problems. “I must speak to – ” She shifted her attention from Ms. Cortese to the second man who had exited the booth. She’d plead her case directly to the priest.

  He was tall, handsome, memorable.

  Very memorable, now that she thought about it. Lucinda had met Monsignor Jack Dornan only a few weeks back at a fundraiser for a new art museum. Her stomach curdled at the possibility of being recognized. He’d been very nice when he spoke to her, Stan and even Kelsey, which meant he would very likely remember Lucinda. She could not talk to him either.

  What the heck was Monsignor Dornan doing here? She thought he was at one of the other major churches in the area.

  She’d picked this one as the least likely place someone would recognize her as Stan’s wife.

  The monsignor hadn’t looked at her yet. The muscles in his face were tight with a stern frown, his eyes on the man whose confession he’d just taken. Some thought had trapped the monsignor in the moment.