Justifiable Page 20

  “I know of him. Seems like there was something mentioned about his last job in Chicago or Detroit.”

  “How does gathering information on his background help us?”

  “Because Walker’s too sharp to be at WNUZ, the lowest ranked television station in Philly.”

  “So?”

  Monsignor cut his eyes at her with a calculating gaze, the trademark of his success. “Information is power. If he’s got any kind of negative media history, which I’ll bet he does to be with WNUZ, Walker’s name will be all over the Internet. Find out what you can and you field his questions when he contacts us. Don’t let him around anyone else here. In fact, if you don’t hear from him by tomorrow morning, you contact him.”

  Me? “Why?” She probably shouldn’t have been quite so abrupt, but come on. What was he thinking?

  “I want you to keep tabs on Walker, find out what he’s up to and what angle he’s playing for a story. You have to be proactive to keep a layer between St. Catherine’s and Walker to prevent him from blowing this all out of proportion and pointing an accusing finger at us. If he does, by the time the media circus dies down we will have missed our small window of opportunity.”

  “The pope’s visit.”

  Monsignor nodded. “If Walker gets away with tying these killings together and connecting them to St. Catherine’s just to break a big story, the pope’s security will deem this site a risk and advise against visiting.”

  The coincidence played on her conscience. “You don’t think there’s an actual connection between these deaths, do you?”

  He stood up and lifted his watch into view, checked it then told Margo, “To have three parishioners killed so close together in time and circumstances might seem unusual in some areas, but if you’ll recall we had two die violently in a similar socio-economic area of San Francisco within one week. This is more a matter of location than anything.”

  She nodded, trusting in Monsignor’s evaluation.

  He scratched his chin. “Talk to this reporter and make him see how unsupported claims will jeopardize St. Catherine’s future. If that doesn’t work, I’ll talk to him, but that’s exactly what he wants right now. If Walker wants a story, tell him to write one about how St. Catherine’s influence is cleaning up this area.”

  She’d rather be snowed in with only Icky to talk to than have to dodge Walker’s questions on another death related to St. Catherine’s. She had to pinch back a sinful thought that involved physically harming Riley Walker.

  The newsman would assume the three deaths had something to do with St. Catherine’s.

  And what if Walker did find a connection? Could there possibly be a killer targeting people in the parish?

  Chapter 35

  He paced his office, working on the plan for this evening. Mrs. Feldman still had to be dealt with before she put her hands on her teenage obsession, the young boy who shoveled her driveway. But that kid didn’t live in her house. Wasn’t in immediate danger.

  Not like the two younger children who needed divine intervention now.

  He only had time to save one tonight.

  What was wrong with parents these days?

  It was a mother’s job, her most important duty, to shield her child from danger. That made a mother as much at fault as those who would hurt her little one.

  Dark encroached outside with each minute he deliberated.

  Make a plan and stick to it. But if he chose wrong tonight a child would suffer at the hands of a demon.

  It was his duty to hand the children to God.

  His duty to stop Satan’s rule.

  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

  Chapter 36

  Riley searched the six o’clock dinner crowd packed into the Race Street Café.

  He spotted his target, who claimed to want media coverage even though he seriously doubted that excuse for the meeting. Wading through a mash of diners buzzing with conversation, he slowed his approach to Margo Cortese.

  She sat alone, unfolding her napkin as though she didn’t have a care in the world. Auburn hair with an electric-charge curl hung to her shoulders, a top layer of damp ringlets indicating she hadn’t been here long enough for those to dry from the light drizzle outside. She wore a shamrock green sweater he bet would bring out the Irish in her eyes.

  Riley sidled up silently to the table while she was distracted, placing her napkin in her lap. “I like green, reminds me of springtime.”

  Her head snapped up. “Oh, you’re here.” She smoothed the napkin again, then fiddled with her glass of water.

  Was she on edge around all reporters or just him?

  Or men in general? That didn’t make sense, because she spent the day around primarily men.

  Riley pointed at a chair. “May I?” When she nodded, he slipped into the one across from her, giving her plenty of space. “So you want some media coverage?”

  “Yes, we’d appreciate any help you can give us on the youth program at the outreach center. That’s what all the remodeling is about.” Her demeanor segued easily into autopilot business mode. That gave him an insight into her comfort level, which meant her discomfort level would be personal. Interesting.

  Especially since most people said too much when they were not comfortable.

  “Be happy to come by and do a walk through to give me an idea of how to plan the video session.” He used his most accommodating tone. Keeping things easy. Nothing confrontational at first, then he’d slide in a direct question when she wasn’t expecting it.

  “Wonderful. Anything you want to know about it right now?”

  Her wonderful had been obligatory and her smile hid stress, covering what was really on her mind. He said, “Nothing that we can’t discuss when I come back to St. Catherine’s.”

  That stumped her. She’d clearly planned on his supplying questions on a mundane topic she could safely answer.

  He smiled again. “But since you’re here and we have a minute, I do have something I’d like to talk about.”

  Suspicion fanned across her face. “Don’t you want to order?”

  “I’ve got dinner plans. Can’t stay.” He caught relief in her half smile before she lifted her glass to take a drink so he added, “Not that I wouldn’t enjoy a nice dinner with a pretty woman. Maybe we could do it another time.”

  She choked on her water, set the glass down and jerked her napkin up to wipe her mouth. “Sorry. That went down the wrong pipe. I, uh, keep a very busy schedule, but thanks for askin’.” She moved her hands to each side of her plate, wrists against the edge of the table, then shoved her hands in her lap as though she had no idea what to do with them.

  Riley suffered a moment of sympathy for her anxiety, but she’d instigated this meeting and he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to catch her out of step. “Consider it an open invitation.” When she didn’t respond, he changed direction. “Let’s talk about a missing child and who else at St. Catherine’s can help with information.”

  Didn’t take much to push her pissed-off button.

  Her eyes narrowed to the point of slits. “What is it with you and St. Catherine’s? Haven’t we been under the microscope enough with the media? We’re doin’ all we can to help our parishioners with programs like Philomena House and the youth center, not to mention our other community programs. We worry about all the wee ones and will do anything to help the police. What else do you people want?”

  You people? As if newsmen were all a bunch of vultures. Some might be, but he resented constantly being lumped into that group. His tone was no longer accommodating.

  “I want to find someone who’s willing to do whatever it takes to get a child back. You act like I’m accusing you of something. I’m not, but I am challenging you to share everything you and the rest of St. Catherine’s staff can on Sally and Enrique Stanton.”

  Her lips closed tight. She shoved at a thick lock of curly hair that bounced right back into place alongsi
de her smooth cheek when she let go. “We all want to get Enrique back, but I don’t personally have anything to give the police.”

  “And the priests?”

  “They’ve shared anything important already and you know they can’t divulge what they hear in confession.”

  “I can appreciate the sanctity of confession, but a child’s life is at risk. Doesn’t that bother any of you people?” He dished that back with a heavy slap of sarcasm.

  Restraint and fire clashed in her gaze. The blaze won. “You dare to question our priests who hold the trust of every member, no matter how important or insignificant those people and their problems may rank on your personal scale? And what about your interest in Enrique? You’d have me believin’ you have a righteous reason for investigating these deaths?”

  Deaths, as in plural? The first death two weeks ago wasn’t tied to this killing, just something Riley had tossed at her to get a reaction. Did she know something she wasn’t saying about that one or Bruno Parrick’s body found in the cemetery today? All J. T.’s office had shared with the media about the body so far had been a name and that the man was survived by his widow. No children mentioned, which threw a new inconsistency into the mix of profiling.

  But Margo’s slip sent a quick surge of adrenaline through Riley that he could be on the right trail. “You don’t think finding a child is enough reason for someone to show an interest?”

  She lifted her chin and met him eye-to-eye. “For someone other than a newsman.”

  “You always so distrustful of the media?”

  “I never trust a man who flirts with me, because I don’t know his motives. Just as I don’t know your motive for hunting Enrique or knocking the scab off a wound St. Catherine’s is just startin’ to heal.”

  “What would prove to you I’m sincere about finding Enrique and not just searching for a story?”

  “You’d have to convince me these people matter and I don’t think you can do that. You expect everyone else to bare their souls and tell all but what about you?”

  “What about me?” He didn’t give a damn if he sounded hostile. He had an idea where she was heading with this.

  “Bare your soul for once. Tell the truth about your darkest secrets. What was your motive for interviewin’ a killer in Detroit? Would you have interviewed the Kindergarten Killer if you couldn’t have told anyone you had an exclusive interview with a serial killer?”

  Where others raised his fighting hackles when they took pot shots at him, this woman’s direct questions sliced deep to the core.

  He’d asked the man in his bathroom mirror harder questions than that since last year. Yes, he’d wanted to find that little boy, but any newsman would have been jacked up at the chance to get this guy on camera. The hole inside him opened and burned with pain, a black vortex that threatened to pull him in. That’s why he couldn’t go there, couldn’t think about that day again. His heart pumped harder and harder. He swallowed down the anguish and forced the misery into a mental locker he slammed the door shut on.

  He had to get through today and find Enrique, stay away from that bottomless hole he couldn’t climb out of if he fell all the way in.

  Riley forced his words from between tight jaw muscles. “What happened in Detroit is in the past. A child is missing here, today. What purpose would baring my soul serve?”

  “I’d know if I could trust your motive for pushing this investigation, because I don’t think you even know why you’re doin’ this.”

  She’d driven a spike deep into the core of the infection eating him inside out. He didn’t want to think about the whys, just function, put one foot in front of the other with a purpose for each day. He resented the hell out of her disturbing the balance beam he teetered along between sanity and insanity. If he dipped too far one way, he’d fall back into the lost existence he’d lived in right after the Kindergarten Killer’s suicide.

  The waitress delivered a Shepherd’s Pie and served it to Margo Cortese then left.

  “I’d take care what you say about St. Catherine’s,” Cortese warned in a calmer voice as if she suggested using the correct fork. She’d regained her control, stabbing at the crust on her Shepherd’s Pie. “Your television station was the only one wise enough not to attack us during the embezzlement debacle. Since you’re suspended right now, I doubt your superiors would approve of your visit to St. Catherine’s or even know about it. You might be wantin’ to check with them before chasin’ a wild-hair story involving St. C’s that could have a negative connotation.”

  Riley had hit his limit of threats for the day. “I have no intention of putting St. Catherine’s in a negative spotlight based on speculation.”

  She smiled, genuinely pleased and clearly relieved at his admission.

  “But,” he continued. “If solid evidence points to St. Catherine’s or Philomena House being at the center of this, and it’s clear that you and the monsignor’s staff had prior knowledge I’ll personally break that story wide open. And I don’t care who on the board of WNUZ doesn’t like it. I guarantee you I’ll find a station to carry that story.” Riley stood. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “What tip?” Worry wiggled in her voice.

  He stepped aside and politely shoved his chair back under the table then leaned down and placed one hand on the surface for support so he could crowd her space. This was another wild shot, but he had her concerned about something. “When you referenced deaths, as in more than one. That tells me I should take a closer look at Bruno Parrick’s murder.”

  Riley lifted up to his full height and peered down at her. “And since you’re so keen on soul searching, ask yourself how much you’re willing to risk to protect an organization when a child’s life is at risk.”

  Chapter 37

  The night belonged to the wicked and desperate.

  He would take it back from the wicked, by using their desperation. Wind howled through the trees towering over each side of the dark path he followed, lit by his small LED flashlight. He’d grown up in dark places, lived in Montana where night fell like a widow’s cloak over the entire house.

  Used to scare him, late at night when the wolves howled and the coyotes yodeled to each other.

  His father said facing your fears made a man tough.

  Made a ten-year-old kid wet his pants when he’d gotten locked outside all night on the porch without even a flashlight.

  He’d survived though and maybe if his dad saw him walking alone through these woods at night he’d finally say, “I’m proud of you.”

  Never would happen now with his dad long dead and buried.

  It hurt to know he’d miss the chance to show his dad how tough he’d become, but he had a duty now, a way to prove himself to someone more important. When he got St. Catherine’s straightened out, he’d be acknowledged for the results of his carefully executed plan. But success would slip from his grasp if Margo didn’t keep Riley Walker reined in.

  The newsman had been his best choice as a phone contact. Someone who understood the cost of failure. Walker’s history would prevent him from becoming too ambitious. He was brilliant and recognized excellence. The time approached, and Walker was the perfect choice to show the world God’s hand in action.

  But if the newsman cost St. Catherine’s a visit from the pope, Walker would pay the price.

  Crack. Something else moved in the woods, hunting. He’d prefer the noise belonged to a deer instead of a dog.

  A light glowed through the branches.

  Just as he’d figured. The cabin was buried in a thick section of woods alongside the Evansburg State Park twenty miles northwest of Philly. The perfect place for someone to hide sinful actions.

  But no one hid from God.

  He hoisted the duffle bag with everything necessary for his task. He needed an armload of righteousness tonight. But he only had enough space for one small body to rest in peace, so he had two decisions to make. Which child stayed in God’s care? And what to do with the other on
e?

  He’d make it Riley Walker’s problem. That should keep him away from St. Catherine’s.

  Chapter 38

  Riley strolled into the Alma De Cuba a couple of minutes before seven, searching for a head of black satin hair. He nodded at the maître ď who knew his face, then tilted his head toward the bar, indicating his destination.

  Cuban music throbbed at just the right level to allow conversation yet protect a private discussion. Located on Walnut Street, the restaurant served Rittenhouse Square residents. Alma de Cuba was relatively new to Philly, at least compared to restaurants established over past decades that had been built in neighborhoods of territorial ethnic divisions.

  The mayor and DA preferred rubbing elbows late at night in those secluded neighborhood settings instead of the newer restaurants.

  Another reason Riley had picked this place.

  He wanted Massey out of her element and couldn’t picture her frequenting a flashy nightspot that was so out of character with her power suits and inflexible attitude.

  There she sat at the bar in a silky white blouse loose over a short black and green skirt. He didn’t know why he noticed the polar difference between Kirsten Massey’s designer look and Margo Cortese’s not-quite-together appearance right then.

  Maybe because both women made strong feminine statements in their own ways.

  Either one would be an interesting – and challenging – dinner companion given better circumstances.

  A female bartender in the restaurant’s signature red blouse and black pants paused in front of the DA investigator to ask, “Everything okay with your club soda?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Kirsten smiled politely and took a sip from a tall glass that appeared untouched.

  Riley stopped behind her, ready to get this meeting over with when the delicate scent lifting off her skin stalled his thoughts. When was the last time he’d had dinner with a woman just to be with her? He couldn’t remember.