Justifiable (17 page)

“So this St. Catherine’s bunch is suspect to begin with.”  Riley watched the landscape blur under a layer of sleet on his windshield. “There might be more of a story here than I first thought.”

“Oh, hell, no.”

“What? Why not?” 

“The media hosed the church, slamming them for bleeding the city and Philly’s citizens for funds and donations on the heels of the recent national economic fallout. Henry-the-Whore smeared the church in the paper, called for audits of money donated. TV stations ran nasty sound bites. Got really bad.”

“No surprise there. Anything’s game in this business.”  For some, but Riley had a personal code he lived by that didn’t include harming the innocent. There were plenty of stories about the corrupt and dangerous without hurting someone unnecessarily. “Was the church guilty?”

“No. In the end, the bishop did bring in auditors who cleared the church of any mishandling of funds. Basically, the only one guilty was the deacon, who went to jail. The bishop suffered a heart attack. The mayor said the media owed the bishop and St. Catherine’s an apology and said the city was behind Philomena House. It finally died out just about when you showed up.”

That had to be why Riley hadn’t heard anything about it. “Did Lehman issue any apologies?”

“That’s the funny part. WNUZ was the only station that didn’t sling shit at St. Catherine’s because one of the board members had gone to church and school there as a kid. He made it clear he would not tolerate the church being condemned without evidence. We came out smelling like a rose for once.”

“So how does Dornan play into all this?”

“He’s got a street rep of cleaning up other people’s messes. That’s how he’s climbed so fast in the church. My buddy said the monsignor is known as the Enforcer. Uses unorthodox methods.”

“What do you mean?”  The more Riley heard, the more he wanted to dig deep on this guy.

“Back in San Fran, Dornan stopped two gangs from warring in his parish by riding with each one for a couple weeks. Word was, inside a month the gangs were more afraid of him than the cops.”

Damn. “I’m sitting at St. Catherine’s. He’s supposed to have a press release for me.”

“Don’t pull them into anything, Walker. Dornan’s a golden boy. They love him here. The city
and
WNUZ will come down on your ass if you mess with him.”

Perfect. Riley hung up and turned off the engine. His instincts prodded him to find the truth, regardless of Dornan’s reputation. If there was something to be learned about Sally’s death, Riley would question anyone, even a priest, who had a piece of information that could make a difference.

Especially a priest with Dornan’s reputation.

So why did Riley hesitate?

Because those same instincts had convinced him to interview a killer in Detroit.

Chapter 19

St. Catherine’s Church mourns the loss of...

Margo started the first paragraph of the press release again. For the third time. Her gaze strayed to her stalled fingers, then to everything within the four walls of her office that had recently been painted Tucson Beige. A color she’d won the battle over after goin’ head to head with Baylor and Icky, whose preferences both leaned to the bright side. She’d thought Icky was goin’ to go over her head to Monsignor at one point, but he’d backed down.

The annoying priest could be reasonable on occasion.

Too bad he couldn’t write a press release. 

The smell of panic seeping out of her pores overpowered the fresh paint odor. She finally faced the clock on her laptop. It refused to help her out.

Two minutes past four.

If she could just get out of this office to walk and think for a bit she could come up with the right words. She missed the outdoors from when she used to help her Da on the crab boat he operated out of Portland, Maine.

Thinkin’ had been easy back then. Too easy. She’d thought her way right out of a safe home and into the hands of a monster.

Focus on the task
. Monsignor’s mantra played through her mind any time she stepped backwards into that place in her head where the world twisted in a frenzy of pain and fear.

The therapist Monsignor had found for Margo had taught her how to deal with anxiety. External scars could be removed with plastic surgery, if she’d do it, but the internal ones were the truly disfigurin’ kind.

Those clung more tenaciously than a leech to a healthy host.

Margo drew from what the therapist had taught her. She squeezed her fingers into tight fists then stretched them out like starfish, took a breath and focused on her task.

St. Catherine’s Church mourns the loss of...

That’s when she heard footsteps in the hallway, coming toward her office. She recognized everyone by the sound of the person’s steps. Like Icky, whose snippy steps matched his attitude.

Icky’s protégé Valdez shuffled quietly, reserved. She prided herself on not addin’ “suspiciously” to the list this time. She wouldn’t judge the young man unfairly.

Monsignor’s bold stride could be heard the length of the hallway.

Deacon Grizzle lumbered along like the giant he was.

Baylor made no sound when he walked, which was why he usually caught her off guard.

But these new footsteps clipped across the hardwood hallway, each strike echoing with confidence...and determination.

She had a feelin’ who she was about to meet. Time had run out. Apprehension clawed the inside of her chest. Couldn’t he have given her a few more minutes?

The footsteps ended, followed by a brisk knuckle rap against her doorframe.

Margo snapped her outer personality into place and turned with the face of surprised innocence. “Yes?”

The visitor stepped inside her office, clearly used to lettin’ himself into any situation. This guy stood just as tall and wide in the shoulders as Monsignor, and the two men’s similarities didn’t stop there. This man’s eyes took in her, the office, the computer, everything with sharp precision, like that of an eagle on the hunt.

Eagles were also handsome. And dangerous predators.

“Is Monsignor Dornan here?”

“And who would be askin’ for him?”

“I’m Riley Walker with WNUZ.”  His eyes were blue, but not crystal clear like Monsignor’s. The pair bearing down on her now had the deep-blue color of an ocean, the kind that hid as many secrets as the bottom of the sea.

Monsignor had warned her Walker was a barracuda.

Just as dangerous a predator as an eagle.

She had to tilt her head back, same as she did to address Monsignor when he stood over her. “Monsignor’s not here at the moment. He’s takin’ confession.” 

“You’re Irish.”  He smiled, eyes twinkling unlike any barracuda she’d ever seen, and flipped her initial impression on its keel. Then he offered his hand to shake.

As though she mattered.

“That I am.”  She
did
matter and deserved the respect he showed. Monsignor had told her that over and again. Unless you gave a person reason not to, they owed you respect.

But she had to admit feelin’ a bit flattered for some reason.

Out of courtesy and professional habit, she stood and clasped his hand. He shook hers with strength yet gentleness. A flick of energy raced between her palm and his. She snatched her hand back the minute he released hers, then smiled to hide her reaction. That had been strange.

“I should have known anyone with eyes as green as yours came with a nice accent.”  He continued smiling, putting her at ease. A charmer, this one.

Who was here for a press release.

Shiftin’ back to business, she pointed at a chair against the far wall. “You’re welcome to have a seat over there and wait. Monsignor should be back soon.”  That would buy her some time and she wouldn’t mind an attractive man decoratin’ her office for a half hour.

“Are you Ms. Cortese?”

She shoved her hands in her pants pockets, foolishly bothered by the way he said her name. “That’s right. You’re here for the press release I’m workin’ on. If you’ll take a seat I’ll finish it up for you and answer any questions you have.”

“I appreciate your offer to help, but I don’t think it’s fair to ask the questions I have of a church secretary. The monsignor would probably agree with me.”  He whipped out a wider version of that smile.

A church secretary?

He hadn’t been showing respect, but trying to lower her guard by actin’ sincerely pleased to meet her.

She knew his kind. Riley Walker was a self-assured sexist dog who thought he could charm his way past any woman. There were two names outside the door on the wall. Hers and Monsignor’s. Walker assumed the most menial of positions she could possess.

“I am the chief of staff at St. Catherine’s,” she said with a smile her father would have said indicated rough seas for Walker. Very rough.

Chapter 20

Damn. Major screw up.

Riley watched the ground he’d just gained with this woman – Chief of Staff Cortese – fall away faster than a mudslide in California.

He’d been making headway with her, anticipating how he might find out more through a secretary or receptionist – like in most companies – than he would from upper management.

Cortese had surprised him with a real smile a minute ago. The smile hadn’t actually surprised him, but how that one simple expression had transformed her face. When she’d first turned those rich green eyes on him, Riley had been struck by the interesting composition of a wide mouth, narrow, almost-pointed nose, pale complexion and thick auburn hair springing in wiry curls to her shoulders. No makeup, fairly plain, but nice looking in a natural way.

Then she’d stretched those lips into a smile that ignited her eyes.

But the fire sparking there right now did not bode well for him. Arms crossed, soft brown eyebrows arched in challenge and those peach-colored lips tightened into battle-ready mode.

Riley lifted his hands in surrender. “My mistake.”  He wasn’t above flirting with a pretty woman to smooth out a faux pas. “Sorry, I’m not familiar with the Catholic Church. When did they start letting attractive women run the place?”  He winked.

“Let?”  She glared at him like he’d killed her dog.

Hell.
Put the shovel down before this gets worse
. “Uh, we were talking about the press release.” What the devil had happened to the connection between his brain and his mouth? He’d just managed to demean the woman in less than five minutes. Twice.

“Sit.”  She pointed to a wooden armchair against the wall. “There. I’ll have it in a minute.”

Underneath that feminine exterior hid a general. One who had pulled inside the fortress and bolted the gate to any further conversation. His own dumbass fault.

Riley walked over to the chair and heard hers roll across the wood floor as she sat down at her computer. He ignored the chair she’d directed him to and remained standing where he could study the pictures pinned on a cork wallboard. Photos of children playing in the snow, a family in front of the church, a wedding party in simple attire...most had Cortese hugging a kid or hamming it up with another female.

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.”