Justifiable (19 page)

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, Valdez?”

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.

But he was not as trapped as Lucinda felt. She still had a problem to solve and switched back to Ms. Cortese. Would it be insulting to ask for an after-hours confession
and
a different priest?

Ms. Cortese had been watching the priest with worried eyes, but now she blinked as if returning to the present, and swung her attention back to Lucinda. “I’m sorry, Miss...?”

Lucinda’s heart thumped a loud warning that she might be making a bigger mistake by staying.

Heavy footsteps beat across the wood floors and echoed against the high ceilings as the monsignor walked up. “Hello.” 

Please, God, have mercy and get me out of this
. Lucinda raised her eyes to the monsignor. “I...uh.”  She swallowed, buying time to come up with something.

Ms. Cortese spoke up. “She’s here for confession, but I told her it’s past the time.”

Monsignor Dornan’s face warmed with a smile, his gaze steady on Lucinda. “I can take one more.” 

Lucinda glanced at Cortese, whose eyebrows shot up in question. Ms. Cortese started to speak, but Monsignor Dornan quieted her with a look that passed between them.

Lucinda seemed to be the only one not in on these silent messages.

“I’ll go over my last meeting with you after you’ve finished, Monsignor,” Ms. Cortese said in an efficient, but brisk manner, then spun on her heel and walked back down the aisle to the altar and exited through a side door.

“Shall we?”  Monsignor Dornan lifted a hand toward the confessional booth.

Like I have a choice at this point?
Lucinda nodded and headed to the confessor’s side of the confessional. Why was she worried? People remembered her husband, a high-profile television executive. Wives were invisible most of the time, at least she was. She wore conservative clothes and stayed out of the news, one of the few things that Stan had made very clear from the beginning of their relationship was not negotiable.

Lucinda had easily agreed since she had no interest in being in the media spotlight.

Once she settled on the bench and the door on the screen separating the two halves slid open, Lucinda took a breath and prayed he wouldn’t tell her priest about this if he did recognize her.

He couldn’t, right? Everything she said was in strictest confidence. That took some load off her chest.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession. My husband and I argued today.”

“And?”

“We don’t normally argue, Father, but I got confused and I’m still kind of confused.”  She wished her mother was still alive, someone she could tell her blunt thoughts to who wouldn’t condemn her for jumping to conclusions.

“Go on,” he encouraged in a deep voice.

“Well, our daughter has been so quiet and depressed lately that I think I might have overreacted when she started crying and I blamed the problem on her father. I know that sounds wrong, and I’ve never blamed him for anything in the past. The last four months have been hard on all three of us. He’s a very important man in a major company – high-profile company – so he’s under a lot of pressure. I’ve tried to be there for him and for my daughter, too, but I think I might be hitting the wall on how much I can handle. I’m starting to wonder if I’m doing anything right these days.”  She stopped to catch her breath. Her heart had a stranglehold on her emotions, but she wasn’t stopping now. Not with her family’s future at stake.

The monsignor waited silently, which encouraged her to take another breath and tell him the rest of her thoughts. “I know it sounds like I’m weak, but I’m not. I had to raise my daughter alone after my first husband died. I can do it again, but I want this marriage to work.” 

“A solid marriage is built on communication and faith in God. Does your husband follow God’s word?”

Thank goodness, an easy question. “Yes, he’s a devout Catholic. Active in the church. He’s never really raised his voice to me until today. He’s been a good husband and father, even adopted my daughter so she’s his child, too. She’s so sweet and she
was
so happy, but now she’s not, and I don’t know what to do.”  Her voice broke on a sob she sucked down. He didn’t need to listen to that.

“Why is your daughter unhappy?” 

“I’m not sure, but...”  Could she really bare her deepest thoughts? If she didn’t, she couldn’t handle another day of wondering what to do. “This is confidential, right? I mean you can’t even tell another priest or anything, right?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Please tell me I’m doing the right thing. Kelsey is my world.  She depends on me to keep her safe.
Lucinda took a breath. This was a safe zone where she could say anything, no matter how bizarre.

“I’m worried that something has...has...happened to my daughter...physically.”  She choked on the last word. A bleak image rose in her mind. “I might be wrong, but she’s been so withdrawn and she’s so skittish around St...my husband.” 
I have to protect Stan, too, if he’s innocent in all this
. “I don’t mean to make it sound as though he did something, I mean, I know he loves both of us, but I...oh, dear God, I can’t say it – ”  She cried into her hands, hard painful sobs that she couldn’t stop. Just the possibility of what she suggested made her physically ill.

Silence answered her sobs until she finally regained control and sniffled. She coughed, pulled a tissue from the box next to her and dried her raw eyes. “I’m sorry, I just...I don’t know. He’s never done anything inappropriate before so I can’t believe he would now, but my baby is so upset and won’t talk to me or let me touch her. She used to spend hours with him on the computer and today she ran from him. I don’t know what to do, but I won’t let anyone harm my child.” 

There was a pause, a deep, silent pause, before he cleared his throat and spoke.

“There is no question here.”  His voice picked up strength and power when he added, “A child must be protected...at all costs.”

Chapter 23

Philomena House would never win an architectural award unless they gave one out for a brick box two stories high and twice as wide.

Riley took one last glance over his shoulder at his Tundra parked across the street on the curb. He hoped the truck still had those custom wheels when he came back out, given that the area was already shrouded in full dark.

His cell phone rang. Riley snatched it up, ready for some crap about Baby G running late. “Walker.”

“Your ass is going to be parked in jail tonight if Massey pulls the warrant she’s working on,” Detective J. T. Turner growled.

Ah, hell, Riley didn’t need J. T. pissed off along with Massey. “What the hell?”

“She thinks you’re holding back information on that phone call. Said she pulled your records and the time stamps don’t jive with what you told me. You doing that, Walker, holding back information? Because, if you are, I’ll pick you up personally.”

Riley opened his mouth, but had nothing to say. The break in time had been when he’d sat unable to breath or talk or think, but no one wanted to hear that.

No one would believe him anyhow.

“Goddammit, J. T. I told you and her both everything I knew at the time.”  Almost everything. Kirsten didn’t know that the killer had his cell phone number. “But I left you a message to call because I have more.”

“Like what?”

“The killer called back. He got my cell number, probably from the station. Not like that’s hard to do in this business.”

“Fuck. We need a tap on your line, but if the call was made from another Mickey Mouse payphone company it won’t do much good.”

“Why? Are they immune to a warrant?”

“No. The people who own those operations are impossible to find and even when you do they won’t agree to a tap or doing anything to help. All they care about is collecting money. It’s a nightmare to get anything out of them. Not like dealing with the big phone company. We’re better off if it’s a cell phone. We can track that as long as the phone’s on.” 

“He didn’t talk long, J. T., so I doubt you’d have gotten a location triangulated, but you set up a way to track the call and I’ll do whatever I can to keep him talking. Can’t promise how long I’ll keep him on the phone. I won’t push him.”

“Why not?”

Riley wished just one person didn’t think he was using this kid to get a story. “Because I’m worried about that child so I don’t want to scare him off or cause him to do something...reckless.” 

J. T. didn’t comment at first then said, “Good idea. What did he say?”

“That Enrique is still alive.”

“Jesus.”  The harsh sigh that followed was that of a detective who had been up too many hours with too few breaks. “What else?”

Riley related the whole phone conversation again then moved back to the issue of him going to jail. “I’ll make you a deal. If you can keep Massey off me until later tonight I may have some information that will help you on the Stanton murder case and Enrique.” 

He hoped. Riley didn’t have much at this point, but he had to stay free long enough to come up with something to trade with Massey.

She’d hang him on the time gap between receiving the call and reaching 9-1-1 if Riley couldn’t convince her and J. T. the time difference had not been to get a jump on the case. He’d come up with a reason by tonight, something that wouldn’t force him to admit he’d been close to losing consciousness during that phone call.

“Don’t interfere with this case,” J. T. warned. “Bad enough you’re getting calls from the killer.”

“You don’t want what I’ve got then?”  Riley had never known a detective to pass up a chance on any free information.

J. T.’s hiss of pent-up air filled the line, ragged and spent sounding. “Consider yourself forewarned that we’ll be listening in on your calls so we’ll know when to triangulate the killer’s call. See what I can do with Massey. No promises. Meet me at Race Street Café at nine tonight.”  The detective didn’t wait for an answer since it wasn’t a question.

They both knew Riley would be there for any hope of sleeping in his own bed tonight, which wouldn’t happen if he didn’t come up with a lead of some sort.