A Perfect Evil (Maggie O'Dell Novels)

by Alex Kava

  Father Keller opened the door, dressed in a long black robe.

  “Sheriff Morrelli, sorry for the delay. I was taking a shower,” he said without surprise, as if he had been expecting him.

  “I did try calling first.”

  “Really? I’ve been here all evening, except I’m afraid I can’t hear the phone from my bathroom. Come in.”

  A freshly fed fire roared in the huge fireplace that was the room’s center of attraction. A colorful Oriental rug and several easy chairs sat in front. Books were piled up next to one of the chairs, and at a glance Nick noticed they were art books—Degas, Monet, Renaissance painting. He felt silly expecting them to be on religious and philosophical topics. After all, priests were people. Of course, they had other interests, hobbies, passions, addictions.

  “Please sit down.” Father Keller pointed to one of the chairs.

  Though he knew Father Keller only from the few times he’d attended Sunday mass, it was hard not to like the guy. Besides being tall, athletic and handsome, with boyish good looks, Father Keller possessed an ease, a calm that immediately made Nick feel comfortable. He glanced at the young priest’s hands. The long fingers were clean and smooth with fingernails well manicured—not a cuticle in sight. They certainly didn’t look like the hands of a man who strangled children. Maggie was way off base. There was no way this guy killed little boys. Nick should be questioning Ray Howard, instead.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” Father Keller asked, sounding as if he genuinely wanted to please his guest.

  “No, thanks. This won’t take long.” Nick unzipped his jacket and pulled out a notepad and pen. His hand ached. The knuckles bled through his homemade bandage. He tucked it up into the sleeve of his jacket to avoid attention.

  “I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you, Sheriff. I think he simply had a heart attack.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Father Francis. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “What about Father Francis?”

  “Oh dear, God. I’m sorry. I thought that was why you were here. We think he had a heart attack and fell down the basement steps sometime this morning.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I’m afraid he’s dead, God rest his soul.” Father Keller picked at a thread on his robe and avoided Nick’s eyes.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “I’m sure it’s a shock. It certainly was for all of us. You served mass for Father Francis, didn’t you? At the old St. Margaret’s?”

  “Seems like ages ago.” Nick stared into the fire, remembering how fragile the old priest had looked when he and Maggie questioned him.

  “Excuse me, Sheriff, but if you’re not here about Father Francis, what is it I can help you with?”

  For a moment the reason escaped him. Then Nick remembered Maggie’s profile. Father Keller matched the physical characteristics. His bare feet even looked about a size twelve. But like his hands, his feet looked too clean, too smooth to have been out in the cold, trampling through rocks and branches.

  “Sheriff Morrelli? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Actually, I just had a few questions for you about…about the summer church camp you sponsor.”

  “The church camp?” Was the look one of confusion or alarm? Nick couldn’t be sure.

  “Both Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner were in your church camp this past summer.”

  “Really?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “We had over two hundred boys last summer. I wish I could get to know them all, but there just isn’t time.”

  “Do you have pictures taken with all of them?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My nephew, Timmy Hamilton, has a photo of about fifteen to twenty boys with you and Mr. Howard.”

  “Oh, yes.” Father Keller raked his fingers through his thick hair, and only then did Nick realize it wasn’t wet. “The canoe photos. Not all the boys qualified for the races, but, yes, we did take pictures with the ones who qualified. Mr. Howard is a volunteer counselor. I’ve tried to include Ray in as many church activities as possible ever since he left the seminary last year and came to work for us.”

  Howard had been in a seminary. Nick waited for more.

  “So Timmy Hamilton is your nephew? He’s a great kid.”

  “Yes, yes, he is.” Did he dare ask more questions about Howard or was the distraction exactly what Father Keller wanted? There was no need to have mentioned Howard leaving the seminary.

  “You started a similar church camp for boys at your previous parish, didn’t you, Father Keller? In Maine.” Nick pretended to look at his notepad, though it was blank. “Wood River, I believe it was.” He watched for a reaction, but there was none.

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did you leave Wood River?”

  “I was offered an associate pastor position here. You might say it was a promotion.”

  “Were you aware of a murder of a little boy in the Wood River area just before you left?”

  “Vaguely. I’m not sure I understand your line of questioning, Sheriff. Are you accusing me of having some knowledge about these murders?”

  Still, there was no alarm in his voice, no defensiveness, only concern.

  “I’m just checking as many leads as possible.” Suddenly, Nick felt ridiculous. How could Maggie ever have led him to believe that a Catholic priest was capable of murder? Then it hit him. “Father Keller, how did you know I served mass for Father Francis at the old St. Margaret’s?”

  “I’m not sure. Father Francis must have mentioned it to me.” Again the priest avoided Nick’s eyes. A sudden knock at the door interrupted them, and Father Keller quickly got up, almost too quickly, as if anxious to escape. “I’m certainly not dressed for company.” He smiled at Nick as he tucked in the lapels of his robe and tightened its cinch.

  Nick took the opportunity to escape the fire’s heat. He got up and paced the large room. Huge built-in bookcases made up one wall, on the opposite were a bay window and window bench used for green plants. There were few decorations—a highly-polished, dark wooden crucifix with an unusual pointed end. It almost looked like a dagger. There were also several original paintings by an obscure artist. Quite nice, though Nick knew little about art. The swishes of bright color were hypnotic, swirling yellows and reds in a field of vibrant purple.

  Then Nick saw them. Tucked away around the side of the brick fireplace that jutted out into the room was a pair of black rubber boots, still plastered with snow and sitting on an old welcome mat. Had Father Keller lied about being out this evening? Or perhaps the boots belonged to Ray Howard.

  From the foyer Nick heard voices raised, a hint of frustration in Father Keller’s and accusations from a woman’s voice. Nick hurried to the entrance, where he saw Father Keller trying to remain calm and cool while Maggie O’Dell assaulted him with questions.

  CHAPTER 56

  At first Nick didn’t recognize Maggie’s voice. It was loud, shrill and belligerent—this from a woman who appeared to be the essence of control.

  “I want to see Father Francis now,” she said and pushed past Father Keller before he could explain. She almost ran into Nick. She backed away, startled. Her eyes met his. There was something wild and dark in hers—something a bit out of control to match her voice.

  “Nick, what are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. Don’t you have a flight to catch?”

  She looked small in the oversize green jacket and blue jeans. Without makeup and with her windblown hair, she could have passed for a college coed.

  “Flights are delayed.”

  “Excuse me,” Father Keller interrupted.

  “Maggie, you haven’t met Father Michael Keller. Father Keller, this is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell.”

  “So you’re Keller?” There was accusation in her voice. “What have you done with Father Francis?”

  Again, the belligerence.
Nick couldn’t figure out this new approach. What happened to the cool, calm woman who usually made him look like the hothead?

  “I tried to explain…” Father Keller tried again.

  “Yes, you do have some explaining to do. Father Francis was supposed to meet me at the hospital this afternoon. He never showed up.” She looked to Nick. “I’ve been calling here all afternoon and evening.”

  “Maggie, why don’t you come in and calm down?”

  “I don’t want to calm down. I want some answers. I want to know what the hell’s going on here.”

  “There was an accident this morning,” Nick explained, since she wouldn’t allow Father Keller to speak. “Father Francis fell down some basement steps. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  She was quiet, her entire body suddenly still. “An accident?” Then she looked up at Father Keller. “Nick, are you sure it was an accident?”

  “Maggie.”

  “How can you be sure he wasn’t pushed? Has anyone examined the body? I’ll do the autopsy myself if necessary.”

  “An autopsy?” Father Keller repeated.

  “Maggie, he was old and frail.”

  “Exactly. So why would he be going down basement steps?”

  “Actually, it’s our wine cellar,” Father Keller tried to explain.

  Maggie stared at him, and Nick noticed her hands clenched into fists. It wouldn’t have surprised him if she took a swing at the priest. Nick couldn’t figure out her angle. If she was playing bad cop, good cop, he wished she’d let him know.

  “What exactly are you implying, Father Keller?” she finally asked.

  “Implying? I’m not implying anything.”

  “Maggie, maybe we should go,” Nick said, taking her gently by the arm. Immediately, she wrenched it from his hold and shot him a look that made him take a step backward. She stared at Father Keller again, then suddenly pushed past both of them and headed for the door.

  Nick glanced at the priest, who looked as embarrassed and confused as Nick felt. Without saying a word, he followed Maggie out the front door. He caught up with her on the sidewalk. He reached for her arm to slow her down, but thought better of it and simply increased his pace to stay alongside her.

  “What the hell was that about?” he demanded.

  “He’s lying. I doubt that it was an accident.”

  “Father Francis was an old man, Maggie.”

  “He had something important to tell me. When we talked on the phone this morning, I could tell someone else was listening in. I’m guessing it was Keller. Don’t you see, Nick?” She came to a halt and turned to look at him. “Whoever was listening decided to stop Father Francis before he had a chance to tell me whatever was so important. An autopsy may show whether or not he was pushed. I’ll do it myself if—”

  “Maggie, stop. There’s not going to be an autopsy. Keller didn’t push anybody, and I don’t think he had anything to do with the murders. This is nuts. We need to start looking at some real suspects. We need to…”

  She looked as though she would be sick. Her face went white, her shoulders slumped, and her eyes were watery.

  “Maggie?”

  She turned and hurried off the sidewalk into the snow, back behind the rectory and out of the bright streetlights. Shielded from the wind and clinging to a tree, she bent over and began retching. Nick grimaced and kept his distance. Now he understood the belligerence, the loud accusation, the uncharacteristic anger. Maggie O’Dell was drunk.

  He waited until she finished, standing guard in the shadows, keeping his back to her in case she was now sober enough to be embarrassed.

  “Nick.”

  When he turned, she was walking away from him, behind the rectory toward a grove of trees that separated the church property from Cutty’s Hill.

  “Nick, look.” She stopped and pointed, and he wondered if she was delusional. Then he saw it, and immediately he, too, felt sick to his stomach. Tucked back in the trees was an old blue pickup with wooden side racks.

  CHAPTER 57

  “I’ll get Judge Murphy to issue a search warrant first thing in the morning.” Nick was still explaining when they got back to Maggie’s hotel room. She wished that he would just shut up. Her head ached and her stomach hurt. Why in the world did she drink all that Scotch on an empty stomach?

  She threw her laptop and jacket onto the bed and lay down next to them. She was lucky to get her room back with there being so many stranded motorists.

  Nick stood in the doorway, looking uncomfortable, but making no effort to leave.

  “I couldn’t believe the way you were going at Keller. Jesus, I thought you were going to punch him.”

  She looked up at him without moving from her resting place. “I know you don’t believe me, but Keller has something to do with all this. Either come in or leave, but don’t stand in the open doorway. I have a reputation, after all.”

  He smiled and came in, closing the door. Once inside, he paced until he noticed her frowning at him. He pulled a chair to the edge of the bed where she could see him and not have to move.

  “So what did you do, decide to have a little going-away party?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Aren’t you going to miss your flight?”

  “I probably already have.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “I’ll call in the morning.”

  “So you came all the way back just for a piece of Keller?”

  She pulled herself up on one elbow and dug through her jacket pockets. She handed him the small envelope and lay back down.

  “What is it?”

  “I was in the airport lounge when the bartender gave me that—said a guy at the bar asked him to deliver it to me. Only the guy was gone by the time I got it.”

  She watched him read it. There was confusion, and she remembered she hadn’t told him about the first note.

  “It’s from the killer.”

  “How does he know where you live and your husband’s name?”

  “He’s probing me, investigating me, digging into my background just like I’m doing to him.”

  “Jesus, Maggie.”

  “It comes with the territory. It’s not that unusual.” She closed her eyes and massaged the throbbing in her temples. “No one answered the phone at the rectory for hours. Plenty of time to make a trip to the airport and back.”

  When she opened her eyes, Nick was studying her. She sat up, suddenly feeling exposed under his concerned gaze. His chair was close to the bed. Their knees almost touched. The room started spinning, tipping to the right, setting everything off balance. She almost expected the furniture to start sliding.

  “Maggie, are you okay?”

  She looked into his blue eyes and felt the electrical current even before his fingers touched her face and his palm caressed her cheek. She leaned into it, closing her eyes again and allowing her body to absorb the spinning and the electricity. Suddenly, she vaulted from his touch, scrambling from the bed and from him. Her breathing was uneven, and she steadied herself with both hands, leaning against the dresser. She looked up and saw him in the mirror, behind her. Their eyes met in the reflection, and she held his gaze even though what she saw in his eyes made her stomach flutter. This time it wasn’t because of the alcohol.

  She watched as he came up behind her, so close she felt his breath on her neck even before he leaned down to kiss it. The Packers jersey had slipped off her shoulder, and she watched in the mirror as his soft, wet lips moved slowly, deliberately from her neck to her shoulder to her back. By the time they moved up her neck again, she had trouble breathing.

  “Nick, what are you doing?” she gasped, surprised by her reaction and no longer able to control it.

  “I’ve wanted to touch you for days.”

  His tongue flicked at her earlobe, and her knees went weak. She leaned back against him, afraid she’d fall.

  “This isn’t a good idea.” It came out as a whisper, not
the least bit convincing. And it certainly didn’t stop his big, steady hands from coming around her waist, one palm flat against her stomach, sending a shiver down her back and the flutter from her stomach down between her legs.

  “Nick.” It was useless. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe, and his gentle, urgent mouth was devouring her in soft, wet explorations while his hands made their way up her body. She noticed one had a bandage wrapped around the knuckles. She wanted to ask what had happened, but she couldn’t concentrate on anything except her breathing.

  She watched in the mirror as his hands moved over her breasts, swallowing them and beginning their circular caress, rendering her completely helpless. It was too much. It was sensory overload. She was already wet between her legs before one of his hands strayed and began to caress her there, the fingers gentle and expert. She was close to the edge when finally she found enough strength to twist herself around to face him, to push him away. But when her hands came up to his chest, they betrayed her, beginning their own exploration and unbuttoning his shirt, desperate to gain access to his skin.

  He actually trembled when his mouth finally found hers. She hesitated, surprised by her own moans, her own urgency. His mouth urged her on with delicate but persistent nibbles until she couldn’t stand it any longer and kissed him back with the same urgency. Again, her body seemed powerless, and she leaned against the dresser attempting to find relief from the magnetic force of his hot body. She was gasping for air when his mouth left hers and made its way to her neck and then down to her breasts, sucking at her nipples through the cotton of the jersey and sending a jolt so powerful she clung to the dresser top.

  “Oh, God, Nick,” she gasped. She needed to stop, couldn’t stop. The room was spinning again. Her ears ringing. Her heart banging against her rib cage and her blood rushing from her head. That constant ringing. No, it wasn’t her ears. It was the phone. The phone—reality—pulled her back from the edge.

  “Nick…the phone,” she managed.

  He was kneeling in front of her. He stopped and looked up, his hands on her waist, his eyes filled with desire. How did she ever let it get this far? It was the Scotch. It was that damn fuzziness in her head. It was that delicious mouth and those strong hands. Damn it, she needed to gain control.