Kicking the Habit

by Kari Lee Townsend

  “They’re going to want to question you, you know.” Father returned and looked at her with concern. “Are you up to it?”

  Cece’s head spun. “I don’t have a choice. A man died because of me!”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Actually, it was. If I’d spoken up sooner, he never would have confessed and would have left right away, possibly avoiding the gunman.”

  Father stared down at his wrinkled, brown-spotted hands and nodded. “I could say the same thing. If I hadn’t sent you back for my Bible, the senator never would have gone into the confessional to begin with.” His eyes met hers. “For whatever reason, it was Senator Sloan’s time to pass on. There’s nothing you could have done differently to change that, Cecelia.”

  “That might be true, but that doesn’t mean whoever killed him should go unpunished.”

  “Glad you feel that way, Sister,” a baritone voice said from behind Cece, startling her.

  She took a deep breath to calm her nerves, deciding what she was going to do. The authorities weren’t going to like what she had to say. No matter how hard they interrogated her, she would stay true to what she believed in.

  Cece turned to face the music and nearly swallowed her tongue as she looked up. Way up. The man standing beside the pew was huge. Of course, any man over six feet seemed like a giant next to her five-foot frame. Still, even beneath his dress shirt and tie, she could see his arms were well muscled, his shoulders wide, and his torso tapered to a flat stomach and narrow waist, followed by long, jean-clad legs. A sports jacket was draped over his arm and his boots were scuffed. The total look was intimidating, but his hands drew her attention.

  His hands were big and muscled, and somehow mesmerizing. They fidgeted with the small notebook, turning it over and over, the veins and tendons popping as his fingers moved.

  “Ma’am? I asked if you minded if we went outside to talk. You can sit in one of the squad cars.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and Cece snapped out of her trance.

  “I’m sorry—what?” She looked up at a hard, chiseled face that had started to sweat despite the cool, autumn temperatures, and she took in the blond, flattop hairstyle. He could be the model for a military ad any day, and it wouldn’t surprise her if he had served. He had that “commando” look down pat.

  Just then a photographer snapped a photo, and the flash momentarily obscured her vision. When it cleared, the detective’s features took shape once more, his sea-green eyes coming into focus. Cece’s jaw dropped, and all she could do was gape at him in shock. It couldn’t be!

  A perplexed look crossed his face, and she vaguely heard him say, “Take your time, Sister. I’ll be outside when you’re ready.”

  Her mind had focused on one insane, crazy, could-not-possibly-be-true thought as she stared after the hulk of a man taking long strides out of the church. …

  Her dream man had a face, after all.

  ***

  Detective Ace Jackson pushed his way out the doors of the church and gulped the cool air in which the crisp bite of fall could be sensed. He pulled a handkerchief out of the inside pocket of his sports coat and dabbed at his forehead, willing his heart to return to a normal beat. After all, the things he’d seen and done as an Army Ranger and then a cop didn’t faze him much. He wasn’t afraid of anything … except churches. Churches scared the hell out of him.

  Especially this church.

  “Hey, Jackson, what the hell ya doin’—praying to God for clues? This case ain’t gonna solve itself, ya know,” his partner, Rocco Antonelli, said from down on the steps.

  “Yeah, yeah, I hear your lips flapping, but only bullshit seems to be coming out.” Ace jogged down the steps, shoving his handkerchief in his pocket. “What do we got so far?”

  “Folks in town say Sloan was quite the ladies’ man.” Rocco shrugged, his black leather jacket squeaking as he moved. The gaudy thing was probably pleather.

  “Ladies’ man, huh?” Ace arched a brow. “Friend of yours?”

  “You’re a regular comedian, Jackoff—I mean, Jackson.”

  “I have my moments. Besides, you started it with that crack about praying to God.”

  “What are you, five?” Rocco scowled.

  Ace just laughed.

  “If we’re done playing, ya mind if we get back to the case?” Rocco asked.

  “The floor’s all yours.” The wind picked up, swirling leaves of all colors past their feet, but it felt good to Ace. With the fear of hell and damnation still burning up his insides, he shook off the sensation and focused on what his partner was saying.

  Rocco adjusted the gold chains around his neck and pulled out his notebook, flipping through the pages. “Most people seem to think some pissed off boyfriend or husband did Casanova in.”

  “And the cops?” Ace glanced around the bustling area, crawling with uniformed officers, and made some mental notes. A middle-aged man with red hair, wearing a janitor’s uniform, sat smoking a cigarette as he had a conversation with the police. And a blond woman in her forties cried hysterically as she talked to the FBI.

  “The cops tend to agree, especially since the entry and exit wounds are consistent with a rifle shot,” Rocco continued. “Small hole in front, half the head and brain matter gone in the back. They think maybe the killer was a hunter.”

  “What’s the story with those two?” Ace jerked his head in the direction of the man and woman he’d been watching.

  Rocco glanced at them and then at his notebook. “The guy’s some dude named Mumfry Walker. Ex-military with a shady past. Church took him in a few years back. He mostly stays to himself and keeps his nose clean. Says he stepped out back for a smoke, but no one can verify his story. He hunts, by the way.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Name’s Eleanor Meriwether. She plays the organ for the church, is involved in all kinds of charity, and is rumored to have been smitten with the deceased for years.”

  “Smitten?” Ace scrunched up his face.

  “Hey, some bystander’s words, not mine. I suspect Sloan was bangin’ her. She spoke to him just before he went into the confessional, but she says they discussed his campaign and the upcoming election. Guess she volunteers for him. Says she didn’t see anyone else except the nun who chased him outside.”

  “Interesting.” What the hell was—what’s her name?—oh, yeah, Sister Mary Cecelia—doing on the priest’s side of the confessional?” Ace had some questions, and that nun had been the last person to talk to Sloan before someone offed him. Someone wanted the senator dead, but why? One way or another, Ace was going to find out what Sloan had confessed before he died.

  Rocco broke into Ace’s thoughts. “Hell, for all we know, the killer could be Sloan’s wife.”

  “The senator’s stance is pro-gun control and anti-guns. I highly doubt he owned one.”

  “What better way to get back at him for cheating on her than to hire a hit man to kill him with a gun?” Rocco knelt down, pointing to the chalk outline of where the body had fallen and to the blood spatter. “Based on how the senator fell and the pattern of the spray, I’d say he was shot from far away.”

  Ace squatted beside Rocco and surveyed the scene, then stood and looked at the buildings across the street. “I’d say you’re right, but I doubt the killer is some backwoods, pissed-off husband who happens to hunt. That shot was too exact to be by chance. I’ll bet my next paycheck that when the slug comes back from forensics, it’ll show it came from a high-powered rifle.” His eyes locked onto Rocco’s. “The kind snipers use.”

  Rocco’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his black hairline. “A sniper? You’re shittin’ me.”

  “I don’t ‘shit’ anyone when it comes to murder.” Ace pointed to the mini-market and the bank across the street. “From the angle of the shot, I figure the sniper watched the senator enter the church, positioned himself between those two buildings, and nailed the poor bastard between the eyes when he came out. Then I’ll
bet he slipped into the woods to make his getaway.”

  “Yeah, but wouldn’t this kind of sniper use a silencer?”

  “Not if he wanted to make it look like a crime of passion. Like the killer caught his wife or girlfriend having an affair with Sloan, and then snapped. In a crime of passion, people don’t think; they just react. That shot was too exact. I’m thinkin’ this was premeditated.”

  “Jesus, what the fuck was Sloan into?”

  “Some serious shit, by the looks of it.” Ace grunted.

  “You know what that means?”

  They stared at each other, sighed, and then Ace said, “Yeah, the damn Feds are going to be all over this like maggots on a carcass.”

  “You know it.”

  Ace scrubbed a hand over his flattop and glanced at the church. “What the hell is taking that little nun so long?” He’d figured she was in shock after what she’d seen, especially with that strange dazed expression she’d worn when she first saw him, but he was running out of patience.

  The corner of Rocco’s mouth quirked, drawing Ace’s attention. “Impatient to see her, are we?”

  Ace leveled him with a disgusted look. “She’s a nun, for chrissake. Get your sick mind out of the gutter, ass-wipe.”

  “Not what I heard.” Rocco smoothed his hands over his slicked-back hair, then squirted a burst of breath mint spray into his mouth. “Rumor is that she was never a full nun and she quit the sisterhood this morning.”

  A weird zing shot through Ace, but he attributed it to indigestion. “Same difference,” he declared. “Once a nun, always a nun, in my book.”

  “Well, in my book, no habit means not off limits.” Rocco wagged his shiny brows.

  Ace just shook his head. “And I thought I was the one going to hell.”

  Chapter 2

  A priest came out of the church, searched the crowd, and then locked eyes on Ace, sending a jolt of sheer panic through him. He always felt panicked around priests, but he had an investigation to conduct. He needed to pull himself together.

  “Hey, man, you all right? You look a little pale.” Rocco’s face turned serious for once.

  Ace rolled his head. “I’m fine. Just been a long day, and I want to question that nun before the Feds get to her.”

  “I hear ya.” Rocco started forward.

  Ace slapped a hand on his shoulder. “I got this one, Romeo. You hold off the Feds as long as you can.”

  Rocco’s smile slipped, his blazing white teeth disappearing as he blew out a breath. “Fine, killjoy.” He reversed direction and, with heavy steps, headed toward the suits as Ace stared after him, chuckling.

  “Detective Jackson, I presume?” a kind voice said, and Ace flinched, whipping around to find the priest right in his face.

  The older man stuck out his hand. Ace swallowed and slid his palm against the priest’s, shaking hard.

  “What can I do for you, Father …?”

  “Forgive my manners. I’m a wee bit scatterbrained in these trying times. I’m Father Flannigan.”

  More like a wee bit under the influence, Ace guessed by the smell of Baileys on his breath. Then again, who was Ace to judge? He could go for a good shot of whiskey right about now, after the day he’d had, and it wasn’t even close to being over yet. “What can I help you with?”

  “It’s about Cece.”

  “Who?”

  “Sister Mary Cecelia, the woman who heard Senator Sloan’s confession.”

  “Oh, right, the nun I’m supposed to question.”

  “Well, actually, ex-nun.”

  What was it with these people? Nun, ex-nun … one and the same. “Right. Is she ready to talk now?”

  “Yes, if you’ll follow me.”

  Ace’s chest tightened, and his palms started to sweat. “Thought we were going to talk in the squad car?”

  “Don’t be silly, Detective. It’s much too dangerous for Cece to be out here with the killer still on the loose. Besides, the air has a definite chill to it. These old bones tell me snow is on its way. I’ll make you both a nice cup of tea, and you can talk inside the church.”

  Tea? Ace rubbed his whiskered jaw, gnawing the inside of his cheek over the thought of talking in the church. Not having much of a choice, he cursed in silence and dropped his hands. “Great, but no tea for me, thanks. After you.”

  He loosened his tie, feeling like he couldn’t breathe as he followed the old man inside. He would need a hell of a lot more than tea to get him through questioning a nun in church, but he didn’t have a choice. The suits had just about finished interrogating the organist and the janitor. He knew damn well they’d want to talk to his nun next. He frowned. His nun? Now that was just wrong.

  He had to stop hanging around Antonelli.

  A few minutes later, Ace stood inside the entrance of Our Lady of Glory and started sweating like a pig. The enormous church with high cathedral ceilings, stained glass windows, candles, crosses, and pictures and statues of Jesus and Mary everywhere attacked Ace’s senses, sending his head reeling. His childhood came flooding back, memories crushing him with every step he took.

  “Alistair Jackson, we don’t talk in church. … Alistair Jackson, quit fidgeting in the pew. … Alistair Jackson, you’re going to hell … going to hell … going to hell …”

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Alistair Jackson, all grown up and halfway to hell, by the looks of it.” A brittle voice that had never ceased to instill the fear of God into Ace came from behind him.

  He whipped around and gasped. Actually gasped. Christ, he’d turned into a damn sissy. He squeezed his fists and took a huge calming breath. “Sister Mary Ethel, it’s good to see you.” Well, hell, now he’d lied in church. Cursed too. Not good.

  The sly, old nun grinned as though she could read every damn word he thought, her eyes reduced to slits and her face crinkled into a mass of wrinkles. “Get yourself to church, boy.” She wagged her finger. Shuffling off, she dragged her feet the same way he remembered, mumbling something about today’s youth being sinners and destined for no good, the whole lot of them.

  “Right this way, Detective,” Father Flannigan said.

  “Huh?” Ace jumped and then ground his teeth.

  “Cece is waiting for you.”

  “The nun. Right. After you.”

  Father looked at Ace in a strange way. “Is something wrong, son? Do you need to talk?”

  Ace’s eyes widened, and his nostrils flared. “I, uh … nope, I’m good. Can we speed this up? I have a ton of work to do.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s the nature of your generation, I’m afraid. Always in a hurry. Follow me.” He carried two cups of tea as he led the way to the pew in the front row. “I thought you might want to talk in here in case it helps Cece to remember all those minor details.”

  “Good idea.” Ace stopped beside the nun, whose habit and robes nearly swallowed her whole. She was a little thing, at least a foot shorter than he was, with a pale face and dark eyes bigger than any he’d seen. Dark and big and kind, he admitted; then he relaxed for the first time since entering the church.

  “Oh, thank you, Father.” She reached for the tea, and then the priest excused himself.

  “Okay, then, let’s get started,” Ace said. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Sister.”

  “Call me Cece, Mr. Jackson. I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but I’ll try to answer your questions the best I can.”

  Ace frowned. What did she mean, “try to answer?” Telling what she knew shouldn’t be difficult. “Okay.” He sat down beside her. “Why don’t you start with the events that led up to you being in the priest’s side of the confessional?”

  The nun faced Ace dead on, yet he could have sworn she blushed. “Well, I went to confession and told Father Flannigan I was leaving the sisterhood.” She took a sip of tea, and Ace noticed how small her hands were. As tiny and delicate as the teacup they cradled. Hell, she didn’t look like she could defend herself against a strong
wind, much less a criminal.

  Great. He huffed out a breath and refocused. “And why is that, Sister?” He’d be damned if he’d call her Cece. Flipping open his notebook, he took out a pen.

  The sister hesitated. “I have my reasons.” Her eyes met his. “After we were finished, I walked Father to his meeting, when he realized he’d left his Bible in the confessional. I offered to go back for it. It’s as simple as that.”

  “This church has hundreds of Bibles. What was so important about that Bible you had to fetch it for him right then?”

  She set her teacup on the bench beside her, staring him down with more stubbornness than he would have expected from a nun, and damn if she didn’t seem to grow a few inches taller. “Unlike you, Detective, I had the time. All Bibles are not the same. That one happens to be special to Father Flannigan.”

  “Okay, so you went back for the special Bible.” Ace made a set of air quotes with his fingers. “Then what?”

  “Then the senator came in and started to speak.” She twisted the material of her robe over and over. “I tried to tell him I wasn’t a priest, but he wouldn’t stop talking long enough. When he realized who I was, he ran out.”

  “Did you try to stop him?”

  She snapped her spine straight and wrinkled her forehead. “Of course I did, but I was too late. I only wish I could have helped him more.”

  Ace set down his pen and looked Sister Mary Cecelia in the eye. “You can help him now by telling me all you know.”

  A heavy pause settled around them, and tension filled the space between them. “I already told you everything.” Her face became a blank, serene mask, making it difficult to read her.

  “What exactly did Senator Sloan say in the confessional?”

  She let out a long, deep breath. “I knew you were going to ask that, but I’m sorry to say, I can’t tell you.”

  He blinked. “What do you mean, you can’t tell me? You just said you wanted to help.”

  “I do want to help, but what happens in the confessional stays in the confessional.” She folded her hands in her lap, the fidgeting nervousness gone, as though that statement explained everything and the matter had been settled. Period.