Saints & Spies

by Jordan McCollum

  Zach hurried to catch the confessor in the vestibule, but Lonegan was quicker than he looked.

  Flynn reached Zach again, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Settling in okay?”

  “I guess. Harder than I expected.”

  One corner of Flynn’s mouth tilted upward. “Long week for me too, Father. They all are. You should join us for a drink tonight, get to know everybody.”

  Zach managed to hide the inward wince with a laugh that echoed off the walls.

  Flynn finished his half-smile. “I gotta be home for dinner, but I tell you what. Come to Brennan’s at eight and I’ll introduce you ’round — and buy you a round.”

  “Eight it is.” Zach grinned back. He had four hours to finish up his duties for the day and get to Brennan’s prepared for just about anything. A week deep undercover and so far he’d found a gorgeous Irish woman who wasn’t that involved — maybe — and only one interested mobster.

  This lead had better be good.

  The bartender placed fresh glasses in front of Zach and Gerald Flynn. Zach took a tentative sip of his, as bitter and alcohol-free as his last four drinks. Flynn had guzzled 90-proof gin as fast as Zach could down his tonic and limes.

  Flynn reached for his tumbler, but looked away at the last minute. Distracted a split-second, Flynn knocked the juniper-based spirit in Zach’s lap.

  Great. Zach borrowed a towel from across the bar to mop up the mess. Oblivious, Flynn flagged down a friend. “Doyle!” Even with the crowd, his shout was twenty decibels too loud. But the shouting wasn’t what captured Zach’s attention — was this Murphy?

  Before he looked around, the full case file flashed through Zach’s mind. The crime scene photos of the last underling Murphy had had executed sprang to the forefront. He turned to follow Flynn’s gaze.

  Eyeing Zach, a man who carried his weight like he was used to being obeyed approached the bar. Just like his file photo. “What kind of company you keeping now, Gerry?”

  “Who, this?” Flynn punched Zach in the shoulder harder than necessary. “This is Father Tim!” He roared with laughter, like the cover name was the punch line to a secret joke.

  “Doyle Murphy.” The newcomer — the ranking mobster in the parish — settled at Zach’s left. Well, that was easier than he expected.

  As long as he didn’t end up like the last guy who Murphy didn’t trust. The image of blood spatter on the sedate floral sofa hung in his mind. The Bureau believed the guy had been an hour late to deliver a shipment.

  And then there was Father Patrick.

  Zach fought down his pulse and shook the mobster’s hand. He’d been this close to vicious killers before. Worked with them, even. But a nagging feeling in his gut said ingratiating himself to a control freak like Doyle Murphy over the next two months would be his career’s most dangerous assignment.

  Murphy leaned across the bar, scowling. “How much have you two had?”

  Flynn waved him off. “I’m fine.”

  “Sure you are.” Murphy pointedly righted Flynn’s overturned tumbler. “And Father Tim poured his own G-and-T in his lap.”

  Zach glanced at his glass. Gin and tonic was the natural assumption, since he was drinking one and covered in the other. The bartender was too far away to correct Murphy, and Zach wasn’t about to, either.

  “Oh, did I — sorry, Father!” Flynn clapped Zach on the back.

  Zach shrugged and tried to maintain an affable air. “It happens.”

  “Hey, Doyle,” Flynn called over Zach. “Remember that time you spilled your drink on that accountant — the one who did the thing with the city and the —”

  “Shut up, Gerry,” Murphy barked. Flynn jerked back, watching his boss warily.

  Though his hopes dropped an inch, Zach swallowed his disappointment with another bitter-sour gulp of his drink. He had to make Murphy think he didn’t know — or care — about their mob activities, but he still had to look like the mob could get to him, just like Father Patrick.

  Flynn motioned to the bartender. “Whiskey sour and another gin, Jimmy!”

  The bartender checked with Murphy, who held up a hand. “None for me tonight. Early morning Mass.”

  And there was the test of his cover. Zach laughed derisively, matching Murphy’s sarcasm. “Me too.”

  Murphy glowered. “Hitting the sauce pretty hard, then, aren’t we?”

  “Aw, lay off. He had a tough week.” Flynn leaned over to defend him, but slipped off his stool, knocking Zach over, too. Zach grabbed the bar to keep from crashing into Murphy.

  Murphy shoved Flynn away and hoisted Zach back onto his seat. “Really, how many have you two had?”

  Flynn turned to Zach. “Do you know?”

  Maybe Murphy would be more inclined to let Flynn talk if he thought the good father wouldn’t remember the tales he told. Zach finished his drink and circumspectly regarded his glass. “This makes five for me. Six if you count the one I’m wearing.” He frowned at his wet lap.

  “And you’ve been here how long?”

  “Since eight.” Flynn squinted at the wall clock.

  Murphy checked his watch. “An hour?” He shook his head. “No better than common drunks, the both of you.”

  “C’mon,” Flynn protested. Apparently he was too drunk to correct Murphy’s assumption, or he’d forgotten what Zach ordered.

  “Next time you’re thirsty, order water.” Murphy yanked Flynn off his stool. “Let’s go.”

  Puffing out a breath, Flynn took out his wallet and tossed some bills on the bar. “C’mon, Father, I’ll give you a ride home.”

  His stomach tensed, and not because of the gin’s Pinesol stench. “Think that’s a good idea?” He could see it now: they’d get pulled for DUI and spend the night in the drunk tank. Then Flynn could regale him and the precinct’s drunkards with tales about the city accountant. Zach checked on Murphy. Would he offer a ride — if not to keep them safe, at least to keep Flynn quiet?

  But Flynn was already blundering through the bar. Zach followed him to the parking lot. At his blue Ford, Flynn seemed to find operating his key fob difficult. “You’ll get to like Doyle,” he said, hitting the lock button yet again. He tried the door handle and swore under his breath when it wouldn’t open. “You know Doyle does the church’s landscaping?”

  “All by himself?”

  Flynn snorted and shook the key fob. “He has a guy. And he gives . . . you know, members of the community a break on rent — like what’s-her-name in the parish office.”

  Could he mean Molly? Zach moved to the other side of the car and leaned against it. That didn’t change anything. He already knew she was a suspect.

  For now, he had to focus on keeping Flynn talking and keeping up this bit. Maybe acting drunk could be advantageous in other ways. He slid down to the pavement — and slid his hand into his pocket for a GPS tracker.

  “You okay?” Flynn shouted.

  “Yep.” Zach tried to get the tracker out, but he’d chosen an awkward position. Footsteps approached as he struggled with his stupid pocket. Finally, he pulled the tiny cylinder free. He planted the tracker on the car body in front of the tire just before Flynn arrived to help.

  Zach regained his feet and spied Murphy approaching. “Gerald!” Murphy called.

  Zach gave a mental sigh of relief. Riding home with a drunk, even for five blocks, could be the most dangerous part of his assignment’s first phase.

  Or maybe not. The specter of the bloodied couch returned to his mind. Murphy wasn’t exactly happy to meet him, but to murder his new priest over talking with one of his soldiers? No, Murphy had shut Flynn up the moment he began to talk about something interesting. No reason to kill anybody yet. He hoped.

  “Where should I take you, Father Tim?” Murphy asked.

  Zach’s mind went blank for a split second, but he hesitated only long enough for Flynn to jump in. “The church, of course. Where’d you think I picked him up? The loca
l Priest Mart?”

  “Saint Adelaide’s?” Murphy scoffed. “Great, the new priest is a boozehound.”

  If the man hated drunks that much, he shouldn’t hang out in a bar.

  Wait. A sober man in a bar on a Saturday night. Either he took early-morning Mass too seriously to drink the night before, or Brennan’s was the mobsters’ meeting place. That tidbit would please Sellars.

  “You go to Saint Aledaide, too?” Zach asked, purposefully mispronouncing the name.

  “Common drunks,” Murphy repeated with the same tone of disdain he’d use for roaches.

  Zach placed a finger to his lips. “Shhh — don’t tell Fitzy.” He leaned into Murphy’s personal space. “I don’t think he’d like it. I don’t think he likes me.”

  “Can’t imagine why.” He turned to the other man. “Let’s go.” Murphy led the way to his black Audi.

  Zach feigned sleep once he was in Murphy’s backseat, in case they had anything to discuss. The short drive didn’t afford him much time for eavesdropping. At the church, Murphy slapped Zach’s leg. “We’re here.”

  Zach pretended to startle awake and get his bearings. “Thanks for the ride.” He opened his door and slid out. As he stood, something moving across the parking lot caught his eye. Careful to stay in drunken character for the mobsters’ benefit, he slowly pivoted his entire body to see.

  Molly. What was she still doing here? He groaned.

  “You okay?” Murphy called from inside the car.

  Would he have to play drunk for Molly, too? “We’ll see.”

  Murphy grunted and climbed out of the car. “Let’s get you inside.” He walked around to take Zach’s arm and start him toward the parish house — and Molly.

  “Father?” she said.

  No choice now. With Murphy here, he’d have to keep the act up for her, too. “Molly!”

  She took another step toward him, caution in her eyes. “Doyle.” She lifted her chin, her expression cryptic. Murphy nodded his greeting.

  Molly was here well after hours, and the look she was giving Murphy meant something to him. She was involved.

  Zach ignored the twinge at his gut and took the opportunity to lurch toward her. It hadn’t been that long; he must still reek of Flynn’s piney drink. He expected her to back up at his approach, but she merely folded her arms. “Well, if someone isn’t rather sloshed.”

  “Who? Murph? Doubt it.” He sighed and took hold of her shoulders. “Oh, Molly . . . Molly, Molly, Molly.”

  “Hadn’t you better be off to bed?” But she didn’t try to shrug him off.

  He released her shoulders and grabbed her hand. This was his chance: take advantage of the moment and ingratiate himself. For the case’s sake. Zach met her gaze. Locked on his, her eyes held a mix of horror and hope.

  He said exactly what he was thinking. “You are so beautiful, Molly.” He waited for the inward wince that accompanied most of his lies. None came.

  But not exactly the best pick up line for the mob.

  Or a priest. Molly frowned and pulled her hand free.

  “I almost wish —” He interrupted himself with a stagger.

  Murphy stepped forward to catch him. “That’s definitely enough.” He towed Zach toward the parish house.

  “No, I don’t think — good night, Molly Malone!” He laughed. How had it taken him this long to realize she had the same name as the fishmonger protagonist of the Irish anthem?

  She said nothing, but watched him go. Just one thing to do in this situation — burst into song. “Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh!” Zach glanced over his shoulder one last time. Molly did not turn away.

  He could only hope the trust he’d been working to build with her wasn’t destroyed.

  Zach was in bed by the time Father Fitzgerald got in that night. At least he didn’t have to worry about acting hungover for Fitzgerald.

  He did have to worry about the morning’s Mass, however. He’d helped to give Mass five days that week, but Sunday services brought the largest audience.

  Zach smoothed the vestments laid out on the sacristy’s low dressing table: the ankle-length white alb to cover his cassock like a sheet; the narrow green stole to hang from his neck; the green, poncho-like chasuble to go over them both. He was supposed to pray before donning them. God probably wouldn’t bless him for this, whether he prayed or not.

  Zach fingered the edge of the linen alb. He wanted to do this right, and not just for his cover — but to prove to himself that he wasn’t mocking another church. It still felt wrong, but if the archbishop of Chicago — and the U.S. government — said it was all right, who was he to disagree?

  With another sigh, Zach got down on his knees. He’d pray before dressing all right, but it wouldn’t be the traditional vesting prayer.

  Once he was ready, Zach took his place behind Father Fitzgerald, the deacon and the altar servers in the vestibule. In white robes, the altar girls carried candles, and the altar boy carried a gold crucifix on a pole. They had the hard part today — running around, getting the bowls and cups, carrying things. Today, Zach only had to look reverent until the Eucharist.

  They started in: cross, candles, deacon bearing an ornate Bible, Zach, and Fitzgerald. Pressing his hands together and hooking his right thumb over his left was automatic after a month of practice — but that was about all he was comfortable with. And this was his first chance to really mess things up, to blow his cover.

  His pulse accelerated until it was galloping at twice the pace of the procession’s measured steps.

  At the altar, he bowed. Or was he supposed to drop to one knee? No, bow and kiss the altar. When was he supposed to pray silently? He could hardly pray harder than he was already. Violent criminals didn’t attend Mass, but here he was, faking this and deceiving a couple hundred God-fearing parishioners.

  As Fitzgerald launched into a heavy-handed sermon on God’s judgment, Zach couldn’t think of anything but his next duties — and the hum of nerves in his gut. He got away with mumbling the creed after the homily, but once Fitzgerald had prepared the Eucharist, it was time for Zach’s toughest role.

  The congregation rose, and he took his place with Fitzgerald. As the priest said the prayer, Zach had to recite his part quietly and gesture: stretching his hands toward the bread and wine at one point, his right hand only at another; bowing; raising both hands. Then there were the ones he did by himself — bowing, crossing himself and hitting his chest at certain times.

  Finally, the Eucharist was ready and blessed. Zach dropped to one knee, accepted his wafer and returned to his place to wait. Fitzgerald showed the Host to the congregation. “This is the Lamb of God,” he said, “who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are those who are called to His supper.”

  Zach replied with the congregation, asking Christ to heal them. Fitzgerald was supposed to say something softly there, too — something about Christ bringing him to everlasting life. But he ate the wafer in silence as he had every day.

  Maybe Zach didn’t have to worry so much about being perfect. All he had to do now was pretend to drink the wine and remember to bow to the altar on the way out, and he was set.

  One week gone — and one job he’d rather not get good at.

  After Mass, Molly followed the recessional and the rest of the parishioners out of the chapel, but she didn’t make it past the votives. She wasn’t the only one still lighting a candle for Father Patrick — but she might be the only one praying for Father O’Rourke.

  He was already crawling pubs with Doyle Murphy and Gerald Flynn. A week in the parish and the mobsters were closing in on him. What could she do? She pondered the votives a long time before depositing her quarters and lighting her candles.

  “Molly?” Father O’Rourke’s tentative voice ventured, as if tapping her shoulder would be too presumptuous.

  She found a visibly chagrined priest behind her. “Mornin’, Father.”

  “Did I s
ee you here last night?”

  “You did.”

  “What brought you by?”

  She held up her bulletin. “Printer error.” If they hadn’t made a hames of the order, she would’ve missed him and Doyle Murphy — and never known how close he was getting to that outfit. Molly tried to wet her suddenly dry mouth and focused on his vestments.

  Father O’Rourke leaned to the side until his face reached her eye level. Once he captured her gaze, he straightened again. “I didn’t . . . do anything, did I? Or say anything?”

  “Father, I’m Irish. I’ve been accosted by drunks more drunk and less polite than you were. But you might want to be a bit more careful with the gin.”

  The tips of his ears tinged with pink. He gestured to the votive rack. “Not lighting a candle for my eternal soul, then?”

  Molly shook her head and lowered her gaze. “Father Patrick.”

  “I’m so sorry. I know it was sudden.”

  She could only nod.

  “Could you tell me what happened? No one else will, not even Father Fitzgerald.”

  Molly caught herself rubbing her elbow and forced herself to stop and nod again.

  “Shall we walk?”

  “All right.” Working up the courage to revisit that day, she followed him past the blazing red maples and around to the arcaded hallway outside the office.

  The hallway she hadn’t dared to traverse since the day they’d found Father Patrick here. Dead.

  The Gardaí had trained her to handle things like this. She’d even worked a murder once. But nothing could have prepared her for a victim this close to her.

  “Here,” she murmured when they reached the spot a few meters from the office door.