“Hard to believe. Part of me is waiting for the other shoe to fall. Almost wish it would. It’d almost be a relief.”
“Be careful what you wish for.” Molly kept her eyes on her monitor.
Before Father Tim could respond, Kathleen walked in, raising an eyebrow at Molly. Father Tim turned around. “Oh, hey, Kathleen.”
“Hi, Father. Have I told you about my trip yet?” She reached her desk and held up her souvenir — a miniature baseball bat. “We visited the Louisville Slugger Museum.”
“Nice.”
Kathleen took her seat, a perfect perch behind her monitor to send Molly judging glares. Molly pointedly avoided her gaze. “Oh, Father, we have to reschedule the movie night. We hadn’t announced it yet anyway.”
“The twenty-fifth is Homecoming,” Kathleen said.
“Let’s see the calendar.” Father Tim rounded Molly’s desk as she brought up the program. “Apparently we’re busy the next week, too. What does HW stand for?”
“Harris weddin’. I’ll be away that weekend.” She left out the detail that she was the entertainment, not a guest. She’d made it three years without telling anyone here her family performed traditional Irish music and dance, though her parents’ parish still roped them into events twice a year. But with her sister moving in two months, their group would be cut in half, and all that would end.
Father Tim placed a hand on her chair, drawing her out of her moment of melancholy. He leaned over her and scrolled through the calendar. They settled on November eighth and divvied up responsibilities. She tried not to show how much she appreciated that ounce of respect. Father Fitzgerald either dumped assignments on her and ran, or micromanaged her every move.
Father Tim gestured around the office. “Anything I can do so you can work on that?”
Molly gave him the centimeter-thick stack of filing on her desk. He stepped to the cabinet behind her. “So, Molly,” he began. “How’d you come to work at Saint Adelaide?”
“Job board at uni.”
“College?” Kathleen corrected automatically, still focused on her work.
Father Tim shut the drawer with a pointed clank. He leaned toward Molly and whispered, “You were right the first time. What did you study?”
“International studies, master’s.” She glanced at Kathleen, who was unperturbed.
“Oh, I did international relations — minor,” Father Tim added. “Undergrad.”
“I suppose that’s why neither of us have ‘real jobs.’” That, and the “real job” she wanted most, the FBI, required US citizenship.
Kathleen stood. “Nothing wrong with our jobs,” she huffed.
“Oh, no, you’re right,” Molly quickly agreed. “I love workin’ here.” Even if she was probably the last person who ever imagined she’d work at a church. By age six, she’d abandoned the schoolgirl dream of becoming a nun and never looked back. Compulsory catechism had a way of beating the faith out of you.
Kathleen handed her an envelope. “Donation for the trust.”
“Thank you.” Molly unlocked the bottom desk drawer, then the beige cash box inside. The spring-loaded lid leapt open, and the cash box flipped out of the drawer, slinging money and paperwork all over the floor. Sighing, Molly leaned down to clean up.
“What trust?” Father Tim knelt and collected the notes before she could smile her thanks.
“For the school, you know yourself.” She held out her bank forms, and he looked up. She locked on his gaze, and in a flash of insight she saw their dangerous future. Together. Her breath and her brain seized up.
No. They couldn’t —
Father Tim jerked back as if she’d slapped him. Had he felt it too?
“We keep all the donations in here?” He focused on shuffling the papers.
“Petty cash. I deposit donations twice a week.” Molly barely kept her voice from wavering and her hands from shaking as she noted the mailed check in the ledger. Father Tim sorted the banknotes into the cash box. She gave him the donation, and his fingers brushed hers. At the slight contact, a tingle rolled up her arm.
Father Tim abruptly stood. Molly held her breath, hoping he couldn’t see how she felt. This was anything but good.
He consulted the wall clock. “I’ll let you sisters get back to work.” He nodded goodbye.
Kathleen tsked. “I really think he thinks we’re nuns.”
Molly didn’t say so, but she was pretty sure he didn’t. What was she doing, fancying a priest — one she had to work with and keep safe, no less?
Basketball ran long Friday afternoon. Luckily, the public transit schedule aligned almost perfectly for a quick trip to Grant Park. ASAC Sellars was waiting by a hot dog vendor. “You’re late. Red hot?” He gestured toward the cart and accepted the hard copy of the parish financials lifted from the filing cabinet.
Zach cringed at the vendor’s neon green relish, but he couldn’t look like he just came here to hand off papers. “Sure.”
While Zach ordered and ate, Sellars thumbed through the manila folder. He hemmed over the ledgers and snapped the file closed. “Thought you said you had something.” He started around the giant fountain.
“I said I might have something.”
“Seems pretty clean, but I’ll run it by accounting. That license plate you called in?” He handed over a slip of paper: the name of the owner of a certain maroon sedan, Kim Gallaher — wife of mobster Jay Gallaher. Typical, making sure no official documents were in his name.
Sellars lifted the folder. “Two weeks in and this is the best you got?”
Hey, getting anything in two weeks was practically a Hail Mary — and then there was his appointment with Gerald Flynn. “Someone in the parish has something on his conscience.”
“I imagine lots of them do. You been handing out penances?”
Zach shook his head, focusing at the fountain in the center of the park.
“Don’t let it come to a confession.”
“I’ll do my best to herd my guy in your direction.”
Sellars’s eyebrows jumped to meet his receding hairline. “You’ll ‘do your best’? We appreciate the help, but please don’t let us distract from your priestly duties. I do still have my agent if you’re not up to this job.”
Since Sellars liked to tell him stuff any rookie already knew, Zach gave him some of his own medicine. “Listen, I could give this guy bus fare downtown and a good hard shove, but if he’s not committed to coming clean yet, that’d just turn him back the other direction. And maybe blow my cover.” Though the last point wasn’t likely, a priest pushing a parishioner toward the FBI too hard might draw undue attention. Wouldn’t be the first time that happened at St. Adelaide.
The tower of the fountain shot up a spray like a geyser, starting the hourly water show. Sellars stared hard at the nearest sculpture in the fountain, like it had directions. “Any idea how much this guy can give us? Any other prospects?”
Zach scrutinized the same bronze sea horse. No instructions there for him either. Flynn wasn’t as connected as Lonegan, but that direction didn’t seem too promising, even if Lonegan had suddenly wanted to talk right before Flynn showed up. Flynn, on the other hand, clammed up at the possibility that Murphy was on that elevator. “I’d say there’s a good chance that it’s not how much, but who he can give us.”
“Turn CI? Or witness protection?”
Flynn was secretive without being skittish. But would he be willing to turn informant? Too soon to say. “I’ll let you know once we talk.”
“You haven’t even talked to him yet?” Sellars massaged an imaginary headache. “We don’t have time to lose.” He squinted up at the skyline above the row of yellow-leafed maples. “He’s no good to us if he gets killed.”
Wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened at St. Adelaide, either.
Zach sat alone in a dark booth at Brennan’s Monday night, nursing another tonic and lime. He wasn’t due to
meet with Flynn until tomorrow, his one hope in the case. But maybe Flynn — or Lonegan — would be willing to talk sooner than expected.
So far, neither of them had shown. Doyle Murphy and two of his henchmen, on the other hand, were ensconced in a corner booth on the other side of the bar. Murphy hadn’t acknowledged him, though Zach was sure Murphy knew he was there. Zach was already on guard. Murphy hadn’t become the number two man on the South Side by being careless.
Flynn stepped into the room and beelined for the bar. Zach fought the urge to pounce on the opportunity. Instead, he rolled his glass between his fingers and thumb and kept an eye on the corner booth and the bar.
Flynn didn’t turn back to the booth to acknowledge his boss. He fixed his gaze on the bar’s glossy wood, not looking up when the bartender slid a bottle in front of him. Relatively speaking, Murphy’s booth was suddenly a frenzy of activity. The two other men on the bench slid out, and Zach could finally ID them: Miles Hennessy and Jay Gallaher. Murphy stood, too, and strolled to a side exit. His lackeys followed.
If Murphy couldn’t stand to be in the same room as Flynn, the guy probably wouldn’t be a useful informant for the FBI. Zach made a mental note to push witness protection when they talked.
Flynn reached in his gray suit jacket. Zach instinctively tensed, readying himself to draw his gun if the mobster pulled his — even if the guy was a potential source — but Flynn pulled out a cell phone. Zach couldn’t hear the conversation from across the bar, but whatever it was didn’t look good. Flynn snapped his phone shut and shoved it back into his jacket. He sat hunched over the bar for another minute, then paid the bartender, grabbed his bottle and started for the door.
First Murphy, Hennessy and Gallaher leaving, now Flynn? Hardly seemed like a coincidence. Zach waited until Flynn reached the doors before he too settled up and hurried after him.
Zach hung back in the entryway shadows, staring out the glass doors. In the lot, a silhouette with a red hair halo — and holding a beer bottle — met with three other shadows. The redhead acknowledged each of the men around him, then bowed his head. The quartet started out of the lot.
Zach pulled a dark wool cap from his pocket and a gray trench coat from the rack by the door. The sleeves proved too short for him, but Zach was halfway across the parking lot before he realized it. Didn’t matter, though — as long as it made him harder to recognize. On that note, he yanked the white plastic insert from his collar. In the daytime, he would’ve used sunglasses to feel more discreet, but at night they’d only draw attention and make it harder to follow.
The quartet passed under a streetlight, and Flynn took a swig from his bottle. Hennessy and Gallaher flanked him, and Murphy brought up the rear. A full escort. This couldn’t be good.
Murphy stepped up and took Flynn’s elbow in a firm grip. This really couldn’t be good.
After three or four long blocks, the quartet cut across the street. Two of the men glanced back at Zach. Zach kept his head down and continued straight past them until the men turned down an alley between two apartment buildings. He jogged across the street in stealth mode, edging back to peer around the corner into the alley. In the light from the other end, he could only make out one figure in front of a dumpster — and with the way the man kicked at something on the ground, Zach doubted it was Flynn standing there.
His stomach clenched. He had to do something, but he couldn’t go barging in. Even with his gun and the element of surprise, taking on three people who were probably also armed wasn’t smart — and neither was blowing his cover. But he couldn’t just let this happen.
Zach searched the ground for anything heavy and found half a brick. Odds said the police wouldn’t be able to lift a useable print. He picked it up and half-ran back to the nearest darkened storefront. Right before he released the brick, he heard what sounded like two loud handclaps.
Suppressed gunshots.
The plate glass of the storefront shattered, instantly setting an alarm wailing. Pushing aside the sinking dread in his stomach, Zach grabbed his burner phone and called 911. He peeked around the corner again. Three men were standing now, arguing. Zach made a breathless report to the police dispatch — including the storefront and the gunshots — and looked for a hiding place in case Murphy and company came back this way.
When the dispatcher asked for his name, Zach hung up and detached his battery. He checked the alley — empty. The mobsters could be lying in wait, but he’d have to take that chance with someone’s life on the line. He jogged down the alley, trying to ignore a wisp of hope. Maybe he was okay. Maybe it wasn’t Flynn.
As he reached the dumpster, Zach saw the shoes first. One of the victim’s legs had fallen at an impossible angle — definitely broken. Zach crept closer and leaned around the corner of the dumpster. Flynn lay there gasping, red hair painted redder with blood, eyes wide open. Zach took his pulse. The thready beat grew fainter as he pressed his unsteady fingers to Flynn’s neck, slipping a little in the slick blood smeared there.
Flynn caught hold of Zach’s wrist, but didn’t look at him. “Kristy,” Flynn panted.
“I’ll tell her.”
Flynn’s grasp grew slack and his eyes lost focus. Zach sank back against the dumpster and stared down the alley.
Had Flynn earned the mob’s ultimate penalty because he wanted to talk to Zach? Or was it the other way around? Was it the story Flynn had begun to tell Zach that earned him the mob’s death penalty?
Zach leaned back, his head connecting with the dumpster with a dull thud. This was why he was here — to make sure Murphy couldn’t do this again. He had to maintain his cover. Even if it cost a life.
He couldn’t have stopped it if he’d tried. Maybe. Probably.
But he still wished he’d tried.
Approaching sirens pulled him back to reality. Careful not to leave a trace, Zach slunk away.
Though Zach didn’t know quite how he’d make it happen now, he’d stay in this parish until Murphy went down.
Molly hung up the phone again Tuesday afternoon. Two calls without success — finding Lucy for a last-minute opening with Father Tim was proving harder than wedging her into his schedule between counseling students, playing ball and visiting parishioners. Molly left a message for Father Tim to meet her at the school in five minutes, then hurried out to catch Lucy before she left.
Molly reached the car park and spotted Lucy on the far side of the lot with a tall blond man. He patted Lucy’s shoulder. Wasn’t he one of Father Tim’s basketball players?
Before Molly could interrupt, the man guided Lucy to the driver’s seat of a gold sedan. He got in the passenger’s side, and they drove away.
So much for that plan.
“Molly?”
Her lungs flinched and her neck muscles tightened at the voice behind her. Doyle Murphy. She turned slowly.
“Got a minute?” He drew himself up as if to emphasize the few centimeters he had on her. A hard glint shone in his eye.
She squared those tense shoulders. “I don’t really —”
“How do you like working here?”
“Grand. Were you lookin’ for a job?”
He chuckled. “Not exactly.”
“I am fairly busy, Doyle, so if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Yeah, let’s get down to business. Got a proposition you’ll want to hear, if you know what’s good for you. For everyone.”
Everyone?
A hand landed on her arm, and she nearly jumped. “Good to see you again, Doyle,” came a second voice from behind her. She glanced back. Father Tim stepped closer to her — protectively close, it seemed. “Sorry to drag you away, Molly, but I need you to work on the kids’ play money for the movie night.”
Though she tried to breathe, her ribs wouldn’t move. She couldn’t leave him here with Doyle Murphy on the hunt. She backed her words with extra steel. “I’m nearly done here.”
“I’ll help him.”
&nbs
p; “Really, Father, I have this in hand.”
“Moll.” Despite the nickname, his voice carried an edge that could cut. His grip on her remained firm. He wasn’t budging.
Well, neither would she. “I’ll get to —”
“I want it by the end of the day.”
Her rib cage remained as rigid as rock. She checked Doyle’s reaction, a mocking smirk. She looked back to Father Tim. He met her gaze, and she matched the cold determination there — but the taut muscles of his jaw softened almost imperceptibly, and he nodded toward the office. A plea flashed behind his eyes.
Could he possibly know what he was doing?
Molly blinked. “You’ll have to tell me what you want.”
“I’ll be there when we’re done.”
She hesitated only a split second before she backed away. Father Tim let go of her shoulder and turned to Doyle Murphy.
Her blood rushed in her ears when she reached her office, as if her pulse were finally starting again. Had she failed?
She had to tell Father Tim who Doyle really was. She turned back for the door, but the phone rang. “Hello?” Her greeting carried more than a note — a whole chord — of irritation.
“Is this St. Adelaide’s?” a quavering female voice asked.
Molly made an effort to temper her tone. “It is. How can I help you?”
The caller gasped — or sobbed. “I don’t really know how to do this. We need a funeral.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss. Is this for one of our parishioners?” Molly sat at her desk and grabbed a notepad.
“Yes, this is Kristy Flynn.”
She paused, reaching for a pen. “Oh, Mrs. Flynn. And who will the funeral be for?”
“It’s Gerry. Last night —” Kristy broke off, dissolving into tears.
Molly’s heart sank. Gerald Flynn was part of Doyle Murphy’s crew — and that was most likely the cause of his death.
She glanced back at the door. Doyle had Father Tim right where he wanted him. If this was what happened to Doyle’s friends, wouldn’t Father Tim be safer not knowing?
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