Date with the Devil (Crimson Romance)

by Jessica Starre

  “Maybe.” She wasn’t going to give an inch. “But where else would a priest keep a collection of altar utensils? Your perps didn’t have to know anything special about this church to know that.”

  Good. He was getting her engaged. That was what he needed. Otherwise his tenuous hold over her would never be sufficient to see this through.

  “Explicate,” he said.

  Her lips tightened and he thought for a moment she might refuse. Then she said, “Maybe they didn’t want to blow the safe and risk damaging the artifacts. Maybe they waited for a time when they knew the priest would be there. They could be pretty sure he’d open the safe for them.” Michael nodded encouragingly and she gave him a faint smile as if she knew exactly how he was manipulating her.

  “But if the thieves knew the priest was going to be there, they’d plan for it, right?” she pointed out. “They wouldn’t be surprised to see him.” Now she had a slightly chagrined expression on her face because she had answered her own objection. “Anyway, if they knew he’d be there, why kill him? Why not just wear ski masks or whatever so he couldn’t finger them? Why’d they have to kill him — and the others?”

  Exactly his question.

  “Maybe the priest or one of the other victims could have recognized them,” he said. “Even wearing ski masks.”

  “But if they were afraid of being recognized, why wouldn’t they have taken steps to prevent that?” she asked, leaning a little closer to him to make her argument. “Murder is a lot bigger risk for them than theft. Multiple murders, planned ahead of time? That’s a capital crime.”

  “So are you saying you think the perps were afraid of being recognized and were willing to take the risk, or are you saying — ”

  “I don’t know,” she interrupted, reaching for her book. “My job is to recover the artifacts, not solve the crime. Solving the crime, that would be your job.”

  Chapter 6

  Michael directed the cabbie to the Church of St. Catherine on 59th and Park. Victoria took a deep breath as the taxi moved through traffic: clear mind, correct action, she reminded herself. Since the plane had landed at La Guardia, they’d been moving nonstop, but it was taking her a while to adjust to the flow of New York, even though it had once been home. The ceaseless noise, the restless throngs, the missing sky.

  The cabbie pulled to the curb near a traditional Greek cross church with a stone façade. It stood out from the tall brick apartment buildings and offices on either side. She got out of the cab, shutting the door behind her. Michael took a little longer, pulling his wallet out slowly, asking the cabbie something she didn’t pause to hear, waiting for a receipt. Like the Bureau was going to reimburse him. Was getting a wild hair up your ass tax deductible?

  When she pulled at the handles of the two huge wooden doors leading into the church vestibule, she was not surprised to find they were locked. Three people had recently been murdered here, so they had good reason for their caution.

  “Locked,” she said, picking her way back down the steps and heading Michael off as he came in her direction. “I’ll bet that’s the priest’s residence there,” she said, pointing to the small stone building abutting the church, protruding like an afterthought from the wall. It looked like the kind of place where a medieval nun would immure herself to contemplate the face of God.

  She thumbed the doorbell next to the heavy wood front door. After a moment, a woman opened the door and peered through the screen. Victoria could see that the housekeeper wasn’t the stout elderly woman she’d envisioned. She knew better than to operate by stereotype but some were harder to shake than others. This housekeeper was in her late twenties, strawberry blonde and candy-box pretty, wearing a little print dress that had set her back at least $400.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Grossman?” Victoria asked, speaking clearly and slowly so as not to come across like a door-to-door salesperson. “I’m with US National Insurance Company.” She held out one of her business cards. When you had a business card, people thought you were mostly harmless. “This is my associate,” she said, indicating Michael, who gave the housekeeper a nod and a pleasant smile. The woman shifted slightly, a gesture Victoria recognized. Man. Woman. Hello, there.

  “It’s Ms. Grossman,” the woman said, pushing open the screen door to accept Victoria’s card. She held it between her fingers but didn’t even look at it. “What’s this about?” Her gaze drifted to Michael.

  “We have a death claim for Father Theodor Theoctisus,” Victoria explained and now she had the housekeeper’s full attention. “We have to verify a few facts with you before we can authorize the disbursement,” she continued. A pucker appeared between Ms. Grossman’s eyebrows, so Victoria added, “The check,” to make sure the housekeeper understood she was talking about money. She hoped the woman wouldn’t ask who had informed the insurance company of the priest’s death. If she did, Victoria would have to turn Michael loose on her. A full blast exposure to his charm and she would forget every critical thinking skill she’d ever possessed. That is, if she were anything like Victoria.

  “I don’t know anything about any life insurance,” the housekeeper said. She seemed to think they’d finished their conversation and made a movement to shut the door.

  “Perhaps we could come in and talk with you for a moment?” Victoria said to stop her. “You see, the policy was recently taken out and of course there’s the usual suicide rider excluding payment of the death benefit — ”

  “Suicide!” Ms. Grossman demanded. “Father was shot during a burglary.”

  She was pissed, but at least she wasn’t questioning Victoria’s bona fides.

  “Could you tell us a bit about what happened? Just so we can close the file?” Victoria asked. She could no longer see Michael out of the corner of her eye. What was he doing now? He was capable of anything. She risked a glance over her shoulder. He was right there, leaning against the wall. When he caught her glance, he smiled at her, his black hair falling across his face, taking off his sunglasses like he was removing his shirt, his blue gaze shockingly intimate. Victoria forgot what she was doing.

  “I suppose I could talk to you about it,” Ms. Grossman said grudgingly, and without warning, she shoved the screen door open. Victoria caught it awkwardly and stepped inside the small foyer, holding the door open for Michael, who slithered in after her.

  Ms. Grossman led the way to the front parlor just off the foyer and gestured toward a faded chintz-covered sofa near the front window. For herself, she chose a straight-backed chair across from the sofa, flattening the skirt of her dress under her as she sat. She was wearing sensible walking shoes with her $400 dress.

  Victoria sat down, taking a ballpoint pen and the pretend policy out of her purse, then tucked her purse on the floor next to her feet in their cheap, sensible shoes. Michael took a seat next to her on the sofa without saying a word. He wore Dolce & Gabbana.

  “Now, let me just make sure I have this right,” Victoria said, peering at the paper. “The insured is Father Theodor A. Theoctisus.” She spelled out the name. “That’s correct? And this is the correct address?” She read it out. The housekeeper nodded, lips pursed tightly together. The simple factual questions were supposed to put her at ease but she seemed stiff with tension.

  “Thank you,” Victoria said, then composed her face into a suitably serious expression and said, “What can you tell me about the event?” She knew insurance company representatives would avoid phrases like, “the brutal slaying of three unsuspecting people.”

  The thought jolted her. What was she doing, involved in this? What had happened to her personal rule about staying the hell out of range of psychotic murderers? For all she knew, the housekeeper had shot everyone for some obscure motive.

  “I’m sure the police have a report,” Ms. Grossman said, giving her a wary, suspicious look.

  “
Perhaps you could just tell me? In your own words?” Victoria suggested. “Then we won’t have to come back and bother you again.”

  “I guess.”

  “Good,” Victoria said, ignoring the reluctance. Closing the deal. “Now, did the, ah, incident take place here? Where were you? Did you see it happen?”

  Michael pressed his foot against hers and Victoria stopped, realizing that she was rattled. She didn’t look at him, but gave a slight jerk of her chin to show she understood his warning.

  “No, I didn’t see it happen,” Ms. Grossman said. “God in heaven, no.” She shifted in her chair and glanced around the room, as if she were looking for something. Then Victoria realized she was looking for someone. Who would never be there again. Victoria closed her eyes briefly, feeling an unwanted empathy. It had taken a long time for her habits and her heart to catch up with the truth.

  “I was in the kitchen,” the housekeeper said finally, gesturing toward the hall. “I was making his lunch. And he was at the church, in the sacristy.” Ms. Grossman stopped, looking down at her folded hands. She didn’t say anything for a long time. Victoria could hear her uneven breathing as she tried to stay calm against the unrolling memories, the unexpected pain —

  What had the priest been to this woman? More than an employer, surely. A spiritual mentor only? Or something other than that?

  Michael got to his feet. Victoria watched him, a faint feeling of alarm trickling through her veins. The housekeeper was doomed. Victoria wanted to warn her but bit her tongue.

  He prowled across the floor, suddenly very male and very present. Before, he had been self effacing, the opposite of the center of attention. It was like throwing a switch, and Victoria had often wondered how he did it.

  He stopped near Ms. Grossman’s chair, close but not inappropriately so. He peered at a framed picture hanging on the wall near her shoulder. From where Victoria sat, she could make out the basic figures in the photo: a slender brunette man wearing priest’s robes, his arm around a stocky gray-haired man’s shoulders, a plump blonde woman standing next to them.

  “Is this Father Theoctisus?” Michael asked, his voice gentle. Chocolate smooth. What woman could resist? Sex and chocolate.

  “Yes,” the housekeeper said, looking up, and Victoria could see she was already more relaxed. A woman like her knew exactly what to do with sex and chocolate. He ought to be illegal.

  “That was one of Father’s favorite photographs,” Ms. Grossman added. “It was taken a year or two ago at the wedding reception for the daughter of an old church family.”

  “He looks very happy,” he remarked, smooth and sincere. He straightened up and looked directly at the housekeeper. He smiled, sensitive and kind. Hot sex and deep emotional connection: the woman never stood a chance.

  Or maybe Victoria was projecting.

  She leaned toward the housekeeper. Don’t let him do it. Don’t let him steal your soul.

  Ms. Grossman gave him a considering look, as if she hadn’t expected him to understand. She shifted in her chair, studying him with new appreciation.

  Too late.

  “He was,” she said. “He was so happy. He was such a kind and generous man.”

  “You must have known him very well,” Michael said, calm and intoxicating, returning to his seat next to Victoria. Now he was withdrawing his sexy self, and she would give him what he wanted in the hopes that he would come back.

  Victoria’s stomach clenched as his thigh settled against hers, nearer than he needed to be. Goddammit, why couldn’t she have shot him when she had the chance?

  “I knew him very well,” Ms. Grossman agreed obediently. “We were close — like friends or family, not employer and employee. He shared his thoughts with me and often asked for my advice.” A faint, reminiscent smile crossed her face. What was she remembering? An evening meal, a bottle of wine, the brush of his hand against hers? “He was a good man. Even when he had to do something he found difficult, he faced up to it.”

  “Like what?” Victoria asked, and the moment she asked it, she knew she’d destroyed the mood. When a woman was thinking about sex and chocolate, she didn’t ordinarily envision a threesome.

  The housekeeper turned a startled face in her direction, and looking obviously ill at ease again, she said, “Oh, just — well. You know.”

  Then Michael spoke again, elbowing out Victoria without seeming to. “He sounds like he was a good man.” He’d said it before, but Victoria knew he wanted to establish himself firmly as the housekeeper’s ally.

  “He was,” the housekeeper said with a sharp nod.

  “You felt fortunate to work with him,” he said, his smooth chocolate voice hypnotic.

  “I did,” she admitted. “Just to — to be with him was a privilege.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. No wonder the woman was susceptible.

  “Then this terrible thing happened,” Michael went on, the warmth and comfort in his tone urging her to relax and trust him, to confide in him. He would make everything better.

  “It was terrible,” the housekeeper said in a soft trembling voice.

  “Can you tell me a little about what happened that day?” He was personalizing it now. Intimate. Infinite.

  “Father was meeting with Mrs. Angelus that morning,” she began. Victoria knew that Elene Angelus was one of the victims, a member of the Altar Society. “I thought he had planned to meet with both of the co-chairs but Mr. Kirkpatrick didn’t come in until later in the day. After.” Her voice ground to a halt. Michael made a soothing sound. His soothing sound was more effective than Victoria’s.

  A moment later, the housekeeper tried again. “Mr. Kirkpatrick was beside himself when he heard. Blamed himself for not being there at the time. I don’t know why he thought he could have stopped it.” She paused and a few heartbeats ticked by before she spoke again. “Mrs. Angelus’s son David was there. He assisted with the mass. Mrs. Angelus and Mr. Kirkpatrick ran the Altar Society, but he — Kevin — wasn’t there at the time.” She seemed to realize she was repeating herself because she stopped, her brows drawing together as she tried to organize her thoughts.

  “The Altar Society,” she repeated and nodded, because that was a safe topic of conversation. “They always make sure that everything having to do with celebrating the mass is taken care of properly. They arrange for fresh flowers every Sunday, and they keep the hangings and altar cloths clean and the utensils in good repair. The older women used to make the altar hangings — you know, they’d embroider them — ”

  Victoria thought that was about as much as they needed to know about the Altar Society. Full of good works and virtue, what more need be said? But people would spend hours talking around the things they didn’t want to say. She understood why but it wouldn’t help her any to spend the day talking about everything but the murders.

  “What was stolen?” she asked.

  “They stole the church treasures,” Ms. Grossman said. “We have — had — a collection of beautiful antique pieces that Father only used on Easter and Christmas. The rest of the year he used a modern set of altar vessels. It was the special collection that they stole. They left everything else.”

  “Do you have a list of what was stolen?” Victoria asked as if it were just the sort of necessary document an insurance company representative needed to have in order to process a life insurance claim. “Just for our records?” she added, for verisimilitude. Everyone knew insurance companies demanded all manner of documents for their records.

  “There’s an inventory,” Ms. Grossman said slowly.

  “May I take a look?” Victoria asked, casual and easy, as if it didn’t matter much to her. Sometimes the best approach was to just act like you were entitled to the information.

  The question hung in the air for a moment. Then the housekeeper sighed, stood up, and asked them to
wait for a moment. Victoria hoped she hadn’t blown her story, made the housekeeper suspect her. Even now, Ms. Grossman could be taking the opportunity to call the cops to come throw the imposters out of the building.

  The floorboards creaked as Ms. Grossman headed down the hall. Michael, apparently exhausted from the effort of holding himself upright, slumped against the sofa back and started humming. Johnny Cash? Ring of Fire? No. Patsy Cline. Walking after Midnight. It probably meant something. She didn’t want to know what.

  After a few minutes, the housekeeper returned. She handed Victoria a manila folder, then did the thing with her skirt again as she sat down. Victoria thanked her, not looking at Michael. Her pulse revved, anticipating what she might see, then sank in disappointment as she opened the folder and looked through the pages. The antique collection was indeed described in an inventory, which was written in an elderly, spidery hand — surely not the work of the youthful-appearing Father Theoctisus — but there were no photos attached. Damn. She’d wanted to see the items so that she could recognize them if she found them. The descriptions were clear enough, but they lacked weight, reality. She could drink from “a footed silver chalice with red stones encircling rim” and not necessarily realize what it was. Okay, maybe that was a bad example, because she wasn’t exactly in the habit of drinking from silver chalices. Still. Her point was —

  Michael leaned over to look at the pages.

  The point was —

  Goddammit. Every time she got a whiff of fabric softener, she started getting hot. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d been mistaken when she thought having lived through him once meant she would never be susceptible again. No. He was like a virus in her veins, lying dormant and undisturbed, until the time came and her resistance was weakened, and then the only treatment was for him to kiss her and touch her and whisper his sweet lies in her ear —

  Dammit.

  “All of these items are gone?” she asked, tapping the inventory, her voice louder than she meant.