Mortal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  “Luce?” Sean sounded worried, and Lucy reached out for him. His hands held hers tightly and her body stopped shaking so violently. She took a deep breath.

  “Maybe … maybe I’m relieved.”

  “Relieved?”

  How could she explain it? She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, focused on slowing down her racing heart. “The idea that he killed himself because of me—”

  “It wasn’t because of you!”

  “I meant, because of his feelings for me. That he’d be depressed enough to kill himself because I didn’t love him.” Her voice cracked. “But I should never have asked him to help in the first place. I should have gone to Kate or Dillon—or anyone in the FBI. I don’t know why—”

  “Because you didn’t know what was going on. You were protecting people you believed were innocent.”

  “And Cody is dead because I was worried about Fran.” Her anger leaked out in her voice. “I hate her! Even if she didn’t pull the trigger, she had to have known. How could she do that to Cody? The time and energy he gave to WCF. And now—damn!” Her voice cracked again and she shut her mouth.

  “There’s one more thing. Cody wasn’t stalking you.”

  She shook her head. “Wh-what?” It made no sense. “But the flowers—you talked to the florist.”

  “The FBI proved that the same man who wrote the fake suicide note also wrote the card from the florist. They compared it to handwriting known to be Cody’s, and there’s no way he could have written either the card or the suicide note.”

  “But the florist—”

  “Noah thinks Mallory planned everything. That since Cody was investigating Prenter’s murder, if he discredited Cody in your eyes by making it seem like he was stalking you, either you’d believe Cody really had killed Prenter or you would have nothing more to do with him. They were trying to protect their operation.”

  “He died for nothing?”

  Sean pulled her head down to his chest. At first she resisted, then she let him hold her. She didn’t cry. She had no more tears. Her head ached from her grief, and sitting here with Sean helped.

  Slowly, the tension eased from her body. When she could breathe normally and her heart stopped racing, she looked up at Sean. “I need to go.”

  “You don’t—”

  “I have to go home and shower and get ready for Cody’s prayer service.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No—I need to go alone.”

  “I don’t think you should be alone.”

  “Cody’s friends will be there. Family. I won’t be alone.”

  “But—”

  “Everyone’s in prison. Mallory, Fran—”

  “I’d still feel more comfortable if I could keep my eye on you until we know for sure the FBI arrested all the players.”

  “You can drive me if you’d like. The church will be filled with cops.”

  “Lucy—”

  Her voice cracked, but her eyes were dry. “I believed it was Cody. How could I do that? We were friends. I was with him for nearly two years. And I believed the worst. I let my fear cloud my judgment. I should have known Cody would never do anything to hurt me. He never had before, and yet—I didn’t even give him the benefit of the doubt. I need to mourn for him, and I want to do it alone. Do you understand?”

  Sean kissed her on the top of her head and held her close. “I do. I’ll drive you there and pick you up. You won’t leave the church, right?”

  “Promise. Thank you for understanding.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Noah and Hans faced Mallory in a private interview room in the county jail.

  “You lied to us, and you lied to Lucy,” Noah said.

  Mallory stared at Noah. His expression was defiant, but his eyes were weary, as if he hadn’t slept.

  Hans said, “Cody Lorenzo was murdered. There’s no question.”

  Mallory frowned but didn’t speak.

  “You killed him because he was getting close to exposing your vigilante group.”

  “I didn’t kill Cody Lorenzo,” Mallory said with a sigh.

  “We don’t believe you.”

  Mallory closed his eyes. “You found my guns. Every single one of them is labeled with the name of the scumbag. Name and date. Every one. Cody Lorenzo is not there.”

  It took Noah a second to realize the problem with that argument. “You left the gun there. Tried to pass it off as a suicide.”

  “If you do your research, you’ll find that not all the names on those guns were fired. The gun I was carrying at the time was retired, so I could remember every one of them. I didn’t kill Lorenzo.”

  “Lorenzo was a cop. Automatic death penalty,” Noah said.

  Mallory laughed humorlessly. “Death penalty? Bring it on.”

  “Lorenzo was killed between eleven p.m. and midnight Monday. I don’t suppose you have an alibi?”

  “Home. Fran came over a little before seven, worried because of the questions Lorenzo had been asking. I told her to calm down, that nothing connected us to Prenter’s murder.”

  “Fran could have killed him. You’d be an accessory.”

  “Fran didn’t kill him.”

  “I’m not buying this.”

  “I don’t care.” Mallory sighed. “Your warrant was thin, and you know it, but I’m not getting a lawyer, and I’m not going to defend myself. I don’t want to. I’ve given you everything. I’m done.”

  Noah frowned, a thought coming to him, but then it left. Hans picked up on the silence and said, “Fran lawyered up. Clark Jager.”

  Mallory shrugged. “You really want to put her in prison?”

  “She killed at least one man.”

  “Who deserved it.”

  “Who didn’t have a trial. She’s scared.”

  Mallory nodded. “She was always the weak link. But she’s not talking, because the only one she can turn on is me, and I’ve already given myself up. What more can I tell you?”

  “Fran’s lawyer is threatening to pull the police records of every WCF staffer—and volunteer. Their argument is that if someone at WCF is involved, it’s not Fran Buckley, but one of her staff.”

  Mallory straightened. He immediately saw the repercussions of such a move, which Noah and Hans were counting on.

  “That’s bullshit. No one else at WCF was involved. You got Biggler, and he never killed anyone. He was my backup. He watched my ass.”

  “And his sister Brenda, who was your lure,” Hans said. They hadn’t gotten the report back from Abigail and the bartender at Club 10, but Hans played the bluff perfectly.

  “Please be lenient with Brenda,” Mallory pleaded. “She helped because she worships her brother. I don’t think she ever really thought deeply about what we were doing.”

  “It was just the three of you—four including Fran Buckley.”

  “Yes,” Mallory said. “Lucy had nothing to do with any of it, except unknowingly setting up the meetings. You know that, both of you.”

  “We know it,” Noah said, “but we won’t be able to stop Jager if he petitions for all criminal records. Lucy’s past will be on display during the trial—”

  “Fran will plead. She won’t let Lucy suffer—”

  “She’s not cooperating. She denied involvement, and implied it was someone else at WCF.”

  Mallory pounded a chained fist on the table. “You can prove otherwise! I told you what happened!”

  “Your word means shit right now,” Noah stated. “Jager will tear you apart in the courtroom. You could be saying that the sun rises in the east, and no one on the jury will believe you when Jager gets through with destroying what little credibility you might have. It doesn’t matter whether we believe you or not.”

  “I have proof.” Mallory hung his head. “I didn’t want it to come to this, but …” His voice trailed off and he was lost in thought for several seconds. “The night before she killed Weatherby, Fran flew commercial from Dulles to Albany. Her college roomma
te, Sylvia Dunham, lives in Troy. She borrowed Sylvia’s car to drive to Boston. Sylvia had no idea what Fran was doing, I don’t know what excuse Fran gave her, but Sylvia will remember the trip because Fran got into a minor accident driving back on I-90. The car wasn’t totaled, but Fran wrote her a check to pay for damages so that there would be no insurance claim. The accident was the early morning after Weatherby was killed—I told Fran I would take care of everything, and she left.”

  All verifiable. “That’s not definitive proof.”

  “Other than my word, that’s all I have.”

  It might be enough to make her squirm, Noah thought. But it wouldn’t make Jager sweat.

  “What about the gun?”

  “I disposed of it—you’ll never be able to find it, and even if you did, the water damage would render any forensic evidence worthless.”

  “Where did she get the gun?” Noah asked.

  Mallory looked at him as if he were smarter than he’d expected. “I never asked.”

  Hans said quietly, “Why did you get Lucy involved in the first place? You had to know that one day, this would crash down around you and burn the one person you claim to want to protect.”

  “You won’t understand.” Mallory put his cuffed wrists against his forehead. “Even though she didn’t know she was helping us, there was a sense of justice in her getting those guys. She’s so good at this, Hans, she’s uniquely qualified in separating the online jerks from the true predators.”

  “So you stalk her and kill her ex-boyfriend because you admire her?” Noah was losing his temper, his tone getting louder.

  “I didn’t kill Lorenzo, and I wasn’t stalking Lucy!”

  “Mallory, the fake suicide note was written by the same person who sent Lucy a dozen red roses on Monday morning. If it was Lorenzo, it ties everything up in a pretty package. But it wasn’t. Forensics proved it. Admit it was you.”

  “I didn’t send Lucy roses!”

  “Give it up—”

  “I swear to God, I did not.” Mallory leaned forward. “Are you lying to me?”

  “We haven’t been doing the lying here.”

  He pounded his fist again. “Listen to me! I didn’t send the roses, I didn’t kill Lorenzo, and I didn’t write any fucking notes! If the roses were sent by the same person who killed the cop, then Lucy is in danger! Dammit, where is she? What kind of morons are you?”

  A mourner held the outer door of Holy Trinity open for Lucy as she walked in from the snow. A large flake hit her on the back of the neck and she rolled her shoulder so her collar would absorb the moisture. “Thank you,” she mumbled, and walked into the church just after the processional. She looked around and spotted Cody’s partner, April Dunnigan, near the back. Lucy slid into the pew behind her.

  April was a well-rounded, fit ebony-black cop a few years older than Cody, with short curly hair and six piercings in each ear. They’d been partners for as long as Lucy knew Cody.

  She tapped April on the shoulder. The cop turned around, her eyes rimmed red but her expression guarded. When she recognized Lucy, she came around to her pew and gave her a hug.

  “I’m glad you could come,” she whispered.

  “You heard about the evidence?”

  April nodded. “Are you okay?”

  Lucy shrugged. “I’ll be okay. What about you?”

  “I want to shoot the bastard who killed him.” She grimaced. “I shouldn’t say that here.”

  “I’m sure God understands.” He had to understand better than she did.

  The cop went back to her seat, and that was fine with Lucy. She preferred to grieve alone.

  It was hot in the church, and Lucy took off her coat, folding it beside her. She took a deep breath.

  There were only a few cops present, but this was the mass before the prayer service. Lucy suspected many would arrive during and after mass. And the funeral on Friday would be a procession through D.C. with every cop in attendance. Lucy had been to the funeral of an officer killed in the line of duty, a friend of Cody’s from the police academy. She and Cody had been seeing each other then, and the murder had hit Cody hard, but at the same time he had never wavered from his duty.

  “No one told us we’d live into retirement. But dying to protect all that we hold precious is easier to accept than dying in vain.”

  The guilt ate at her because there was no reason Cody should have died. In her head she knew that Cody was a cop, that this was his job, but at the same time, it was a different situation—they should have brought in the FBI from the beginning. Maybe Cody would still be alive.

  Lucy stood a few seconds later than everyone else for the Our Father, surprised that the prayer had come so soon. How long had she been here? It didn’t seem like more than a few minutes. She only vaguely remembered the readings. She was still too hot, and her eyes were dry. Too many tears shed in the last two days.

  But in the back of her mind, she thought something was truly wrong with her. Was she getting sick? Sean had made her eat a late lunch, though she’d told him she wasn’t interested in food. He cooked chicken noodle soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. She’d eaten half, but now the small meal felt like a lead ball in her stomach.

  She breathed deeply.

  “Lucy?”

  April’s voice sounded far away.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I—I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “I’ll take you to the bathroom.”

  Lucy wanted to tell her no, she was fine to go alone, but instead she nodded. April took her arm and led her toward the bathrooms to the right of the vestibule.

  Two uniformed officers brought in a flurry of snow as they stepped into the entry. The cold coming in from the outside felt remarkable to Lucy. “April, I’m just going to step outside for a minute. I think I just need air. I’ll be in before communion.”

  “I can go with you,” April offered.

  Lucy shook her head. “One minute—it’ll clear my head.”

  “I’ll wait here.” April spoke softly to the officers while Lucy stepped outside.

  The cold air did clear her head, and she watched the snowfall, thicker than when she’d arrived thirty minutes ago. She still felt ill, but she rarely got sick. She figured it must be grief. She missed Cody. She loved him—not in the way he wanted her to, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t cared for him deeply.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered into the cold.

  Forgive me for thinking you’d do anything to scare me.

  Though her skin was flushed, she was cold outside. She turned to go back inside, and the door was farther away that she’d thought. Her black sweater was damp and white from the snow, but she didn’t remember walking away from the doors. Everything was too bright—the snow, the lights in the entry, radiating colors and razor edges.

  Something was wrong with her, but she knew she wasn’t sick. It was something else, and panic rose as her heart pounded. She couldn’t think coherently. She opened her mouth to call for April, but only a squeak came from her throat. The church and snow spun around her, faster and faster, and she thought she was a spinning top. Around and around and around …

  … she was lying in the snow. She’d fallen … but she was at the bottom of the stairs. How? The streetlight above her beckoned her, a hand, as if God Himself was taking her up to Heaven.

  She wanted to go. She was so sad, so lost.

  Sean.

  Her heart thudded painfully in her chest and she focused on the steady, too-fast beat. Did her heart really beat this fast?

  Sean, help me. I don’t want to die.

  She tried to stand but couldn’t. Her hands dug into the newly fallen snow. She reached for her phone, but it wasn’t in her pocket. It wasn’t there because she’d left her coat in the pew in the church, and her phone was in that pocket.

  She wanted to cry, but no sound, no tears, came. She had no control over her body, as if she were paralyzed. She desperately wanted Sean to pick her up and c
arry her to his bed. To hold her. To kiss her. To make love to her. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about the future, the possibilities, but Sean had walked into her life and she didn’t want him to leave.

  She’d crawl. She could crawl home. No, that was two miles away. April would wonder why she was outside for so long. April … who was April? She felt she should know, but she couldn’t remember. What was she thinking? Crawling home? Where was home? Did she have a home?

  She tried to call out again but couldn’t. Her mind swirled, as if in a blender, her head aching, her stomach clenching. She was so hot, she stared at the blinding snow and expected to see steam rise from where her fingers clawed the ice.

  Sean.

  Who was Sean?

  “Let me help you up.”

  The voice sounded a million miles away. She rolled over, her body heavy, lying in the snow. She looked up, but didn’t see anything, only a vague shape and a gloved hand.

  “Thank you,” she tried to say, but her tongue was thick and dry.

  I want to go home.

  She couldn’t remember her address.

  She was lifted off the ground. She thought she heard her name from far, far away …

  A female voice calling, “Lucy? Lucy, where are you?”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Sean and Kate pounded on the glass door of the florist shop. It was five after seven and they had closed.

  He’d screwed up. Why hadn’t he pushed the florist earlier for a positive ID? He could have come back with Lorenzo’s picture and verified the receipt that showed that he’d bought the roses. Why had he believed it so readily? Because Lorenzo was obviously still in love with Lucy? Because he was her ex-boyfriend?

  Mallory could be lying through his teeth about not being Lucy’s stalker, but Sean wasn’t taking any chances. There was too much doubt, and far too much at stake.

  Kate called out to the woman behind the counter. “FBI—we have an emergency.” She held her badge up to the glass.