Her eyes were bright. "I know. You realize what this means, don't you?"
MacMillian turned back to the stairs. Predatory anticipation welled in his chest. "We talked to the wrong priest."
Father Narvaez was still in the narthex when they burst through the main doors again. He jumped, clutched a hand to his chest when he realized who they were. "Good heavens! You two make quite an entrance."
"We're sorry, Father." MacMillian took Lena's cell phone and pulled up the photo. He passed it to Narvaez. "We believe this priest may be able to answer a few more questions for us. Would it be possible to speak with him?"
Narvaez studied the picture. His eyebrows lifted, then drew together. He handed the phone back to MacMillian. "Of course you can speak with him, but there must be some kind of mistake. The man in that photograph is not a priest."
MacMillian traded glances with Lena. He turned back to Father Narvaez. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely." Narvaez punctuated the word with a vehement nod. "That's Gershon. Gershon Zintchio. He's been a member of our parish, goodness, longer than I have." He looked from one of them to the other. "I don't understand. What's going on here? Why was he dressed like that?"
"I'd like to ask him that myself," MacMillian muttered. He cleared his throat. "Do you know where we can find Mr. Zintchio?"
"He volunteers at our Dining Room in the Tenderloin most days." Father Narvaez touched the silver cross around his neck. "He's not in trouble, is he?"
MacMillian chose to ignore the question. He leaned heavily on his cane. "Please, Father, think carefully. What else can you tell us about this man?"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MacMillian drove by St. Sophia's Dining Room twice without stopping.
On the third pass, Lena finally turned to him. "Were we planning to actually go inside, or...?"
MacMillian eyed the people lining the sidewalks and pursed his lips. Then he nodded. "I'll find a place to park."
The Dining Room was located on the ground level of a bright, new-looking building. What appeared to be an office space sat above it, and at least six more floors that were clearly housing on top of that. A delivery truck with the St. Sophia's seal emblazoned on the side was double-parked at the curb. A small army people in aprons milled around the back, unloading boxes and carrying them inside.
Lena dodged past them, MacMillian right behind her. They approached the front door. A few people in ragged clothes slouched along the outside wall. She stiffened, but none of them seemed hostile. She relaxed again, and pulled open the door.
It opened to a surprisingly welcoming, spacious foyer. Lena looked around. Sunlight bathed the white tiled floor and brightly hued walls. The entire level was open, with the foyer feeding directly into the Dining Room. Rows of communal tables filled the space, all of them packed.
MacMillian stepped up beside her. "This isn't quite what I expected."
Lena studied the individual faces. "Me, either."
Intermingled with the residents of the streets were people who didn't appear homeless. There were families with children. Ancient Asian women sat chattering together in front of trays piled high with rice and vegetables, guarding battered Tupperware containers filled with more of the same. People in aprons darted between the tables, bearing full trays of food, extra napkins, pitchers of water and juice.
Friendly conversation and scattered laughter echoed around the large room. Lena shifted. "Maybe we shouldn't be here."
MacMillian looked down sharply. "What are you talking about?"
She shook her head. "Don't you feel like we're, I don't know, intruding? All these people are just here for a hot meal." She rubbed her arms. "I feel like we just walked into somebody else's house in the middle of dinner."
MacMillian started to speak, but at that moment a petite, middle-aged woman caught sight of them. She started forward. He shrugged. "Too late now."
The woman drew closer, and gave them each a bright smile. "Welcome. Are you two here for the meal?"
Lena faltered. "No... sorry, we-"
"We're actually looking for a man who volunteers here." MacMillian shot her a warning look and stepped forward. He extended his free hand. "Jesper MacMillian, ma'am. This is Lena Alan. And you are...?"
"Doris Chan." The woman shook his hand, then turned to Lena. "Who are you looking for?"
Lena set her reservations aside and offered her hand. "A man named Gershon Zintchio. Do you know him? Apparently he's been volunteering here for quite some time."
"Ten years, at least." Doris took in their faces, and dipped her head. "I've been volunteering here for eight. Of course, we all know Gershon." Her expression turned guarded. "Is he in trouble?"
Again, Lena faltered. Again, MacMillian stepped in. "Ms. Alan and I are looking into some disappearances from around this neighborhood. We're hoping Mr. Zintchio can help us."
Doris pursed her lips. She gave a short nod and turned towards the Dining Room. A heavily tattooed young man in an apron was bussing one of the recently vacated tables. She called out to him. "Francisco!"
He looked up. "'Sup, Mrs. Chan?"
Doris gestured towards MacMillian. "These people need to speak to Gershon. Could you find him and bring him up here, please?"
The young man bobbed his head and jogged off towards the busy kitchen area. Lena craned her neck, but he quickly disappeared into the army of other apron-clad volunteers.
Doris turned back to them. A worry knot marred the space between her eyes. She lowered her voice. "So, people are really disappearing."
Lena cocked her head. "You don't sound surprised."
"Do I know a few people who have fallen off the grid? Sure. It's not that unusual around here." She looked back over her shoulder at the Dining Room, and her face softened. "We get all types. A lot of our regulars spend the majority of their lives alone, isolated, whether they're on the streets or in the residential hotels. This place is the closest they have to a real community."
Lena glanced up at MacMillian. Neither of them spoke.
A smile tugged at Doris's mouth. "Just look at them. They might not say two words to each other on the outside, but here? Here they sit together, tell stories, catch up." Her face darkened. "And yes, lately there's been talk about people who don't come in anymore. I mean regulars, people who'd made connections, who had friends, favorite seats." She shook her head. "If you ask me, people like that wouldn't just leave. Not without saying goodbye."
Lena looked up at MacMillian again. He caught her eye, his mouth a thin, tight line. He turned back to Doris. "How long did you say Mr. Zintchio has been volunteering here?"
Doris tapped her lip. "A decade, maybe longer. He was already here when I started eight years ago." She lowered her voice again. "At first, he came with his wife. She died about five years ago now. He's mentioned a son, but I've never met him. I think they're estranged." She raised her hands, palms up. "I guess this place is his community, too."
Before any of them could say anything else, Francisco called from the Dining Room, "Yo, Mrs. C! Found him!"
Lena's stomach lurched. She peered around the young man's broad shoulder. Then she blinked.
The grandfatherly man behind Francisco didn't look like a deranged serial killer. His white hair was slicked back from his temples. A full white beard covered the lower half of his face, and round-rimmed spectacles sat perched on his nose. The clothes underneath his volunteer apron were simple: a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a sweater vest, dark wool trousers.
Doris moved to stand beside him. She nodded up at the young man. "Thank you, Francisco."
A shout sounded from the tables. "Hey, Chicho! Need your help over here!"
Francisco grinned. "That's my cue." He winked at Lena and jogged back into the Dining Room.
Gershon Zintchio took Doris's hand and raised it to his wrinkled lips. "Beautiful Doris. When are you going to run away and marry me?" His heavy r's and clipped vowels suggested Eastern European origins.
MacMillian inclined his head. "Of course, and thank you."
Zintchio waited until Doris was out of earshot, then turned to them. "So good to meet you both. May I ask what this is regarding?" His tenor-toned voice was slightly gravelly.
MacMillian extended a hand. "Mr. Zintchio. Thank you for speaking with us. I'm Jesper MacMillian. This is Lena Alan."
Zintchio shook his hand, then turned to Lena. "Ms. Alan." He held out his hand.
Lena swallowed. Ever fiber in her being strained against taking it. She forced a smile to her face and placed her hand in his. "Pleased to meet you."
The instant their fingers touched, a wave of unease swept over her. It was all she could do not to yank her hand back. Zintchio clasped it, then instead of letting go, brought his other hand up and trapped hers between the two. "I assure you, the pleasure is all mine."
The words were laced with Old-World charm, but rather than putting her at ease, they only intensified that strange feeling. It took her a moment to realize where she'd felt it before.
Jimmy's apartment. Then again, at the entrance to the extraction tunnel. At the time she'd written it off as nerves, but now she was reconsidering that assessment, especially considering she'd been possessed not long after. In fact, she'd gotten the same feeling again and again ever since she and MacMillian started looking into the disappearances.
Zintchio was watching her face. "Is everything all right, my dear?"
Lena took a deep breath and sneaked a peek at MacMillian. He was watching her too, a deep groove in his forehead. She kept her smile in place and returned her attention to Zintchio. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine, thank you."
Zintchio finally released her hand. At the same time, Lena released the breath she was holding. MacMillian glanced down at her, cleared his throat. "Mr. Zintchio, we just came from your church. Father Narvaez said we could find you here."
Zintchio's bushy white eyebrows went up. "Yes, of course. Father Narvaez." He looked from one of them to the other. "I'm sorry, what did you say this was about?"
"There have been reports of people disappearing out of this neighborhood." MacMillian adjusted his grip on his cane. "Ms. Alan and I are concerned. We're trying to get to the bottom of things."
Lena kept her eyes on Zintchio's face. Not so much as a muscle twitched in his expression. He lifted a shoulder, dropped it again. "People in this neighborhood disappear all the time. This is an unfortunate fact of life. The ones I see in the Dining Room are often physically ill, mentally ill, addictively ill..." He shook his head and stared out the glass doors at the street outside. "It is no way to live."
Lena felt like someone was sitting on her chest. "You believe they would be better off dead?"
His head jerked up, and he stared at her. "No! Of course not." He looked up at MacMillian. "I am glad somebody is taking notice, though I'm not sure how you think I can help you."
Lena took out her phone and pulled up the photo from Cyrus. She held it up for Zintchio to see. "Remember this?"
Zintchio's lips parted. "Where did you get that?"
MacMillian laid a hand on Lena's arm. She lowered her phone. "Doesn't matter. We're more interested in what you were doing at the old Butterfly Room lot dressed as an Orthodox priest."
Zintchio's eyes widened. "You think it's me, don't you? You think I am somehow responsible for these disappearances you mentioned. Is that why you're here?"
MacMillian raised a placating hand. "Sir, please. I'm sure you understand, we have to consider every possibility."
Zintchio's lips thinned, but he nodded. "Fine. I suppose I should have known better than to think no one would find out."
Lena's heart leaped into her throat. "Find out what?"
Zintchio's eyes flicked to her phone. "I know it was wrong, but I couldn't help myself. Ever since my wife passed, St. Sophia's has been everything to me." He leaned in like he was sharing a secret. "Did you know that old theater was built on top of the original church? Imagine!"
His shoulders slumped. "All I wanted was to experience for myself where the church first came to be. I knew they wouldn't allow just anyone in to see it, so I... I borrowed one of the spare cassocks. It was just sitting in the rectory. I didn't think anyone would miss it."
Lena swallowed, then swallowed again. Her skin felt itchy and thick. She rubbed her arms.
Zintchio turned to her and fixed his pale blue eyes on her face. "I just hope God and Father Narvaez can forgive my deception."
←↑↓→
Lena followed MacMillian back to the Fury in silence. He found a discreet spot half a block away from the soup kitchen, and idled against the curb. It was mid-afternoon before the doors of St. Sophia opened and Gershon Zintchio came out, rolling a battered white bicycle. He paused on the sidewalk and adjusted the cuff clip on his trouser leg, then mounted the spindly frame and spun off down the street.
MacMillian's hand danced over the manual controls, and the Fury rolled after him.
The street was slanted downhill, and Zintchio sailed towards Market at a brisk clip. MacMillian followed easily. Lena kept her eyes on the back of the older man's white head and tried to shake the rolling sensation in the pit of her stomach. She clenched and unclenched her hands in her lap.
MacMillian glanced at her, frowned slightly. "Try to relax. We don't even know if it's-"
"It's him," she blurted. At MacMillian's sharp look, she took a deep breath. "It is. I can feel it." She grimaced. "Wow. I never realized how much I sound like Luke Skywalker when I say that."
MacMillian snorted. "Just so long as that doesn't make me Princess Leia." He grew serious again. "All right, so help me out. What makes you so sure it's this guy? I mean, you saw him. He's... old."
Lena blew out a breath. "It's hard to describe. God, I'm not even sure I know what it is." She waved a hand. "There's just something I've felt everywhere we've gone. Like some sort of weird energy signature, if that makes sense. I can't pinpoint what it is or why it bothers me so much. It just does."
She waited for him to snort again. When he didn't, she sneaked a peek at his face. It was drawn tight.
"I think I know what you mean."
Lena blinked. She hadn't been expecting that. "You do?"
Air hissed through his teeth. "I know, I can't believe I'm saying it, either. But something about that guy just feels off." His eyes flicked from the road and met hers briefly, then flicked back. "In my line of work, you learn to trust gut feelings."
Zintchio turned just before they reached Market Street, leading them further into the heart of the Tenderloin. He turned down a last side street, finally rolled to a stop outside a shabby brick walk-up. It was surrounded by identical buildings, the monotonous brick landscape broken up by a single Cash 'n Check on the corner.
In a surprisingly spry move, Zintchio dismounted from his bike, opened the building's iron gate and disappeared inside.
MacMillian slowed the Fury to a crawl, and peered up at the building. Then he gunned the engine and kept driving.
Lena stared at him. "That's it?"
"It is for you." He didn't look at her. "I'm taking you home. I'll come back with Darius, and we'll sit on the place tonight."
"Seriously?" Lena gaped. "If you think you're coming back without me, you're out of your mind."
"I'm out of my mind?" MacMillian's eyebrows went up. "You clearly don't know what goes on in the 'Loin at night."
"There you go again, treating me like I'm someone for you to babysit." Lena crossed her arms. "I've dealt with worse things than desperate crackheads, Magnum. Shouldn't you have figured that out by now?"
He gave her a dark look.
She raised her nose in the air. "Besides, you might need me."
>
MacMillian didn't answer right away. His jaw ticked. Finally, he jerked his head in a single nod. "Fine. But I'm warning you, if we do this, you're here for the night. No running home if you see someone get stabbed."
Lena snuggled deeper into the passenger seat and stared out the window. She couldn't help the smug smile that spread over her face. "Deal."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The alley across from Zintchio's building was mostly deserted when MacMillian backed into it.
Lena slumped in the passenger seat, munching on a pretzel. She peered up at the two buildings that loomed on either side of them, and glanced at MacMillian. "Nice parking spot."
He didn't answer while he guided the Fury further back into the narrow street. Finally satisfied they were out of sight, he shifted to a stop and pulled out a dented metal thermos. He unscrewed the lid. Coffee flavored steam filled the car.
"We're hidden. That's all that matters." He took a sip, winced. "Just cross your fingers no one tries to take a piss on the fender."
Lena choked.
The light faded quickly. A dense fog rolled in, and soon the windows were coated with moisture. Shadows moved outside, darting past buildings, ducking down alleys. Lena shivered. She'd been so sure of herself when she'd insisted on being here. Maybe MacMillian had been right. Maybe she should have let him take her home.
Something brushed past her door. She jumped.
Damn it, this was how everything always started: with shadows. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe. Everything was different now. She was older, smarter. She had her own business, her own home. Hell, if her date with Durbin was any indicator, she probably even had a boyfriend.
Something passed by the front of the car. Lena's throat closed. Her heart started to race.
"Coffee?"
She whipped her head around and found MacMillian holding out the thermos. It took her a moment to remember how to work her fingers, but she finally managed to take it from him. The lid was already open.
MacMillian didn't say a word as she drank. Lena finished and passed the thermos back. Thank-you was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't quite bring herself to say it. She leaned back against the seat with a sigh. "So, you probably do this a lot, huh?"
A World Apart (Shades Below, #1) Page 16