Justifiable

by Dianna Love

He waved off her adoration. “You’ve earned everything you’ve received, but you need to know this new position and the pope’s visit are both golden opportunities you may not see again. You can’t fail.”

  “I won’t.” Not when she had a chance to take on more responsibility. She was already in what was considered one of the highest positions for a woman in the Catholic Church. Only a fool would squander this chance. “I just need to know what’s expected of me.”

  “The bishop will be watching how you handle the pope’s visit and how well St. Catherine’s is progressing. This pope can understand Bishop Gautier’s vision, but he will only support that vision if he is shown a successful operation that makes a difference in this community.”

  Translation: This pope would take a risk on a female director.

  He was the same pope who titled Monsignor and thought outside the box in so many ways. Her skin tingled with anticipation...and her headache tiptoed back a few steps.

  “Stay on task and protect my back. Remember, your star rises with mine. This is your proving ground.”

  She wanted to salute, or do a happy dance. She’d worked so hard for the last eight years and now she had a chance to prove she was capable of more. A chance to serve a community and help others the way Monsignor had helped her in her darkest hour. A place to belong.

  St. Catherine’s would shine when the pope arrived.

  Chapter 12

  Where was Miss Be-Here-On-Time-Or-Else?

  Riley sat in a semi-uncomfortable office chair facing Kirsten Massey’s desk at a minute past one, according to his banged-up Rolex. He knew a power play when he saw one. Kirsten Massey might be soft and sexy on the outside, but he’d watched her in action in the courtroom several times.

  Tough, but fair.

  And she had to know more about this case than the DA had shared in this morning’s press release.

  “Hello, Mr. Walker.” Investigator Massey swept into her office, still wearing that smoking red Jones of New York suit and a downplayed perfume, something original yet subtle. Nice.

  Not that he was noticing.

  “Investigator.” Riley had met her type plenty of times, a woman bent on holding the reins of this meeting.

  She moved to place the files on her credenza and his gaze latched onto the way her black hair shimmered in the light shafting through the narrow window on her left.

  Interesting woman. Rigid and feminine, just like her office decorated with slick black frames around paper touting her education, right alongside original watercolor paintings of outdoor settings and some intricate animal sculptures by an artist Riley couldn’t remember. Her preferences ran to horses and large cats like mountain lions and cougars.

  “Let’s talk about your conversation with the killer.” She spun around with a legal pad in hand and settled in her office chair so fast it was as if she’d been planted there the whole time.

  He’d expected that little detail to be in the police report, which she must not have read before she’d seen him in the press conference earlier. As long as the other newsies didn’t know about his speaking to the killer, Riley still had a lead over the other stations.

  A small lead but he wasn’t going to be picky at this point.

  “I’m not sure who I talked to,” he hedged, wondering if she’d been trying to trick him since they had no proof it was the killer.

  “Fine. The anonymous call you received about Sally Stanton’s body just after midnight.”

  “Gave the details to Detective Turner at the scene. Should be in his report.”

  She smiled, but not the kind meant to encourage a man, if he correctly read the irritation forming in the slant of eyes almost hidden by thick lashes. “I’m giving you a chance to repeat what you heard here instead of in an interrogation room. Your choice.”

  Since she put it that way. “When I answered the phone, the guy said, ‘Send someone to pick up a body a block off Germantown Road on Berringer’s front lawn.’ I asked who had died. He didn’t answer so I asked why this person was dead. He said, ‘Her fault.’”

  “Whose fault?”

  “I can only assume the caller was talking about Sally.”

  “Go on.”

  “I asked who he was or what his connection was to the woman. He said, ‘I’m cleaning up.’ I tried to ask another question, but he hung up.” Should he tell her he thought the guy had said, “we have a job to do” and something that ended with “soon”? Or keep that to himself since he might have imagined the words in his zoned-out state this morning? In her shoes, he’d think that line was something added to sensationalize the story. The next thing she’d think was that he was holding back information.

  Besides, telling her he had a case of night sweats and disorientation when he’d realized he was talking to a killer again would sound like he was fishing for sympathy.

  Not even.

  Riley sat forward as Kirsten made notes. She was left-handed.

  He kept his hands relaxed and non-threatening, cooperating like a good ass-kisser. “I don’t think the caller sounded like a distraught boyfriend or someone who killed out of passion.”

  “And you would know this how?” She stopped writing, laid the legal pad on the smooth dark wood surface of her desk and placed a hand on each side of the pad. Her thumb never moved, but the other four fingers on her right hand tapped one, two, three, four, over and over slowly.

  “Just speaking from experience.” And not second guessing himself for the first time in months.

  “Or are you trying to turn this into a news-worthy story?”

  “It’s already a news-worthy story. The question is why the DA’s office wants to downplay this and keep it out of the media.”

  “Our job has nothing to do with the media, Mr. Walker. We’re only interested in putting criminals behind bars. We can accomplish that much more easily without the media’s interference.”

  “Hey, all I did was accept a phone call. You charging me with interfering?” He gave the words levity, but she didn’t smile.

  “I don’t find death humorous.” She spoke in a soft voice filled with compassion and held his gaze in a locked-eye-version of chicken.

  She would lose.

  The seconds ticked until her gaze dropped to her notes.

  Never challenge a man who had fed himself on scraps from a restaurant Dumpster at fifteen. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled, refusing to be pushed or rushed, but determined to keep his temper in check. “You wanted me here for questions. I’m here. What’s your next one?”

  She added an extra thump with her thumb between the finger taps that kept time to some unknown beat. “What else happened last night?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me more about the call.” She held the pen in her left hand, waiting.

  “Like what?”

  Kirsten glanced down at her notes and spoke to him without lifting her head. “Background noises, his voice, a cough, anything.”

  Riley thought for a moment. “When I thought back on it later, it seemed like he was trying to mask his real voice to sound average. Noise around him made me think he stood outdoors. Reminded me of how payphone calls used to sound so I’m guessing he might have been calling from one.”

  She scratched out more notes, eyes still down. “Odd when burner cell phones are so easy to get. What else did you hear?”

  This was a pain-in-the-ass waste of time. He’d given J. T. everything he could think of this morning. Kirsten Massey just wanted to posture, play who-wielded-the-bigger-axe by making him go through this again. Would she believe him if Riley told her he thought the killer had just called again on his cell phone this time or accuse him of trying to create a story?

  Either way, he had to go through this hoop once more. “The guy called right after midnight. No cars driving by, no one really talking. No sirens. Just light ambient background sounds.” Something clicked in his mind. “Might have been near a neighborhood. I think I heard a kid whining nearby like ma
ybe walking past, but that could still be anywhere.”

  Kirsten stopped tapping. “A kid? After midnight on a quiet street in the dead of winter?” She raised eyes that held no tolerance. “You heard a kid and are just now informing us?”

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t remember until now,” he snapped, but his gut told him something was important about that kid’s voice.

  “Sorry? That’s your best answer? Sounds like selective memory to me, Walker. Something that runs rampant in the media industry.”

  “Now, wait a minute.”

  She didn’t so much as take a breath. “Isn’t that how the media works, doling out information in sound bites? Doing whatever it takes to get the story regardless of who pays the price of their ambition, right? Even a child.”

  He’d never hold back a sliver of information that could help someone, especially a child.

  Did everyone think he’d forgotten Detroit? That it was just another story? That he hadn’t paid for that mistake every waking minute of every day and would for the rest of his life?

  The frustration he’d choked down for months threatened to explode. Not now. He needed to get out of here and think. He clenched the arms of his chair, taking in shallow breaths drawn through locked jaws.

  Kirsten’s breathing wasn’t much calmer, but she had no idea how close she was to seeing true fury.

  He spoke past the tight muscles in his constricted throat. “Let’s get something clear between us. Detroit’s in my past and has nothing to do with this case. So what does a kid’s cry have to do with anything?”

  She leaned forward, that spooky control in place like an invisible tether of propriety holding her back from making the mistake of an emotional reaction. “Sally Stanton left the hospital with her five-year-old child last night and was never seen again until her body turned up this morning. We have confirmation her son is missing. He was probably alive when you received that phone call. If we’d known about the child’s voice in the background we would have put out an APB on a man with a small child immediately. Might have gotten a jump on this case.”

  Ah, shit.

  She stood then, bending down and forward, hands flattened on the desktop. “If the police had done that, they’d have realized they had an APB on a woman that fit Sally’s description and put it together sooner, and started a search for that child.”

  A missing child. Riley lost his anger with his next labored breath. Had the killer taken the little boy?

  What had he done with the child?

  Bile rushed up Riley’s throat so fast he thought his head would burst from the pressure.

  Detroit hovered at the edge of his sanity, ready to blast into his world with the slightest invitation. Riley saw it all again so clearly, sitting in the woods with a man who had kidnapped three children.

  Two dead and one small boy buried alive, waiting to be rescued.

  Dots swam in Riley’s vision.

  Going there stretched his frayed control. Push back, run, dive away from those images. He couldn’t let the nightmare get a claw hold. Not now.

  “Mr. Walker?” Kirsten’s voice faltered. For the first time since entering she didn’t sound combative, but concerned.

  He didn’t want her concern. Didn’t deserve anyone’s.

  With iron control that had gotten him to this point, he dropped a blank mask in place and regrouped mentally. “Had no idea. If that child’s voice had registered when I spoke to J. T. this morning I’d have told him immediately.” He cleared his throat and met Kirsten’s unyielding gaze. She’d confirmed one thing a moment ago. She didn’t dislike just him. She despised the media. “You made your point. I’m a trained observer. I should’ve caught that. What else do you want?”

  “I want this child back alive. If you truly mean to help this investigation, no games and no grandstanding with live interviews.”

  Damn, he didn’t think she had any more daggers to throw, but that one nailed him in the center of his chest. Only a fool would rush in waving a red flag in front of her now. Riley had been called a lot of things, but fool wasn’t one of them. He changed his mind on telling her he thought the killer had his cell phone number since he didn’t even know if that had been the guy for sure. Could have been a crank call. Hostile as Kirsten was right now, she’d probably confiscate his phone.

  Then where would Sally’s kid be if the guy called and a stranger answered? The killer would know immediately that the police had Riley’s phone.

  Dammit, though, he’d missed that child whining in the background of this morning’s call. He wouldn’t make another mistake like that. Or let this kid down.

  Riley smothered his sick disappointment under a hard layer of professionalism, determined to get the information he’d come for. “I’m concerned about this missing child, too, but I think there’s more to this killing than domestic violence.”

  Kirsten sat down, elbows on her desk, hands clasped. “Of course you do. Otherwise, how could you make this into a major story for your station.”

  Getting damned tired of that tune. Sure, he needed a story, but that wasn’t the only spur driving him as of right now. “If you figure out who killed Sally you might find the kid. Isn’t that worth looking harder at this case? Philly PD is stuck trying to find yet another killer on no budget. This is where the media could help.”

  “Help? Like you helped in Detroit?”

  Fuck. This. He had sources she didn’t and wouldn’t use if she did.

  Without another word, he stood up and walked out.

  Chapter 13

  Lucinda Myers parked her silver 560 SL Mercedes in the circular driveway between perfectly trimmed hedges dusted with snow. A charming neighborhood, but then most of the custom-built houses in neighborhoods on the northwest side of Philadelphia were pleasant and attractive. Zip codes with a mix of new and old money where social standing ruled.

  But the address had nothing to do with why Lucinda lived here. She’d fallen in love with Stan, a man who worked hard for every penny he earned as a television executive and strived to give his family – her and Kelsey – the best.

  Providing a home in a safe neighborhood meant more to Stan than social standing.

  Unfortunately, all the money in the world wouldn’t fix her little girl’s problems.

  Clouds gathered densely overhead. Lucinda hoped the impending snow would entice a six-year-old into leaving the house to make snow angels or build a snowman.

  Kelsey loved the snow, or had until recently.

  Lucinda climbed out of the car and prayed she’d found a way to pull her child out of her depressed state. Everything in the tall shopping bags piled along the back seat was for Kelsey. Lucinda enjoyed perusing malls about as much as she’d like to give birth standing up.

  But she and Stan desperately searched for anything that would turn Kelsey into the bright and cheerful child she’d once been. She loved Stan even more for trying everything the school counselor advised that might help Kelsey.

  They were running out of options and had considered therapy, but that suggestion had scared Kelsey so badly she’d hidden from them for a whole day until they’d relented. That had caused Stan to be even more frustrated, but he refused to make Kelsey go to the therapist. Said he feared she would lapse into a deeper depression if they pushed her.

  Lucinda gathered up the bags. Maybe the dresses and games she’d found would at least put a smile on her daughter’s face.

  For a child who had always been outgoing, Kelsey became more withdrawn each day. Lucinda would not stop until she figured out what to do. She’d poured her heart out to the priest where they worshipped at the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, who suggested spending more time with her. But she and Stan already included their daughter in everything they did.

  In fact, Stan doted on Kelsey. He’d treated her as if she were his own flesh and blood from the moment their relationship turned serious and he’d asked Lucinda to marry him.

  Stan had gotten more involved w
ith the church in the last few months. He volunteered on the weekends that Kelsey attended programs there. Lucinda couldn’t want for a better father for her child. A guardian angel had sent her a man who’d fallen in love with her and Kelsey.

  But Kelsey had stopped going near the computer, the one special thing she and Stan had shared.

  Lucinda juggled the bags and headed for the front door and climbed the steps. The Colonial style, two-story brick house was ten times the size of the one-bedroom apartment she and Kelsey had called home when Kelsey’s father had died. Opening the front door, she stepped inside and deposited the bags on the marble floor of the entry.

  She started to call out for Kelsey to come down when a high-pitched wail echoed from above.

  Every mother knew her child’s cry. Lucinda rushed up the steps. “Kelsey!”

  “No, Daddy, stop it!” screeched from way down the hall.

  Lucinda reached the upper floor and raced toward the sobs.

  “Don’t! Daddy stop!”

  A chilling fear gripped Lucinda’s heart at the shrill cries of her child. When she burst into her daughter’s bedroom, Kelsey jerked away from her father and ran to hide in the space between her canopied princess bed and the wall.

  “What’s wrong?” Lucinda wanted to run to Kelsey, but stopped when she took in Stan’s tense eyes. He stood between her and Kelsey.

  Surprise deepened the worry lines in his face.

  His gray eyes had never looked that kind of frustrated before, but this was his first time at being a father and frustration came with parenting. He’d never had a flash temper, but something clearly bothered him now. She could see anger in the way his jaw muscles tightened.

  The dark storm permeating his gaze didn’t give her the feeling of just a bad day at the office.

  He swiped his hand over his face. “Nothing’s wrong. Kelsey tripped walking with that blanket she drags around. I tried to check to see if she had hurt herself and she freaked out.” He turned his face to where their daughter hid. “Are you okay, Kelsey?”

  Muffled sobs answered him.