by Dianna Love
“That’s a priest shooting targets?” Riley couldn’t hide his surprise.
Flynn shrugged. “Likes to shoot and keeps to himself unless you talk to him. ’Course he might have time to hear a confession if you’re feeling bad about Henry.”
Riley frowned. “I don’t think so. In fact, you got a target with Henry’s fat head?”
“’Fraid not.” Flynn chuckled.
A priest who liked to shoot, huh? This should be good.
Riley clipped on his ear protection and ambled along the training range, then past the dirt and recycled-tire embankment that separated the training range from the long range. Each inhale of sulfur residue and the rubber refuse reminded him of every officer’s determination to keep Philly safe.
When Riley reached the shooting stations, a big man wearing a black down jacket and black pants occupied the center one.
Not Riley’s stereotypical image of a priest.
He chose a spot on the right side of this guy – the monsignor – who either couldn’t see Riley with his body turned to shoot right handed, or didn’t want to acknowledge his arrival. Accustomed to no loading tables after a couple of trips here to shoot, Riley reached in his pocket, grabbed six shells, and loaded.
The popping sound of the priest pumping six rounds from a .38 into the head of a silhouette seventy-five feet away came through Riley’s headphones.
Whoa. Hell of a shot for a priest.
The priest stood in police profile, both hands on his weapon and feet shoulder width apart. The guy had to go an easy six-feet-two, maybe three, with a wide build.
Riley loaded and emptied a round into his own target.
A steady pop, pop, pop from the .38 and thunderous kaboom, kaboom, kaboom from Riley’s .41 Magnum ensued.
He noted the tight pattern of holes when he stopped shooting.
Pushing the release on the cylinder of his weapon, Riley glanced over to the padre who also reloaded. Sandy-blonde hair styled short, angular cheek and strong jaw line would easily be taken for a powerful CEO or groomed sports jock announcer. The monsignor moved with confidence that circled arrogance.
Even if curiosity hadn’t been part of Riley’s DNA from his first breath he’d still have to know more about this guy.
“Nice shooting, Padre.” Riley lowered his weapon hand until the barrel pointed at the ground.
“Thank you.” The priest’s voice came across educated and assured. He methodically reloaded his weapon, closed the chamber, nodded at Riley still without eye contact then resumed his shooting position.
Guess Flynn wasn’t kidding when he said this guy didn’t talk.
Riley smiled. He was so accustomed to people wanting to gab to a newsman, he found being ignored somewhat amusing.
Leave it to a priest to humble him.
Riley eyed the priest’s target. The center of where the head should be was shredded. Who would have thought a man of the cloth could shoot the pit out of an olive?
Not to be outdone, Riley proceeded to demolish the center of his paper target’s head. When he stopped, the only shooting he heard came from the training range. Riley cut his eyes sideways and caught the priest checking out his target.
The monsignor’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. A smile of respect creased his lips. His gaze drifted further right until he realized Riley was watching him as well. The smile vanished with the priest’s attention. He ejected his spent casings.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Riley asked.
“My father.”
“Was he a cop?”
The priest paused, resignation heavy in the lack of motion. He raised sharp blue eyes that took Riley’s measure, processing his evaluation in one glance. Fast and decisive as a predatory bird deciding to attack or pass on a prey that could inflict damage. “Yes. He was a cop in another city.” An unreadable thought flickered across the priest’s face before he slowly nodded as if he’d decided there was no way around it. “I’m Monsignor Jack Dornan.”
“Riley Walker.” He nodded, moving into the I’m-just-curious route of questioning as if he didn’t know anything about Dornan. “You at St. Mary’s or St. Joseph’s?”
Monsignor thought for a moment before answering. “No, in Northern Liberties. St. Catherine’s. We serve a more modest crowd. I’m here to develop an outreach program.”
Philly’s middle-to-upper class attended mass at St. Mary’s or St. Joseph’s Catholic Churches. The money exchanged in some areas of the north side like Northern Liberties, Eastwick, Kingsessing and Mantau had to be washed at night to disinfect it.
“St. Catherine’s?” Riley added just enough inflection to sound sincere then shifted gears. “And St. Catherine’s is behind Philomena House, right?”
“God is behind Philomena House, but we do aid the residents.”
Riley noted the noncommittal sidestep. “Know anything about one of your parishioners who lived at Philomena who was killed last night?”
The monsignor’s nostrils flared. The scent of media must have reached him. “May I ask why you want to know?”
A civilized version of who-the-fuck-are-you?
Riley let a smile spread and extended his hand. “WNUZ anchor.” He kept his hand out, dared the priest to ignore it.
No alpha backed down from a simple challenge.
Monsignor clasped hands in a firm grip that tightened like hardened steel, giving no leeway for Riley to misjudge him as an easy target. “Tragedy strikes all families at some point. St. Catherine’s is there for every member of our parish in time of need. Nice meeting you.”
Riley had been rejected by the best, including his family. The rebuff affected him less than a drop of water on a hot skillet.
Monsignor turned away to load, his hands flexing with each deliberate movement. Impressive show of being unbothered by the reference to the killing.
“I was on site this morning when they found the body. Since you didn’t ask who had died, I guess you wouldn’t know about Sally Stanton.”
Monsignor turned his head, his jaw muscles so tight his smile looked squeezed into a small jar. “Yes, we know about Sally.”
Riley took the opening. “Gunshot wound to the head...” Just for the hell of it, and because he enjoyed pushing buttons on a man who clearly knew his way around media, Riley dropped his gaze to the .38 in Monsignor’s hand. “Small caliber bullet.”
“If you’re looking for a story on Sally Stanton, Mr. Walker, I have no comment. Talk to the police.”
“What about her missing child? Care to comment on that?”
Confusion broke through Monsignor’s steady gaze before the window into his thoughts slammed shut. It took a vicious level of control to regroup on the spot, ready for another strike.
Riley had seen professional politicians pull off that reaction under fire in front of cameras. He recognized a kindred spirit in the business of power, a player who knew his pitch point – a front man who wouldn’t panic. All qualities of a Teflon leader. Not because others protected him, but because this man would know how to protect himself.
If not for having a trained eye from covering big dog politicians, Riley might not have known he’d made a clean hit. Good to know he still had the touch to upset a power player’s game.
Small joy in a day lacking any.
Monsignor broke the silent standoff. “I realize you have a job to do, but I ask that you avoid putting further hardship on the family.”
“How can helping to find Enrique Stanton put hardship on the family? The police are working double time to find this child and the killer. I’m sure they could use your help. Any comment on that?”
Monsignor showed his experience by not rushing to answer any question, taking a couple of seconds to sort through his answer. “Of course, we’ll assist the police in any way possible. I’ll have my assistant prepare a statement for the press.”
“When?”
“We’ll have something ready within an hour.”
Riley did his own assessing. Sm
ooth answer, nothing-to-hide attitude, even a press release. All very well articulated and a great maneuver...if not for the way Monsignor’s eyes had averted past Riley’s shoulder when he spoke.
A sure sign this man was hiding something. Interesting.
“I’ll get in touch. Have a nice day, Padre.” Riley stowed his weapon and walked away, but as he reached the barricade between the ranges, he took a quick look back.
The monsignor stood with his shooting arm at his side, weapon pointed at the ground, his eyes staring down. Not thoughtful so much as determined.
Powerful. Capable. Revered.
Had Baby G nailed it?
Was Monsignor someone to fear?
Chapter 16
“Monsignor’s looking for you.”
Margo turned to answer Baylor after signing the receipt for a lumber delivery that had just been unloaded in the back lot of St. Catherine’s. “Thank you.”
He waited, reminding her of messengers from back during the dark ages when they were expected to return with a reply. Thinning salt-and-pepper hair fell to one side above his oval shaped head.
“Would you be wantin’ anything more, Mr. Baylor?”
“Think he wants you right now.” No smile, not a joker that Baylor.
“Is there an emergency?” She had no idea what would cause Baylor to spend so much time speaking with her when the height of their conversation most days was limited to “hello.”
“Don’t know, but he’s not happy ‘bout something.” Baylor shuffled a couple of steps then looked at her again. “If it was me, I’d be double-timing it.”
But Margo wasn’t Baylor and did not need to kiss up as Baylor sometimes did.
“Excuse me then.” Margo refused to rush down the hall like some kid in trouble headed for the principal’s office, but that’s exactly the way she felt right now. Her stomach squeezed with a moment of concern. What had she forgotten or messed up? When she reached her office, she squared her shoulders and crossed the room to Monsignor’s open door.
He sat at the same polished-wood desk built in the 1920’s that he’d had for the past eight years she’d known him. Had the antique possession shipped everywhere he went. He held a pen in his hand and stared at the blank legal pad in front of him as if waiting for inspiration.
“Looking for me?” she asked and started to chide him for having writer’s block on some speech when he lifted his head, his blue eyes stern and uncompromising.
Baylor was right. Monsignor did not look happy.
“You’re supposed to make sure I stay informed on everything.” He lowered the pen to his desktop and stood.
What the devil? “I do keep you informed. I – ”
“ – didn’t tell me about Sally’s son missing.”
She’d planned to finish discussing Sally and Enrique along with a few other things as soon as Monsignor returned from his appointments. He’d dashed off a list of preparations for the pope’s visit for her and the other staff to get hopping on, then took a phone call as he left the office.
Would have been a bit hard to interrupt him when he was on a roll, but telling him that right now would sound whiny.
She hated whiny and so did he.
“I’m sorry I let other issues sidetrack me.” She wanted to ask why he was upset, but pointing out that something or someone had rankled his normally imperturbable calm would not improve his mood. “Has something come up?”
“I got blindsided by a reporter at the gun range about Sally – which I thought I had under control – but he asked about her missing son. Why didn’t I know about that?”
That’s right. Today was Tuesday, the day each week he stopped at the police range where the officers were more prone to share their troubles with him in the less formal setting. She’d suggest that Monsignor pass off the duty of being the PD chaplain to Icky if Icky wasn’t so abrasive. That and the fact Monsignor wanted to make inroads into all levels of Philly government.
Margo ignored the bite in his voice and moved forward to initiate damage control. “What did this reporter want?”
“What they all want. A story. He gave me the ‘I’m concerned about this missing child’ bit, but that’s nothing more than an opening to sensationalize Sally’s death.” Monsignor lifted his hands, palms together and touched his fingers to his lips in thought. “We’re going to have heavy media focus on St. Catherine’s and Philomena House the minute news of the pope’s visit goes public. The last thing I want is this guy turning an unfortunate death and a missing child into an abuse story.”
“Some people judge the mentally challenged with an unkind eye.” Margo couldn’t abide an unfair accounting of anyone’s life. The first time she’d met Sally she made sure Monsignor took the woman’s confession so that Sally received advice wrapped with compassion.
He raised a piercing gaze to Margo. “The media is capable of much more than being unkind. Do we know for sure Enrique is missing? What details are circulating about the disappearance?”
She brushed off the feeling of once again being back in school where she’d handled pop quizzes with as much calm as a live hand grenade. Expecting to have her world blown to bits if she gave the wrong answer and failed the test.
Silly reaction. Monsignor always wanted as much information as possible when dealing with a potential problem.
Lifting her hand, she counted off things she knew on each finger. “Miss Betty took Sally and Enrique to the hospital last night after Sally fell on Enrique. Sally was supposed to call Miss Betty to pick them up after the doctor saw Enrique, but Sally never called. When Miss Betty heard the news about Sally this morning she called the hospital. They said Enrique’s rib was either bruised badly or cracked, but he was released to Sally with pain medication. They don’t know where she and Enrique went after that.”
“Poor child and Sally.” Monsignor massaged his forehead with two long fingers. “Sally had her problems.”
“Sally didn’t abuse her son, but the hospital visit and Enrique’s injury has been foremost in the news reports.” Margo shook her head to herself. “Of course, WNUZ trotted out their new expert on child abuse.”
“Dr. Ziegler.” Monsignor nodded. “That’s actually a good thing. She’s one of the best, who can identify whether a child is suffering from abuse or some other emotional issue. I’ve referred families to her since I arrived in Philadelphia.”
That Monsignor referred troubled souls to Dr. Ziegler said a lot about the doctor in Margo’s opinion. Monsignor was a savvy judge of people.
Monsignor stared out his window and murmured, “Even when abuse happens we must remember to hate the sin and love the sinner.”
Margo longed to have his capacity for love and compassion, the reason he hadn’t chewed her out over getting caught unprepared by the media. “What can I do to help with the media?”
“I need some uninterrupted time. I’ve got to write a press release right now.”
“I thought you wanted me doing press releases.”
“This one’s too important.”
That stung, but Margo had told him a long time ago to always give her the truth. She couldn’t fault him if he failed to sugar coat his words to spare her ego. He considered her on the same side of the line as him when it came to taking a stand, that she’d take her licks and not complain.
“Don’t let me walk out of here uninformed again, Margo.”
The good thing about an honest relationship was, she didn’t pull punches either. “Fine. You want to be kept informed? Sally is dead, Enrique is missing and Bruno beat his wife into submission again. Lisa’s in the hospital and Bruno is here for his usual confession.” Usual because Bruno was about as redeemable as a hyena.
Monsignor’s frown pulsed with impatience. “Bruno normally sees Father Ickerson.”
“Ickerson isn’t here.” Her tone said truth-can-be-a-bitch.
“Bruno will have to wait until I get this press release written. I told the reporter we’d have one ready and I ex
pect him to call soon.”
Margo wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she enjoyed a certain relief at not dealing with writing that release. Not that she couldn’t write one, but her expertise fell more along the lines of presenting program issues for community awareness and positive publicity releases. Death was personal to every family, something she’d never consider writing about publicly.
Wasn’t it just like some heartless reporter to use another person’s misery for a stupid news story? Those people should get a life.
“You’re needed in the chapel, Father.”
Margo spun around at Baylor’s deep voice. How long had he been standing there? His feet were planted in the hallway to the side of her office door that was a straight shot to Monsignor’s office.
She answered for Monsignor. “Please tell Bruno that Father Ickerson isn’t back yet.”
“I told him.” Baylor didn’t come in or leave, just kept eyeing the interior of Margo’s office as though he would see something new after working on buildings like this one since Noah got into the boat business. They were fortunate he’d been around this old structure prior to its being turned into St. Catherine’s. Baylor seemed to be the only one who could coax the heat to work or keep water flowing through pipes that should have been replaced years ago.
He had hands capable of doing a simple repair, or restoring the fine detail in the architectural carvings scattered throughout the church.
Baylor’s gaze swept back to her. “Bruno ain’t acting patient.”
“I’ll only be a few minutes.” Monsignor sighed and sat down, lifting his pen to write.
“Bruno’s getting agitated. He kicked the confession booth wall when I told him Father Ickerson wasn’t here. Valdez was in the chapel and got onto Bruno about how he should act right inside a church. They’re...having words.”
Monsignor rose to his feet. “I will not have fighting on these premises.” His words were low, rather than loud, a sure sign of his agitation.
Baylor lifted his shoulders and looked away as if giving words to his thoughts might get him in trouble.
“Fine.” Monsignor ran his fingers across his hair, ruffling the neat layers. “Tell Bruno I’m coming.”