Justifiable

by Dianna Love

  Baylor nodded and left.

  Monsignor turned to Margo. “Write the press release.”

  What?

  He continued, “Keep it brief. Make sure to express our concern for Sally and Enrique. Ask for everyone to participate in a prayer vigil for finding Enrique.”

  Shoot. So much for dodging the sensitive press release. Now it was back in her lap and she had no idea where to start. But if she backed away from this, Monsignor might start looking at her differently for shirking a simple task.

  One that a director should be capable of and he believed she was. She’d write the press release and make it the best he’d ever seen, even if it took the rest of the day.

  He crossed the room to where his stole, the white scarf priests wore, sat folded on a wrought iron and marble side table. With the stole looped across his shoulders, he walked toward the door, slowing long enough to tell her quietly, “Be very careful. I’ve heard about this guy before. Riley Walker is a barracuda. Do not give him anything he can sink his teeth into. Shut this guy down.”

  She felt her future slipping into quicksand. “Maybe we could – ”

  Monsignor released a stream of air so tense it sounded like a pressure cooker ready to blow. “The last thing I need is the police called in to break up a fight in the chapel. I told Walker we’d have a statement by 4:00 PM. Get it done and get rid of him. I trust you to do this.”

  Monsignor strode away like a general heading into battle.

  Consulting her watch, Margo felt the first shiver of a panic attack. She didn’t have a prayer of pulling this off in twelve minutes.

  Chapter 17

  “Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession,” Bruno said without sincerity.

  That would be three weeks since your wife got out of the hospital the last time, you son of Satan’s whore. His heart raced, pumping angry blood through his body. The air he breathed reeked of all the souls that had passed through St. Catherine’s begging for forgiveness, spewing lies upon lies until the very wood stank with the deceptive words.

  The dull thrum of hammers working on the outreach center reached even here, where all should be peaceful, contemplative. The way a holy place was meant to be.

  Clean, well ordered, an oasis in a world gone mad.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt her, Father,” Bruno continued in his slow, plodding way. He’d drag on, complaining until he broke down in tears, then calm down and go back to life as usual for a bully. “I didn’t. But she kept pushing at me, and pushing. I get off the job site after a long, hard day. All I want is a cold beer. Want to sit down. Not that much to ask. But what does she do? She’s yammering at me about the plumbing and the kids and her stupid sister.”

  What’s a good penance for a man who uses his fists on the person he’s vowed, before God, to honor and protect?

  Bruno Parrick was a thirty-one-year-old ironworker built like a bull who could probably lift a bus and throw it. Lisa needed a protector. Talking to Bruno was a waste of oxygen.

  Maybe punish his hands? Make it hard to slam Lisa across a room.

  Or Bruno’s mouth...to stop the spew of lies and self-pity.

  “I just want some peace and quiet, Father. I’m a good father. A good provider.” Bruno’s whine deepened. “I come to church every week. All I want is what’s coming to me. Is that too much to ask?”

  No, my son, it’s not.

  Chapter 18

  Why would a monsignor be in a place like this?

  Two blocks north of Race Street and the Ben Franklin Bridge overpass, Riley pulled to the curb in front of a Catholic church, once ornate and crafted with loving hands, now dowdy and faded. This was a far cry from the type of place a bishop of the monsignor’s caliber normally hung out.

  Jack Dornan’s name surfaced in the news, often connected to Philly’s prominent citizens.

  A monsignor was the most exalted of priests, Dornan rumored to be among the top of even that heap based on what Riley had learned in the past hour.

  Why wasn’t Dornan in a power location like New York or even in the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, the most distinguished parish in Philly’s Catholic Archdiocese?

  Why here?

  The three-story brick structure to the right of the chapel looked like it might have once been a school. Riley had never followed any religion, but even he knew a lot of inner city schools had closed down when families fled to suburbia. But this building appeared to be undergoing a transformation if the action behind the upstairs windows was a clue.

  Riley gave his truck engine a little gas and turned onto the narrow drive that ran alongside the church. When the potholed thoroughfare funneled him into a parking lot, he spied a restored Mercedes sedan, the full-size one like they made in the 90s. Same one he’d seen at the shooting range. The sedan and four unremarkable vehicles sat in the paved lot. Two late-model white pickup trucks, a rusted-out green beater step-side Chevy, and on an adjacent weed-covered lot, a utility trailer carrying a load of 2 x 4’s covered with a blue tarp.

  Someone in coveralls, with the hood of his coat shielding his head and face, walked out of the back door of the church and over to the truck. He lifted something small like a cell phone from the cab then hurried back to the church.

  Riley circled the vehicles and stopped when his cell phone rang. He kept the truck idling for warmth, noting the time at almost four. Temperatures were dropping with the light sleet falling. No point in sitting in the cold while he talked.

  He got “Walker” out of his mouth and Biddy started in.

  “Got something for ya on Monsignor Jack Dornan.”

  “I met the guy. A slick number.”

  “He’s a badass.”

  Riley sat back and scratched his chin. “I keep hearing that. He’s a priest.” Who shoots like a pro. “Where’d he get that reputation?”

  “Here’s what I heard. The bishop over St. Catherine’s brought Dornan in from San Francisco to clean up after the embezzlement mess in Philly and to spearhead their outreach program.”

  “What mess?”

  “That’s right. Happened before you got here. St. Catherine’s had a deacon handling the books and incoming donations. The city partnered with the bishop to set up Philomena House. Everything was moving along fine until the bottom fell out of the stock market.”

  “Were city funds tied to the market?” Riley asked.

  “Nah. The deacon was tradin’ stocks on the side, playing the market big time when it crashed. He got in serious money trouble and cooked up a scam with a bunch of guys he found to bid on the remodeling materials for Philomena. The president of a supply company that got knocked out of the bids heard from the contractors doing the remodeling that supplies were substandard and coming in missing materials. That ran up a red flag. By the time the bishop heard from a city councilman about the rumors and investigated it, word had already spread that the church was running a scam.”

  “So this St. Catherine’s bunch is suspect to begin with.” Riley watched the landscape blur under a layer of sleet on his windshield. “There might be more of a story here than I first thought.”

  “Oh, hell, no.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “The media hosed the church, slamming them for bleeding the city and Philly’s citizens for funds and donations on the heels of the recent national economic fallout. Henry-the-Whore smeared the church in the paper, called for audits of money donated. TV stations ran nasty sound bites. Got really bad.”

  “No surprise there. Anything’s game in this business.” For some, but Riley had a personal code he lived by that didn’t include harming the innocent. There were plenty of stories about the corrupt and dangerous without hurting someone unnecessarily. “Was the church guilty?”

  “No. In the end, the bishop did bring in auditors who cleared the church of any mishandling of funds. Basically, the only one guilty was the deacon, who went to jail. The bishop suffered a heart attack. The mayor s
aid the media owed the bishop and St. Catherine’s an apology and said the city was behind Philomena House. It finally died out just about when you showed up.”

  That had to be why Riley hadn’t heard anything about it. “Did Lehman issue any apologies?”

  “That’s the funny part. WNUZ was the only station that didn’t sling shit at St. Catherine’s because one of the board members had gone to church and school there as a kid. He made it clear he would not tolerate the church being condemned without evidence. We came out smelling like a rose for once.”

  “So how does Dornan play into all this?”

  “He’s got a street rep of cleaning up other people’s messes. That’s how he’s climbed so fast in the church. My buddy said the monsignor is known as the Enforcer. Uses unorthodox methods.”

  “What do you mean?” The more Riley heard, the more he wanted to dig deep on this guy.

  “Back in San Fran, Dornan stopped two gangs from warring in his parish by riding with each one for a couple weeks. Word was, inside a month the gangs were more afraid of him than the cops.”

  Damn. “I’m sitting at St. Catherine’s. He’s supposed to have a press release for me.”

  “Don’t pull them into anything, Walker. Dornan’s a golden boy. They love him here. The city and WNUZ will come down on your ass if you mess with him.”

  Perfect. Riley hung up and turned off the engine. His instincts prodded him to find the truth, regardless of Dornan’s reputation. If there was something to be learned about Sally’s death, Riley would question anyone, even a priest, who had a piece of information that could make a difference.

  Especially a priest with Dornan’s reputation.

  So why did Riley hesitate?

  Because those same instincts had convinced him to interview a killer in Detroit.

  Chapter 19

  St. Catherine’s Church mourns the loss of...

  Margo started the first paragraph of the press release again. For the third time. Her gaze strayed to her stalled fingers, then to everything within the four walls of her office that had recently been painted Tucson Beige. A color she’d won the battle over after goin’ head to head with Baylor and Icky, whose preferences both leaned to the bright side. She’d thought Icky was goin’ to go over her head to Monsignor at one point, but he’d backed down.

  The annoying priest could be reasonable on occasion.

  Too bad he couldn’t write a press release.

  The smell of panic seeping out of her pores overpowered the fresh paint odor. She finally faced the clock on her laptop. It refused to help her out.

  Two minutes past four.

  If she could just get out of this office to walk and think for a bit she could come up with the right words. She missed the outdoors from when she used to help her Da on the crab boat he operated out of Portland, Maine.

  Thinkin’ had been easy back then. Too easy. She’d thought her way right out of a safe home and into the hands of a monster.

  Focus on the task. Monsignor’s mantra played through her mind any time she stepped backwards into that place in her head where the world twisted in a frenzy of pain and fear.

  The therapist Monsignor had found for Margo had taught her how to deal with anxiety. External scars could be removed with plastic surgery, if she’d do it, but the internal ones were the truly disfigurin’ kind.

  Those clung more tenaciously than a leech to a healthy host.

  Margo drew from what the therapist had taught her. She squeezed her fingers into tight fists then stretched them out like starfish, took a breath and focused on her task.

  St. Catherine’s Church mourns the loss of...

  That’s when she heard footsteps in the hallway, coming toward her office. She recognized everyone by the sound of the person’s steps. Like Icky, whose snippy steps matched his attitude.

  Icky’s protégé Valdez shuffled quietly, reserved. She prided herself on not addin’ “suspiciously” to the list this time. She wouldn’t judge the young man unfairly.

  Monsignor’s bold stride could be heard the length of the hallway.

  Deacon Grizzle lumbered along like the giant he was.

  Baylor made no sound when he walked, which was why he usually caught her off guard.

  But these new footsteps clipped across the hardwood hallway, each strike echoing with confidence...and determination.

  She had a feelin’ who she was about to meet. Time had run out. Apprehension clawed the inside of her chest. Couldn’t he have given her a few more minutes?

  The footsteps ended, followed by a brisk knuckle rap against her doorframe.

  Margo snapped her outer personality into place and turned with the face of surprised innocence. “Yes?”

  The visitor stepped inside her office, clearly used to lettin’ himself into any situation. This guy stood just as tall and wide in the shoulders as Monsignor, and the two men’s similarities didn’t stop there. This man’s eyes took in her, the office, the computer, everything with sharp precision, like that of an eagle on the hunt.

  Eagles were also handsome. And dangerous predators.

  “Is Monsignor Dornan here?”

  “And who would be askin’ for him?”

  “I’m Riley Walker with WNUZ.” His eyes were blue, but not crystal clear like Monsignor’s. The pair bearing down on her now had the deep-blue color of an ocean, the kind that hid as many secrets as the bottom of the sea.

  Monsignor had warned her Walker was a barracuda.

  Just as dangerous a predator as an eagle.

  She had to tilt her head back, same as she did to address Monsignor when he stood over her. “Monsignor’s not here at the moment. He’s takin’ confession.”

  “You’re Irish.” He smiled, eyes twinkling unlike any barracuda she’d ever seen, and flipped her initial impression on its keel. Then he offered his hand to shake.

  As though she mattered.

  “That I am.” She did matter and deserved the respect he showed. Monsignor had told her that over and again. Unless you gave a person reason not to, they owed you respect.

  But she had to admit feelin’ a bit flattered for some reason.

  Out of courtesy and professional habit, she stood and clasped his hand. He shook hers with strength yet gentleness. A flick of energy raced between her palm and his. She snatched her hand back the minute he released hers, then smiled to hide her reaction. That had been strange.

  “I should have known anyone with eyes as green as yours came with a nice accent.” He continued smiling, putting her at ease. A charmer, this one.

  Who was here for a press release.

  Shiftin’ back to business, she pointed at a chair against the far wall. “You’re welcome to have a seat over there and wait. Monsignor should be back soon.” That would buy her some time and she wouldn’t mind an attractive man decoratin’ her office for a half hour.

  “Are you Ms. Cortese?”

  She shoved her hands in her pants pockets, foolishly bothered by the way he said her name. “That’s right. You’re here for the press release I’m workin’ on. If you’ll take a seat I’ll finish it up for you and answer any questions you have.”

  “I appreciate your offer to help, but I don’t think it’s fair to ask the questions I have of a church secretary. The monsignor would probably agree with me.” He whipped out a wider version of that smile.

  A church secretary?

  He hadn’t been showing respect, but trying to lower her guard by actin’ sincerely pleased to meet her.

  She knew his kind. Riley Walker was a self-assured sexist dog who thought he could charm his way past any woman. There were two names outside the door on the wall. Hers and Monsignor’s. Walker assumed the most menial of positions she could possess.

  “I am the chief of staff at St. Catherine’s,” she said with a smile her father would have said indicated rough seas for Walker. Very rough.

  Chapter 20

  Damn. Major screw up.

  Riley watched the groun
d he’d just gained with this woman – Chief of Staff Cortese – fall away faster than a mudslide in California.

  He’d been making headway with her, anticipating how he might find out more through a secretary or receptionist – like in most companies – than he would from upper management.

  Cortese had surprised him with a real smile a minute ago. The smile hadn’t actually surprised him, but how that one simple expression had transformed her face. When she’d first turned those rich green eyes on him, Riley had been struck by the interesting composition of a wide mouth, narrow, almost-pointed nose, pale complexion and thick auburn hair springing in wiry curls to her shoulders. No makeup, fairly plain, but nice looking in a natural way.

  Then she’d stretched those lips into a smile that ignited her eyes.

  But the fire sparking there right now did not bode well for him. Arms crossed, soft brown eyebrows arched in challenge and those peach-colored lips tightened into battle-ready mode.

  Riley lifted his hands in surrender. “My mistake.” He wasn’t above flirting with a pretty woman to smooth out a faux pas. “Sorry, I’m not familiar with the Catholic Church. When did they start letting attractive women run the place?” He winked.

  “Let?” She glared at him like he’d killed her dog.

  Hell. Put the shovel down before this gets worse. “Uh, we were talking about the press release.” What the devil had happened to the connection between his brain and his mouth? He’d just managed to demean the woman in less than five minutes. Twice.

  “Sit.” She pointed to a wooden armchair against the wall. “There. I’ll have it in a minute.”

  Underneath that feminine exterior hid a general. One who had pulled inside the fortress and bolted the gate to any further conversation. His own dumbass fault.

  Riley walked over to the chair and heard hers roll across the wood floor as she sat down at her computer. He ignored the chair she’d directed him to and remained standing where he could study the pictures pinned on a cork wallboard. Photos of children playing in the snow, a family in front of the church, a wedding party in simple attire...most had Cortese hugging a kid or hamming it up with another female.