Atonement (18 page)

Hunt stared at her. Cassy seemed to hold her breath in anticipation of his answer. Slowly, he gave a nod. “I'll make some calls. You're probably right.”

Nic glanced at Cassy, catching the relief on her sister's face. Maybe things with Agent Hunt weren't as bad as Nic made them out to be. He was doing his job.

Or she was giving him too much credit on his personality for her sister's sake.

“See, if the two of you just stop trying to have a pissing contest, you can both work together and get to the bottom of this mess,” Cassy commented.

Nic glanced at the clock. It was time for her to get ready and leave for duty anyway. She bolted down the rest of her coffee, ignoring the burning in her throat.

“I'm leaving for work. You're on your own.” She headed for the doorway, paused, and looked back at the two. “Let's face it, as long as there's a fed around who worships The General, there will continue to be pissing contests.”

A strangled noise came from Agent Asshole as Nic vacated the dining room. The score was two to one in her favor.

Nic slipped into the department and hesitated in the doorway. No one was here.

Well, not entirely. The sheriff's office door was closed, indicating that he was here but needed privacy. Since Agent Asshole was still holed up in her dining room with Cassy, she knew he wasn't the one in there.

Con perhaps? That thought didn't settle well with her. If he was in there spilling her confessions from last night, she was done working these cases and on her way to one of two scenarios: off duty and unpaid, or on restriction and assigned to her desk until further notice. Neither were options she was willing to take. But she couldn't swallow her pride and barge into that office to find out what was going on.

She'd have to trust that Con would uphold his end of their bargain from the other day and give her some time to work this out. Last night was … a fluke. She could control the PTSD and not let it affect her job. Hopefully Con believed that, too.

Nic scrunched her face. Damn it, she was on the job. It was O'Hanlon, not Con. She snorted. What the hell. After their rather intimate conversation and dance last night, there would be no going back to calling him O'Hanlon.

Someone needed to slap some freaking common sense back into her. She was letting her libido get the best of her.

Focus, Nic. He's a man, and he's not worth losing your head over. Not to mention he's got a shit list that could ruin you good.

Gathering her wits, she forced herself to take a seat at her desk. A fresh stack of papers sat on the corner, probably something Deputy Jennings had dropped off for her to go over. She pulled them closer and scanned the material, halting when her brain registered what she was reading.

Email correspondences between Sheila Walker and Seth Moore. Nic backtracked and re-read what she'd skimmed. In one conversation, Sheila referred to someone as “The Priest.” As in some guy who stood in front of a congregation and preached? A church priest?

Nic grabbed a notepad and pen and jotted down her own notes from the report. When she filled half the page, she checked the sheriff's office door: still closed. No Jennings or Walker—it was safe for her to proceed. Digging out her cell, she called Cassy.

“Hell has frozen over, because my sister is actually calling me.”

“Can the clichés. I've got something I want to run past you, but I don't want Agent Asshole to hear.”

If it were possible, Nic might have felt the heat from Cassy's sigh. “He's not near me at the moment. I think he's pulling that favor for you. Which, by the way, you haven't upheld your end, yet.”

“Give me a break. I just got into the department and found a juicy tidbit waiting for me. Get something to write on and have the Walker and Moore files handy.” She gave Cassy a few seconds to organize. “Ready?”

“Shoot.”

“Shelia Walker was having an affair with Seth Moore. We have email correspondences between the two indicating as much. Our newbie computer whiz left me a stack of their emails, and it looks like Mrs. Walker was trying to break things off with her lover, but Mr. Moore wasn't having any of it.”

“Did she mention why she wanted to break it off?”

“Not specifically. Vague terms about her husband and the priest.”

“Priest? Like a father in the Catholic Church?”

Nic drew curlicues on her page of notes. “I'd assume so. She just referred to this person as ‘The Priest.'”

“Is there a Catholic church in this town? Because if there is, you need to pay a visit to whomever is in charge.”

Nic cringed. The last place on earth she wanted to be was in a church. She hadn't even gone to Aiden's funeral, which had been held in his family's staunchly religious church.

“Do you want me to send Boyce to do it?”

“No. I'll go. I know the father. He's been to a few functions to give a blessing or prayer, or whatever it is they do.”

Creaking from the other side of the building alerted Nic. She spotted Con leaving the sheriff's office. Damn it to hell, she'd been right.

“Gotta go,” she whispered to her sister and ended the call.

She had two seconds to make a decision: bail and put off whatever they had planned for her or face the music. Her muscles tensed, ready to act on her first choice.

As if he sensed what she was about to do, Con hurried to her desk—alone. He snagged a nearby chair, spun it around, straddled it, and sat, his arms resting on the arched back. “The police chief and Shane have figured out where everyone is to be positioned tomorrow for the parade. I got stationed near the end of the route.”

Relief flooded through Nic. Everyone—the city police and the sheriff's department—was on deck to direct the parade route and divert traffic. She knew that.

“Okay,” she said, drawing it out. “Did they happen to mention where I'm supposed to be?”

“Not to me. Are you going to let me know what you learned from Doc Drummond yesterday? Or am I making a needless trip to the hospital?”

So he'd sort of forgiven her for running off on him. “Maybe. I need to run into town for something. When I get back, I'll bring the vitals.”

Con frowned, his eyebrows hooding his eyes. “Vitals? Is that like something that requires medical assistance?”

A smile played with her lips. He really had gotten under her skin.

“Not really. You'll see when I get back.” She pocketed her phone and stood, tucking her notepad under her arm.

“Does this something in town deal with what we're working on?” Suspicion drenched Con's question.

Guilt played havoc on Nic for keeping him in the dark on this. But she really had no idea what The Priest was all about and didn't want to lead Con down this rabbit hole for a stupid reason. Then again, she could defer to him and let Con deal with the religious order and its hierarchy.

Why not? He probably came from a church-going background. Weren't all good Irishmen good Catholics? He'd be better suited to talk to Father Evans at St. Mary's than she would.

Hold on a moment.
If she wasn't about to let Agent Hunt do the job, she wasn't about to pawn it off on Con. She wasn't a coward. She could face down the gauntlet and hopefully get the answers she'd need.

“Nic?”

The warning note in his voice triggered a deeper sense of guilt. Hadn't she taken a step toward trusting him? If she did this alone, in silence, he'd use it against her. Maybe even roll on her to Sheriff Hamilton about the PTSD breakdown she had last night.

“Jennings found something in the emails about a priest, and I was going to check on it.” The words spewed from her mouth.

Con gave a slow nod of his head, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “Sounds good to me.” He pushed up from the chair and returned it to its place. “Let me know what you find out.”

Gaping at his back as he headed for the exit, Nic looked down at the crumpled notes in her hand. “Aren't you going to insist on coming?”

He paused and turned. “Nope. I think you've got it covered. I need to do some things at the police station. You know, where I normally work. T'at grand place t'at gives me money t'at pays for me spuds and porridge.”

This time the smile emerged. “Aye, and all the Guinnesses you can drink.”

“T'ere be t'at.”

It was odd hearing him speak with a thick accent. Maura was the sole person in his family that held on to it, but even hers had waned some during her long years of living in America.

“Con, I asked Agent Hunt for a favor. He was checking to see if he couldn't fast-track the tox screens.”

“Why?”

“Doc Drummond found bruising on Giselle Tomberlin's legs that indicated someone was with her at the time of her death. It looks suspect that she did this of her own free will.”

“Assisted suicide by drugging?”

“The bead!”

It had been a rosary bead. Catholics—that she knew of—were the only ones who used them. And now this revelation about The Priest.

“What about it?”

“Let me check on this priest lead, and maybe I'll be able to give you something solid.”

She wanted it to be murder. She wanted to believe someone was out there making these people kill themselves. Because the alternative was crushing.

These people had been just as selfish as Aiden.

The Priest settled back and listened to the ramblings of a furious man. This might work out better than he'd thought. Now to plant the ideas and move along.

As the confessor continued to grumble, The Priest fingered the rosary. Each bead represented the next step in his process to bringing the confessor to their atonement. The Priest counted his successes by the beads. As he reached the last, his count faltered.

He peered through the dark at the rosary. A bead was missing.

An uncustomary slip of profanity in Latin escaped his lips.

The confessor faltered. “Sorry, what was that, Father?”

Masking his anger, The Priest glanced at the shadowed face on the other side. “I said a prayer for you to have your grievances resolved in a manner most befitting.”

A second of silence followed his statement, then the confessor sighed, as if the weight of his troubles was lifted.

“That would be good.”

Voices reached them. One voice in particular intrigued The Priest.

She was here.

His heart raced, sending the blood rapidly pulsing through his veins. How fortunate that she would come to him.

• • •

The heady scent of hot wax, pungent incense, and aged wood enveloped her. Nic glanced at the stone pedestal with a full bowl of holy water, then bypassed it. An empty sanctuary greeted her. Her boots made dull thuds against the carpeted aisle, which echoed in the large sanctuary. The place had vaulted ceilings that, prior to sound systems, had been used for acoustics. The single strip of carpet running from the entryway to the altar did little to muffle the noise.

She should be going up in flames for standing in a holy place. She was a
murderer
after all, and they were supposed to burn in hell. Still, she couldn't help but let her eyes wander over the simple yet ornate sanctuary. Everything, from the pews to the pulpit to the communion table, was made of dark-stained wood. Stained glass windows depicting Biblical scenes of Mary and Jesus lined the walls in uniformed order. Behind the altar was an enormous stained-glass window that portrayed Mary in all her saintly glory, her arms spread wide, welcoming the lost, confused, and hurting.

A quiver started in Nic's stomach. It had been ages since she'd entered a church. The General thought himself above such nonsense, but Denise, her mother, had faithfully attended with a young Nic up until the day she couldn't leave the bed. Her stubborn and beautiful mother refused to allow something as simple as the flu to knock her flat, but it was pneumonia that took her mother's life. Nic's fledgling faith suffered in the years between her mother's death and Emma's entrance into her life. By the time Emma married The General, Nic had all but lost her hope.

She glared at the glass Mary. “Where were you when my mother begged you to spare her life for her daughter?” she muttered softly.

Where had the great saint gone when Aiden made the wrong choice and left Nic to face her demons alone?

“May I help you?”

She turned away from the window and met the expectant gaze of a kind, middle-aged man wearing the black garb of a shepherd of the flock. “Father Evans.” When he nodded, she stepped forward with her hand outstretched. “Deputy—”

“Rivers, yes, I know.” He took her hand and shook. “I couldn't help but notice from all the news reports about you and the unfortunate business earlier this week.”

A prickling feeling skittered down her spine. Would he, like the rest of the town, condemn her for a life-or-death choice she'd had to make?

“What can I help you with?” Father Evans clasped his hands in front of his body and tilted his head to the side. The stance gave him a fatherly air, caring and kind, ready to lend her a listening ear.

Wariness strengthened her resolve.

“I came to ask you a few questions.”

“I'd be glad to oblige. If you'd like, we could do this privately in my office.”

The second-to-last place on earth—following an enclosed room with The General—she ever wanted to be. Nic glanced around the sanctuary; no soul in sight. “Out here will do.”

Father Evans nodded and gestured for her to take a seat in one of the pews. Nic settled in a pew facing the alter, while the good father sat in front of her and turned so as to give her his full attention as well as keep an eye on the entire church.

The chill of the wood seeped into Nic's body. Was this how the sinners felt? On ice before their priest and their God?

“What do you prefer to be called: Father, Priest?” she asked, hunching inside of her jacket.