Coming in 2013 from Covenant Communications
Winner, 1st Place, LDStorymakers Conference 2010 First Chapter
Contest, Mystery/Suspense Category
Father Patrick lay on the pavement outside the parish office, his skin ashen, his purple stole wrapped around his throat. Numb with shock, Molly willed herself to look away, to ground herself in the smell of fresh-cut grass, the limestone cobbles, the echo of the police’s measured footsteps. But the details only made the horror even more surreal.
She hugged Kathleen, her sobbing coworker, and wished she could abandon herself to the same wave of grief—the emotion she should be feeling.
Uniformed officers cordoned off the area around Father Patrick and the open office door. She always locked that door. Molly eyed the doorframe: no obvious cracks, scratches or other signs of forced entry. Had she forgotten?
Although Father Patrick thwarted the robbery, he’d paid dearly for her negligence. With all the rumors of criminal activity at St. Adelaide, they always expected some tragedy—but not like this, not some random robbery, not one of their priests.
She swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. She wouldn’t be any good to anyone—least of all the Chicago PD—if she lost her head. Someone had to talk to the police, give the gruesome scene context. With Kathleen in hysterics, it had to be Molly.
A policewoman gently towed Kathleen, still weeping, down the hallway. Another officer led Molly through an arched portal to the car park.
“Name and occupation?” he asked.
She took a deep breath and opted not to give her nickname. “Mary Malone. The parish secretary here at Saint Adelaide.”
The policeman noted this in his pad. “You know the victim, then?”
Molly nodded. “Father Colin Patrick. Was it a robbery—have you checked the doorway? There aren’t any signs of forced entry.”
“What, are you really into CSI or something?” The policeman raised an eyebrow.
“I was in law enforcement.”
The officer lowered his notepad. “Yeah? Chicago PD?”
“Garda Síochána—in Ireland. Now, abou’ Father Patrick?”
“Guess that explains the accent. So you found your pastor—”
She shook her head. “Father Fitzgerald is our pastor. He should be in the confessional.” Confession had brought her here on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. She never expected to find . . . She didn’t have to see the supine figure to remember the sickening pallor, the dead set to his eyes. “Father Patrick is his assistant.” Molly winced and corrected herself. “Was.”
The first change of many they’d have to make now.
Special Agent Zach Saint brushed the grit from the bullet hole in Holy Name Cathedral’s cornerstone. Eighty years ago, the head of the Irish mob was gunned down here. Any minute, Zach’s boss, Sellars, would come tell him if the archbishop would let Zach join a parish across town—and the battle against organized crime so infamous in Chicago.
But he’d be the first to do it in this capacity. He tugged at the white plastic collar insert
“Quit playing with that.”
Zach turned around. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Reginald Sellars glowered up at him from the sidewalk. “You see other pastors messing with their collars?”
“You try. It chafes.” He suspected a misunderstanding about the nature of his LDS mission convinced the Bureau he’d make the perfect Catholic clergyman with an intensive course at a Chicago seminary. After three weeks of practice playing a priest, he was prepared to root out the priest-murdering mob in St. Adelaide parish. Sort of.
The heavyset African American pursed his lips. “Get used to it.”
“Now the archbishop is okay with a Mormon pretending to be a priest?”
Sellars shrugged. “He liked your little reference to Matthew.”
“Then he shouldn’t have kicked me out. And it was from Mark.”
“Whatever.” Sellars held out a manila folder as Zach ambled down the stairs. “One more look?”
He shook his head. Alongside his crash course in catechism, canon and communion, he’d studied the profiles and pictures of the mobsters for the three weeks since Father Patrick’s murder. If he didn’t have the suspects memorized by now, it was too late. He traded Sellars the contents of his wallet for a license and credit cards for his cover, Timothy O’Leary.
Father Timothy O’Leary. Tomorrow, he’d be helping to give Mass. But first, his cover would have to pass muster with his immediate superior in the parish. “Did the archbishop say anything about the pastor?”
“Fitzgerald’s staying in the dark. Apparently he’s got ‘ardent probity.’ Whatever that means. Probably better—just in case he’s with them, too.” Sellars jerked his head at the cab at the curb. Zach loaded his suitcase in the trunk.
“For the record, I still don’t think this is a good idea.”
Sellars ignored him. “Find an in with someone in the office. If they’re laundering money through the church, the parish office has to know—so cozy up quick.”
Zach got in the cab. “Where to, Father?” the driver asked.
As Zach gave the address of the parish across town, he could only hope the parishioners would believe his cover that easily.
Molly stepped into the church vestibule behind a tall man clad in black. Three weeks to prepare, and she still wasn’t ready for the change she dreaded most. The new priest was early.
“Sorry?” she called in greeting before remembering the Irish convention only served to confuse most Chicagoans.
“Yes?” He turned, and Molly froze. It wasn’t just his strong jaw or deep-set azure eyes. Wasn’t there canon law against ordaining a man handsome enough to stop a woman’s heart at a glance?
The white square of his collar confirmed her initial assumption. “Father O’Leary?”
“Yes.” His laugh made his response a half-question.
“Oh, but you’re so . . .” She searched for some word to explain her surprise. Other than handsome. Or attractive. Or—”Young.”
“Some of us enter the priesthood earlier than others.” An enticing gleam warmed his knowing gaze. “What was your name?”
“I’m sorry, how silly. Molly.” As she’d feared, her pulse quickened at his firm handshake.
“Nice to meet you. Can I help you?”
Now that was amusing. “I should be askin’ you tha’—I’m the parish secretary.”
The spark in his eyes flickered. “Right. I guess this is all kind of new to me.”
“Will I show you to the rectory?” She led him out, careful to keep a sensible distance between them. She’d never been one to swoon over a priest; she wasn’t about to start now.
Molly paused at the arched hallway to the office. She should get his keys. But that would mean walking through where she’d found Father Patrick, and she still couldn’t bring herself to approach that place.
The rectory it was. Father O’Leary fell in step with her in the car park and she could suddenly appreciate just how tall he was. Molly was far from short, but the priest was nearly a head taller than she, and broad enough in the shoulders that, despite his height, he wasn’t the slightest bit gangly. Not many men could make a woman of her stature feel delicate.
“I take it you work in the office?” he asked.
She nodded. “Have you spoken with Father Fitzgerald yet?”
“No, I just got here. So, what part of Dublin are you from?”
“Father O’Leary, are you assumin’ because I’m Irish, I’m from the only Irish city you know?” She winced mentally—she shouldn’t be codding a priest that made her heart beat a slip jig on sight.
He returned the teasing tone. “No, I assume you’re from Dublin because of your Dublin accent.”
“Good ear.” Molly showed him into the nondescript brick cottage. “Father Fitzgerald’s out now, but he’ll be back soon. Father Patrick’s room is over there. Was.” She lowered her gaze at the mention before gesturing at the now-vacant room. “You could start gettin’ settled.”
The silence stretched long enough that she dared to meet his eyes again. “Molly, I’m—I know it’s hard to lose someone.”
“Thank you.” Molly forced herself to flash a smile. She had yet to find the “proper” time to mourn the parish’s loss—her loss. She changed the subject. “Father Fitzgerald’s mobile number is by the phone.” She pointed to the telephone on the kitchen wall. “And the office number. Give me a ring if you need anythin’.”
“I will, thanks.” Father O’Leary grinned, and yet again there was something teasing, something tempting in his eyes. Something more than friendliness.
Molly turned away. “I’ll let you settle in.” She hurried to put distance between them. He was a priest, after all. It wouldn’t do her any good to go forgetting that.
Zach forced himself to look away as Molly left, her dark curls bouncing around her shoulders. She was the most beautiful Irish woman he’d ever seen—and that was saying something after his two years in Ireland. How closely did a priest work with the parish secretary?
He shook off the thought. Yeah, he was supposed to cozy up to the office staff, but flirting with the parish secretary didn’t fall under his priestly duties. He had plenty of experience not flirting with Irish girls, and as an experienced FBI agent, he knew how to focus on the mission at hand. And hadn’t he seen enough James Bond movies to know sometimes the beauty was also the villain?
He resisted the urge to peer through the curtains to watch Molly’s graceful, springing step. Thinking about her wouldn’t help his mission: take down the mob and solve Father Colin Patrick’s murder by posing as a priest.
The government didn’t normally get involved in the affairs of any church. But when a priest, having possibly laundered money through his church for the mob, was murdered days before an appointment with the FBI, the Bureau got a bit curious. Between threats of racketeering charges and losing tax-exempt status, the archdiocese had no choice but to comply with the FBI’s wishes. And neither did Zach.
Now he had to lie to innocent people and look like the perfect patsy to take Patrick’s place with the mob. Maybe meeting Molly was the first step. Sellars said to get in with the staff.
Zach rolled his eyes. He’d known her five minutes and he was already tossing out his objectivity? He knew better. She was a suspect, not a prospect. He couldn’t forget that.
He sank onto the threadbare couch with its tacky afghan to dig through his backpack for a distraction. Dog-eared and well-worn, the secondhand Bible was a last-minute find. His real scriptures weren’t suitable for a Catholic priest, with “Zachary Tyler Saint” on the front and “Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” on the spine. But the New Testament would be the same, even with a stranger’s notes and the lingering mothball scent from the thrift store.
He flipped open the Bible, but instead of focusing on the words, his mind wandered back to the memory of Molly’s deep blue eyes.
This could mean big trouble.