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Authors: Alex Kava

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A Necessary Evil

BOOK: A Necessary Evil
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Praise for the novels of

ALEX KAVA

"Not for the faint of heart,
A Necessary Evil
. is a terrific thriller that should keep your pulse racing."
__ Peter Robinson, author of
Strange Affair

"Alex Kava knows the psychology of evil."
__ -John Philpin, forensic psychologist and author

"Kava's writing is reminiscent of Patricia Cornwell in her prime."
__
Mystery Ink

"Meet Kava's FBI special agent Maggie O'Dell. But beware __ it could be the start of a new addiction."
__
Peterborough Evening Telegraph,
U.K.

"... explosive climax. This is a one-night read."
__
Publishers Weekly
on
One False Move

"Kava's eye for the details of criminal investigation and the corrupting darkness of the criminal mind makes for a chilling, compelling read."
__
BookPage on One False Move

"Kava really does her forensic homework... continuing to demonstrate her ability to create unforgettable yet realistic monsters."
__
Bookreporter
on
At the Stroke of Madness

"Scarpetta-like authenticity and the psychological insights of Alex Delaware... "
__
Publishers Weekly
on
The Soul Catcher

"Readers have a front row seat to the ultimate cat and mouse game."
__
The
Best Reviews
on
Split Second

"Alex Kava has created a suspenseful novel and created a winning character in Agent O'Dell."
__
Washington Post book World
on
A Perfect Evil

Also by ALEX KAVA

ONE FALSE MOVE

ATTHE STROKE OF MADNESS

THE SOUL CATCHER

SPLIT SECOND

A PERFECT EVIL

Coming June 2007

WHITEWASH

MIRA

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to die publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

ISBN-13: 978-O-7783-2434-8 ISBN-10: 0-7783-2434-6

A NECESSARY EVIL

Copyright © 2006 by S.M. Kava.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of fhe publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada MSB 3K9.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

www.MIRABooks.com

Printed In U.S.A.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again, many thanks to all the professionals who generously gave of their time, and expertise. If I've gotten any of the facts wrong or have creatively manipulated a fact or two, it's my doing and not theirs. Also special thanks to my family and friends who continue to support me despite my long absences.

My appreciation and special thanks go to:

Deborah Groh Carlin for your love and support, but also for your constant help in researching, brainstorming and making sense of the puzzle pieces along the way, not to mention putting up with my annoying "writer quirks." You are a true friend and partner in crime.

Amy Moore-Benson, my agent and friend, for being my advocate and being there time after time no matter how small the question or how difficult the problem.

Feroze Mohammed, my editor, for challenging me to make this my best book yet

Patricia Kava, my good Catholic mother, who allows me to tackle tough subjects in my novels, all the while lighting candles for me.

Emilie Carlin for your love and support, but also for sharing your own wonderful stories and making them such a delight to listen to.

Leigh Ann Retelsdorf Deputy County Attorney and friend, for being my go-to person whenever I have a "killer of a question."

Detective Sergeant Bill Jadlowski of the Omaha Police Department for inspiring the creation of Detective Tommy Pakula.

Christopher Kava, my nephew, for helping me understand teenage boys and their computer obsessions... er, I mean computer skills.

Mary Means for taking such good care of my kids while I'm on the road.

Sharon Car Fellow writer and friend, for being there no matter how much time transpires between our lunch dates.

Marlene Haney and Sandy Rockwood for your unconditional love, support and friendship.

Patti El-Kachouti for always being there.

Patti Bremmer, fellow writer and her husband, Martin, for your friendship and inspiration.

Patricia Sierra and her mother Kay, for cheering up and cheering on, and always at just the right times.

Father Dave Korth for exemplifying the very best of your profession and being a constant reminder of good.

A special thank-you to my new friends and neighbors in the Florida Panhandle for showing me what true strength and perseverance looks like while we picked up the pieces after Hurricane Ivan and then did it all over again after Hurricane Dennis.

And last but certainty not least thank you to all the librarians, bookstore owners and managers, book buyers and sellers around the country and around the world for recommending my books.

This book is dedicated to all you faithful readers who insisted on the return of Father Keller

From San Mateo, California, to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, from McCook Nebraska, to Milan, Italy __ it didn't matter where I went or which of my five books I was promoting, readers always asked the same question. "When are you going to take care of Father Keller?"

I must confess that five years ago when I wrote
A Perfect Evil,
I never dreamed it would make such an impact on so many of you. And so this book,
A
Necessary Evil
is dedicated to all of you who have patiently waited for this long-overdue sequel.

Please consider this book my thank-you for an invaluable lesson that as writers and storytellers we do have the ability to breathe life into characters __ characters who otherwise live only in our imaginations. And with that ability comes, perhaps, a certain responsibility to allow those characters to continue to breathe, to speak, to grow and even to be brought to justice.

"It is necessary only for the good

to do nothing for evil to triumph."

__ Edmund Burke

CHAPTER 1

Friday, July 2
Eppley Airport
Omaha, Nebraska

M
onsignor William O'Sullivan was certain no one had recognized him. So why was his forehead damp? He hadn't gone through the security checkpoint yet. Instead, he had decided to wait until it got closer to his flight time. Just in case someone did recognize him. On this side, he could still pretend to be picking up a colleague rather than admit he was leaving.

He fidgeted in the plastic chair, clutching the leather portfolio closer to his chest. So close, so tight it seemed to crush his lungs, causing that pain again, a pain he may have dismissed too quickly as heartburn. But of course, it was only heartburn. He simply wasn't used to eating such a large meal for lunch, but he knew the flight to New York and the later one to Rome would include cardboard renditions of food, causing much more damage to his overly sensitive stomach than Sophia's leftover meat loaf and mashed potatoes did.

Yes, surely the leftovers were responsible for his discomfort, he told himself, and yet his eyes darted around the busy airport terminal, looking for a bathroom. He remained seated, not wanting to move until he examined and found an acceptable path. He shoved a thumb and index finger up under his wire-rim glasses to dig the fatigue out of his eyes, and then he began his search again.

He'd avoid the shortest route, not wanting to pass the exotic black woman handing out "reading material" __ as she called it __ to anyone too polite to say no. She wore colorful beads in her hair, what looked like her Sunday best dress with splashes of purple that made her hips even larger, but sensible shoes. Her smooth, deep voice almost made it a song when she asked, "Can I offer you some reading material?" And to everyone __ including those who huffed their responses and rushed by __ she greeted them with yet another melodic, polite stanza, "You have a most pleasant day."

Monsignor O'Sullivan knew what her reading material was without seeing it. He supposed she was a sort of present-day missionary, in her own right. If he passed her, would she sense their connection? Both of them ministers, distributors of God's word. One in sensible shoes, another with a portfolio stuffed with secrets.

Better to avoid her.

He checked the Krispy Kreme counter. A long line of zombies waited patiently for their afternoon dose of energy, like drug addicts getting one more shot before their flight. To his right he watched the bookstore entrance, quickly glancing away when a young man in a baseball cap looked in his direction. Had the youth recognized him, despite his street clothes? His stomach churned while his eyes studied his shoes. His cotton-knit polo __ a gift from his sister __ was now sticking to his wet back. Over the loudspeakers came the repetitive message, warning travelers not to leave their luggage unattended. He clutched the portfolio, only now discovering that his palms were also slick with sweat. How in the world had he believed he could just leave without being noticed? That he could just get on a plane and be free, be absolved of all his indiscretions.

But when Monsignor O'Sullivan dared to look again, the young man was gone. Passengers rushed by without a glance. Even the black woman greeting and passing out her reading material seemed totally unaware of his presence.

Paranoid.
He was just being paranoid.
Thirty-seven years of dedication to the church and what did he get for it?
Accusations and finger-pointing when he deserved accolades of respect and gratitude. When he tried to explain his predicament to his sister, the anger had overwhelmed him, and all he had managed to tell her in their brief conversation was to have the title of the family's estate changed to her name only. "I won't let those bastards take our home."

He wished he were there now. It was nothing extravagant __ a two-story split-timber on three acres in the middle of Connecticut, with walking trails surrounded by trees and mountains and sky. It was the only place he felt closest to God, and the irony made him smile. The irony that beautiful cathedrals and huge congregations had led him further and further away from God.

A squawk coming from near the escalator startled him back to reality. It sounded like a tropical bird, but was instead a toddler in full temper tantrum, his mother pulling : him along, unfazed, as if she couldn't hear the screech. It ' grated on Monsignor O'Sullivan's nerves, scratching them raw and resetting the tension so tight in his jaw that he feared he'd start grinding his teeth. It was enough to get him
(
to his feet. He no longer cared about accessible paths, and he made his way to the restroom.

Thankfully, it was empty, yet he glanced under every stall to make certain. He set the portfolio at his feet, leaning it against his left leg, as if needing to maintain some contact. He removed his glasses and placed them on the corner of the sink. Then, avoiding his own blurred reflection, he waved his hands under the faucet, his frustration fueled by the lack of response. He swiped his hands back and forth, finally eliciting a short burst of water, barely wetting his fingertips. He swiped again. Another short burst. This time he closed his eyes and splashed as much as he could on his face, the cool dampness beginning to calm his nausea, beginning to quiet the sudden throbbing in his temples.

His hands groped for the paper-towel dispenser, ripping off more than he needed and gently dabbing, disgusted by the smell and harsh feel of the recycled paper. He hadn't even heard the bathroom door open. When he glanced in the mirror, Monsignor O' Sullivan was startled to see a blurred figure standing behind him.

'I'm almost finished," he said, thinking he might be in the way, though there were other sinks. Why did he need to use this one? He noticed a faint metallic odor. Perhaps it was a member of the cleaning crew. An impatient one at that. He reached for his glasses, accidentally knocking them to the floor. Before he could bend down to retrieve them, an arm came around his waist. All he saw was a glint of silver. Then he felt the burn, the streak of pain, shooting up through his chest.

At the same time there was a whisper in his right ear __ soft and gentle. "You're already finished, Monsignor O'Sullivan."

BOOK: A Necessary Evil
13.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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