A Necessary Evil (8 page)

CHAPTER 16

Washington, D.C.

Dr.
Gwen Patterson tried not to stare at Rubin Nash's hands. He sipped from the glass of water she had offered him and set it aside, not letting it slow him down as he continued on and on about his mother's best friend taking his virginity when he was fifteen. It was one more thing he felt a woman had taken from him. First, his mother had taken away his father, now her friend had taken away his virginity. Yet, that revelation seemed secondary to him. Instead, he wanted to share the illicit details, trying to be as graphic as possible. Perhaps he wanted to shock her, or at least get some reaction from her. There were few, if any, sexual deviances and perversions, let alone words or phrases, that could shock her. Besides he sounded too proud of his teenage prowess. The incident had certainly influenced him and shaped his attitudes about sex and women. However, would it have affected him enough to make him a murderer?

His hands were large but the fingers stubby. How much strength was needed to squeeze the life out of someone? Gwen wished she had turned off the air-conditioning in her office, forcing him to roll up his shirtsleeves. Were there scratches on his arms? Why else would he wear long sleeves on a hot July day?

Gwen studied his face. The cut on his lower jaw was probably a shaving nick. His open-collared shirt allowed a censored view of his neck. A person who was being choked or strangled would fight back. She would claw and scratch and punch. Unless he caught her off guard. Rubin had wondered what it would feel like to
twist someone's neck and hear it snap.

She would need to find out from Maggie how the victims were killed. Maybe she was way off base suspecting one of her patients as the killer.

"Isn't that right, Dr. Patterson?" she heard Rubin ask and realized she had drifted too far.

"I'm sorry. What was that?"

"Why older women fuck young boys? It's not just a control thing. It's because they want to be adored. Isn't that what they really want?"

"Did you adore her?"

He looked away before she could see the answer in his eyes. He wasn't prepared for her to turn it around on him. Was it embarrassment or guilt he was trying to hide? The question had definitely surprised him.

"A good place for us to pick up next time," he told her, reversing their roles with a glance at his wristwatch. "I'll try not to be so crude next time," he added with a smile; __ almost a smirk __ that instead of a promise was more a revelation of how proud he was of today's performance.

"That's your choice," Gwen told him, standing at the same time he did, never allowing her patients to tower over her. "Just keep that in mind, Rubin. Everything you do is ultimately your choice."

This time his eyes met hers, dark gray eyes that reminded Gwen of a wolf's. He held her gaze, then dropped his eyes to the front of her blouse and his smile resumed. It was a habit she was familiar with. His way of intimidating her when she dared get too close, too much on target. And to remind her that to him every woman was __ what was that phrase he used __ "a potential sexual conquest."

"Until next time," he said and turned to leave.

She waited for the door to close behind him before she began her frenzied note-taking, recording anything and everything she had observed whether or not she deemed it important at this time. There would eventually be some clue. Perhaps something Maggie discovered at the autopsy would shed new light on Gwen's observations. She started the sixth page on her legal pad when her assistant buzzed her with her next patient.

Gwen ripped the pages from the notepad and shoved them into a file folder, but her mind was still racing. Still preoccupied with Rubin Nash when James Campion walked in.

"Hello, Dr. Patterson."

"James." She pointed for him to take a seat, but already knew he'd wait until she sat, ever the polite gentleman, a stunning contrast to Nash. He told her early on that the nuns at Blessed Sacrament had done an excellent job of drilling into him good manners and respect despite their failing him in other ways.

Gwen sat, nodding for him to do the same. His long legs stretched out and then crossed at the ankles. It was the most he allowed himself in an attempt to relax.

Today more than ever __ probably because she had been focused on Nash's physical traits __ Gwen noticed the sharp contrast between the two men. Also she had never seen the two patients in back-to-back sessions until today, accommodating Rubin's new travel schedule. For as cocky and boisterous as Rubin Nash was, James Campion was the direct opposite, introverted and self-conscious. Even James's long-sleeved shirt could easily be explained away as an embarrassed attempt at hiding the hesitation marks on his wrists. She had noticed them during their very first session, long before he had confessed that sometimes he thought about suicide.

And instead of bragging about his sexual escapades or rather dysfunctions, or when discussing the sexual mistreatments of his childhood, James seemed almost shy and remorseful, especially when talking about the abuses he had suffered at the hands of a Catholic priest he had admired and trusted. Both Nash and Campion had been two teenage boys taken advantage of by adults they had trusted. But that's where the similarities ended.

Gwen sat back, feeling her shoulders relax, only now realizing how close to the edge Rubin Nash was able to put her. She watched James cross his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits before deciding to uncross them again and leave his hands in his lap. His handsome, boyish face seemed almost soulful, his eyes attentive but patient as if waiting for her permission to begin.

No matter how long it took, Gwen felt certain she could help James Campion. Rubin Nash, she wasn't sure about.

CHAPTER 17

Downtown Police Station
Omaha, Nebraska

"
T
his is ridiculous," Nick Morrelli told the detectives who introduced themselves as Detectives Carmichael and Pakula. They were an odd pair, a short, chubby Asian woman and a middle-aged linebacker with a shaved head. Hardly Hollywood's version of the good cop/bad cop. "You're treating him like he's a suspect."

"Who exactly did you say you are?" Carmichael asked,

"His friend, Nick Morrelli."

"Who happens to be an attorney," Tony added.

Nick could see it wouldn't matter. Detective Carmichael already had that I-don't-give-a-shit look that he recognized. He had even used it himself a time or two as a deputy prosecutor when he had to convince some lowlife that the deal he was offering was final.

"Morrelli?" Pakula was scratching his shaved head. "Do I know you?"

"No, I don't think so." Nick was growing impatient. Carmichael may have noticed. She uncrossed her arms, but that was all.

"My apologies if the officers may have given you the impression that you're a suspect," she told Tony, "And that they dragged you all the way down here. We only want to ask you a few questions. Is there a reason why you wouldn't want to answer our questions?" Her voice was a little softer suddenly. Nick wondered if she wasn't used to playing the role of bad cop. Or was she simply changing her route of manipulation?

Tony looked to Nick as if he expected Nick to answer for him again. Nick gave him a nod that it was okay, but at the same time, he didn't like how nervous Tony seemed.
Did
he have something to hide?

"Go ahead," Tony told the detective. "Of course I don't mind answering your questions."

"We understand that the monsignor called you from the airport," Detective Pakula said as he started pacing the length of the room. Carmichael remained sitting, but Nick noticed her foot tapping out her nervous energy under the table.

"Yes, that's right."

"You may have been the last person to talk to him. That he knew, that is. You mind sharing the contents of that conversation?"

"We had spoken earlier in the day about the schedule. I was going to fill in for him while he was gone. He couldn't remember if he had told me about the church board meeting and where he kept his notes." Tony crossed his legs, his right ankle rested on his left knee. To Nick he looked perfectly calm and natural. Almost too much so.

"Where were you when you got the call?"

"In the rectory," Tony said without skipping a beat and Nick thought this should be easy. No big deal.

"Really?" Pakula asked.

Nick recognized that look. He had used it himself, a look that wobbled between surprise and sarcasm, but Tony didn't flinch.

"You sure you were at the rectory?"

"Yes, of course. I usually do paperwork on Fridays."

"Uh-huh. So Monsignor O'Sullivan would know this, right?" Pakula kept up his pacing, nodding.

"Of course."

"Why do you suppose he called you on your cell phone instead of the phone at the rectory?"

"I have no idea," Tony said.

It was a little like watching a tennis match, only Nick couldn't tell what Pakula would do with that lame lob.

"What a minute," Pakula said, spinning around to look at Nick and surprising them all. "Morrelli. Nick Morrelli. Now I remember you. You quarterbacked for the Huskers 1982, '83."

It took Nick a second or two to register the switch of subject. Earlier, when the detective thought he knew him, he had thought it might be from his stint as sheriff for Platte City, Nebraska, several years ago. After the media circus, it was difficult for anyone in the area to forget the murder of two little boys and the investigation that Nick almost flubbed up. Two men were serving life sentences and yet Nick wasn't convinced he had caught the killer. Now he found he was relieved that Detective Pakula recognized him instead, from another era, a more successful time in his life.

"Yeah, that's right," Nick said.

"I knew I recognized that name." But as quickly as the detective had been distracted he returned to his questions. "So, Father Gallagher, how long have you worked with Monsignor O'Sullivan at Our Lady of Sorrow?"

"I've been the associate pastor there for almost three years."

"Do you like him?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you like him? Did the two of you get along? Were you buddies?"

"I wouldn't use the term
buddies.
We were colleagues."

Nick noticed that Tony uncrossed his legs. Both hands were on his knees. Suddenly he didn't seem so comfortable.

"Does he travel quite a bit?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'quite a bit.'"

"Why was Monsignor O'Sullivan going to Rome?"

"I believe the archbishop asked him to go. The monsignor had never been to the Vatican."

"So he was excited about going?"

"Of course, why wouldn't he be?"

"Was he delivering anything important for the archbishop?"

"Like what?" Tony asked, and Nick wanted to grab Tony by the collar and tell him to just answer the fucking questions. But instead he shifted in his chair, trying to catch Tony's eyes, maybe give him a warning glare.

He saw Detectives Pakula and Carmichael exchange a glance. They might be pretending these were only fact-finding questions, but they were fishing for something. What exactly did they know and what did they think Tony wasn't telling them?

"We were just wondering." This time Carmichael took over while Pakula leaned against the wall as if taking a break. Carmichael braced her elbows up on the table, but she, too, looked calm, a bit too nonchalant, and Nick wondered what they were hoping to get out of this interview.

"The archbishop," she continued, "asks the monsignor to go to the Vatican. Doesn't it make sense that he'd want to make the most of the trip?"

"Yes, I suppose it does."

Tony was good at this. Nick wasn't sure why he was so surprised.

"Did Monsignor O' Sullivan carry a brown leather portfolio with him?" Carmichael moved on. Maybe he was wrong about them knowing what they were doing.

"Yes, I think I do remember a portfolio," Tony finally answered.

"Did he have it with him yesterday?"

"I didn't see him leave for the airport."

"But you saw him right before?"

"Yes."

Carmichael stared at Tony, waiting for more. Nick found himself staring and waiting, too. Tony, however, just shrugged and said, "If I didn't see him leave for the airport how would I know for sure what he took with him?"

This time there was a sigh from Carmichael. Nothing from Pakula except a slight shift in his leaning.

"Last question... for now," she emphasized. "Any idea why someone might want to kill Monsignor O'Sullivan?"

"Life is the ultimate gift from God. I can't even imagine who would do such a thing," Tony said with too much of a reverent whisper. Nick watched for Carmichael's reaction, looking to see if she had noticed that Tony had managed to not answer yet another one of her questions.

Carmichael nodded without looking up from the notes she jotted. She glanced back at Pakula, then looked directly at Nick when she said, "If we have any more questions, we'll be in touch."

And immediately Nick figured that she and Pakula probably did know more. They hadn't been interested in his presence the entire time. But now all of a sudden they were telling him they'd have more questions. They were telling Tony's friend, the attorney.

CHAPTER 18

Washington, D.C.

G
wen Patterson made the last of her notes. She needed to head home. Maybe she'd stop at Mr. Lee's World Market, pick up fresh mozzarella, some garlic and Italian sausage to make her stuffed manicotti with Bolognese sauce. Cooking had a way of relaxing her, soothing and calming her nerves. It worked twice as well if she cooked for company. She thought about Maggie, but they had just had dinner last night. The last thing she wanted was to look too needy, especially with Maggie, especially now. She thought about R. J. Tully, Maggie's partner, but he wouldn't be back for another week. Gwen wished she didn't miss him. Two weeks of vacation with his daughter, Emma, somewhere in Florida, and already... damn, she hated to admit it, but she did miss him. Not a good sign since the two of them had decided to take it slow, to get to know each other outside the stressful confines of the FBI files that had thrown them together in the past.

Funny. She was always telling Maggie to take some chances, to throw caution to the wind and have some fun when it came to love and romance, and yet, she couldn't take her own advice. Couldn't? Or wouldn't?

A soft tap at her office door startled her.

"Come in."

Her assistant, Dena, peeked around the door. "I just finished. I'm taking off. Anything else I can do or get you?"

"No, I'm fine. Thanks for coming in today, especially on a holiday weekend."

"No problem. I needed to catch up on some things."

Gwen refrained from following up with a comment about less time spent on the phone and looking for misplaced things and perhaps she wouldn't need to come in on the weekends. But that wasn't quite fair. The girl was doing a good job. And patients liked her, felt comfortable with her. That was more important than her misplacing a file or spending an hour extracting a bracelet caught in the copy machine.

"Any plans for tomorrow?" she asked instead.

"Actually, a friend called this morning and we're thinking about trying out that new nightclub. How about you?"

"I'm hoping to catch up on some rest."

"That's probably a good idea. You've been looking kind of... well, not quite yourself. Are you okay?"

"Yes, of course. Just a bit tired. I need a day off."

"Okay. Well, I hope you have a restful day off."

"Thanks, Dena."

"I'll see you on Monday. Oh, wait, I almost forgot." She left the door open and Gwen could hear her scurry back into the reception area, probably to her desk. Seconds later she came in with a manila envelope.

"This was left for you."

Gwen watched her place the envelope on the corner of her desk. She could see there was no return address, no indication who it was from, but already she knew, and immediately she felt as if the air had been knocked out of her.

"Did you see who left it?"

"No. It must have been when I was fixing coffee or maybe when I stepped out to make copies."

"What time?"

"Excuse me?"

"What time did you notice it?"

Gwen tried to get rid of the alarm from her voice, but she may not have been as successful as she'd like to be, because Dena was looking at her with concern.

"Gosh, I'm not sure exactly. It was between Mr. Rubin's and Mr. Campion's appointments."

Gwen tried not to stare at the envelope. Of course, he must have brought it with him. But wasn't that a bit risky, or perhaps
ballsy
was a better term? Would he actually bring it with him and simply place it on her receptionist's desk? Could he have slipped this time and left his fingerprints on it? Surely he wouldn't have worn gloves in the July heat.

"Is it something important?"

Gwen had briefly forgotten about Dena and did her best not to let it show on her face. She shrugged as if it were no big deal. "I doubt it. If it was important, the person who left it wouldn't have just placed it on your desk without an explanation, right?"

"I suppose. And I really wasn't gone that long to make the coffee, although that new contraption you bought takes a little more time." She smiled as if to make sure Gwen knew she was only joking, giving her a hard time about the fancy gourmet coffeemaker Gwen had made a fuss over. "So I'll see you on Monday."

But Dena stayed in the doorway and when Gwen didn't respond, she added, "Maybe you should take off and get started on that relaxing time."

Gwen glanced up at the girl and returned her smile. She was the first one she had hired in years who seemed to have a genuine concern for her. Others had been wonderfully precise __ not one of Dena's top skills __ but they lacked what Gwen could only describe as warmth, something she believed essential for the person outside her office door who greeted and cared for the mentally fragile patients who sometimes came through those doors.

"I'll take that under serious consideration. Now, go get out of here and enjoy what's left of your weekend."

"Yes, ma'am."

And she left, gently closing the door behind her. For a moment Dena had almost made her forget about the envelope.

She picked it up by a corner with only her forefinger and thumb, careful in case there were fingerprints. She hadn't noticed the slight bulge at the bottom. With her other hand she reached for a letter opener and tucked it under one of the flaps, holding firm as she slit the envelope open. Then she took a deep breath and turned the envelope over, letting the contents slide to the top of her desk. This time there was no note and she even peeked inside to make sure it didn't get stuck to one of the sides. The only thing in front of her was the bulge, a plastic bag, zipped shut, the contents of which looked like a single gold earring.