Kicking the Habit (2 page)

Right
on top of Senator Sloan.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I … I
…” She blinked several times to be sure she was seeing right. That loud noise
hadn’t been a firework. It had been a gunshot, judging by the single hole in
the middle of the senator’s forehead.

Cece started to shake. She
felt for a pulse but found nothing. He was dead. “Somebody call
911!” she shouted, then noticed the expanding pool of blood beneath the senator’s
head. “Oh, no,” she whispered. Blood wasn’t the only thing scattered all over
the steps of her church. The back of his head had been blown off.

Her stomach heaved, and
she jerked back. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the senator. Sobs filled her, and
then she leaned to the side and was sick. She couldn’t help but think this
tragedy was somehow her fault.

The next five minutes
felt like an eternity as sirens wailed and chaos ensued. Father Flannigan
joined her on the steps, mouth agape and gray head hanging low as a crowd
gathered on the sidewalk.

“There’s your Bible,”
she said in a quiet voice, pointing with her bloodstained hands to the
miraculously untouched book lying on the cement beside her. “Shouldn’t you be
in your meeting?” she asked, feeling numb.

“The meeting adjourned
after we heard the gunshot.” Their eyes met and held. “Cece,
what on earth happened?”

“I … he … I don’t know,
Father. He came into the confessional and started talking; then he ran out and
someone shot him.”

The priest placed his
hand on her arm and squeezed gently. “It’ll be okay, child.” He helped her to
her feet and led the way inside the church over to one of the back pews. “You
look rather pale. Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll go get you something to sip
on.”

Cece sat in a daze, watching
as the police arrived, the CSI guys did their thing, and the ambulance took the
senator away. Because the deceased was a high-level government official, cops of all types—local, state, and Feds—swarmed
all over the place like hornets zooming in for the sting. They weren’t likely
to stop searching until they caught the person responsible.

“They’re going to want
to question you, you know.” Father returned and looked at her with concern. “Are
you up to it?”

Cece’s head spun. “I don’t
have a choice. A man died because of me!”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Actually, it was. If
I’d spoken up sooner, he never would have confessed and would have left right
away, possibly avoiding the gunman.”

Father stared down at
his wrinkled, brown-spotted hands and nodded. “I could say the same thing. If I
hadn’t sent you back for my Bible, the senator never would have gone into the
confessional to begin with.” His eyes met hers. “For whatever reason, it was
Senator Sloan’s time to pass on. There’s nothing you could have done
differently to change that, Cecelia.”

“That might be true, but
that doesn’t mean whoever killed him should go unpunished.”

“Glad you feel that way,
Sister,” a baritone voice said from behind Cece,
startling her.

She took a deep breath
to calm her nerves, deciding what she was going to do. The authorities weren’t
going to like what she had to say. No matter how hard they interrogated her,
she would stay true to what she believed in.

Cece turned to face the
music and nearly swallowed her tongue as she looked up. Way up. The man
standing beside the pew was huge. Of course, any man over six feet seemed like
a giant next to her five-foot frame. Still, even beneath his dress shirt and
tie, she could see his arms were well muscled, his shoulders wide, and his
torso tapered to a flat stomach and narrow waist, followed by long, jean-clad
legs. A sports jacket was draped over his arm and his boots were scuffed. The total
look was intimidating, but his hands drew her attention.

His hands were big and
muscled, and somehow mesmerizing. They
fidgeted with the small notebook, turning it over and over, the veins and
tendons popping as his fingers moved.

“Ma’am? I asked if you minded
if we went outside to talk. You can sit in one of the squad cars.” He shifted
his weight from one foot to the other, and Cece
snapped out of her trance.

“I’m sorry—what?” She
looked up at a hard, chiseled face that had started to sweat despite the cool,
autumn temperatures, and she took in the blond, flattop hairstyle. He could be
the model for a military ad any day, and it wouldn’t surprise her if he had
served. He had that “commando” look down pat.

Just then a photographer
snapped a photo, and the flash momentarily obscured her vision. When it
cleared, the detective’s features took shape once more, his sea-green eyes coming
into focus. Cece’s jaw dropped, and all she could do
was gape at him in shock. It couldn’t be!

A perplexed look crossed
his face, and she vaguely heard him say, “Take your time, Sister. I’ll be
outside when you’re ready.”

Her mind had focused on
one insane, crazy, could-not-possibly-be-true thought as she stared after the
hulk of a man taking long strides out of the church. …

Her dream man had a
face, after all.

Detective Ace Jackson
pushed his way out the doors of the church and gulped the cool air in which the
crisp bite of fall could be sensed. He pulled a handkerchief out of the inside
pocket of his sports coat and dabbed at his forehead, willing his heart to
return to a normal beat. After all, the things he’d seen and done as an Army
Ranger and then a cop didn’t faze him much. He wasn’t afraid of anything … except
churches. Churches scared the hell out of him.

Especially
this
church.

“Hey, Jackson, what the
hell ya doin’—praying to
God for clues? This case ain’t gonna
solve itself, ya know,” his partner, Rocco Antonelli, said from down on the steps.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear your
lips flapping, but only bullshit seems to be coming out.” Ace jogged down the
steps, shoving his handkerchief in his pocket. “What do we got so far?”

“Folks in town say Sloan
was quite the ladies’ man.” Rocco shrugged, his black leather jacket squeaking
as he moved. The gaudy thing was probably pleather.

“Ladies’
man, huh?” Ace arched a brow. “Friend of yours?”

“You’re a regular
comedian, Jackoff—I mean, Jackson.”

“I have my moments. Besides,
you started it with that crack about praying to God.”

“What are you, five?” Rocco
scowled.

Ace just laughed.

“If we’re done playing, ya mind if we get back to the case?” Rocco asked.

“The floor’s all yours.”
The wind picked up, swirling leaves of all colors past their feet, but it felt
good to Ace. With the fear of hell and damnation still burning up his insides,
he shook off the sensation and focused on what his partner was saying.

Rocco adjusted the gold
chains around his neck and pulled out his notebook, flipping through the pages.
“Most people seem to think some pissed off boyfriend or husband did Casanova
in.”

“And
the cops?” Ace glanced around the bustling area, crawling with uniformed
officers, and made some mental notes. A middle-aged man with red hair, wearing
a janitor’s uniform, sat smoking a cigarette as he had a conversation with the
police. And a blond woman in her forties cried hysterically as she talked to
the FBI.

“The cops tend to agree,
especially since the entry and exit wounds are consistent with a rifle shot,”
Rocco continued. “Small hole in front, half the head and
brain matter gone in the back. They think maybe the killer was a
hunter.”

“What’s the story with
those two?” Ace jerked his head in the direction of the man and woman he’d been
watching.

Rocco glanced at them
and then at his notebook. “The guy’s some dude named Mumfry
Walker. Ex-military with a shady past. Church took him
in a few years back. He mostly stays to himself and keeps his nose clean. Says
he stepped out back for a smoke, but no one can verify his story. He hunts, by
the way.”

“And
the woman?”

“Name’s
Eleanor Meriwether. She plays the organ for the church, is involved in all kinds of
charity, and is rumored to have been smitten with the deceased for years.”

“Smitten?” Ace scrunched
up his face.

“Hey, some bystander’s
words, not mine. I suspect Sloan was bangin’ her. She
spoke to him just before he went into the confessional, but she says they
discussed his campaign and the upcoming election. Guess she volunteers for him.
Says she didn’t see anyone else except the nun who chased him
outside.”

“Interesting.” What the hell was—what’s
her name?—oh, yeah, Sister Mary Cecelia—doing on the priest’s side of the
confessional?” Ace had some questions, and that nun had been the last person to
talk to Sloan before someone offed him. Someone
wanted the senator dead, but why? One way or another, Ace was going to find out
what Sloan had confessed before he died.

Rocco broke into Ace’s
thoughts. “Hell, for all we know, the killer could be Sloan’s wife.”

“The senator’s stance is
pro-gun control and anti-guns. I highly doubt he owned one.”

“What better way to get
back at him for cheating on her than to hire a hit man to kill him with a gun?”
Rocco knelt down, pointing to the chalk outline of where the body had fallen and
to the blood spatter. “Based on how the senator fell and the pattern of the
spray, I’d say he was shot from far away.”

Ace squatted beside
Rocco and surveyed the scene, then stood and looked at the buildings across the
street. “I’d say you’re right, but I doubt the killer is some backwoods,
pissed-off husband who happens to hunt. That shot was too exact to be by
chance. I’ll bet my next paycheck that when the slug comes back from forensics,
it’ll show it came from a high-powered rifle.” His eyes locked onto Rocco’s. “The
kind snipers use.”

Rocco’s eyebrows disappeared
beneath his black hairline. “A sniper? You’re shittin’ me.”

“I don’t ‘shit’ anyone
when it comes to murder.” Ace pointed to the mini-market and the bank across
the street. “From the angle of the shot, I figure the sniper watched the senator
enter the church, positioned himself between those two
buildings, and nailed the poor bastard between the eyes when he came out. Then I’ll
bet he slipped into the woods to make his getaway.”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t this
kind of sniper use a silencer?”

“Not if he wanted to
make it look like a crime of passion. Like the killer caught his wife or
girlfriend having an affair with Sloan, and then snapped. In a crime of
passion, people don’t think; they just react. That shot was too exact. I’m thinkin’ this was premeditated.”

“Jesus, what the fuck
was Sloan into?”

“Some
serious shit, by the looks of it.” Ace grunted.

“You know what that
means?”

They stared at each
other, sighed, and then Ace said, “Yeah, the damn Feds are going to be all over
this like maggots on a carcass.”

“You know it.”

Ace scrubbed a hand over
his flattop and glanced at the church. “What the hell is taking that little nun
so long?” He’d figured she was in shock after what she’d seen, especially with
that strange dazed expression she’d worn when she first saw him, but he was
running out of patience.

The corner of Rocco’s
mouth quirked, drawing Ace’s attention. “Impatient to see her, are we?”

Ace leveled him with a disgusted
look. “She’s a nun, for chrissake. Get your sick mind
out of the gutter, ass-wipe.”

“Not what I heard.” Rocco
smoothed his hands over his slicked-back hair, then squirted
a burst of breath mint spray into his mouth. “Rumor is that she was never a
full nun and she quit the sisterhood this morning.”

A weird zing shot
through Ace, but he attributed it to indigestion. “Same difference,” he
declared. “Once a nun, always a nun, in my book.”

“Well, in my book, no
habit means not off limits.” Rocco wagged his shiny brows.

Ace just shook his head.
“And I thought I was the one going to hell.”

A priest came out of the church, searched the crowd,
and then locked eyes on Ace, sending a jolt of sheer panic through him. He
always felt panicked around priests, but he had an investigation to conduct. He
needed to pull himself together.

“Hey,
man, you all right? You look a little pale.” Rocco’s face turned serious for once.

Ace rolled his head. “I’m
fine. Just been a long day, and I want to question
that nun before the Feds get to her.”

“I hear ya.” Rocco started forward.

Ace slapped a hand on
his shoulder. “I got this one, Romeo. You hold off the Feds as long as you
can.”

Rocco’s smile slipped,
his blazing white teeth disappearing as he blew out a breath. “Fine, killjoy.” He reversed direction and, with heavy
steps, headed toward the suits as Ace stared after him, chuckling.

“Detective Jackson, I
presume?” a kind voice said, and Ace flinched, whipping around to find the
priest right in his face.

The older man stuck out
his hand. Ace swallowed and slid his palm against the priest’s, shaking hard.

“What can I do for you,
Father …?”

“Forgive my manners. I’m
a wee bit scatterbrained in these trying times. I’m Father Flannigan.”

More like a wee bit
under the influence, Ace guessed by the smell of Baileys on his breath. Then
again, who was Ace to judge? He could go for a good shot of whiskey right about
now, after the day he’d had, and it wasn’t even close to being over yet. “What
can I help you with?”

“It’s about Cece.”

“Who?”

“Sister Mary Cecelia,
the woman who heard Senator Sloan’s confession.”

“Oh, right, the nun I’m
supposed to question.”

“Well,
actually, ex-nun.”

What was it with these
people? Nun, ex-nun … one and the same. “Right. Is she ready to talk now?”

“Yes, if you’ll follow
me.”

Ace’s chest tightened, and his palms started to sweat. “Thought we were
going to talk in the squad car?”

“Don’t be silly,
Detective. It’s much too dangerous for Cece to be out
here with the killer still on the loose. Besides, the air has a definite chill
to it. These old bones tell me snow is on its way. I’ll make you both a nice
cup of tea, and you can talk inside the church.”

Tea? Ace rubbed his
whiskered jaw, gnawing the inside of his cheek over the thought of talking in
the church. Not having much of a choice, he cursed in silence and dropped his
hands. “Great, but no tea for me, thanks. After you.”

He loosened his tie,
feeling like he couldn’t breathe as he followed the old man inside. He would
need a hell of a lot more than tea to get him through questioning a nun in
church, but he didn’t have a choice. The suits had just about finished
interrogating the organist and the janitor. He knew damn well they’d want to
talk to his nun next. He frowned. His
nun?
Now that was
just wrong.

He had to stop hanging
around Antonelli.

A few minutes later, Ace
stood inside the entrance of Our Lady of Glory and started sweating like a pig.
The enormous church with high cathedral ceilings, stained glass windows, candles,
crosses, and pictures and statues of Jesus and Mary everywhere attacked Ace’s
senses, sending his head reeling. His childhood came flooding back, memories
crushing him with every step he took.

“Alistair Jackson, we don’t talk in church. … Alistair Jackson, quit fidgeting in the pew. … Alistair Jackson,
you’re going to hell … going to hell … going to hell …”

“Well, well, well. If it
isn’t Alistair Jackson, all grown up and halfway to hell, by the looks of it.” A
brittle voice that had never ceased to instill the fear of God into Ace came from
behind him.

He whipped around and
gasped. Actually
gasped
.
Christ, he’d turned into a damn sissy. He squeezed his fists and took a huge
calming breath. “Sister Mary Ethel, it’s good to see you.”
Well, hell, now he’d lied in church. Cursed too.
Not good.

The sly, old nun grinned
as though she could read every damn word he thought, her eyes reduced to slits
and her face crinkled into a mass of wrinkles. “Get yourself to church, boy.” She
wagged her finger. Shuffling off, she dragged her feet the same way he
remembered, mumbling something about today’s youth being sinners and destined
for no good, the whole lot of them.

“Right this way,
Detective,” Father Flannigan said.

“Huh?” Ace jumped and
then ground his teeth.

“Cece
is waiting for you.”

“The
nun.
Right. After you.”

Father looked at Ace in
a strange way. “Is something wrong, son? Do you need to talk?”

Ace’s eyes widened, and
his nostrils flared. “I, uh … nope, I’m good. Can we speed this up? I have a
ton of work to do.”

“Ah, yes. That’s the
nature of your generation, I’m afraid. Always in a hurry.
Follow me.” He carried two cups of tea as he led the way to the pew in the
front row. “I thought you might want to talk in here in case it helps Cece to remember all those minor details.”

“Good idea.” Ace stopped
beside the nun, whose habit and robes nearly swallowed her whole. She was a
little thing, at least a foot shorter than he was, with a pale face and dark
eyes bigger than any he’d seen. Dark and big and kind, he admitted; then he
relaxed for the first time since entering the church.

“Oh, thank you, Father.”
She reached for the tea, and then the priest excused himself.

“Okay, then, let’s get
started,” Ace said. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Sister.”

“Call me Cece, Mr. Jackson. I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but
I’ll try to answer your questions the best I can.”

Ace frowned. What did
she mean, “try to answer?” Telling what she knew shouldn’t be difficult. “Okay.”
He sat down beside her. “Why don’t you start with the events that led up to you
being in the priest’s side of the confessional?”

The nun faced Ace dead
on, yet he could have sworn she blushed. “Well, I went to confession and told
Father Flannigan I was leaving the sisterhood.” She took a sip of tea, and Ace
noticed how small her hands were. As tiny and delicate as the teacup they
cradled. Hell, she didn’t look like she could defend herself against a strong
wind, much less a criminal.

Great. He huffed out a breath
and refocused. “And why is that, Sister?” He’d be damned if he’d call her Cece. Flipping open his notebook, he took out a pen.

The sister hesitated. “I
have my reasons.” Her eyes met his. “After we were finished, I walked Father to
his meeting, when he realized he’d left his Bible in the confessional. I
offered to go back for it. It’s as simple as that.”

“This church has
hundreds of Bibles. What was so important about that Bible you had to fetch it
for him right then?”

She set her teacup on
the bench beside her, staring him down with more stubbornness than he would
have expected from a nun, and damn if she didn’t seem to grow a few inches
taller. “Unlike you, Detective, I had the time. All Bibles are not the same. That
one happens to be special to Father Flannigan.”

“Okay, so you went back
for the special Bible.” Ace made a set of air quotes with his fingers. “Then what?”

“Then the senator came
in and started to speak.” She twisted the material of her robe over and over. “I
tried to tell him I wasn’t a priest, but he wouldn’t stop talking long enough. When
he realized who I was, he ran out.”

“Did you try to stop
him?”

She snapped her spine
straight and wrinkled her forehead. “Of course I did, but I was too late. I
only wish I could have helped him more.”

Ace set down his pen and
looked Sister Mary Cecelia in the eye. “You can help him now by telling me all
you know.”

A heavy pause settled
around them, and tension filled the space between them. “I already told you
everything.” Her face became a blank, serene mask, making it difficult to read
her.

“What exactly did
Senator Sloan say in the confessional?”

She let out a long, deep
breath. “I knew you were going to ask that, but I’m sorry to say, I can’t tell
you.”

He blinked. “What do you
mean, you can’t tell me? You just said you wanted to help.”

“I do want to help, but
what happens in the confessional stays in the confessional.” She folded her
hands in her lap, the fidgeting nervousness gone, as
though that statement explained everything and the matter had been settled. Period.

Screw that.
“What?” he barked. Several “holy” heads turned his way and
frowned, so he swiped a hand over his face and lowered his voice. “That’s the
most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Ridiculous to you, but
not to Senator Sloan, I’m sure.” She adjusted the stained, black material
covering her lap.

“Listen, Sister, the
man’s dead. He’s not going to know or care what you say now. In fact, I’m
pretty sure he’d want the person who murdered him to pay.”

“You have no idea what
he would want, Detective, and neither do I. It’s not my place to tell the world
what he said in the sacred privacy of the confessional.”

Ace bit down on his
frustration and closed his notebook, searching for a way to make her spill her
guts. “I’ll just get a court order, and you’ll be forced to tell me what you
know.”

“Actually, I won’t,” she
said in that calm and serene voice that was beginning to irritate the crap out
of him.

The first inkling of
doubt entered Ace’s mind. The nun held the key to solving this crime, but she
wasn’t talking. And he didn’t have a clue how to make her. “How do you figure
you won’t have to tell?”

“Senator Sloan never
would have confessed to me had he known I wasn’t a priest; therefore, his
confession is still protected by the laws of the church.”

Ace gritted his teeth. “You’re
wrong. You’re not a priest, nor were you a nun at the time of the confession. If
it will harm this case by your not telling me about the evidence you have, or
if failing to get that evidence can lead to others being harmed, a judge will
rule in favor of the prosecution.” He leaned forward and stared her in the eye.
“You
will
have to tell me what you
know, one way or another.”

“Even if you get a judge
who is protective of law and order to side with you, I will simply have the
church’s defense attorney—who happens to be an expert on canon law—stall by
appealing to a higher court.” She leaned forward and stared right back. “By
then the case will be over, Detective.”

“I’m filing for the
court order anyway.”

“File away. I’m just
trying to do what’s right.”

“So am I.” The air grew
thick between them. “Look, Sister, the right thing to do would be to help me
solve this case and help Senator Sloan rest in peace.”

For the first time, her
face showed signs of wavering as her lashes fluttered, then lowered. “I …”

The front doors opened,
and the waning sunlight framed two silhouettes that Ace couldn’t mistake if he
tried.
Dammit
!
He’d been so close, and now
they
had to show up.

“Who’s that?” Sister
Mary Cecelia asked, squinting at the front doors of the church.

“Beavis and Butthead,” Ace
wanted to say, but muttered instead, “The Feds.”

Her forehead knit for a
brief moment. Then she put on her mask of calm serenity and straightened her
backbone in a way that had him grinning, despite his irritation with her.

They weren’t getting
shit out of her either.

“Ma’am. Jackson,” the two men
said in unison, looking like the “Men in Black” with their nearly matching
suits and dark shades.

“Wallace. Rogers,” Ace
echoed as he crossed his arms and sat back to watch the show, trying like hell
to keep the grin off his face.

“Gentleman, before I
waste your time, let me clarify something right from the start,” Sister Mary
Cecelia said. “Senator Sloan’s confession will go to the grave with him.”

Wallace tipped his
glasses forward. “Are you for real?” He looked at Ace before she had a chance
to answer, repeating, “Is she for real?”

“I’m afraid so,” Ace
said, going for a serious expression. He still planned to get legal counsel
involved, but they didn’t have to know that. He wasn’t giving them dick.

“
She
is most certainly for real, gentleman. And
she
is perfectly capable of talking for herself, thank you very
much,” the nun said.

“Unbelievable, lady.”
Rogers threw up his hands, cursing. “Damn! Whose team are you on—the good guys
or the bad guys?”

“I’m on God’s team.” She
raised her chin a notch, and unbelievably seemed to grow even taller. “You’d do
well to watch your tongue in His house, sir.”

Ace couldn’t help it—a
small chuckle slipped out.

“I don’t know what
you’re laughing about, Jackson.” Rogers hammered him with his words. “Washington
wants answers, and they want them now. We don’t have time for nonsense.” He
looked at the nun and threw her words back at her. “You’d do well to tell us
what you know.”

“I can’t.”

A pulse ticked in
Rogers’s neck, and his jaw bulged.

“Fine. We’ll look into other
avenues,” Wallace said, giving up a hell of a lot quicker than Ace had
expected. Why didn’t they suggest a court order? “Your job is to babysit the
nun. Stick to her like a bad
habit
,
Jackson,” he said, smirking.

The laughter vanished
from Ace, and he surged to his feet. “Like hell.”

“Detective.” The sister’s stern,
disapproving look and sharp tone pierced through his anger, and he suddenly
remembered where he was.

“Sorry, Sister, I meant
no disrespect.” Once again, he began to sweat as he glanced at the statue of
Jesus hanging from the cross, but he didn’t feel peace … he felt the fear of
God.