All the women knew I was a favorite target. Derision, revulsion, mind-games, unjust disciplinary action. I was getting it from all sides—figuratively and literally. When it comes down to it, there is no one I can risk trusting.
L. I.
WHEN THE NURSE at Mercy informed Nat that Suzanne Holden had a visitor, she immediately assumed it must be Leo.
She was wrong. It wasn’t Leo but Ross Varda sitting in the orange plastic chair beside the inmate’s bed.
“You look surprised,” he said.
Not that it would take a psychiatrist to discern that.
“Suzanne had one of the nurses call me and ask me to come in to see her,” Varda explained. “My prison credentials got me past the officer on duty outside.”
“I didn’t know the two of you knew each other.”
“Suzanne was in one of my therapy groups at Grafton for a short time.”
Varda got to his feet, offering her the chair. She turned down the offer which left them both standing.
“Suzanne has been telling me about her terrible ordeal. That someone jumped her—”
“She doesn’t believe me,” Suzanne said plaintively. “No one believes me.”
“Now, now, Suzanne,” Dr. Varda soothed.
“No one’s discounting your story,” Nat said. “The police are doing a very thorough investigation.”
A flicker of hope briefly lit her eyes. “Leo will prove I’m telling the truth. I know he will. He has to.”
Just hearing his name uttered from her lips caused Nat’s stomach to clench.
“You look tired, Suzanne. Why don’t you try to sleep?” The psychiatrist glanced at Nat. “She says she hasn’t slept in the past two nights.”
“The nurse wouldn’t even give me a damn Tylenol p.m. It says in big red letters on my chart: no meds. Like what? I’m gonna OD on fucking acetaminophen.”
“I’ll go have a word with her,” Dr. Varda said. He paused for a moment at the door. “Don’t stay too long, Superintendent. Suzanne really does need to rest.”
As soon as he left, Nat sat down in the chair he’d vacated.
“I got a visit today from Daniel Milburne, Suzanne.”
She gave Nat a blank look.
“He was very angry. He told me a woman has been threatening him. She sent a letter to his wife a few days ago. Yesterday, she phoned her. He thinks I’m behind the threats.”
Suzanne shrugged.
“This woman called his wife ‘Bethany.’ Which is interesting because she hasn’t used that name in a long time.”
Suzanne looked away.
“In fact, hardly anyone knows she used to go by the name Bethany. But you knew, right?”
Suzanne continued avoiding eye contact. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Lynn never talked to you about Bethany?”
“No.” Suzanne snapped out her response a little too quickly. “Bethany Graham?”
“No.”
“This is a real puzzle, Suzanne. Because very few people other than me know about Bethany Graham. And since I wasn’t the one who threatened her—”
“It wasn’t me. Shit. First you accuse me of using again. Now you’re trying to pin some blackmail scheme on me—”
“I didn’t call it blackmail.” But, of course Nat was thinking, drugs weren’t free.
“Whatever. It wasn’t me. That’s all I know.”
“Well, what worries me is that Milburne might think you know more than that. He might think Lynn did talk to you about Bethany. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want anyone talking about his wife. Lynn. Her folks. You. Anyone.”
Suzanne wet her dry lips as she studied Nat closely. “You think he’s the one put the jump on me and shot me up? So you believe I’m telling the truth?”
“It’s not a matter of what I believe. We need proof.” “Look,” she said pleadingly, “I didn’t see who did it. I swear.” “And you have no idea who it might have been? Or why someone would do that to you?”
“No,” she maintained stubbornly. Or, Nat wondered, was it fear more than stubbornness?
Nat’s frustration was mounting. “So when you learned that Lynn was violently assaulted and nearly killed last week, Mil-burne’s name didn’t pop into your mind?”
“I told you, I don’t know him,” she snapped.
“Whose name did pop into your head?” Nat pounced right back.
She shut her eyes. “No one.”
“I don’t believe you. His name popped into your head again just now when I asked you that question.”
“Leave me alone.”
“You could have died, Suzanne. Hutch says you were right on the brink when he found you.” Nat paused deliberately before adding, “If someone did this to you, it’s very likely you were meant to die.”
She clamped her hands up to her ears. “Stop. Can’t you just stop?”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Her eyes flew open and she fixed Nat with a disquieting stare. “Don’t you?”
Nat was stunned by her words. “Suzanne—”
“If I’m out of the picture, Leo won’t be torn—”
Nat gripped her shoulders hard enough that she winced. But she didn’t let go. She was too angry. “Listen to me, Suzanne. If you love someone, the last thing in the world you want to do is cause them grief and suffering. If Leo’s torn”—and Nat did believe he was feeling pulled between them—“then he’s got to sort it out for himself. If what he and I share isn’t strong enough to hold him, then . . . that’s how it is. It has nothing—do you hear me?—nothing to do with you. It’s between me and Leo.”
“Fine.”
“So let’s leave Leo out of this, okay?”
“Okay, okay. Pm sorry.”
Nat dropped her hands to her sides. “You know there’ll have to be a disciplinary hearing when you’re out of the hospital.” “You can’t send me back to Grafton. You can’t. I’ve been clean for so long. Fd never do something so stupid. Especially not now. Not now when everything’s starting to come together for me.”
Everything. Did that include Leo? So much for Nat wanting to leave him out of this.
“Please, you can’t send me back,” she pleaded. “I’ll die if I go back.”
“You have a greater risk of dying if you don’t help us nail the bastard.”
“I can’t. I can’t. Don’t you understand? I can’t.”
“Yes you can. Tell her, Suzanne. You must.”
The voice coming from the doorway startled both women. Ross Varda strode purposefully across the hospital room and over to the bed. “It’s for your own safety, Suzanne.”
Nat wondered how long he’d been standing there, listening. Dr. Varda maintained his focus on his patient. And her eyes were glued to his. “I. . . can’t,” she said hoarsely.
“Yes you can, Suzanne.”
Her hands were trembling as she touched them to her face. “Back when you and Lynn were at Grafton, something happened, isn’t that so, Suzanne?” he coaxed.
Suzanne nodded.
“What happened?”
“Lynn was . . . raped.”
“Yes, go on,” he said.
“Lynn was scared.” Suzanne swallowed hard. “She told me she was scared.”
Nat moved in a little closer to Suzanne. “Who was she scared of, Suzanne? Who raped her?”
She compressed her lips.
“Did he rape you, too?” Nat asked gently.
“No, no, it wasn’t. . . like that. He didn’t. . . want me. Not . . . sexually.” She shot Varda a look. As if wanting confirmation.
“Suzanne,” he said softly, “you will never fully recover if you keep this all inside. We’ve chatted about that, haven’t we?”
She' bit down so hard on her badly chapped bottom lip, it started to bleed. “He’s not a bad man. He looked out for me. It would have been so much worse without him.”
A cold chill seeped into Nat’s bones. This wouldn’t be the first time an inmate, especially a female inmate, had been brainwashed into thinking her abuser was really a good guy. There was even a name for it: Stockholm syndrome, coined from a hostage situation in the 1970s at a Stockholm bank where employees, held hostage for days, developed an intense attachment to their captors.
“You may not think he hurt you, but he did. And two days ago, he nearly killed you,” Nat said. “It was the same man, wasn’t it, Suzanne?”
Suzanne turned her head away. “Stop.”
“And what about Lynn?” Nat persisted. “He certainly hurt Lynn. She told you she was scared of him. She had good reason to be scared, Suzanne. It would break your heart to see Lynn now. Her face all cut up, her breasts, her—”
“Stop!” she screamed.
But Nat kept hammering home the reality: “When the bastard was finished mutilating her, he threw her ravaged body into a Dumpster and left her for dead.”
Suzanne looked pleadingly at Dr. Varda. “Make her stop.” “Please, Superintendent. You can see that Suzanne is overwrought. And very frightened. With good reason.”
“That’s precisely why she’s got to tell me who this bastard
is.”
Varda took hold of Suzanne’s hand. “Tell Ms. Price the man’s name, Suzanne. It’s okay. Once she knows, you’ll be safe. I promise you.”
When she finally uttered his name, she said it in such a low whisper, Nat could barely make it out.
“Joe?” Nat repeated.
Suzanne hesitated, then nodded.
“Joe who? What’s his last name?”
Suzanne squeezed her eyes shut.
“Please, Suzanne. You have to tell me. Joe who?”
The inmate mumbled a name but Nat didn’t catch ir. “Parker.” It was Ross Varda who repeated the name.
Nat gave the psychiatrist a studied look, then turned back to Suzanne, who was still crying softly. “You’ve done the right thing.” And the psychologically healthy thing, Nat thought. It was a first step in breaking the syndrome.
“I’m not saying he did it. Cut Lynn up and . . . jumped me,” Suzanne said anxiously. “Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe, like you said before, it was that guy Milburne. I mean, shit, I wasn’t there when Lynn was attacked. And I never saw who came at me. You don’t know it wasn’t Milburne, right? It could have been him. Just like you said. He had plenty of reason.”
Varda gave Nat a puzzled look. She was sure he was won-
dering who Milburne was and how he fit into the investigation. Nat was beginning to wonder now if he did.
“But you are sure this Joe Parker raped Lynn when she was in Grafton? She told you it was Parker.” Nat wanted confirmation from Suzanne.
Tears began falling down her cheeks. “No. She didn’t tell me.”
“He told you? Parker told you he’d done it?”
Suzanne put both hands over her eyes.
Varda looked wearily at Nat. “He didn’t have to tell her.”
It took her a few moments to take in the full measure of the psychiatrist’s words: Suzanne saw them. Suzanne Holden witnessed Joe Parker rape Lynn Ingram.
“He’s not a bad man,” Suzanne rasped. “He . . . couldn’t help himself. He was . . . sorry afterward. He really was . . . sorry.”
Nat’s cell phone rang as she was heading out of Mercy Medical Center. It was Leo.
“You still with Suzanne?”
“How did you know . .. ?” But then Nat remembered the cop posted at Suzanne’s door. Leo must be having him report in on visitors.
“We got something. I’m at the Precinct House. Can you come over?”
“I’ll head there now.” Nat almost added that she had something, too. But her shocking news was not something to share on the phone. Nat was more than a little worried about how Leo would feel—and react—when he found out about Suzanne and Joe Parker. There was little question in Nat’s mind that Parker’d served as Suzanne’s “daddy” when she was in Grafton. He may have protected her, but Nat was sure Suzanne had paid a hefty price for that protection. Did she really think what he’d done to her wasn’t rape?
This ugly business was getting more personal by the minute. Nat punched in Jack Dwyer’s direct number at Horizon House. “Joe Parker,” she said abruptly. “You know him?” “Who?”
“Joe Parker. He’s a CO at Grafton.” Only now did Nat realize she hadn’t actually confirmed with Suzanne that Parker was a corrections officer. He could be one of the vocational education or shop teachers, a mental health person . . .
“Why are you asking?”
“Suzanne broke down and named him—with a little coaxing from Ross Varda. Suzanne saw this Joe Parker rape Lynn when they were at Grafton. She said Lynn was scared to death of him.” “Joe Parker?” Jack repeated slowly. There was no missing the note of disbelief in his voice.
“That’s right,” she said impatiently. “Joe Parker.”
“You got the wrong guy.” Jack’s statement was adamant. “Believe me, Nat—”
“Obviously you do know him. Is he an officer?”
Jack didn’t answer right away. “Nat, Joe Parker is a good buddy of Hutch’s. They go back a long way.”
“That makes it awkward, but it doesn’t change the fact.” “He’s a priest, Nat.”
Her mouth fell open. “What?”
“He’s a Catholic priest. He and Hutch grew up together in Dorchester. Hutch and his family have been members of his church for years. Kerry, his oldest daughter, was married by Father Joe. I was at the wedding. Like I said, Nat, you got it wrong. ”
“A priest. Oh, Christ,” Nat muttered, wanting to kick herself. Father Joe. The priest Carrie Li told her had called to check on Lynn’s condition. Very likely the same priest Leo had spoken to on the phone. And Nat was willing to bet the bank it was also the Father Joe Parker who’d showed up at the hospital on some trumped-up excuse about visiting one of his parishioners so he could find out firsthand from the surgeon about Lynn’s condition.
“Nat? You still there.”
“Yeah.”
“You gotta be wrong about this,” Jack said.
Leo’s greeting was perfunctory. A man with a lot on his mind. Well, Nat was a woman with plenty on her mind, too. Before she could start to unload some of it, Leo jumped right in, setting a plastic evidence bag on his desk.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A scrap of cloth.”
“I can see that.”
“A scrap of cloth containing still-detectable remnants of ether, according to our lab boys.”
Nat immediately remembered Suzanne’s words. “I felt something . . . over my mouth . . . Awful smell. . . Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t... So dizzy ...”
“Where did you find it?”
“One of my boys plucked it out of a trash can.” He paused. “The trash can was in the alley behind the boutique.”
Nat picked up a faint note of triumph in his voice. She’d wanted proof; here was proof.
“I’ve also doubled the watch outside Suzanne’s hospital room,” he said brusquely. Nat now remembered seeing a second officer coming down the hospital corridor when she’d left her a short time ago.
“Suzanne’s being released tomorrow morning,” he continued. “I want her put in protective custody. At Horizon House.”
Nat nodded slowly. Even though they both knew this evidence wasn’t enough to unconditionally prove Suzanne’s story, it was more than enough for Nat to put the inmate’s disciplinary hearing on hold. Nat was also in complete agreement with Leo that Suzanne should remain at Horizon House. No way, knowing what she knew now, was she sending Suzanne back to Grafton.
Nat was about to tell Leo about Father Joe when she was distracted by the gruesome drawing Leo placed on the desk. Her warning note.
“This is a photocopy,” Leo said. “You can pass it on to Varda. Tell him I’d like his analysis. I’m curious to see if he comes up with the same conclusions our man Carl Miller made. You want to read his report?”
“I’ll take a copy home with me. Give me the highlights.”
Leo placed a copy of the report beside the drawing, but he didn’t have to refer to it. “Interestingly, Miller, like you, observed that there was a childish quality to the drawing. He even went so far as to theorize that a child might well have done the sketch.”
Nat gave Leo an incredulous look.
“For all the gory details, Miller says that the way the lines are done and the way it’s been colored in are typical of a child’s style. Also, what Miller views as key is that he sees no signs of rage or panic in the way it’s drawn. He goes into a detailed explanation about how and why he reaches these conclusions.”
“This doesn’t make any sense, Leo. Lynn wasn’t attacked by a child.”
“Let’s say this was done by a child.” Leo tapped the photocopy. “There’s nothing to say this creep we’re after did the drawing himself.”
“He asked a child to do the drawing?” Her tone was openly dubious.
“It’s not so far-fetched. He knows we’re gonna analyze the shit out of this drawing, and he wants to send us off on a wild-goose chase.” There was a pause before Leo went on. “Also, Miller pointed out that the suspect may feel a need to bring someone else into his scheme. A co-conspirator.”
“A child?”
“The bastard describes to the kid what he wants drawn, gives the kid a few pointers along the way—”
“You wouldn’t ask just any kid. Does Miller think our guy’s a pedophile?” Nat’s stomach clenched. The news was full of cases being brought against Catholic priests on charges of pedophilia. As if things weren’t bad enough, was it possible Father Joe’s crimes were not only against female inmates but children as well?
“Same question I asked Miller,” Leo said somberly. This was not only a cop speaking, but the father of a little boy.
“And?”
“Miller said not necessarily. And he made another interesting observation. The way the face is drawn leads him to think it’s more likely a little girl than a little boy who did it. A kid as young as five.” He paused. Waiting for Nat to draw the same conclusion he had drawn.
But Nat’s mind was still on Father Joe.
“Harrison Bell has a little girl. Daphne. Four years old. Turns five in November.” Clearly, he’d been studying his notes on Bell. “And I’ve checked into whether Milburne or Rodney Bartlett have any young children. Milburne’s youngest is nineteen. He and Beth have no children. Bartlett is discreet about it, but he’s gay. No current lover, no kids. Jennifer and Matthew Slater were also childless. And, by the way, no luck confirming Bartlett’s absence at the funeral. The witness we were pretty sure of is now saying it wasn’t Bartlett who left; it was another guy closer to the aisle.”
“A friend of Bartlett’s?” Nat asked.
“Nope. A doc who got paged by his nurse and hightailed it to the hospital.”
“Bartlett could have paid off the witness.”
“It’s possible.” Leo didn’t sound very enthusiastic about this possibility. “Given what we’ve got at this point, we’re definitely moving Bell to the top of our list.”
“I don’t know, Leo.” Granted, Bell had been one of her prime picks as well—until that morning’s meeting with Suzanne. Now, like Daniel Milburne and Rodney Bartlett, he was quickly fading into the woodwork. Nat was thinking about Father Joe Parker. True, the priest wouldn’t have children of his own—unless he had an illegitimate child that he’d secretly fathered—but he certainly would have ample contacts with plenty of youngsters via the church. Youngsters who would look up to their priest. Who might do whatever Father asked of them . . .
“According to Bell’s clerk,” Leo went on, “Bell left the clinic at four o’clock on Saturday. More than enough time for him to have zipped over to the boutique on Newbury Street. Not to mention how easy it would have been for him to get his hands on a hypodermic needle and drugs.”
“Easy enough for anyone to get their hands on dope and works,” she muttered.
“I saved the best for last. I want you to listen to something.” He opened the top desk drawer and pulled out a small cassette player and a second evidence bag—this one containing a cassette. “I got this in the mail this morning. I want to play it for you.” He removed a pair of rubber gloves from his jacket pocket and slipped them on before removing the cassette and placing it in the player.
He hit play. A woman’s voice came on, husky-sounding, like she had a terrible cold—
I am a patient of Dr. Harrison Bell’s. That is ... I was his patient. I ivon’t give my name because I do not want to become involved in this sordid business. But I feel it’s my duty as a citizen to come forward. On what ended up being my final visit to Dr. Bell. . . this was a couple of weeks ago ... 7 was waiting in his examining room when I heard an argument going on next door. That would be Dr. Bell’s consulting room. I recognized his voice immediately. It took a bit longer to recognize the . . . woman’s voice. It was Dr. Ingram. I had seen . . . her a few times for pain management. I have . . . well, that’s neither here nor there. The argument they were having was . . . personal. I distinctly heard Dr. Bell yelling at Dr. Ingram. He was shouting— “You can’t just end it. You can’t just dismiss everything we’ve had, everything we’ve been to each other.” Dr. Ingram . . . she wasn’t really screaming so much as . . . well,
I guess she was really pleading with him—first to keep his voice down, but then when he kept shouting, I heard her say, “You leave me no choice. We can’t go on this way. ”
And then she said—now it sounded like she was crying— “It isn’t that I don’t love you. I will never stop loving you. ” But Dr. Bell, he only got angrier. Shouting even louder—
“I won’t let you go. Not now. Not ever.” And then Dr. Ingram was definitely crying. I thought she was just so upset, but then I heard her say—“Stop, you’re hurting me, Harrison. ” I guess he did stop, because seconds later I heard the door to his office slam shut and next thing you know he breezed right into the examining room as if.. . as if nothing had happened. He greeted me with a warm smile and be looked . . . cool as a cucumber.
Leo hit the off button. “True, this wouldn’t be admissible in court—”
“And,” Nat pointed out, “it could be a fake.”
“We’re gonna lean on Bell. See if we can’t get him to come clean. And there’s always the possibility, if the tape is legit, that Lynn Ingram will remember some of this.” He waited for a response from Nat. When he didn’t get one, he looked at her more closely. “Something’s up. What is it?” he asked cautiously.
“I have a new suspect for you, Leo. I’m pretty sure this one will drop Bell down a notch on your suspect list.”
Leo got up from the desk and started to pace. Not a hell of a lot of space for it in his small office. He managed maybe ten steps to the wall, then crossed back ten steps. His expression was grim. Frown lines cut across his brow. His eyes were cast to the floor as though he was searching for something he’d dropped.
The tension in the office was palpable.
Leo paused for a moment, shooting Nat a look. He opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it again without uttering a word,
“I know it’s hard to believe,” she said softly. No matter what one’s denomination, it was difficult to imagine, much less accept, that a priest, a man of God, would be capable of such heinous crimes. Nat was sure it was especially hard for Leo, who was Catholic. While he wasn’t a regular churchgoer, she knew from Jakey’s grandmother that Jakey had been baptized and that she took the little boy to church once or twice a month. Nat had been invited along with them one time, even though she wasn’t Catholic. §he hadn’t really been raised with any religion. Her mother believed only in her delusions. Her father put all his faith in the bottle. Their gods failed them utterly.
And what did she believe in? It was a question she’d pondered a good deal over the years. There’d been times she’d thought she knew, only to be proven wrong. She’d yet to come up with a lasting answer.
Leo stopped pacing, dropped back into his chair. Still not a word. Was he thinking about what the priest did to Lynn? Or trying to sort out exactly what Suzanne’s relationship was to Father Joe? Not that it was hard for him to figure out.
“I’m sorry, Leo,” Nat said finally, his continued silence wearing on her heart.
He mimed an indifferent shrug—she didn’t believe for an instant that was the way he was feeling—then pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took out an opened pack of Lucky Strikes. He tapped a cigarette out, jabbed the unfiltered tip between his lips, rummaged in the drawer until he unearthed a book of matches, and lit up.
Right behind him on the wall was posted the ubiquitous no smoking sign.
It was no big surprise to Nat that Leo wasn’t swayed by that stricture.
What surprised her was the smoking itself. Leo’d quit smoking before she knew him—he told her once that he’d stopped right after Jakey was born—fiercely determined not to endanger his child with secondhand smoke. It would take a lot for Leo to light up again.
Nat was smart enough not to comment on it.
She was smart enough to keep her mouth shut altogether.
Lynn sought religious counsel prior to making her decision to go ahead with the sexual-reassignment surgery and was told by the pastor that it was a sin against God.
Dr. Ross Varda (therapy note)
NAT WAS MORE than a bit surprised when Melissa Raymond introduced herself at the front door of the rectory. She looked nothing like Nat’s stereotype of a priest’s housekeeper. She’d envisioned a late-middle-aged, plain-looking, broad-faced woman with steel-gray hair, wearing a matronly black dress, a large silver or gold cross prominently hanging from a chain around her neck.
Melissa Raymond’s cross—if, indeed, she was wearing one— was nowhere in sight. She was a willowy woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. She was smartly dressed in a pair of finely tailored charcoal-gray slacks and an emerald-green sweater that highlighted her green eyes—not to mention clinging to her shapely bosom. Her chestnut hair hung sleekly down around her shoulders.
Nat wondered facetiously how well she cleaned house.
“Father Joe is working on next Sunday’s sermon and he hates to be interrupted,” Melissa said in a crisp, proprietary tone.
Leo whipped out his badge. Melissa’s eyes widened slightly, but otherwise her features registered no alarm.
“Is this about Tommy Matthews?” she asked, lowering her voice a notch. “Father Joe’s been saying for weeks that one of these days that boy is going to—”
“It’s not about Tommy Matthews,” Leo cut her off brusquely.
This elicited a slight flush on Melissa’s fair and flawless skin. “Oh,” she muttered. “Well, I suppose I. . . could interrupt Father.”
“Do that,” Leo said.
Melissa’s flush deepened.
Leo and Nat eyed each other as Melissa hurried off, leaving them standing in the gloomy and airless foyer of the large, late-nineteenth-century stone-and-brick rectory beside St. Bartholomew’s Church.
It couldn’t have been any more than thirty seconds before Father Joe himself was bustling down the hall from his office toward them.
If Nat had been surprised by the housekeeper’s appearance, she was doubly surprised by Father Joe’s. Not that she’d formulated a vivid image of what a priest/sexual abuser/psychopath would look like, but it certainly wouldn’t have been this small, pudgy, fifty-something-year-old man with graying hair and a benign demeanor, dressed in baggy khaki slacks and a navy-blue T-shirt.
It was hard to imagine he’d be big enough or strong enough
to attack the nearly six-foot-tall Lynn Ingram, much less be capable of lifting her limp body and tossing it into a Dumpster.
But then Nat had encountered numerous men—and women— in prison whose size and apparent lack of strength had proved no deterrent to their commission of heinous crimes against seemingly bigger and stronger victims. In the heat of rage or passion or both, with the adrenaline flowing, it was amazing how strong a person could become.
As Father Joe approached them, he was smiling beneficently, but Nat detected a shadow of worry on his face.
“Please,” he said, sounding a bit out of breath, “forgive my appearance. I wasn’t expecting—” He stopped. “Well, of course I wasn’t expecting you.” He extended a hand in Nat’s direction. She gave the priest’s hand a perfunctory shake. When Father Joe extended his hand to Leo, Leo stuck his hands in his jacket pocket.
“Please, come into the parlor.” Father Joe Parker was already heading over to the closed heavy mahogany pocket doors to their right. As he slid them open, he glanced back at them. “I’ve asked Melissa to bring us all some tea. I hope you like tea. Of course, if you prefer coffee—”
“Nothing for me.” Leo gestured to the priest to step into the parlor. They followed him inside. Leo slid the doors shut.
The dark-wood-paneled room that Father Joe referred to as the parlor more resembled a library. Bookcases lined two walls from floor to ceiling. Heavy dark-umber drapery covered much of the triple-bay window that faced the street. Narrow openings in the curtains allowed only thin shafts of light to filter into the space. The floor was covered with a muted Persian rug. The furnishings looked to be authentic Victorian antiques—deep-blue velvet sofas, a pair of ornate brocade armchairs, a large, intricately carved mahogany desk. Father Joe approached the desk and turned on a desk lamp. Then, after a pause—possibly reflecting that this amount of lighting did not exactly flood the room with brightness—he moved to a standing lamp by the sofa and turned that on as well. The lighting, while now adequate for their purposes, didn’t expel the essential gloominess of the parlor.
The room was meticulously tidy and there was a lingering hint of fine-furniture polish. Melissa might not have looked like a housekeeper, but then, looks, as Nat knew so well, could be deceiving. She had to remember to keep that in mind in connection with the unassuming priest.
Father Joe ushered them to the two respective armchairs, selecting the couch for himself. He settled himself before he spoke. “Now, please, tell me how I can help you.”
“Let’s start with Suzanne Holden,” Leo said gruffly.
Not even a hint of alarm or wariness in the priest’s demeanor in response to this question. “Suzanne Holden?”
“An inmate at Grafton.”
“Let me think. I’ve been volunteering there for a number of years. So many women ...”
“She has very clear recollections of you.”
“Is that right?” He spoke with a tone that indicated nothing more than curiosity, then pondered the name aloud again. A few seconds later, he snapped his fingers. “Of course. Suzanne. Yes. Yes, yes. I’m sorry. I should especially remember Suzanne.” Nat’s stomach clenched. Yeah, I bet you should.
“Very troubled. She has a little boy, you see. It’s all coming back to me. Wasn’t she released a few months ago? No, wait, she was transferred. Yes, I remember now. She went to a prerelease center. Something hasn’t happened, I hope. She is all right, isn’t she?”
Leo ignored the question. “What’s ‘all coming back’ to you?” Father Joe scowled in thought. “All the times she spoke about her son. What a sweet and clever little boy he was. Suzanne was always bringing me in photos of the child. Oh, yes, and little drawings he made for her when he came to visit.”
Nat glanced surreptitiously over at Leo to check out his reaction. His poker face was in place, but she suspected it was taking a concerted effort. Did he know how much Jakey meant to Suzanne? How much pride she took in her child?
Her child. Nat felt an ache in her chest. And she was sure her own attempt to maintain a neutral look was not nearly so successful as Leo’s.
“You said she was very troubled,” Leo said.
“May I ask what this is about? I know Suzanne had a drug problem. I hope she hasn’t. . . slipped. One of the things, in fact, that concerned her deeply was that she had passed the illness on to her little boy and that he’d grow up to be a drug addict. Is she all right?”
“No,” Leo said succinctly.
The priest looked genuinely alarmed. “Is she back on drugs?” Nat grit her teeth. It wTas all she could do not to leap up from her chair and slam her fist into Father Joe’s face.
But Leo continued to appear cool and collected. “Let’s move on to Lynn Ingram.”
Father Joe nodded, resting his small hands over the paunch of his belly. Nat found herself studying those hands with their short, pudgy fingers—a plain band of gold on the marriage finger of the left hand. Father Joe was married to the church.
Was it really possible that these were the hands of a slasher? Was this man of God capable of wielding a knife and viciously, brutally, cutting up a woman? Leaving her for dead? Were these the hands of a man who would plunge a hypodermic needle full of heroin into the vein of a recovering drug addict?
“I have been praying for Lynn daily.” He pressed his palms together as if to demonstrate the gesture of prayer. Or was he saying a silent prayer at that very moment? Praying for another go at her? Another go at Suzanne? Praying that his crimes would go undetected?
Father Joe dropped his hands over his belly again. “I keep listening to the news, reading the daily paper, hoping to get word on her condition, but there’s been absolutely nothing—”
“You’ve done more than follow the news,” Nat challenged.
Father Joe gave her a blank look. “I don’t—” His expression quickly changed. “Oh, yes, that’s true. I did have a brief word with a doctor over at the hospital. I was paying a call on one of my parishioners and—”
“The name?” Leo interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
“The name of the parishioner you were visiting.” Leo had his notebook out and was withdrawing a pen from his pocket.
“I can’t remember offhand. It was actually the mother of a parishioner. Visiting from out of town—”
“The parishioner’s name, then,” Leo pressed.
“Alice,” the priest said after a short pause. “Alice Morrisey.”
“How would you describe your relationships with Suzanne Holden and Lynn Ingram?” Leo asked, deliberately throwing the priest a curve ball.
Father Joe merely gave Leo a puzzled look. But before he could respond—probably only to question the question—there was a firm knock on the door. “Yes, come in, Melissa,” Father Joe said in the direction of the closed doors.
The doors slid open. Melissa’s eyes darted immediately over .to the priest. He smiled pleasantly. “You may bring in the tea, my dear.”
She disappeared for a moment and reappeared with a silver tea set sitting on a silver tray that she must have put down on a nearby table.
Nat spotted the housekeeper catch the priest’s eye again as she set the tray down on a coffee table in front of the sofa.
“Is there anything else?” she asked.
“No, Melissa.” He checked his watch. “It’s nearly noon. You better hurry off and meet the school bus.”
Now it was Leo and Nat who exchanged glances.
“You have a child?” Nat asked Melissa as she was starting toward the doorway.
Her back stiffened as she glanced back at me. “Yes. A little girl.” There was a hint of defensiveness in her tone. Nat’s gaze instinctively fell to her left hand. No wedding band.
But it wasn’t Melissa Raymond’s marital status that was on Nat’s mind. It was the fact that she had a child. A daughter. A daughter who was likely very close to Father Joe. If he’d asked her to draw a picture for him . . .
“Melissa and Emily live here at the rectory,” the priest was saying. “Emily’s a delightful little girl. Bright, pretty, and very well behaved.”
Yeah, I bet she’s well behaved, Nat thought.
Melissa made a speedy exit while Father Joe was talking, and firmly shut the doors behind her.
“How long have they lived here with you?” Nat asked the priest.
Father Joe paused to mull this over. “Let me see. It must be close to nine years now. Yes, Melissa just turned thirty-three. She came here when she was twenty-four. Yes, so that would be nine years.”
Nat’s mind was racing. Nine years. And Emily is in kindergarten. So Melissa got pregnant while she was living at the rectory. Did she get pregnant at the rectoryf Was I on the right track when I considered the possibility that the priest had fathered an illegitimate child? Is Emily his?
“Who’s the father?” Nat asked bluntly.
“Excuse me?” Father Joe said, visibly taken aback for the first time.
“She'asked you who Emily’s father is,” Leo repeated.
“Well, I can’t really . . . That’s not a question I feel 1... I have the right to answer.” Finally, a crack in the veneer.
“I suppose we can wait until your housekeeper gets back and ask her,” Leo said offhandedly. “Let’s get back to my earlier question.”
“What was that?” Father Joe looked plenty flustered now. Maybe they were actually getting somewhere.
“How would you describe your relationships with Suzanne Holden and Lynn Ingram?” There was nothing offhanded in Leo’s voice now.
“I’m a spiritual counselor, Detective. I am spiritual counselor to many inmates, Suzanne and Lynn among many.” He shifted uneasily on the sofa.
“Is that right?” Leo said, eyeballing Father Joe.
The priest looked away, letting his gaze rest on the tea service. He didn’t, however, make any move to pour the tea. Although, Nat bet he could use a drink right about now, probably something stronger than tea, though.
There was a prolonged silence.
Leo broke it big-time. “Suzanne Holden witnessed you raping Lynn Ingram at Grafton.”
The priest stared at Leo, looking dazed. “What?”
Leo glared at him. “My bet is you raped Suzanne as well. Maybe you didn’t call it rape. Probably not. You probably told yourself—and her—every time you fucked her that you were just tending to her physical as well as spiritual needs.”
The priest didn’t look half as shaken by these reprehensible charges as Leo looked dishing them out. All signs of being cool and collected had vanished. Nat was starting to worry that Leo might decjde to tend to some of his own physical needs any moment now. There was no doubt in her mind: Leo would have liked to punch the living daylights out of Father Joe.
Father Joe rose slowly. It seemed to require some serious effort, as if he’d aged twenty years in the last few minutes.
“I am deeply saddened by the poor girl’s utterly unfounded charges, Detective. What grieves me most is that I am certain these lies are causing her to suffer deeply. And Suzanne’s already suffered so much. May God forgive her.” He paused for a few moments. “Please tell her, next time you see her, that I understand. And that I forgive her.”
Without another word, Father Joe crossed the room, shoulders drooping, his step no longer spry.
“Where were you Saturday afternoon at four forty-five?” Leo said sharply, just as Father Joe was about to slide open the doors. The priest didn’t turn around. “I was here at the rectory.” “Can anybody back up your story?”
The priest turned slowly to face Leo. “My ‘story’?” He nodded sadly. “I was putting the final touches on my sermon. I believe Melissa was here— No, wait, I’m sorry. All this . . . I’m a bit. . . flustered.”
He looked more than flustered to Nat. He looked close to panic.
“Saturday is Melissa’s day off. She took Emily to the zoo. Emily was so excited when they got home. She started darting around the room imitating a monkey—”
“What time did they get home?” Leo’s voice was as hard-edged as his expression.
Father Joe sighed. “I believe it was sometime after six. As a special treat, Melissa took Emily to McDonald’s for supper. Emily adores the Happy Meals, but it’s really for the little toy they put inside. And the fries. I think she likes the fries—”
“And last Thursday between the hours of eleven a.m. and one p.m.?” Leo continued in the same iron-fisted tone.
Father Joe fixed a weary gaze on Leo. “An alibi for the time Lynn was attacked?”
Leo said nothing.
“I don’t remember exactly—”
Leo folded his arms across his chest. “Think about it. Fve got plenty of time.”
The priest cast Nat a quick glance. She remained silent and grim.
“I believe I was again here at the rectory during that stretch of time.” He nodded slowly. “Yes, I was here until shortly before three o’clock.” An anguished look shadowed his face. “I did not harm either of those women, Detective. Not while they were in Grafton. Not since they left the prison. I swear—”
“To God?” Leo finished bitingly.