Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #1: Books 1-4 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [classic children's novels txt] 📗

I saw Dehan looking at them.

“They were inevitable, we all knew some people would show up to watch.”

“It will get back to Hagan pretty soon.”

“And the bishop and Sadiq Khan, I’m counting on it.” I looked at my watch. “We need to get back to Father O’Neil.” I glanced at the shallow pits. There were no bones yet, but they had barely got started. “I’d hoped to have something to pressure him with, but we’ll make the most of what we’ve got.”

I called over to Frank where he was sifting through a pile of earth. “I’m going back to the station. Call me as soon as you find anything.”

He didn’t look up, but touched his forehead with two fingers in an affirmative salute.

My cell rang just as we were approaching the car. It was the precinct.

“Stone.”

“Detective, it’s John, the captain.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Listen, Father O’Neil has gone.”

“What?!”

“You left him too long, Stone. He got tired of waiting and he got spooked. He said he was leaving and there was nothing I could do to stop him. You hadn’t charged him, and I couldn’t arrest him without screwing up your investigation. You overplayed your damn hand, Stone!”

He was right and I knew it, and I swore accordingly.

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No, he just said he was leaving.”

“God dammit!”

“Fix it, Stone. Now!”

He hung up. Dehan had stopped walking and was watching me. “He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“He walked out. I tried to be too damned clever, Dehan. I should have charged him.”

She shook her head. “If you had, he would have clammed up like an oyster.”

“Where is he going to go?”

“To the bishop?”

I shook my head. “The bishop won’t touch him with a barge pole.”

“Hagan?”

“Too dangerous, none of his associates. Where the hell is he going to go?”

“Stone?” I looked at her, but I already knew what she was going to say. “His life is in danger, and right now he is all we’ve got.”

“I know. Call in; get an APB put out to notify me if he’s seen and then try calling his cell. I’m going to talk to Mrs. Doyle.”

I found her in the kitchen making a beef stew. She looked pissed. She gave me a look that would have had Mikhail Bakunin standing to attention.

“Would yiz mind at all tellin’ what in the name of Jaysus is goin’ on? The Father gone and youse uprootin’ me feckin’ trees!”

“Mrs. Doyle, I need your help.”

“It’s not enough that you’re causin’ me all this feckin’ hassle. I have to help you an’ all!”

She picked up two handfuls of bloody meat in her hands and dumped them into a big, cast iron pot. There was a loud hiss and clouds of steam billowed out.

“Father O’Neil has gone missing. He’s in trouble, Mrs. Doyle, he could be in danger and we are trying to help him.”

“Help him, indeed! Indeed! This is what youse call help, is it? A fine feckin’ way to help a body, this is!”

She started peeling potatoes like she was auditioning for a slasher movie.

“You know who Conor Hagan is?”

“That bastard!”

“The Father may have got into trouble with Hagan…”

The ferocity of her peeling eased.

I pressed. “He was trying to help people and things got out of hand. He was helping us, giving us vital information, but he panicked…”

“He’s a good man, but he never did have any balls.”

“He walked out of the station and we don’t know where he’s gone.”

She threw the potatoes in the pot and started axing some carrots. She threw them in too and scowled at the contents of the pot like they didn’t deserve her pity. “He wouldn’t go to the bishop, dirty fecker. He might go to Father Sullivan, at St. Patrick’s, or if he’s got any sense, he’ll come back here, to me.”

“If he does…”

“You want me to call yiz.”

“He needs protection.”

“Don’t you worry, I’ll protect him!”

“Mrs. Doyle…”

“I’ll call yiz, aye. Don’t worry.”

Dehan was waiting for me, sitting on the hood of my car. As I approached, she said, “His cell is switched off.”

I opened the door.

“We’ll try St. Patrick’s.”

St. Patrick’s was at Clason Point, on Lacombe Avenue. It wasn’t far, but the traffic was heavy and it took us almost twenty minutes to get there via Bruckner Boulevard and Sound View Avenue. It was a quiet, residential suburb of detached houses with large gardens. I parked a hundred yards up the road by the junction with Thieriot and watched the church for five minutes. Nothing happened. Nobody went in or came out. No cars arrived.

“Let’s go in and talk to Father Sullivan.”

The road was really still and really quiet. The slam of the car doors was loud. There was a gentle breeze and the sound of birds in the maple trees. I felt uneasy, and though we started out at a steady walk, by the time we were approaching the church we had both broken into a steady jog.

It was a modest church, much smaller than St. Mary’s. A simple nave with a small steeple and a bell tower. A broad flight of six steps led up to the porch and I took them three at a time. We stepped inside. Like the street, it was still and quiet, though not completely silent. There was a murmur of voices that was interrupted by our footfalls.

Two men were standing by the north transept, talking softly to a dark-haired man in a hassock. They looked at us standing in the doorway. We crossed ourselves and sat in the rear pews, like we were praying. The men left the priest and approached down the left aisle. They were both tall, sandy-haired and blue-eyed.