The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3), Brian Shea [best non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

now. They need to hold the scene. They need to secure it. Don't let anybody in, and anybody that's in there, do your best to keep them there until the cavalry arrive. Do you hear me? Call 911 now. Report it. They'll send marked units. I will be there shortly, I promise."

Kelly’s tone was serious as he tried to snap his friend out of the dazed and confused mindset he was stuck in so that he could do the right thing.

"I'm hanging up now, Donny. Do you hear me? I'm hanging up the phone now. You're going to dial 911. I am going to be there as soon as I can."

Kelly ended the call, slipped his phone back into his pocket, and looked at his daughter, who had only heard half of the conversation. Her eyes were now as wide as when he had grabbed the Brussels sprouts, but now they were layered with a serious undertone. She knew something bad had happened. He always tried his best as a parent and cop to shield his daughter from the horrors of his job, but sometimes it wasn’t possible.

Kelly rarely, if ever, talked about his case work, and never brought his work home with him, at least not where she could see. He alone carried the emotional burdens of the things he experienced. He tucked them deep, sheltering his daughter from such horrors and working hard not to impact her childhood.

But this situation was unavoidable. Had Kelly known it was a call from work, he would have stepped further away from his daughter and spoken in hushed tones, something she'd become accustomed to. Embry knew that when her father answered a call and walked away, it was most likely work and she was not privy to the details. He’d caught her eavesdropping only once and had nipped that in the bud. But this time, she had caught the full force of the conversation.

"Honey, we've got to go now. Donny needs me. Something bad's happened."

"Is he okay?" Embry asked.

"He's fine," Kelly half-lied, knowing that his friend was physically fine but would have emotional scars that lasted a lifetime. "Donny's tough. He's from the old neighborhood. He'll be okay. I just got to get you home so I can take care of him and help him out. Do you understand?"

Embry nodded.

He reversed the squeaky cart, abandoning the last few items on his shopping list. Kelly shoved the cart forward to the self-checkout aisle, making quick work of the few items that he had, bagging them, and then heading out the door with Embry in tow.

A dead priest the Sunday before Thanksgiving was no way to start the holiday festivities.

3

Marked cruisers posted at each end of Bowdoin Street had effectively shut it down in a one-block radius of Saint Peter's Church. The squad cars, their distinctive powder-blue-and-white color pattern unique to the Boston PD, successfully cut off any vehicular traffic. Although the patrol cars’ positioning stopped civilian vehicles from entering the area, the officers assigned to securing the perimeter were still in the process of extending the distinctive yellow crime scene tape so onlookers and civilian foot traffic couldn't enter the space.

Kelly stopped his unmarked Caprice near the grassy park area at the disjointed three-way intersection where Bowdoin met with Adams and Church Street. He stepped out and surveyed the scene, taking in the initial perimeter being set. It was better to start big and collapse the scene inward than try to expand it, which made for all sorts of challenges regarding evidence collection and scene integrity. From Kelly’s initial take, the on-scene patrol supervisor seemed to have done a decent job of giving a wide berth to the investigative area around the church.

It was cool, not cold, and Kelly only had a department-issued navy-blue windbreaker over his hooded lightweight gray sweatshirt. Even though his jacket had the BPD logo on the front and lettering on the back denoting his unit, Homicide, Kelly tugged at his beaded chain necklace, releasing the worn leather of his badge carrier. His detective shield was now prominently displayed outside his jacket at the center of his chest.

He dipped low, slipping under the tape, his badge swinging freely. Kelly recognized the patrolman who was busy unraveling the plastic tape nearby.

"Been a while, Kelly. How’s the murder beat treating you?" Officer George Arundale asked.

“Not bad. It’s a front-row seat to the show,” Kelly offered, a standard response he’d begun giving with more frequency. The truth was, his recent position had exposed him to the underbelly of the criminal world, some of which had its roots in the department itself. A revelation Kelly wished he never uncovered and something that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Kelly knew Arundale from when he worked the Eleven back in the day. Although the two had been on opposite shifts, they’d gotten along well enough, even if only through locker room jocularity.

"I’m thinking of taking the detective’s exam next time it comes up," Arundale said, eyebrows raised. “What d’ya think?”

“Go for it. Best of luck.” Kelly gave him a goodbye wave and moved quickly toward the front steps of the church, the same church where not too long ago he had flattened the nose of Connor Walsh's enforcer, Tommy Sullivan.

An eternity seemed to have passed since that clash, yet in reality it had only been a couple of months. In that time Kelly had settled into the responsibilities of his job as a homicide detective, temporarily putting on hold his battle with Boston's most notorious crime lord. His caseload had diverted him from his efforts at putting the boss in custody. His inability to focus his investigative energy on taking down the kingpin had nothing to do with finding out that Walsh was his biological father.

Father Donovan O’Brien was speaking to two patrolmen at the top of the steps. He looked distraught, and the cool breeze whipping around the building was blowing his hair wildly. Kelly could see that Donny was nearing a