The Priest (The Original Sinners #9) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,104
that guy, Manny. I always see him here. He knows everything.”
Nora saw a handsome twenty-something Hispanic man in a black suit walk away from an older woman who’d stopped him in the lobby. Nora put on her best smile and oh-so-sweetly asked him if he’d mind checking around for a guest of theirs, a Kingsley Boissonneault. Family emergency, Nora explained, giving her name.
Manny, concierge extraordinaire, told her to leave it to him. Less than a minute later, Kingsley walked into the storied marbled lobby. He held both hands out in a question and gave her a look that said, This better be good.
“What’s he doing here?” he asked Nora.
“Hey, Pierre Capretz,” Cyrus said, “I’m standing right here.”
“This is important,” Nora said. Kingsley rolled his eyes. “Cyrus, cover your ears.”
“What?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to hear this.”
“Weird sex stuff?”
“Gay stuff,” Nora said.
“I’ll just go stand by the fountain.”
As soon as Cyrus was out of earshot, Kingsley said, “Gay stuff?”
“Okay, bi stuff. Whatever. You gave S?ren engraved handcuffs. Where did you get them engraved?”
“What? Why do you ask?”
“Long story. Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember. I bought them two weeks ago.”
“I need a name, number, address, whatever you have.”
Kingsley turned his phone on, waited for it to power up. “I’ll be glad when you’re done playing Watson and Sherlock. You interrupt me in the pool, at dinner with Jules—”
“I babysit for free. All the time.”
“Ah,” he said with a pained smile. “A little interruption never hurt anyone. Here we go.” He was scrolling through the contacts in his phone. “His name is Philip Danton but everyone calls him—”
“Shit.”
“You know him?” Kingsley raised his eyebrow at her.
“Yeah, I know him. And I’m going to fucking kill him.”
She kissed Kingsley on the cheek, grabbed Cyrus by the arm, and marched him toward the door.
“Bad news,” Nora said. “We have to commit a murder.”
“Save it for the car,” he said, glancing around. “Too many witnesses.”
They walked quickly to the parking lot.
“Pierre Capretz? Really?” she asked when they reached his car.
Cyrus opened the car door. “Only French guy I could think of. Now who we killing?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
God damn motherfucking Doc.
Cyrus should have known. He should have. Nobody was that squirrelly just ’cuz. Doc had been putting on a show for them, a song and dance routine, but Cyrus had fallen prey to his prejudices against the man and ignored his gut that warned him Doc was something other than a nut.
Never play cards with a man called Doc.
And Cyrus had done just that.
“We could be jumping to conclusions here,” Nora said. “It’s possible—maybe—that Doc wasn’t the man who engraved Father Ike’s cage.”
“I know it’s him,” he said. “I knew then he wasn’t telling us everything.”
“You did?”
“You know your own face when you see it in a mirror, even when you don’t like what you see,” Cyrus said. “The way he was all over you, that’s how I used to be with women. I mean, not that crazy, but, you know, I’d play like that, go over the top like that. Make them think I was playing a game with them when the whole time I was just playing a game on them.”
“He played us. Both of us.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Why would he lie to me? If Father Ike bought something from him, got it engraved even, why wouldn’t he just tell us? I mean, he told us about seeing him in a class.”
“I don’t know,” Cyrus said. “But he better have a damn good, excuse or I’m gonna be the one tying him up and working him over with a whip.”
“He’ll probably still like it.”
“Yeah, but so will I and that’s all I care about.”
Doc worked from home, according to Kingsley Edge. Big garage out back of his house. His made custom kink pieces, did engraving, repairs, that sort of thing, but it was a cash-only business, completely unlicensed and unregulated. Nora wondered out loud if that was why Doc had kept his trap shut when they asked him about Father Ike or if he had a more sinister reason for lying.
His house was exactly what Cyrus expected. A Victorian, of course. One of those sorts called “painted ladies”—blue, pink, and white with gingerbread trim and a wraparound porch, rocking chair included. Perfect for a retired art professor. Nora rang the bell and knocked on the door. The porch light was on, but there was no answer.
Cyrus nodded toward the driveway. “Light’s on out back,” he said.
The backyard was hidden behind an eight-foot high privacy fence at