The Priest (The Original Sinners #9) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,2
didn’t get it from anyone. That card doesn’t exist. Unless I decide it needs to exist.”
“Where’d you get it from?”
“Our victim’s pocket.”
“You’re contaminating a crime scene and interfering with a police investigation, Katherine.”
“Not if there’s no investigation to interfere with. Look at it.”
He exhaled heavily before looking at the card.
“Red business card, black ink,” Cyrus said, flipping it over. “Only a phone number. No name. That’s unusual. A 212 area code. New York City?”
“Manhattan,” she said. “The number’s a Chinese place now, but it used to be registered to a woman named Eleanor Schreiber. She writes dirty books under the name Nora Sutherlin.”
“You’re worried Father Ike liked dirty books? He’s a sixty-year-old celibate priest. Give the man a break.”
“If that were all, I wouldn’t be here and neither would you. I saw his phone. He called that number last night before he shot himself. He called Sister Margaret, then he called that number. We know why he called Sister Margaret. We need to know why he called Nora Sutherlin.”
“Maybe he just likes her books? Maybe he thought it was a suicide hotline?”
“Maybe he was following orders?”
“Orders? What the hell does that mean?”
“I mean Nora Sutherlin moonlights. I’ll give you one guess.”
He sighed heavily. “Just so you know, next time you call me with a case,” he said, “I am not answering.”
Chapter Two
Cyrus meant to be at Paulina’s at eight, but he squeaked in the driveway at 8:10. While he knew she’d forgive him for being late, he still jogged from his car to the house to shave those last few seconds off his time. He found her in the bright white-tile kitchen pouring coffee into two yellow mugs.
“About time,” she said, playing grumpy. He came up behind her, putting his hands on her hips and kissing her cheek. She stirred the cream into her coffee, and left his black.
“Long night. Bad morning. I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s all right. Sit. Tell me about it.”
Cyrus took his seat and watched Paulina finish breakfast. Seeing her bustling around the kitchen in her red summer dress and sandals with the straps around her pretty ankles was a balm to his soul. She worked at a local Catholic middle school as a guidance counselor. Monday through Friday, she wore neck-high blouses and ankle-length skirts or suit pants. She saved her pretty dresses for weekends, for him.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
“You’re stalling. Is it bad?”
“Baby, come here. Please.”
She knew him too well to fall for that. She turned to face him, hip against the counter, arms crossed over her chest. “What happened?”
“I got some bad news. Father Ike’s dead.”
Paulina gasped. “What?”
“That’s why I’m late. A detective called and asked me to come by the scene. I needed a shower after.”
“The scene? A crime scene? Was he murdered? Jesus.” Paulina crossed herself before clasping her hands as if to pray.
He shook his head. “Suicide.”
“No,” Paulina put her hand over her heart. “Father Ike? Why?”
“That’s what they want me to find out.”
“Was there a note?”
“No note,” Cyrus said. “But he called a friend of his, a sister, and left her a voicemail message that made it very clear he was planning to kill himself.”
“Do you think he was sick? Cancer or something?”
“They want me to look into that.” He rubbed his temples with his fingertips.
“Cyrus? What is it? What aren’t you telling me about this?”
He didn’t want to tell Paulina. Normally, he wouldn’t. He made it a rule to never drag her into his cases, for her sake and the sake of the women he helped. But she and Ike had been friends. This was different.
“They found a business card in his pocket.”
“Do I want to know?”
“It was for a sex worker.” He didn’t mention she was a dominatrix. He hadn’t quite wrapped his head around that part yet.
Paulina turned away, placed her hands on the counter. She lowered her head, closed her eyes. Praying, knowing her. Her long dark eyelashes fluttered on her cheeks, and he felt a wave of tenderness toward her. Most days, she wore her curly brown hair down around her face, a look she jokingly called Shirley Temple Black. Today, it was pulled back in a red ribbon to match her dress.
“You think you know someone.” She raised her head and stared out the back window.
“You know we can’t know anybody. Not really. If we did, I’d be out of a job.”
“It shouldn’t be a betrayal, but it is,” Paulina said. “You know what I mean? It shouldn’t be our business but it still