The Priest (The Original Sinners #9) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,22

knew he couldn’t ignore the second. Paulina knew, too. She passed him his phone.

A 504 number. He answered. “Tremont.”

“Mr. Tremont, this is Sister Margaret at St. Valentine’s.”

He sat up. “Thanks for calling me back, Sister. I guess Detective Naylor told you I’d be calling about Father Ike.”

“She did, yes, sir.”

“I’m very sorry about Father Ike. I know you were old friends.”

“Thirty years,” she said, a crack in her gentle voice. “I was hoping you would come by tonight.”

“Tonight?” It was past ten o’clock. Paulina was clearing their glasses from the table.

“Yes, I did something I wasn’t supposed to do,” Sister Margaret said. “I went into Ike’s apartment here at the clergy house. He has a sister in DC, and I wanted to talk to her. I met her once years ago and thought…well, I’m sure you understand.”

“Did you see something in his apartment?” Cyrus’s heart was racing now, hard as it had when Paulina’s heels had been on his back.

“I did, Mr. Tremont. I don’t know what it is but I think you should come take a look at it.”

“I can do that, Sister. I’ll be right there.”

Cyrus kissed Paulina goodnight and it did his heart good that as he pulled away from her house, she was still standing on the stoop, watching him go and waving. The only other woman who’d ever watched his car drive away was his mother. He took it as a good sign he’d found a woman who could love him that hard and wasn’t afraid to show it.

He held onto that vision of her in the porch light, her arms wrapped around herself until she raised one hand to her lips to blow him a kiss goodbye. He held onto it all the way to St. Valentine’s.

The church itself was a nice one—a beautiful brick structure about two hundred years old—but the clergy house wasn’t much to look at. Built in the late ’60s or ’70s, he’d guess. Square and squat. Not much to distinguish it, except for the two front windows on either side of the porch. They were stained-glass, but the colors were faded and hazy.

Cyrus knocked softly on the front door. He waited, ready to knock again, louder, when he heard the rattle of keys and locks, and the door opened to reveal a small round woman in a gray habit and a tired smile on her face.

“Mr. Tremont, thank you for coming,” she said. When he gave her his hand to shake, she took it in both her hands and held it a moment. She seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown.

“Of course, Sister,” Cyrus said as she ushered him into the house. The staircase in the foyer was carpeted red, with a dark wooden bannister. “You and Father Ike were good friends?”

“I run the house here,” she said. “He’s been living here ever since he came to the city, almost fifteen years. He was very kind to me. Never took me for granted.” She lowered her voice. “I can’t say the same about some of the others who’ve graced these halls with their holy and anointed selves.” A sarcastic sister. He liked that.

“Was he close with any of the other priests in the house?”

“No. There are only two other men living here now, both new arrivals. Father Adamu arrived from Kenya only three weeks ago. The other, Danilo Lucas, is a twenty-one-year-old seminarian from Brazil. He’s in his first semester at Notre Dame, at school from dawn ‘til dusk. I don’t believe he’s even met Isaac yet.”

“Did Father Ike have any close friends?”

She looked up, almost an eye roll. “The Archbishop.”

“Shit. Sorry.” So much for that line of questioning. No way was he going to the Archbishop. Katherine would lose her job in a minute.

“I understand.” She smiled kindly. “They’re old friends from seminary. They went hunting together every November. Frankly, I don’t know anyone who knew him better than I did.”

“I believe that.”

“You saw him on television tonight?” she asked. Cyrus nodded. “He wants everyone to think Isaac was depressed. Isaac was not depressed. He loved his work, his life. At least I thought he did.”

“You said you found something?” he gently prompted.

“Yes. This way.”

Cyrus followed her up the steps. She had a nun’s way of walking—head bowed low, clinging to the side-wall so people could pass her coming down the stairs with ease. A humble walk for a humble servant.

As they neared a door at the end of the hallway, Sister Margaret pulled her keys