The Drowned Girls (Angie Pallorino Book 1) Read online

  “And I was cheaper than a hooker.”

  “You made an offer I couldn’t refuse. Sue me.”

  Fury burned into the cool mist between them. Palpable. Thick. Crackling with power and sexual tension. Darkness was also creeping in. The strains of an organ reached them outdoors, and the rain pattered down louder on her umbrella.

  “Dad!” Both of them spun around.

  “Ginny?” Maddocks had expected to see his daughter here, given her involvement with the choir, but not in the presence of her current company—Lara Pennington. Lara shot a hot glance at Maddocks, then Pallorino. She whispered something into Ginn’s ear and went on ahead into the church.

  “What are you doing here?” Ginny said to him, but while looking at Pallorino.

  “It’s my case—”

  “It’s a funeral, Dad.”

  “How long have you known Lara?” he said, trying to keep an eye on the thinning crowd at the same time. “How well do you know her?”

  His daughter’s brow lowered. “Why?”

  “Just answer the question, Ginny.”

  “I just met her on the bus over here. She was a good friend of Gracie’s. She’s at UVic, too, and part of the choir. We—”

  “Ginny, I don’t want you mixing—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just until this is sorted. I want you to stay steer clear of her.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and she stared aghast at him. Pallorino also cast him a sideways glance.

  “Ginn,” he said quietly, “there’s a bad guy out there, preying on—”

  “Oh, and you think he’s suddenly going to come after me now? Jesus.” The cathedral doors were being closed. The service was about to commence.

  “Listen, when this Mass is over, when you’re done singing, please wait for me out here. I’m going to drive you home. Okay?”

  “Sometimes,” she said quietly, with a hot flick of another glance at Angie, “I really wish you hadn’t come to live in Victoria.” And with that, Ginny turned and disappeared up the stairs and into the church.

  “You should cut her a break,” Pallorino said softly.

  “Oh, that’s rich, coming from someone who’s never had kids.”

  “I was seventeen once, and female. I have a father who was as paternalistic and overprotective as you are.”

  “And look how you turned out.”

  She glowered at him, then turned and marched up the stairs and into church. The door closed behind her.

  Rain came down harder, almost turning to sleet now, but Maddocks chose to wait alone outside to see if anyone suspicious arrived late. Or whether that blond Adonis returned. As the minutes ticked by and the temperatures continued to drop, he turned up his collar and stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. And he cursed himself for the way he’d handled Ginny again.

  He’d been distracted by his task at hand. Worried. She looked so much like the victim whose funeral they were attending. Same age range. Similar interests when it came to singing in the choir. And Lara Pennington was a nexus. She’d been Drummond’s closest friend since elementary school. She was hiding something and scared of something. She was also possibly being watched by someone in a black Lexus. So how wrong was he, really, to want his daughter to steer clear of her?

  THE BAPTIST

  Hail Mary, full of grace,

  the Lord is with thee;

  blessed art thou amongst women,

  and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God,

  pray for us sinners,

  now and at the hour of our death.

  Amen.

  It’s dark. He awaits the girls near the corner where they will catch the return bus. It’s nicely away from the main crowd and police presence. He followed Lara to campus this morning, and he waited for her to finish classes. He’s still searching for the right place to take her, the right moment in her schedule, and it’s getting more and more difficult because the MVPD have been sending patrol cars down her street every now and then.

  He knows tonight is Lara’s choir night. The papers were also full with the news of Gracie’s funeral service. He wants to see for himself. Following Lara here was worth the risk he took to do it, just to absorb the sheer impact of what he has wrought. To feel the thrill.

  Snatches of female voices carry in the wind—they’re coming. His pulse quickens.

  On the bus ride over he dared sit right behind Lara and her new friend. So close he could smell them, could have touched their hair if he wanted. Lara has been nervous of late, hyperconscious of her surroundings, constantly glancing over her shoulder. This, too, is making things challenging. But this evening, engaged in animated conversation with her new friend, she was definitely less observant.

  And from his seat behind them he managed to listen to their chatter about the choir, about how they were going to Gracie’s funeral in that big, beautiful cathedral with the burnished wood pews that he himself helped tend and polish in his youth while his mother came for confession and brought victuals for Father. And made him confess, too.

  Bless me, Father, I have sinned … but I didn’t tell Father I’m a peeping Tommy, bad Johnny who likes to watch the girls naked in the school locker room …

  Saint Auburn’s is where he started his vocation—through his volunteer work in the church, polishing the wood. A noble vocation, son … Joseph, father of God himself, was a carpenter. Even Jesus performed the inherited trade before going into His ministry …

  The girls are almost at the corner. He steps back into a doorway recessed into the wall, and he stands in shadow, excitement rippling over his skin. Ginny is the other girl’s name. When he learned from their conversation on the bus that Ginny’s father is Detective Maddocks, the one working this case with Detective Pallorino—the man he saw outside Lara’s house the other day—it was as if he was smote by the heavens, a sign.

  And a plan—something bigger, something that reaches far beyond the circle of girls whom he needs to save, far more sublime—is fingering its way into his brain. And into his libido. A big, beautiful plan that will involve Ginny Maddocks.

  CHAPTER 44

  “Yes, I did know Gracie personally,” Father Simon said as he removed his voluminous purple chasuble over his head. He smiled sadly, opened a closet, inserted a hanger into the garment, and hung it on the rail beside similar vestments in red, black, green, and white. “Lorna Drummond requested the violet,” he said, smoothing down his hair that had become ruffled. “She felt the traditional black was too solemn for her Gracie’s service. She wanted to focus rather on atonement and sorrow.”

  Angie knew from her family’s past involvement with the faith that each color of the robes reflected different events in the liturgical year. Green was for ordinary Mass. White for occasions of victory, like the resurrection of the Lord Jesus. Red was the color of fire and blood symbolizing the Pentecost, tongues of flame, and blood shed by martyred saints in the name of God. Black was generally for somber masses of the dead.

  She and Maddocks stood with the priest inside the sacristy, a room in an annex off the main part of the cathedral where priests’ vestments were traditionally stored along with other church furnishings, sacred vessels, and parish records. Father Simon now stood before them in a classic white alb cinched at the waist with a cincture—a cord that represented chastity. He was surprisingly young-looking and chiseled-handsome, with the build of a triathlete and light hazel eyes. There was a brightness in those eyes and a vitality about him that Angie found sexual, compelling, and at odds with that symbol of celibacy around his waist. She’d bet her ass there were plenty of women in this parish, young and old, who found Father Simon similarly alluring, and perhaps even more so because of the fact he’d sworn off sex—the sins of the flesh—in order to devote his life wholly and completely to God.

  What, she wondered, had turned this vital man to the faith? What was his story?

  “Gracie first sought my counsel when sh
e decided to fully recommit to the church,” he said, untying his cincture and unbuttoning and removing the alb to reveal black pants and a black button-down shirt, and yes, definitely a honed body in there. He adjusted his white collar. “From that point onward she never missed a Sunday Mass unless she was gravely ill. And she sang here as part of the college choir.”

  “Do you feel that you played a role in saving Gracie, then, Father?” said Maddocks.

  Father Simon weighed Maddocks a moment, his eyes going serious. “You mean, did I twist her arm and threaten her with hell and damnation unless she returned to the Catholic faith?”

  Maddocks said nothing, just held the man’s gaze.

  Father Simon inhaled. “It was Gracie’s will to return to the fold. It was the Lord’s will.” He hung up his alb.

  “Did she ever express to you a concern about being followed, stalked, any fears?” Angie said, wondering again why her own family had basically stopped practicing the Catholic faith.

  “No,” he said, shutting the closet door.

  “Is there that anything at all you could tell us that might help us learn more about her?” Angie asked.

  A slight darkness flickered through his eyes. Or had she imagined it? She met his clear gaze, watching closely for other possible tells, a repeat of the flicker.

  “Not really. Other than she was kind, gentle. Devout. She had long-term plans for the future.”

  “Such as?” Maddocks said.

  “Travel mostly.”

  “With any guy in particular, perhaps—any special male in her life that you know of?” he said.

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t—or won’t?” he said.

  Father Simon studied Maddocks again for several beats, yet his posture remained benign. Benevolent, even. Still, Angie detected an undercurrent between the two men, or Maddocks was just being an ass because of his earlier altercation with her. “I do think she had a special person in her life, yes,” Father Simon said. “I don’t know who that was, though.” Calmly, he waited for them to press on with more questions, as if indulging impatient children who would learn with time. The weight of the church, the sense of its age and history, seemed suddenly to start pressing down on Angie, and claustrophobia began to circle. She cleared her throat, fighting back the sensations, worried that it might be a precursor to another hallucination.

  “Is there perhaps anyone in this congregation, or someone who does building maintenance, or tends to the gardens, or does something administrative for the parish, who might have expressed an unnatural interest in Gracie Drummond?” she said.

  “You think someone from this parish hurt her?”

  “Whoever did hurt her, Father, is acting out a lethal sexual fantasy within a powerful religious contest, and likely a Catholic-specific one.”

  “Why Catholic-specific?”

  She glanced at Maddocks, and he gave her a slight nod. “We believe that after sexually assaulting his female victims in a violent manner, he immerses them in water as a symbolism for baptism. Cleansing them in the name of the Lord. After which he adorns them with a sign of the cross and removes the parts of their bodies designed purely for female sexual pleasure. And in Gracie’s case, he displayed her at the feet of the Virgin Mary.” She held his eyes.

  He didn’t blink. “This symbolism—the crucifix, baptism—it doesn’t mean it’s Catholic. Many Christian religions use immersion for baptism, or used to.”

  Again, she glanced at Maddocks, ensuring he was on board with giving Father Simon what used to be holdback information, although just about everything of their cases had now been leaked to the press. He gave another small and tacit nod, his eyes still angry.

  “He uses specific words during his attacks, and he forces his victims to make specific responses before he rapes them. These phrases and the responses are consistent with the script used in the official Catholic baptismal ceremony,” she said. “As in, the celebrant asking the parents of the infant to be baptized the following questions, among others: ‘Do you reject Satan? And all his works? Do you reject the glamour of evil and refuse to be mastered by sin? Do you reject Satan, father of sin and prince of darkness?’” She paused, watching his face. “Whereupon the godparents are supposed to answer ‘I do’ to each question before their godchild is anointed with holy water, and the priest then traces the sign of the cross on the child’s forehead. Correct?”

  The priest nodded slowly, and then he said, “But it doesn’t mean he comes from this parish, does it?”

  “This was Gracie’s church, Father. She spent time here. Sang here. Given the religious and Catholic context of the crimes, it’s conceivable she crossed paths here with someone of strong faith, possibly someone deeply conflicted about sin and lust.” That discomfit she’d felt in the club about her own echoes in behavior started circling again.

  The priest inhaled deeply and rubbed his jaw, and his eyes seemed to have narrowed ever so slightly, the light in them not quite as vivid.

  “Is there anyone you know who might fit these characteristics?” she said.

  He shook his head slowly. “I’m really sorry, but I’m afraid there is nothing here that I can help you with.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “And I do have an appointment in less than ten minutes, detectives. Will this take much longer? Or can I walk you out?”

  Angie got a strong sense that he did know something that perhaps he was not at liberty to share, or refused to, and it quickened her pulse. “Just a few more quick questions, if we might, Father. Do you perhaps know a Jon Jacques?” As she spoke, she placed on the counter two photos gleaned from online news stories—one image of Jon Jacques Senior and one of Junior.

  He studied them closely. “I can’t say that I do, no.”

  “What about Jayden Norton-Wells?” She placed a photo of Norton-Wells beside the others, also obtained online.

  “I do know the Norton-Wells family quite well,” he said, looking at the image. “They don’t worship at this church, but they’re stalwarts in the greater Catholic community—big donors.”

  “Gracie never came here with Jayden?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Did she ever mention who gave her a Saint Christopher medallion?”

  His brow creased slightly. “No.”

  “Do you know Faith Hocking?”

  “From the media.” He sighed. “Bless their souls. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll show you out?” He held his arm toward the door.

  Angie and Maddocks exited the sacristy with Father Simon, who then walked them back through the cathedral and down the aisle between the rows of burnished wood pews. Panic began to hiss like steam through cracks into the fringes of Angie’s brain.

  Focus. Focus.

  In the last row a woman knelt, her head bowed in prayer as she fingered the beads of her rosary. A faint memory darted into Angie’s mind as she saw the two confessional boxes that flanked the last pew. The lights over the doors of the confessionals glowed greenish white, which to Angie’s knowledge meant they were open for confession. A red light meant someone was inside telling a priest of his or her sins.

  Angie stopped and turned to the priest. “Did you ever take Gracie’s confession, Father?”

  He glanced at the woman praying and said softly, “Let’s talk through there.” He led them into the antechamber that served as a kind of entrance hall to the church. He stood beside the bowl of holy water. “Detective Pallorino, I’m sure you are aware that the Seal of Confession is sacrosanct. It’s the absolute duty of clerics not to disclose anything learned from penitents during the course of the Sacrament of Penance.”

  Her pulse quickened slightly. He did know something. She felt it in her gut, saw it hidden in his eyes.

  “If Gracie did tell you something that could help us find who did this, it would save other young women a terrible—”

  “I would be excommunicated,” he said crisply. “I will die before I break that seal of the confessional.”

>   Her heart beat even faster, and she felt the shift in Maddocks’s energy, too.

  “Not even the highest courts can compel me to break that seal,” he added. “I’m legally protected in this regard by confidentiality laws.”

  “Maybe so,” Angie said, “but courts have also ruled that a clergyperson still has a mandatory duty to report any suspicious interactions he might have observed outside of the confessional. Possibly Gracie mentioned something through regular pastoral counseling, where confidentiality has limits.”

  Their gazes warred. And she felt a chink deepening in this handsome young man of the cloth.

  “It’s your job to catch a killer,” he said quietly. “Mine is to save souls.”

  “Oh, so you saved Gracie’s soul?” she said. “Think about what she endured—the fear, the torture, the pain as some sick and perverted man tried to ‘save her soul’ in his own deviant way. She suffered, believe me, Father, she suffered. You didn’t save her from that. But you could save others if you are holding something critical back.”

  “We all have our suffering, our own crosses to bear, Detective.”

  Frustration whipped through her. She opened her mouth to fire off another question just as the cathedral bells started to toll, and she completely lost her train of thought. More bells joined the first ones, the sound growing monstrous as they pealed up high in the steeple and echoed down through the cavernous stone church. She felt confused. Maddocks glanced at her, his eyes narrowing in concern.

  “I think we’re done here,” he said, watching Angie closely. “Thank you, Father.”

  As he opened the heavy wood door out to the dark winter night, Father Simon suddenly said, “Gracie was conflicted. I can say that much.”

  “Conflicted by what?” Maddocks said, still holding the door open. The peals seemed louder from the outside, the sound coming in through the gap in the door. And through that gap, under a halo of streetlight, Angie could see that sleet had turned to soft snowflakes. Her mouth grew dry. Her skin turned hot.