Tony shrugged, took another sip. "Everyone's on edge right now. I'm sure the archbishop won't appreciate the media snooping around."
"But he doesn't mind sending some goon to snoop around?"
This time Tony smiled. "Brother Sebastian does look a bit like a goon, doesn't he?"
"Yeah, in a freaky sort of way. Who exactly is he?"
"Assistant to Archbishop Armstrong, his right-hand man."
"And his job description includes rummaging through dead priest's offices?" Nick asked.
Another shrug from Tony. "Brother Sebastian would probably do anything the archbishop asked of him."
Nick leaned against the doorjamb. Tony didn't seem too concerned. Christine had probably blown it out of proportion. Of course, someone had to go through the monsignor's sniff, box it up. He had never paid much attention to Tony's office before, but suddenly he was taking it all in with new eyes, thinking of his own office back in Boston and what someone might find if they had to clean it out for him. Tony's was a little neater, but not much. Stacks of magazines lined the far corner. Books and computer games were piled together on two shelves of the bookcase. They were an odd combination. The books were mostly English-lit stuff, poetry and Shakespeare. The computer games appeared to be about warriors and crusaders. A bulletin board had layers tacked over each other _ anything from class changes and teachers' phone numbers to Nebraska football ticket stubs, dry-cleaning receipts and take-out menus. A duffel bag had been thrown under his desk, the zippers undone with a dirty towel halfway out and a pair of muddy running shoes beside it. He'd forgotten how small Tony's feet were. They looked like kids' tennis shoes.
Nick glanced out into the hall. Then he came in and sat in the recliner Tony kept in the corner. Keeping his voice low, he said, "Christine seems to think the archbishop has a few secrets he'd like to have die with Monsignor O'Sullivan. Don't worry, I know if something's going on you probably can't talk about it."
He studied Tony while he hoped for a response, but didn't expect one. There was a heavy sigh and Tony sat back, setting the wood creaking and the rollers squealing as he slid the chair so that they were facing each other. But then Tony crossed his arms over his chest and didn't say anything. It was almost as if he wanted to hear what Nick thought he knew. Okay, Nick could play that game.
"I have to tell you," Nick said, this time in almost a whisper. "I didn't even know Monsignor O'Sullivan was gay."
"What? Who told you that?"
"Nobody told me, but if he was messing with boys __ "
"Pedophiles are rarely homosexuals, Nick." Tony shook his head as if he couldn't believe he needed to explain this.
"But I thought that was part of the church's solution to the mess, to screen candidates better."
"Yeah, well, it wouldn't be the first time they ignored science and professional research. I guess you haven't worked on any pedophile cases in Boston, because you'd know that if you had."
"I've been lucky. Since I left Nebraska I haven't had to work on any other cases involving kids. So how do you happen to know so much about pedophiles?"
"I was a victims' advocate when I was at Saint Stephen of the Martyr in Chicago," Tony said, but he was staring out of his window now. "It was an unofficial post, since officially the archdiocese didn't have a problem to begin with."
"That had to be tough," Nick said, watching him. "How could you work with those kids and know the guys who abused them were probably just being reassigned?"
"I didn't know that. Not at the time. You have to understand, Nick __ " and for this Tony met his eyes " __ we were told things were being taken care of."
"It didn't clue you in when there were no charges brought against them?"
"That's not the way it works," Tony answered, but his eyes were away from Nick's again, darting around the room, out the window and back to Nick. He scraped a hand over his jaw, as if looking for the right words. "The church didn't look to the county or the state to handle things," he said carefully, slowly, as if explaining it to a child, but there was nothing condescending in his tone. If Nick didn't know better, his friend sounded almost remorseful. "Priests are to be held to a higher standard and should be judged as such. They answer to a higher authority."
"Sure, I know," Nick said. "You mean a higher authority as in the archbishop?"
"No. I mean a higher authority as in God."
CHAPTER 39
Eppley Airport
Omaha, Nebraska
Tommy Pakula forked over five bucks for a Krispy Kreme doughnut and the grande designer coffee when he really just wanted a large, plain coffee with no cream, no sugar, no froufrou on top. Geez, for five bucks he could have gotten all the coffee he could drink plus two eggs, toast and a side of bacon down at the Radial Highway Cafe. Froufrou or not, it sure tasted good and he needed the blast of sugar and caffeine. Lately it seemed necessary to keep a steady injection of caffeine pumping through his system like some constant electrical charge. He wasn't sure he wanted to see what happened if and when he got unplugged.
He glanced at the flight arrival board for the thirteenth time. The D.C. flight was still scheduled to arrive on time. That was ten minutes ago. So where the hell was it?
There had already been two streams of passengers but no FBI guy, no Special Agent M. O'dell. Pakula could spot a feebie a mile away, the same distant look that took everything in with a sweep of the eyes. He planted himself by the bookstore where he wouldn't miss anyone coming up the ramp from the gates. He leaned against the wall. He finished his doughnut in three bites and sipped the coffee.
He was watching another stream come up the ramp from the gates when a woman came out of the bookstore and stopped in front of him. She was young, attractive, dragging a black leather computer case.
"Excuse me, are you Detective Pakula?" She addressed him by name, even getting the pronunciation right. And this time he really looked at her instead of his routine brief once-over, trying to remember how she knew him.
"Yeah, I'm Pakula."
"I'm Special Agent Maggie O'Dell."
He almost dropped his coffee. Holy Crap! He stood up straight, trying to look all nonchalant as he freed up and wiped his right hand to offer it. "Nice to meet you, Agent O'Dell. You been wandering around here long?"
"Not long."
Now that he got a good look at her _ navy blue suit, eyes drifting and catching everything around her __ Pakula realized he wasn't so far off. He just had the M wrong. Geez, Chief Ramsey would laugh his ass off. So would Clare. He wasn't too sure O'Dell would.
"How'd you figure out who I was?" he asked her.
"I'm a profiler. It's my job." But before he could look impressed she smiled and added, "I could say it was because you didn't have any luggage. That you were off to the side and didn't look excited to pick up whoever you were looking for, or that it was the bulge in the back of your jacket. Truth is, the doughnut and coffee was a dead giveaway."
Pakula wanted to laugh. Here he was looking for the stereotypical FBI agent and she was doing the same thing. He pretended to look insulted. "Geez, O'Dell. You know I could be offended that you've already stereotyped me."
"Then we are even," she said, "because you were looking for a man, weren't you?"
He met her eyes, and there was no drifting this time. He could see that it actually didn't bother her, she was used to it, instead of being offended, and that she was simply jabbing back at him.
"Okay, we're even," he said, and he decided he liked her.
He started to fill her in on the case, giving her some background that hadn't made it to the case file. But she seemed distracted as they headed toward the escalators.
"We have to get your bags downstairs," he told her. "I'm parked just across in the garage."