"Italian sausage?"
"Only if we get to have Romano cheese."
"Deal," she said.
"Oh crap!" Pakula said, slapping his forehead. It hit him like a flash of lightning. "Hamilton? The kid. Morrelli's nephew is Timmy Hamilton. And you asked him how his sister, Christine, was?"
"That's right. What is it?"
"It just occurred to me and I don't suppose it's a coincidence __ the snoopy reporter from the Omaha World Herald is Christine Hamilton."
CHAPTER 58
Our Lady of Sorrow High School
Omaha, Nebraska
Gibson waited outside Sister Kate's classroom for Timmy. He'd told Gibson that he was almost certain he recognized the woman who had been talking to Sister Kate earlier. He kept saying she was an FBI agent he knew. Yeah right, Gibson had wanted to say, but didn't. He liked Timmy. And he liked having a friend.
Yesterday they discovered that they lived only about three blocks away from each other, so Gibson invited him to come over again and play some computer games. Now he wondered what was taking Timmy so long. Maybe he ran into the FBI lady. He had gone off to use the school's ancient pay phone to ask his mom's permission about going over to Gibson's, which blew Gibson away. He couldn't believe Timmy didn't have a cell phone. Gibson thought he was the only teenager alive who didn't have one.
He was actually feeling pretty good today. Sister Kate had taken more of an interest in his collection than he expected. She even praised him, telling him she was impressed that he had been able to find and barter such exquisite authentic pieces. She had actually called them exquisite. And she said she was impressed. Sister Kate was impressed with him and his collection. Yeah, it was a pretty good day. One of his best in a long time, probably since he helped her with her cataloging project.
Maybe he'd show Timmy the portfolio he found in his backpack. He was hoping that having Timmy there with him might give him the courage to go through the damn thing. He had carefully placed it in the back of his closet after he opened it and found Monsignor O'Sullivan's name on one of the papers. He didn't want to be reminded of the dead priest let alone go through some stupid papers about him.
He slung his backpack over his shoulder and leaned against the wall. Maybe Timmy had to get change from the office. The pay phone still took quarters. Probably not many like it left. Truly ancient. He smiled and thought Sister Kate should ask for it if and when the school ever replaced it.
"You, over there. What are you doing?"
Gibson straightened up and pushed away from the wall. It was the tall, hawk-nosed guy from Monsignor O'Sullivan's office yesterday. And he was coming at Gibson, pointing a finger at him as if lasering him to the spot. It worked. Gibson couldn't move, couldn't even breathe.
"What are you still doing here? Isn't class over?"
"I… uh… " Gibson tried to answer but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
"I saw you yesterday, right? You were snooping around Monsignor O'Sullivan's office."
The guy towered over him, looking down his nose, the finger still pointing, only now poking Gibson in the chest.
''Why are you still here?"
"I'm… uh, I'm waiting… "
"You're meeting someone?" The guy looked around. "Maybe you're meeting someone to make an exchange?"
"Huh?"
"Is this what you do after everyone's gone? You make a few deals?"
The finger pokes emphasized "gone" and "deals." Gibson didn't know what the guy was talking about. His heart was beating so hard he felt sure it would explode with one more poke.
"What do you have in the backpack? Are there drugs in there? Is that what you're waiting around for? To make a few deals? Open it up."
Gibson held it even tighter. He knew they could do random searches, but this guy was scary. All Gibson wanted to do was find an opportunity to run.
"Do as I say."
Gibson tried not to look him in the eyes, almost afraid they carried some sort of evil power. He should try to look at him, stare him down, make him think he wasn't afraid, but he couldn't do it He was afraid.
"Give me the bag," he said and reached for it. That's when Gibson bolted to the left and tried to run. The guy held one of the backpack's straps and he jerked Gibson with such strength it almost knocked him off his feet.
"What's going on over there?" Gibson heard Father Tony's voice, but he couldn't see beyond the black frame of his captor.
"Everything's under control," the guy said in a voice that came nowhere near the tone he had just been using. It was almost soft and reassuring. And the tugging grip on his backpack loosened a bit.
Gibson yanked completely free, twisting around the guy, missing a swipe of his clawing hand by inches. He ran down the steps. He didn't bother to answer when Father Tony called out to ask if he was okay. Like who would Father Tony believe anyway? Gibson or the Darth Vader of Our Lady of Sorrow?
Gibson ran, hitting the bottom of the stairs, pushing open the lobby doors. He kept running, past the sidewalk, past the parking lot, not looking back.
CHAPTER 59
Saint Francis Center
Omaha, Nebraska
Maggie spotted Christine Hamilton, who waved at her and Pakula. Christine marched across the large room, weaving in between the long tables, each with a dozen or so volunteers on phones. When she finally reached them she gave Maggie a hug.
"Hi, Christine. It's been a long time."
"You look great," she said, and to Pakula she offered her outstretched hand. I'm Christine Hamilton. You must be Detective Pakula. Thanks for agreeing to meet here.'*
"Detective Sassco assured me this was a fact-finding mission. No hidden agenda. No media tricks."
"Believe me, Detective, I'm not the one with a hidden agenda. If anything, I'm the one trying to figure out what's going on. Pretty much like you are."
Maggie glanced at Pakula to see if he believed her, then back at Christine to see if she was being straight with them. Maggie couldn't help remembering the last time, the case in Platte City when Christine, then a rookie reporter, had used anything and everything she could to make headlines. Her son's kidnapping had straightened out her professional ethics. Of course it had. But the real question was, for how long?
"Let's see what you've got for us," Pakula said, nodding in the direction from where she had come, giving her the okay.
"I don't know if you're familiar with the center," Christine asked as she started leading them slowly through the maze of tables. She had to speak louder to be heard over the ringing of phones and the buzz from the surrounding conversations. "The Saint Francis Center started as a women and children's shelter about twenty years ago. It's grown to include this abuse hotline and also in back there's a food pantry."
Maggie surveyed the room as they cut through, noticing that many of the volunteers were simply being quiet, apparently listening to the callers. Others used soft voices barely above a whisper. She realized the nature of the calls allowed them to set up the facility with as many phones and volunteers as there was space.
"We have a room back here," Christine told them, pointing to a doorway in the far corner.
The room surprised Maggie. It looked like someone's cozy living room with a sofa and matching chairs, glass-topped coffee table and floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the back wall. A service butler in the corner was stocked with refreshments, and the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the room. When they entered, there was a woman pouring herself a cup, and a young man loaded a plate with miniature sandwiches and pieces of fruit. Both stopped and turned to be introduced.