“Where’s Julie?”
“She’s in Jersey at a convention.”
“Want to grab some food and drink later?”
“That sounds fantastic.”
“Maggio’s sound good?”
“Why do you want to go all the way out there?”
“Figured you’d want to get out of Potterford for a while.”
“Nah.”
26. Philip’s Home Office
BOYBANDH8R’s connection all but told Philip to go hump a banister when he was given the specifics of what was needed and when. The last thing he typed before leaving the chat room was “I’ll see what I can do, but don’t hold your breath.”
Nice guy.
Philip considered the possibility that he was over thinking things. Why was he messing around with identity theft? Because two essential parts of his plan required a priest. Or did they? Could he just sneak in? Could the answer be stealth rather than disguise? Probably not. He’d spent all day researching procedures during Mass. The problem was there were too many things that went on behind closed doors, too many chances to bring the plan about too soon. Also, if he didn’t know how to behave all the time, would assuming the identity of a priest even work?
He felt himself getting fidgety. He closed his eyes and thought back to the first killing, and how he just happened to walk past Ryan in the church when he was telling one of his sheep where he was staying that night. Then he thought about the day he went into the confessional and how his flimsy escape plan went off without a hitch. Then he thought about the second killing and how Fellini was right where he needed him, just as he’d planned within the first day of his perch. He thought about all these things and then realized that he didn’t have to worry about stealth versus disguise, or how he was going to get the key he needed from Pastor Karney, or timing, or anything at all. He would just continue what he was doing. He would keep doing his research. He would keep concentrating on these hurdles. He would let the things he’d put in motion take shape. Everything would work. Everything had worked so far; everything would continue to work moving forward.
God approved of what Philip was doing. There was no doubt. A day would be enough to get it all together; of course it would.
He cleansed himself by blowing out a gust of air and shaking his arms to expel any and all residual negative feelings. Then he popped open his search engine and got back to work.
A clerical vest is called a rabbat. Interesting.
27. The Condo
The condo was dark, and Lynch saw no need to turn on the light. The moon was bright enough. He and Gomez had enjoyed two rib-eyes and two tall beers at Angus Heffer’s Steak House. A scotch and some sort of visual distraction were in order. He didn’t feel like flipping through channels or browsing On-Demand, so he turned his phone into a flashlight and pointed it at his/Julie’s Blu-Ray collection. He had two or three go-to movies for when he didn’t feel like thinking. He kept them all together. Fellowship of the Ring was too long; he didn’t think he could handle the psychedelia of The Big Liebowski; John Wick? …no. So, it would be Ocean’s 11, probably his first choice anyway.
He flipped everything on, popped in the disc, and went for his favorite scotch glass. Before the copyright infringement warning disappeared, Lynch was on his couch. The attire: white t-shirt and boxer briefs; the position: eased back with his feet on the coffee table; his scotch: on the rocks half an arm’s length away; the remote: in hand. There was nothing left but to punch the [Okay] button.
“Click.”
Ahhhhhhh!
How many crimes had been solved since he walked out of the convent, or, at least resolved? Three? Four?
Jeremy Sokol’s murder
Kevin Reilly’s assault
Molly Reilly’s assault
The bomb
Perhaps a couple others that had escaped Lynch’s notice…
There was one left, the biggie, and it was no longer his responsibility. There would, of course, be plenty of paperwork to do along with a slew of unpleasant interviews, but it was all tomorrow’s problem.
The movie was roughly half over, and Lynch had a good buzz going when Julie got home.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
She disappeared into the bedroom and returned having put her jewelry away. She undressed in front of him so they matched and went to the fridge for a Corona to complete the ensemble. Then she nestled up beside him with her feet on the coffee table next to his. They kissed.
“I heard what happened on the news. I’ll wait until tomorrow for the story.”
“Much appreciated. How was your day?”
“Would you be jealous if I said fantastic?”
“Not at all. Tell me about it.”
“Tomorrow.”
They drank in unison. Lynch’s vowels were starting to run together.
“We really do spend a lot of time in our underwear, don’t we?”
“Whatever, it’s comfortable.”
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
An hour later, the heist was a success, Julia Roberts went back to George Clooney, and it was time for bed. Julie got a playful piggyback ride into the bedroom from her boyfriend. She rested her head next to his so her nose was on his shoulder. She loved the smell of a cotton shirt, especially on him. With uninterrupted motion, he put her down, and crawled into bed while she removed her bra and put on a t-shirt with a pair of flannel shorts.
Their eyes closed, and they started to drift off in each other’s arms.
“Were you saying something to me as I walked out the door this morning?”
“Tomorrow.”
LYNCH’S DREAM
That night, Detective James Lynch had a dream. During his second year at Drexel, he was made to take a Humanities elective outside his major which put him in a teaching theater with Dr. Jon Platt. From Lynch’s perspective, Platt was the only Liberal Arts professor at the university that actually enjoyed his job. He was in his sixties and bald with a
