Free The Thieves of Faith by Richard Doetsch

thought you retired.”
    “Don’t go there.” Busch couldn’t kid himself anymore, he missed being a cop, being a detective, figuring things out. But his wife, Jeannie, had pushed him into early retirement. He didn’t voice it to her but he had had second thoughts right up to the day he retired, and it all came flooding back as regret now. He missed the thrill of the chase, the solving of the crime, the righting of a wrong. He missed the justice of it all. Now, all he saw were people drowning themselves in Scotch and beer, complaining about how boring or terrible their mundane lives were. Busch had dreamed the bar would be his reward, his relaxing retirement, but it was nothing of the kind. It was simply boring. The truth of the matter was Busch missed his old job. Grass-is-greener syndrome. He left the force to live his dream of owning a bar and putting the stress behind him. But he missed the adrenaline rush and the feeling that he was making a difference.
    “If Genevieve was driving that car, where is she?” Busch asked as he finally opened his eyes.
    “I don’t know, but I don’t think she’s dead.”
    “If she was driving that car, I hate to say it, but she could be dead and we just haven’t found her yet. Or she could be hurt. Or she wasn’t driving that car and you just have an overly active imagination.”
    Michael withdrew Mary’s letter from his pocket and placed it next to the business card. The two identical addresses next to each other.
    Busch walked over and picked up Mary’s letter. He read it through without comment, put it back down, and became lost in thought.
    “Don’t tell me coincidence.” Michael paused a moment, gathering himself, gathering his thoughts, trying to regain some sense of calm. “Because this is anything but.”
    Busch looked again at the business card. “Who’s Stephen Kelley?”
    “Beyond the fact that he’s an attorney?” Michael said. “I have no idea. He does pro bono work for the church and orphanage I came from. I tried to reach him but there’s no answer.”
    Busch continued to stare at the card, comparing it to Mary’s letter.
    “Paul, I think my dad is out there somewhere. And this all has something to do with him. I don’t know how. Mary was pointing me in his direction, Genevieve always insisted I look for him. These addresses are the same starting point.”
    Busch finally turned to Michael. “What are you looking for, Michael? What are you hoping to find? Is this about finding your dad or is it about Mary, about filling perceived requests and last wishes to heal your guilty heart?”
    “I don’t know,” Michael said. “But…”
    “Michael,” Busch said softly. “Mary is gone. Nothing you do is going to bring her back. But if you want to find your real parents…”
    Michael walked to the table, picked up Mary’s letter, and looked at his friend. “Do you feel like going to Boston?”

 
     

     
Chapter 10
     
    D awn. Already seventy-five degrees, the never-ending humidity condensing on the windows of Busch’s car as they drove out of the Byram Hills police station. The lake had been dragged; divers scoured the bottom, all coming back with the same assessment: whoever was driving the Buick, dead or alive, was not in the water, on the shore, or anywhere near the wreck. Footprints had been found at the water’s edge but they were inconclusive—they could have belonged to a fisherman, teenagers, no one knew for sure. The car had been traced back to a rental office at Logan Airport in Boston but the driver had yet to be identified—all of which only strengthened Michael’s suspicions.
    Michael’s cell phone was tucked into the crook of his shoulder. It had been three minutes since he had been put on hold by the Vatican operator. He and Busch were on their second Coke, Michael having taken up Busch’s preferred source of caffeine and sugar.
    There were three quick beeps on his cell phone and then, “Michael?” The accent was