Free Pieces of Ivy by Dean Covin Page B

was busy compiling a list of probables for Agents Starr and Sanchez to get started with.”
    “ Dashel ,” Hank corrected.
    “Right.” The sheriff didn’t care and handed Vicki the list.
    † † †
    Hank scowled as they left. “Do I look Mexican?”
    She laughed. “Not even close.” Stopping to smooth the crumpled paper against her thigh, she added, “I see it all the time—just male bravado. He’s trying to subliminally raise his station with me by diminishing the man I’m with.” She caught his smirk. “Down boy—not with me that way.”
    He shrugged as they sank into her car. “Sheriff’s more mangy-mutt than alpha-dog,” he said, enjoying her hint of camaraderie.
    She feigned a grimace. “And he’d probably jump at the chance to hump my leg.”
    † † †
    “Hey, that’s Father Reilly,” Hank said, pointing at the church where a priest was getting out of his car. “Shall we?”
    She pulled up behind him. The sudden pop of gravel beneath her tires startled the cleric. He peered at the windshield of the sports car. “Can I—can I help you?”
    Vicki stepped out first. “Father Reilly?”
    He offered a tentative nod.
    Hank joined her, and they approached. Vicki offered her hand. “I’m Agent Starr and this is—”
    Hank interrupted, “Agent Dashel.”
    The priest moved from her hand to Hank’s, shooting him a quizzical stare. “ Dashel ? As in—”
    “I’m sure you remember me.”
    The priest tensed, staring cautiously, but continued to shake his hand. “Yes, I believe I do.”
    Vicki watched the two men, locked in a stalemate—neither offering another word. She interrupted, “I don’t remember seeing you at the town assembly last night, Father.”
    “No, I’ll be holding my own mass on the subject—cut through the liberal bull that Travers likes to spew.” He looked at Vicki. “People don’t need answers—they need the truth.”
    Hank wiped his hand on his jeans. “And you know the truth?”
    “I don’t, but God does. And if He feels fit to share with me, I’ll happily share with the good people of our church.”
    “So are you going to wait until you hear from Him before calling your flock?”
    Father Reilly scowled at the insinuation. “No, son, we come together in prayer—as a community—and then, at that moment, He will make His truth known, and I will share that truth.”
    “Father, I’d like to attend your mass,” Vicki said as a courtesy—she was going regardless. “Please ensure we’re made aware.”
    He turned to her, offering a warm smile. “I’d love for you to be there. Please, let’s speak inside.” He walked up the steps to the entrance, unlocked the door. “Tea?”
    “We’d love some,” she said, shooting Hank a futile admonishment.
    The priest led them into the sitting room off his personal chamber and then left for the kitchen.
    Vicki confronted Hank with a harsh whisper. “What’s your problem?”
    “He’s a righteous asshole.”
    Vicki wasn’t actively religious, but she still held an inbred reverence for the sanctity of the church. Hank’s curse sent reactive shivers of guilt through her spine.
    “ Saint Prick back there excommunicated my devout mother for leaving my abusive father—it destroyed her. The church was her family. Because of him, they turned on her. He’s a pillar of the community.”
    “I think that’s more the Church’s position than one man’s.”
    Hank didn’t care.
    Vicki forced a pleasant smile when the priest returned.
    “Our kitchen’s finest,” he said, placing the tray of black tea on the table in front of them. “Milk and sugar. What do you take, miss?”
    “Black is fine. And Agent Dash—”
    “I’ll pass.”
    “Very well.” The priest turned his attention to the friendlier agent. “How can I help you?”
    Hank answered, “You know why we’re in town, Father. Why don’t you just tell us what you know?”
    Father Reilly sat back with his small cup, glancing politely at Dashel.