Not So Innocent (Shattered Glass #2)

Chapter Four

At the scampering of paws, Riley warded off the dog with a raised palm as he entered the house. Fuzz skidded to a halt and sat in the moonlit doorway, tail thumping and butt wiggling against the walnut floor. A series of barks issued from his throat.

“?Quieto!” Riley ordered with a gentle, but firm, tone. “I just dry cleaned this suit.”

The dog shivered uncontrollably, whined, and then barked.

“?Cállate! You’ll get us another noise complaint filed. Goof.” While the barking ceased, the whining escalated. “?Ven!” Riley patted his thigh, then flipped on the light. Fuzz shed a trail of brown and white fur as he leaned into Riley’s legs. “Whew. You need a bath.” On his way to the bedroom, he deliberately avoided looking at the mural taking up the entire east wall of the living room. The dog trotted along, hopping up to lick his hand every step.

He’d barely slipped off his suit jacket when the doorbell rang.

“Lee!” Cecelia screamed that awful nickname while knocking incessantly.

Loosening his tie, Riley shooed the dog onto the sofa before opening the door. “What’s up, Ceci?”

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” she said.

“Have they taught you irony yet, or is that senior year?”

“Hurr hurr.”

“What do you need?” It was always something. He lifted his arm so she could pass under, trying to remind himself that he couldn’t keep his sister out. She was small enough to throw a good distance, however.

Cecelia breezed by, pulling her long brown hair through the hole in the back of her baseball cap. “I’ve been sent to give you these.” Cumin and chile wafted from the grocery bag his mom had been reusing for the last two years. He took it from Cecelia and brought it into the kitchen. At his back she added, “Also supposed to ask you for the sander because Cai’s boyfriend is—”

“His what?” He whirled to face her and the bag smacked into the cabinet. The lid popped off the Tupperware container and red sauce leaked into the white plastic.

“His boyfriend. Julian’s going to sand the floors in the dining room. You should see him.” She followed Riley into the kitchen, fanning herself. “Woo. ?Qué cuerpazo! Está que arde.”

What a hot body? What the hell? Riley set the bowl of tamales near the microwave and then tossed the lid roughly across the counter. The plastic clattered as it bumped against the backboard. “Why are you checking out Cai’s boyfriend?”

“Do I look dead to you?” Cecelia asked. “Even mom noticed.”

I’ve met someone.

Yesterday, I laughed.

Riley clamped his mouth shut, locking away any questions. Then he straightened his back and stuck his food into the microwave. He busied himself cleaning off droplets that had splattered off the lid. A boyfriend? What was he doing at the office the other day?

“I’m not done with you, Saint Riley.”

That didn’t sound like someone with a boyfriend.

Riley tossed the rag into the sink, then leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “You sure it’s his boyfriend?”

“Yeah. Very sure.” Cecelia hunted around in his fridge and pulled out a handful of blueberries before leaning on the counter opposite him. “I asked Julian what was up. Because, hey, Cai is cute and all, but no way. When I say hot, I mean smokin’. So out of Cai’s league. Possibly even out of yours, old guy.” She grinned, then popped a berry in her mouth.

“Cai is plenty cute,” he muttered.

For a moment, the ache of loss made him brace against the counter. This is what he got for doing the right thing.

Cecelia eyed him for a second. “Oh,” she said.

The dog trotted in, apparently done with obeying orders.

Fuzz sat at Cecelia’s feet, big brown eyes earning a blueberry, which he held gingerly in his mouth, dropped it to the floor and then nose-rolled out of the kitchen. Riley watched the spectacle, thinking he should probably go grab the berry before he found it later by stepping on it. Instead, he stared.

“Lee?” Her tone asked a myriad of questions and held a note of sympathy.

Riley gathered himself and waved her off. “C’mon, Cecelia, don’t go reading into things that aren’t there.”

“If you say so. Anyway, mom didn’t send me just to get the sander and bring you dinner. I’m supposed to remind you that you’ve missed four Saturday dinners in a row.”

“No need to lay it on. I’m sure she loaded the tamales with plenty of guilt and topped it off with a sauce of her tears and anguish.”

Cecelia chuckled and threw a blueberry at his head. He caught it and tossed it in the trash basketball-style.

“I’ve been busy with work,” he said. The microwave dinged. He shrugged as he pulled out his food. “I’m the lead on a case for the first time. A small case, but a case.” Flipping his tie over his shoulder, he tucked into dinner. The tang of the sauce hit right before the heat.

“Cool. Is it dangerous?” Cecelia asked. “Are you going to shoot someone?”

Yes. Julian. “It’s a white collar case. I get to follow wire transfers from elderly people’s savings.”

Cecelia rolled her eyes. “Only you could make the FBI boring.”

“I make things boring?”

“Ever since the acci—”

“Don’t.” He shook his head. “Just don’t, Cecelia.”

“All right. Okay. Let’s not talk about it some more. That has been working sooo well. Continue to be perfect and hide here alone so you can avoid anyone who might upset your perfect world of perfect perfection.” She held out her palm and gestured. “The sander.”

After rinsing tamale sauce off, he left her in the kitchen. On his way to the garage, the mural on the wall lured him over. This time, he didn’t resist studying it.

For two years, he’d tried to read its meaning. Why was he in a pressed black suit but dusty cleats and unruly curls peeking under the brim of his pristine baseball hat? Boring, stuffy, and scruffy? Why was he alone on the baseball field while his family cheered in the stands? Why was he painted in photorealism while they were depicted in hyperrealism? Why was the featureless person sitting off to the side painted in a myriad of dark abstract colors? Riley traced the shadowy figure, leaving his fingers resting over its chest. Didn’t take a genius to figure out who it was but why hadn’t Cai used one of the hundreds of pictures of Reagan in his parent’s house for reference?

Questions that opened too many wounds to ask and answer.

Heat pushed at Riley’s eyes. He clenched his fist over the image and drove the tears away with slow inhales.

His sister wrapped her arms around his waist. The heat of her cheek bled through his shirt. “A quien Dios ama, le llama,” she said.

He liked the English version better. Those whom the gods love, die young. “Do you know what that’s from?”

“No. Mom says it sometimes when she passes his picture in the hall. I thought it was some cool bible quote.”

“She probably thinks it’s some religious dogma.”

“It’s not?” Cecelia asked.

“No.”

“What’s it from?”

“It’s derived from a story about Trophonios and Agamedes,” he answered. “They were brothers who built the temple of Apollon. The legend says they included a back door to rob the place and, on one trip, Agamedes got stuck in a trap deep down near the treasury. Fearing torture and death, Trophonios cut off his brother’s head to avoid him being recognized and then left.”

“Lee!” Cecelia clutched his shirt and shook it when he didn’t turn around. “Lee, we have to tell her what it’s from!”

His cell rang, saving Riley from replying. “Sec, Jeremy.” He muted the phone quickly. “Sander is on the workbench in the garage. Call you tomorrow.” He kissed Cecelia’s cheek and dismissed her with a turn of his back.

“Ohhh, don’t you think we’re done!” She called out. A few seconds later, he heard the garage door open and close.

“That Cecelia?” Jeremy asked. “Tell her I said hey!”

“Will do. What’s up?”

“Confession, one hour.” Jeremy hung up.

* * *

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession.”

Jeremy snorted. “Three?”

“Snorting,” Riley said. “Very professional.”

“Says the FBI agent lying in the confessional.”

“Give or take a few days.”

“Weeks. Give or take a few weeks. It’s been six weeks since your last confession.”

Riley sank into the comfort of incense and reverent silence.

Had it been that long?

“Well?” Jeremy demanded.

“All right, you dick, it’s been six weeks since my last confession.”

“Lying and swearing. It’s going to be fun assigning your penance today. You’re already up to twenty.”

“You didn’t even get twenty when you spiked the sacrificial wine with vodka.”

Jeremy sputtered, “When I spiked the—? You mean when you spiked it!”

“That’s not what I told Father Brennan.”

“You’re up to thirty now.”

Riley chuckled.

“And ten more for impure thoughts,” Jeremy added.

Through laughter, Riley did some sputtering of his own. “I haven’t confessed to impure thoughts!”

“You were about to.

“Based on what evidence?”

“Nikolaj brought your mother to confession this morning.”

The laughter slowly abated, though Riley’s smile remained. “Did she?”

“I hadn’t seen him in a year. If at all possible, he’s smarter. It’s a good thing God called me to the priesthood himself, because Nikolaj argues atheism almost as convincingly as Jesus argued for the poor and unwashed. Those poor saps at his mosque.”

“They asked Peter to stop bringing him. They were convinced he was the reason for their lapse in membership.”

“He probably was!”

They both chuckled at that, keeping their voices low, like they did during mass when they were altar boys making stealthy fart noises as Father Brennan sat down.

“I can see the attraction, Riles.”

“He’s nineteen.”

“So were we.”

“That worked out great, Father . Thanks for the reminder.”

“What can I say? God offered Heaven and naked angels singing to me for eternity. You only offered the naked part.”

Therein lay the problem. He had nothing to offer Nikolaj.

“I can’t give him what he wants.”

“Love?”

Yes .

Riley rubbed at a small mark on his glove and then looked through the grating at his best friend’s outline. “Am I still on a direct line to God here?”

“Good point. Go and say your penance. I’ve got an hour left here, and then I’ll meet you at Rooster’s.”

“With forty prayers, I may be longer than an hour.”

“Do I need to add ten more for sloth?”

“I’m going!”

“Order me some nachos and a dark beer.”

* * *

Rooster’s Bar & Grill took up an entire square block between Denver’s largest Hispanic neighborhood and the newly revitalized warehouse district in the northwestern part of the city.

Artists and twenty-something students occupied the warehouses-turned-lofts. Their windows showcased chipped marble blocks and half-painted canvases. Riley would bet a month’s salary that Cai had moved into one of those, and that, unable to bear the blank walls, he had stayed awake for weeks painting murals of ancient battles or surreal landscapes. Or maybe he’d found his Starry Night again, and the walls danced with bright blues and thick swirls of yellow.

Riley’s small house, on the other hand, endured between rows of foreclosed homes two miles past Rooster’s, on the east side, in the heart of Globeville. It used to be a few minutes’ walk from his front door to any one of four Catholic churches. Only two remained now, with both congregations temporarily under the care of one busy priest.

As Jeremy slipped into the booth, Riley turned from the window and scooted a plate of nachos over.

“Thanks for leaving me”—Jeremy counted—”four chips.”

“If your call was an elaborate ruse to get me to confession, I’m going to eat the rest of them, drink your beer, and send the bill to the Vatican. I’ll include a note telling them about the time you kissed your cousin Jacinda for a Pokémon card.”

“I was seven!”

“Or were you seventeen? Typos happen. Why am I here?”

“Did you contact Kelly?”

“She’s on her way. Had to get a sitter,” Riley said. “Are you being deliberately cagey to arouse curiosity?”

“Let’s wait for Kelly.” Jeremy shrugged his coat off and met Riley’s glare. “I’m not being ‘cagey’. I’m avoiding repetition.”

“Right. Priests avoid repetition every day, especially Sundays. That’s why I could hold mass in a drunken stupor with my eyes closed.”

“If the church doesn’t start attracting more parishioners, I may have you try that.” A raucous mass of screams and cheers rocked through the bar. Jeremy and Riley glanced at the TV, watched a celebration of hugging basketball fans, then turned back to each other. “I gather things didn’t go well with Nikolaj this afternoon.”

“Please tell me you didn’t call me here to deal with a hormonal teenager’s crush.”

“Yes. That sounds exactly like me. While singing Matchmaker, Matchmaker and polishing my magic heart-shaped bow, I came up with this devious plan to ignite your cold, dead heart with the passions of a nineteen-year-old twink.”

“Cai is not a twink.” Riley laughed, more at himself for the reflexive defense than the image of Jeremy singing Fiddler on the Roof.

“He has something important to talk to you about.” Jeremy casually set down his glass inches from Riley’s.

The urge to take his hand came swiftly and instinctively. Riley reached for his own drink instead. “I hope it’s more important than ‘I’m nineteen, we can bang now.’”

Beer shot out Jeremy’s nose. He coughed and grabbed a napkin, getting traces of paper trapped in his scruff as he wiped his mouth and chin. “Is that what he said?”

“Pretty much.” Another urge, a more intimate one, squeezed Riley’s fist around his glass. “You have napkin in your beard.”

Jeremy scratched the flecks off, his eyes darting to the death grip. His voice softened. “I should encourage his interest. I haven’t seen the old Riley in fifteen years. He certainly knows how to rile you up.”

“How much trouble is he in?”

“I can only tell you what I’m allowed.”

“Is that code for ‘he confessed’?” Jeremy gave him a blank look in response. “He’s an atheist. He can’t speak to a God he doesn’t believe in.”

“When people confess, they speak to God through me. Whether they believe in Him or not is irrelevant.” Jeremy twisted to scan the room. “It took me ages to convince him to come here and talk to you again. Don’t scare him with legal threats. And don’t threaten me either. I’m immune.”

“You’re saved from more of my grilling.” Riley tipped his head toward the entrance where Agent Kelly Marks shed her pink earmuffs and long coat. Her short, kinky hair bounced as she strode to their table.

Jeremy said, “I’d say ‘thank God’ but Nikolaj has informed me that if I thank God for answering small prayers then I have to thank him for letting children die in hospitals, and also starving people in Africa, the war in Syria, The Crusades, 9/11...”

Riley was laughing when Kelly sat next to him and stole one of Jeremy’s nachos. She threw her coat over the back of the booth. “This had better be worth leaving my sick kid in the care of a babysitter whose last significant accomplishment was a solar system model. If it’s not, I will shoot you both in the kneecaps.”

“What do I get if it is?”

“What every priest wants.” Kelly stole his last nacho and waved it at him. “Tickets on the fifty-yard line.”