sort of like an aftershock knocking her off her feet long after the initial impact. Christine had a way of reacting on impulse without thinking things through, without weighing the consequences. He hoped that wasn't the case with Bruce, especially where Timmy was concerned. But then, who was he to judge? He certainly was no expert on relationships. After all, here he was an engaged guy, sitting on his parents' front porch asking his sister to go get a pizza with him on a Saturday night.
"How did things go with Father Tony?"
"Are you asking as a friend of Tony's or as a reporter?"
"Give me a break," Christine said, but he recognized that faked, hurt look. Yet she diverted her eyes and was suddenly interested in the dust she brushed from the porch-swing arm. "I heard that Monsignor O' Sullivan may have been murdered, too much blood on the bathroom floor for a heart attack."
"How did you already hear that?"
Now she gave him her eyes, only to roll them at him. "I work for the largest newspaper in the state. How do you think I found out?"
"Which brings me back to my original question. Are you asking about Tony as a friend or a reporter?"
"As a friend, stupid. I have other ways of finding out about the case. Come on, give me a break. It's been almost four years."
Nick took another gulp, watching her out of the corner of his eye, letting her know it wasn't that easy to forget, to let bygones be bygones. Almost four years ago when he was sheriff of Platte City, she undermined a murder investigation __ his investigation __ using him to scoop her competition and to get front-page headlines and front-page bylines for herself.
"They just had some basic questions for Tony," he said, carefully leaving out any information.
"Basic questions like who would want O'Sullivan dead?"
"Yeah. Basic questions like that."
She shook her head at him and smiled, acknowledging that was all she was getting from him. Nick smiled back and I took another swallow of beer. They knew each other too well. When had everything become a game with them? Two steps forward, three steps back __ it was something his father always said, though Nick couldn't remember at the time what his dad meant by it. Antonio Morrelli was the power broker of mind games. Or rather, he had been. There weren't too many games the old man could play these days, lying in his bed, unable to move or speak, the massive stroke leaving him with eye movement his only communication tool.
"Actually I shouldn't be telling you this," Christine said, but paused, waiting for his attention. "We've been putting together a piece for the paper that involves the Omaha Archdiocese. It involves O'Sullivan."
She got his attention, just like she wanted. He couldn't help wondering if this was what Tony couldn't talk about.
"Involves the archdiocese in what exactly?" he asked, pretending it really didn't matter to him.
"What else? The same thing that's been plaguing the Catholic Church all over the country for the last several years."
"You're saying Monsignor O'Sullivan's been abusing boys?"
"Keep it down," Christine whispered, getting up from the porch swing to glance inside the house. "If Mom found out I was working on something that might go against the church, she'd be lighting candles for the salvation of my soul for weeks." Satisfied that their mother wasn't listening at the door, she leaned against the porch rail and took a sip of her beer before she continued. "A lot of what we have right now is considered speculation and rumor, because no one's willing to go on the record."
"Maybe no one's willing to go on the record because it is speculation and rumor." Nick wasn't good at hiding his disdain for the news media, despite his sister being a part of that crazy world. And right now, he hated that Christine seemed willing to point to O' Sullivan's death as proof of a bunch of rumors, some sort of way to validate a story she was trying to dig up. Hadn't she learned anything from four years
"How did things go with Father Tony?"
"Are you asking as a friend of Tony's or as a reporter?"
"Give me a break," Christine said, but he recognized that faked, hurt look. Yet she diverted her eyes and was suddenly interested in the dust she brushed from the porch-swing arm. "I heard that Monsignor O' Sullivan may have been murdered, too much blood on the bathroom floor for a heart attack."
"How did you already hear that?"
Now she gave him her eyes, only to roll them at him. "I work for the largest newspaper in the state. How do you think I found out?"
"Which brings me back to my original question. Are you asking about Tony as a friend or a reporter?"
"As a friend, stupid. I have other ways of finding out about the case. Come on, give me a break. It's been almost four years."
Nick took another gulp, watching her out of the corner of his eye, letting her know it wasn't that easy to forget, to let bygones be bygones. Almost four years ago when he was sheriff of Platte City, she undermined a murder investigation __ his investigation __ using him to scoop her competition and to get front-page headlines and front-page bylines for herself.
"They just had some basic questions for Tony," he said, carefully leaving out any information.
"Basic questions like who would want O'Sullivan dead?"
"Yeah. Basic questions like that."
She shook her head at him and smiled, acknowledging that was all she was getting from him. Nick smiled back and I took another swallow of beer. They knew each other too well. When had everything become a game with them? Two steps forward, three steps back __ it was something his father always said, though Nick couldn't remember at the time what his dad meant by it. Antonio Morrelli was the power broker of mind games. Or rather, he had been. There weren't too many games the old man could play these days, lying in his bed, unable to move or speak, the massive stroke leaving him with eye movement his only communication tool.
"Actually I shouldn't be telling you this," Christine said, but paused, waiting for his attention. "We've been putting together a piece for the paper that involves the Omaha Archdiocese. It involves O'Sullivan."
She got his attention, just like she wanted. He couldn't help wondering if this was what Tony couldn't talk about.
"Involves the archdiocese in what exactly?" he asked, pretending it really didn't matter to him.
"What else? The same thing that's been plaguing the Catholic Church all over the country for the last several years."
"You're saying Monsignor O'Sullivan's been abusing boys?"
"Keep it down," Christine whispered, getting up from the porch swing to glance inside the house. "If Mom found out I was working on something that might go against the church, she'd be lighting candles for the salvation of my soul for weeks." Satisfied that their mother wasn't listening at the door, she leaned against the porch rail and took a sip of her beer before she continued. "A lot of what we have right now is considered speculation and rumor, because no one's willing to go on the record."
"Maybe no one's willing to go on the record because it is speculation and rumor." Nick wasn't good at hiding his disdain for the news media, despite his sister being a part of that crazy world. And right now, he hated that Christine seemed willing to point to O' Sullivan's death as proof of a bunch of rumors, some sort of way to validate a story she was trying to dig up. Hadn't she learned anything from four years
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