Wages of Sin by Penelope Williamson

though he was about to reach his. “This crucifixion killing—a priest, heaven help us all—has already caused a real rumpus among the powers that must be obeyed. The wires between here and City Hall have been buzzing all morning, and now you tell me he is a she. Lord love a duck.”
    He dropped his hands and raised his head to glare at his two detectives, as if they—by bringing him the news—were now responsible for all its repercussions.
    Rourke slouched on his tailbone in the visitor's chair. Fio stood with his shoulders pressed into the door jamb, his arms crossed in front of his chest. They were inside Malone's office with the door shut and the Venetian blinds closed on the window that looked out on the squad room. The blinds were up, though, on the open window that overlooked the street below. They could hear hoots and jeers from the crowd and a lone voice with a bullhorn calling for a prayer.
    “You sure y'all saw it right?” Malone said. Rourke and Fio both gave him a wounded look.
    “Okay, okay. So who knows about it? Tell me the whole world doesn't know about it.”
    “Just we three in here, boss. And the Ghoul,” Rourke said. “And maybe whoever killed him.”
    “Her,” Fio said.
    “He spent over half his life being Father Patrick Walsh,” Rourke said. “I would think that's how he'd want us to think of him.”
    Fio tilted his head back and rubbed his hand over his face again. “This is nuts.”
    Malone pointed a finger at Rourke since he was closest. “And that reminds me. The archbishop was all over my caboose earlier this morning because y'all went and rousted the good fathers of Our Lady of the Holy Rosary like they were goons. And the sun was barely even up.”
    “That was Fio,” Rourke said. “I was nice.”
    Fio gave him an up-yours look, then grinned.
    Malone pulled a battered cigarette out of his shirt pocket so that he could think. He hadn't smoked in fifteen years but every day he hand-rolled himself a few fresh ones to play with. He claimed the smell of the tobacco stimulated his brain cells. “Tell me what y'all got so far,” he said.
    Rourke told him about Carlos Kelly and Tony the Rat and his goon, Guido the Rat, and the shot and scream, and the bats, and Father Pat's dying plea for mercy. “We think the killer might've once had a job at the factory,” he said. “So I got someone working on getting the payroll lists.”
    “And we already checked the incident reports for shots fired in the area,” Fio added. “It turns out a sister shot at her pimp. Shot his ear off. He was the one doing the screaming.”
    Malone shook his head. “Ye gods. What was done to her…him. Father Pat. You'd think he'd've been hollering like a pig caught under a gate.”
    “There was a gag near the body, but he wasn't wearing it when the kid found him,” Fio said. “We'll do a canvas. See if anyone else saw or heard anything.”
    Malone rolled the cigarette back and forth on his palm, not meeting their eyes now. “You think one of his own did this? Another priest?”
    Fio glanced at Rourke, waiting, and when Rourke said nothing, he answered, “Something dicey is sure enough going on in that parish. They spooked soon as we even showed up.” Fio shook his head, scratched the back of his neck. “I don't know…Could be they knew this Father Pat was a woman.” His gaze slid over to Rourke, then fell to the floor, a flush staining his broad cheekbones. “Could be they were, uh, you know…doing her.”
    “There was nothing in his life at the rectory to give even a hint that he was female,” Rourke said, thinking out loud. He remembered the monastic room with its plain furniture and the lack of mirrors. And she'd been about to start her monthly, yet they'd found no drugstore pads. So what had she used? Rags, maybe, that she washed out every night in secret. “To live that kind of lie for twenty years—you'd have to be committed to it. Deep in your heart committed.”
    Fio made an abrupt