A Necessary Evil (Maggie O'Dell Novels) Read online

  ALEX KAVA

  A NECESSARY EVIL

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  CHAPTER 80

  CHAPTER 81

  CHAPTER 82

  CHAPTER 83

  CHAPTER 84

  CHAPTER 85

  CHAPTER 86

  CHAPTER 87

  CHAPTER 88

  CHAPTER 89

  CHAPTER 90

  CHAPTER 91

  CHAPTER 92

  CHAPTER 93

  COMING NEXT MONTH

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, many thanks to all the professionals who generously gave of their time and expertise. If I’ve gotten any of the facts wrong or have creatively manipulated a fact or two, it’s my doing and not theirs. Also special thanks to my family and friends who continue to support me despite my long absences.

  My appreciation and special thanks go to:

  Deborah Groh Carlin for your love and support, but also for your constant help in researching, brainstorming and making sense of the puzzle pieces along the way, not to mention putting up with my annoying “writer quirks.” You are a true friend and partner in crime.

  Amy Moore-Benson, my agent and friend, for being my advocate and being there time after time no matter how small the question or how difficult the problem.

  Feroze Mohammed, my editor, for challenging me to make this my best book yet.

  Patricia Kava, my good Catholic mother, who allows me to tackle tough subjects in my novels, all the while lighting candles for me.

  Emilie Carlin for your love and support, but also for sharing your own wonderful stories and making them such a delight to listen to.

  Leigh Ann Retelsdorf, Deputy County Attorney and friend, for being my go-to person whenever I have a “killer of a question.”

  Detective Sergeant Bill Jadlowski of the Omaha Police Department for inspiring the creation of Detective Tommy Pakula.

  Christopher Kava, my nephew, for helping me understand teenage boys and their computer obsessions…er, I mean computer skills.

  Mary Means for taking such good care of my kids while I’m on the road.

  Sharon Car. Fellow writer and friend, for being there no matter how much time transpires between our lunch dates.

  Marlene Haney and Sandy Rockwood for your unconditional love, support and friendship.

  Patti El-Kachouti for always being there.

  Patti Bremmer, fellow writer, and her husband, Martin, for your friendship and inspiration.

  Patricia Sierra and her mother, Kay, for cheering up and cheering on, and always at just the right times.

  Father Dave Korth for exemplifying the very best of your profession and being a constant reminder of good.

  A special thank-you to my new friends and neighbors in the Florida Panhandle for showing me what true strength and perseverance looks like while we picked up the pieces after Hurricane Ivan and then did it all over again after Hurricane Dennis.

  And last, but certainly not least, thank you to all the librarians, bookstore owners and managers, book buyers and sellers around the country and around the world for recommending my books.

  This book is dedicated to all you faithful readers who insisted on the return of Father Keller.

  From San Mateo, California, to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, from McCook, Nebraska, to Milan, Italy—it didn’t matter where I went or which of my five books I was promoting, readers always asked the same question. “When are you going to take care of Father Keller?”

  I must confess that five years ago when I wrote A Perfect Evil, I never dreamed it would make such an impact on so many of you. And so this book, A Necessary Evil is dedicated to all of you who have patiently waited for this long-overdue sequel.

  Please consider this book my thank-you for an invaluable lesson that as writers and storytellers we do have the ability to breathe life into characters—characters who otherwise live only in our imaginations. And with that ability comes, perhaps, a certain responsibility to allow those characters to continue to breathe, to speak, to grow and even to be brought to justice.

  “It is necessary only for the good

  to do nothing for evil to triumph.”

  —Edmund Burke

  CHAPTER 1

  Friday, July 2

  Eppley Airport

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Monsignor William O’Sullivan was certain no one had recognized him. So why was his forehead damp? He hadn’t gone through the security checkpoint yet. Instead, he had decided to wait until it got closer to his flight time. Just in case someone did recognize him. On this side, he could still pretend to be picking up a colleague rather than admit he was leaving.

  He fidgeted in the plastic chair, clutching the leather portfolio closer to his chest. So close, so tight it seemed to crush his lungs, causing that pain again, a pain he may have dismissed too quickly as heartburn. But of course, it was only heartburn. He simply wasn’t used to eating such a large meal for lunch, but he knew the flight to New York and the later one to Rome would include cardboard renditions of food, causing much more damage to his overly sensitive stomach than Sophia’s leftover meat loaf and mashed potatoes did.

  Yes, surely the leftovers were responsible for his discomfort, he told himself, and yet his eyes darted around the busy airport terminal, looking for a bathroom. He remained seated, not wanting to move until he examined and found an acceptable path. He shoved a thumb and index finger up under his wire-rim glasses to dig the fatigue out of his eyes, and then he began his search again.

  He’d avoid the shortest route, not wanting to pass the exotic black woman handing out “reading material”—as she called it—to anyone too polite to say no. She wore colorful beads in her hair, what looked like her Sunday best dress with splashes of purple that made her hips even larger, but sensible shoes. Her smooth, deep voice almost made it a song when she asked, “Can I offer you some reading material?” And to everyone—including those who huffed their responses and rushed by—she greeted them with yet another melodic, polite stanza, “You have a most pleasant day.”

  Monsignor O’Sullivan knew what her reading material was without seeing it. He supposed she was a sort of present-day missionary, in her own right. If he passed her, would she sense their connection? Both of them ministers, distributors of God’s word. One in sensible shoes, another with a portfolio stuffed with secrets.

  Better to avoid her.

  He checked the Krispy Kreme counter. A long line of zombies waited patiently for their afternoon dose of energy, like drug addicts getting one more shot before their flight. To his right he watched the bookstore entrance, quickly glancing away when a young man in a baseball cap looked in his direction. Had the youth recognized him, despite his street clothes? His stomach churned while his eyes studied his shoes. His cotton-knit polo—a gift from his sister—was now sticking to his wet back. Over the loudspeakers came the repetitive message, warning travelers not to leave their luggage unattended. He clutched the portfolio, only now discovering that his palms were also slick with sweat. How in the world had he believed he could just leave without being noticed? That he could just get on a plane and be free, be absolved of all his indiscretions.

  But when Monsignor O’Sullivan dared to look again, the young man was gone. Passengers rushed by without a glance. Even the black woman greeting and passing out her read
ing material seemed totally unaware of his presence.

  Paranoid. He was just being paranoid. Thirty-seven years of dedication to the church and what did he get for it? Accusations and finger-pointing when he deserved accolades of respect and gratitude. When he tried to explain his predicament to his sister, the anger had overwhelmed him, and all he had managed to tell her in their brief conversation was to have the title of the family’s estate changed to her name only. “I won’t let those bastards take our home.”

  He wished he were there now. It was nothing extravagant—a two-story split-timber on three acres in the middle of Connecticut, with walking trails surrounded by trees and mountains and sky. It was the only place he felt closest to God, and the irony made him smile. The irony that beautiful cathedrals and huge congregations had led him further and further away from God.

  A squawk coming from near the escalator startled him back to reality. It sounded like a tropical bird, but was instead a toddler in full temper tantrum, his mother pulling him along, unfazed, as if she couldn’t hear the screech. It grated on Monsignor O’Sullivan’s nerves, scratching them raw and resetting the tension so tight in his jaw that he feared he’d start grinding his teeth. It was enough to get him to his feet. He no longer cared about accessible paths, and he made his way to the restroom.

  Thankfully, it was empty, yet he glanced under every stall to make certain. He set the portfolio at his feet, leaning it against his left leg, as if needing to maintain some contact. He removed his glasses and placed them on the corner of the sink. Then, avoiding his own blurred reflection, he waved his hands under the faucet, his frustration fueled by the lack of response. He swiped his hands back and forth, finally eliciting a short burst of water, barely wetting his fingertips. He swiped again. Another short burst. This time he closed his eyes and splashed as much as he could on his face, the cool dampness beginning to calm his nausea, beginning to quiet the sudden throbbing in his temples.

  His hands groped for the paper-towel dispenser, ripping off more than he needed and gently dabbing, disgusted by the smell and harsh feel of the recycled paper. He hadn’t even heard the bathroom door open. When he glanced in the mirror, Monsignor O’Sullivan was startled to see a blurred figure standing behind him.

  “I’m almost finished,” he said, thinking he might be in the way, though there were other sinks. Why did he need to use this one? He noticed a faint metallic odor. Perhaps it was a member of the cleaning crew. An impatient one at that. He reached for his glasses, accidentally knocking them to the floor. Before he could bend down to retrieve them, an arm came around his waist. All he saw was a glint of silver. Then he felt the burn, the streak of pain, shooting up through his chest.

  At the same time there was a whisper in his right ear—soft and gentle. “You’re already finished, Monsignor O’Sullivan.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Washington, D.C.

  There was no easy way to pick up a human head.

  At least that’s what Special Agent Maggie O’Dell had decided. She watched the scene below and sympathized with the young crime lab technician. Maggie wondered if that was exactly what he was thinking as he squatted in the mud, looking at it from yet another angle. Even Detective Julia Racine remained quiet, standing over him, but unable to offer any of her regular advice. It was the quietest Maggie had ever seen the detective.

  Stan Wenhoff, chief medical examiner for the District, yelled down an instruction or two, but stayed beside Maggie on top of the embankment, not making any attempt to find a way down. Actually Maggie was surprised to see Stan on a Friday afternoon, especially at the beginning of a holiday weekend. Normally he would have sent one of his deputies, except that he wouldn’t want to miss out on making headlines. And this case would certainly start making headlines now.

  Maggie looked beyond the riverbank, out at the water and the city on the other side. Despite the usual terror alerts, the District was preparing for the weekend festivities, expecting sunny skies and cooler-than-average temperatures. Not that she had any big plans beyond lounging in the backyard with Harvey. She’d throw a couple of steaks on the grill, read the latest Jeffery Deaver.

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear though the breeze immediately tugged another one free. Yes, it was an absolutely beautiful summer day, except for the decapitated head someone had discarded on the muddy riverbank. What level of evil did it take to slice another person’s head completely off and leave it like a piece of trash? Her friend, Gwen Patterson, accused her of having an obsession with evil. Maggie didn’t look at it so much as an obsession as an age-old quest. She had decided long ago that it was part of her job to root out evil and destroy it.

  “Finish going through the surrounding surface,” Stan called down. “Then just scoop it up into a bag.”

  Maggie glanced at Stan. Scoop it up? Easy for him to say from up here where his polished shoes were safe and the waft of death hadn’t yet arrived. But even from above, Maggie could see it was a daunting task. The riverbank was littered with cans and discarded take-out containers and wrappers. She knew the area—this stretch under the overpass—well enough to know there were also cigarette butts, condoms and a needle or two. The killer had taken a risk, discarding the head in such a well-trafficked area.