Nora Roberts - Sacred Sins

“Detectives Paris and Jackson.”

“Oh, yes. Dr. Court’s expecting you. She’s with a patient at the moment. If you won’t mind waiting, I could get you some coffee.”

“Just hot water.” Ed drew a tea bag out of his pocket.

The secretary didn’t show even a flicker of reaction. “Of course.”

“You’re a constant embarrassment to me,” Ben muttered as she slipped into a small side room.

“I’m not pumping caffeine into my system just to be socially acceptable.” With his bag of herbs dangling from his hand, he looked around the room. “How about this place? Classy.”

“Yeah.” Ben took another look around. “Fits her.”

“I don’t know why that gives you such a problem,” Ed said mildly as he studied a Monet print, sunrise on the water, all softly blurred colors with a touch of fire. He liked it as he liked most art, because someone had had the imagination and skill to create it. His views on the human race were pretty much the same. “A good-looking, classy woman with a sharp mind shouldn’t intimidate a man who has a strong sense of his own worth.”

“Christ, you should be writing a column.”

Just then the door to Tess’s office opened. Mrs. Halderman came out, her sable tossed over one arm. Seeing the men, she stopped, smiled, then touched her tongue to her top lip the way a young girl might when she spotted a bowl of chocolate ice cream. “Hello.”

Ben hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Hello.”

“Are you waiting to see Dr. Court?”

“That’s right.”

She stayed where she was a moment, then let her eyes widen as she studied Ed. “My, my, you’re a big one, aren’t you?”

Ed swallowed a small obstruction in his throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m just fascinated by… big men.” She crossed to him, letting her eyes sweep up and flutter. “They always make me feel so helpless and feminine. Just how tall are you, Mister…?”

Grinning, with his thumbs still hooked in his pockets, Ben walked to Tess’s door and left Ed to sink or swim.

She was sitting behind her desk, head back, eyes closed. Her hair was up again, but she didn’t look unapproachable. Tired, he thought, and not just physically. As he watched, she lifted a hand to her temple and pressed at the beginnings of a headache.

“Looks like you could use an aspirin, Doc.”

She opened her eyes. Her head came up again, as though she didn’t find it acceptable to rest except in private. Though she was small, the desk didn’t dwarf her. She looked completely suited to it, and to the black-framed degree at her back.

“I don’t like to take pills.”

“Just prescribe them?”

Her back angled a little straighten “You weren’t waiting long, were you? I need my briefcase.”

As she started to rise, he walked over to the desk. “We’ve got a few minutes. Rough day?”

“A little. You?”

“Hardly shot anybody at all.” He picked up a chunk of amethyst from her desk and passed it from hand to hand. “I meant to tell you, you did good this morning.”

She picked up a pencil, ran it through her fingers, then set it down again. Apparently the next confrontation would be postponed. “Thanks. So did you.”

He hitched himself on the corner of her desk, discovering he could relax in her office, psychiatrist or not. There were no ghosts here, no regrets. “How do you feel about Saturday matinees?”

“Open minded.”

He had to grin. “Figured you would be. They’re playing a couple of classic Vincent Price films.”

“House of Wax?”

“And The Fly . Interested?”

“I might be.” Now she did rise. The headache was only a dull, easily ignored throb in one temple. “If it included popcorn.”

“It even includes pizza after.”

“I’m sold.”

“Tess.” He put a hand on her arm, though he still found the trim gray suit she wore intimidating. “About last night…”

“I thought we both already apologized for that.”

“Yeah.” She didn’t look weary or vulnerable now, but in control. Untouched, untouchable. He backed off, still holding the chunk of amethyst in his hand. It matched her eyes. “Ever make love in here?”

Tess lifted a brow. She knew he wanted to shock, or at the very least, annoy her. “Privileged information.” She plucked her briefcase up from beside her desk and headed for the door. “Coming?”

He had an urge to slip the amethyst in his pocket. Annoyed, he set it down carefully and followed her out.

Ed stood beside the secretary’s desk, sipping tea. His face was nearly as red as his hair.

“Mrs. Halderman,” she said to Tess, sending Ed a sympathetic look. “I managed to nudge her along before she devoured him.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Ed.” But Tess’s eyes glistened. “Would you like to sit down a minute?”

“No.” He sent his partner a warning look. “One word, Paris.”

“Not me.” All innocence, Ben walked to the door and held it open. As Ed walked by, Ben fell into step beside him. “You are a big one, though, aren’t you?” Keep it up.

Monsignor timothy logan DIDN’T look like Ben’s childhood conception of a priest. Instead of a cassock, he wore a tweed jacket over a pale yellow turt;eneck. He had the big, broad face of an Irishman, and dark red hair just beginning to go wiry with gray. His office wasn’t like the hushed quiet of a rectory with its somehow sanctified fragrances and old dark woods. Instead it smelled of pipe tobacco and dust, like the den of an ordinary man.

There were no pictures of the saints or the Savior on the walls, no ceramic statues of the Virgin with her sad, understanding face. There were books, dozens and dozens of them, some on theology, some on psychiatry, and several more on fishing. Instead of a crucifix there was a mounted silver bass.

On a stand rested an old bible with a carved cover; a newer, though more well-used one was open on the desk. A rosary with fat wooden beads lay beside it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsignor Logan.” Tess held out her hand in a colleague-to-colleague manner that made Ben uncomfortable. The man was a priest, tweed or not, and priests were to be revered, even feared a little, and respected. God’s proxies, he remembered his mother saying. They handled the sacraments, forgave sins, and absolved the dying.

One had come to Josh after he was already dead. There had been words of comfort, sympathy, and kindness for the family, but no absolution. Suicide. The most mortal of the mortal sins.

“And you, Dr. Court.” Logan had a clear, booming voice that could easily have filled a cathedral. Yet there was an edge to it, a toughness that made Ben think of an umpire calling strike three. “I attended the lecture you gave on dementia. I wasn’t able to speak to you afterward and tell you I thought you were brilliant.”

“Thank you. Monsignor, Detective Paris and Jackson-they’re heading the investigation team.”

“Detectives.”

Ben accepted the handshake and felt foolish for expecting, even for an instant, something more than flesh and blood.

“Please be comfortable.” He gestured to chairs. “I have your profile and report on my desk, Dr. Court.” He swung around it with the free, easy strides of a man on a golf course. “I read them this morning, and found them both disturbing and intuitive.” You agree:

“Yes, with the information from the investigators report, I would have drawn up a reflecting profile. The religious aspects are undeniable. Of course, religious allusions and delusions are common in schizophrenia.”

“Joan of Arc heard voices,” Ben murmured.

Logan smiled and folded his broad, capable hands. “As did any number of the saints and martyrs. Some might say fasting for forty days might have anyone hearing voices. Others might say they were chosen. In this case we can all agree we’re not dealing with a saint, but a very disturbed mind.”