He laughed as Patsy poured him a cup with a good splash of milk, and two sugars, then I handed it to him. “Hopefully, it’ll calm your nerves.”
The priest smiled up at me as he took the steaming cup and saucer from my hands.
“Thank you, Wes. Yer verra kind.”
I nodded and walked over to an upholstered chair next to the couch, while Patsy took one opposite me.
“I called a friend of mine from the LAPD, Father Gilmartin,” Patsy said. “He and his partner, Mike, are comin’ by to take a statement about the men who assaulted ya.”
“Aye, that’d be fine,” Father Gilmartin said, sipping his tea.
“Ya said ya didn’t know the men who attacked ya, but they had a message to pass on to one of ya congregation?” Patsy asked.
“Father Gilmartin was just telling me about it,” Napoleon said, looking over to meet Patsy’s eyes. He glanced back at the priest. “You said it was for Marigold Bishop, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.” The priest frowned as he thought about it. “They said they’d hurt her if she keeps talking about what happened and that I was to pass the message along to her mother the next time they showed up at the church.” He shrugged, pursing his lips. “And then one of them hit me.” He covered his belly again, probably remembering the punch in the gut.
I glanced over at Patsy who was frowning in my direction. He broke eye contact to look back at the priest. “Father, can ya tell me somethin’ about Marigold and her mother?”
The priest frowned deeply, looking up with terrified eyes. “That’s why this didnae make any sense.”
“What’s that, Father?” Napoleon asked.
“Marigold is a four-year-old wee girl. What could she possibly know about anything to do with the business of those two men?”
“So, those bastards—” I stopped, clearing my throat. “Sorry, Father. What I meant to say was, those two men basically threatened a four-year-old?”
Father Gilmartin nodded. The expression in his eyes was so sad, it made my heart squeeze. “I’ll never comprehend the forces of evil, but I recognize it when I see it. The power of darkness inside some men simply baffles me.” He made the sign of the cross in front of him.
“Did they say anythin’ else, Father?” Patsy asked. “Like why they wanted ya to deliver the message?”
The father looked directly at Patsy. “Well, the mother and child are homeless and I wouldn’t know how to deliver such a message even if I was inclined to. When I last saw them at mass, they were living in and out of various shelters and tent housing. I gave them extra blankets since it’s an unseasonably cold winter, but I remember thinking one as young as the wee lassie shouldn’t be out in the cold temperatures at night.”
I nodded, thoroughly understanding what most people who’d never lived on the street could. I tried not to feel angry as he continued.
“Though Marigold’s mother has tried to find a job, she’s been unlucky there.” He shook his head. “Aye, but she’s a good lass—Betty—but she hasn’t been successful because of having to care for young Marigold. She hasn’t found a job that would let her bring the bairn along and the wee girl is too young to be in school.” He sipped his tea. “None of this makes any sense. What could young Marigold know?”
Napoleon and Patsy exchanged a knowing glance, letting the moment pass silently between them. A minute later, the doorbell rang and the priest began to get up.
“I’ll go,” Patsy said, standing and walking out of the room. He was back a moment later with two men. One was tall with graying blond hair while the other was older with a middle-aged paunch. They both wore suits, which probably meant they were detectives, rather than run of the mill uniformed officers. They introduced themselves to Father Gilmartin, and smiled at Napoleon, shaking his hand like they knew him, which would make sense if he worked for the FBI like Patsy. When they turned to me, I swallowed hard and stepped forward.
“Hi there. I’m Weston…Weston Chaudry.” I stuck out my hand and both men took turns shaking it, and introducing themselves.
“Wes and I were walkin’ toward the church when he saw the father bein’ assaulted,” Patsy explained.
“You saw the people?” the blond one—Detective Cassidy Ryan—asked.
I nodded. “Yes, but not so well that I could make out anything other than vague features on their faces.”
“And how many were there?” Ryan asked.
“Two, both men, and not tall. One was shorter and stockier than the other.”
“Would you be able to tell me about how tall? The better the description, the easier it will be to identify them when we catch up to them.”
I thought about it for a few seconds, doing calculations in my head. “The shorter one was no more than five eight and three quarters, accounting for the heels in his loafers.” The green-eyed cop snorted, but I noted that his smile went all the way to his eyes.
“Five eight and three quarters in his loafers,” he said as his partner scribbled in a small notebook. “That’s incredibly accurate, Mr. Chaudry. How can you be so sure about that since you only got a cursory look at him?”
