Part 15 (2/2)
”Teresa,” Father Spinelli said, giving her a warm, priestly hug. ”I hope all is well with you and Joe.”
The room was small, and the walnut-paneled walls, the heavy furniture, and the dim lighting made it feel even smaller-but intimate, not confining. Teresa took her usual seat on the well-worn leather chair on the other side of his desk.
”Joe and I are doing fine. And how are things here at St. Agnes?” She clutched her purse, ready to take out her checkbook.
”Everything is going remarkably well,” he said, pouring her a cup of tea. ”The plumbing, the heating, the electrical-all working, all up to code. It confirms my belief in miracles.”
She put her purse on the floor. ”Then why did you...why did you ask me to stop by?”
”Have I been that transparent? Only inviting you for tea when we are in need of a benefactor? Forgive me.”
”Father, you never have to apologize for reaching out to my family on behalf of the church. How can we help?”
He poured half a cup of tea for himself. ”Teresa, I didn't invite you here to ask for your help. It's my turn to help you.”
She was confused. ”With what?”
”I have something I need to give you. Something precious, something personal.” He paused and took a sip of tea. ”I know it will open up old wounds, but you're a strong woman, Teresa. I've seen it time and again, and I know your faith will see you through.”
”See me through what?”
He opened his desk drawer and took out a brown manila envelope.
”This belonged to your late son, Enzo, G.o.d rest his soul,” he said, pa.s.sing the envelope across the desk.
Her hand trembled, and her heart raced as she took the envelope.
”Go ahead,” he said softly. ”Open it.”
She tore the top off the envelope and removed the contents.
”It's Enzo's diary,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. She ran her fingers gently over the dark red Moroccan leather journal bordered in gold filigree. ”I gave it to him when he was thirteen. He carried it all the time. Where did you get this?”
”One of our paris.h.i.+oners brought it to me. She was cleaning house and found it among her son's things. I knew as painful as it might be for you to have this, it must be G.o.d's will that it turned up after all these years, and I hope you will find some comfort in having this little piece of your son returned to you.”
What paris.h.i.+oner? Where did she find it? Teresa had a million questions. But she was well schooled in the family business. She knew not to ask a single one of them.
Run home. Talk to Joe. He'll know how to handle this.
Chapter 38.
The dim sum at the New Wonton Garden may not have been the best I'd ever eaten, but it was several notches up from the old man's description of ”not so bad.” Of course, I'd never been to Guangdong Province, so when it comes to Chinese cuisine, my Go buddy and I have two completely different sets of standards.
”There's one left,” I said to Kylie, who had spent most of the meal sitting across from me, watching me eat.
”You finish it,” she said. ”I'm pretty full.”
”Yeah. Three pot stickers can fill a girl right up,” I said, and bit into the last shrimp dumpling.
”I'm not that hungry,” she said, rubbing her thumb across the face of her iPhone.
”Do you want to call him?” I said.
”Who?”
”Kylie, I'm not trying to b.u.t.t into your life, but yesterday Spence wound up in the ER because he was getting high on pills, and this morning you left before you saw him, so when I say 'Do you want to call him?' I'm talking about your husband, who you seem to be very concerned about. So, I repeat-do you want to call him?”
”No. My focus is on this case.”
It was not a conversation I wanted to go any further, and as good fortune had it, the front door of the restaurant opened and the old man entered.
Kylie grinned. ”You were right. He's here.”
He walked to our table and sat down. ”You crooked cop,” he said.
”How do you know I'm a cop?” I asked.
The old man laughed. ”How you know I am Chinese? You look at my eyes. I look in your eyes, and I know you a cop. A crooked cop. You cheat. Let me win.”
With that he put my hundred-dollar bill on the table. Then he took his hundred and put it next to mine.
”I am happy to save face. But I can't take money I don't earn.” He pushed the two bills toward me.
I stared at them for a few seconds, then slid them back across the table. ”Then maybe you can earn it. Did you see Alex Kang the day he disappeared?”
The old man didn't hesitate for a second. He had done all his deliberating before he walked through the door. He knew what this was about, and he'd showed up to finish playing the game.
”Kang no good,” he said. ”He come out of clubhouse, two men in car waiting. One get out of car, talk to Kang. Kang get in car. Last time anyone in Chinatown see him alive.”
A witness. We had scored a witness. I stole a look at Kylie. She was stone-faced. She knew better than to utter a word. The old man would not be comfortable talking to a woman.
”Can you describe the men?” I asked.
”I only see one. White...big like you. Too far away to see his face.”
”How about the car?”
”It was truck-car.”
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