Alex Kava - A Necessary Evil

Once again, many thanks to all the professionals who generously gave of their time and expertise. If Ive gotten any of the facts wrong or have creatively manipulated a fact or two, its 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 obsessionser, I mean computer skills.

Mary Means for taking such good care of my kids while Im 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.

Friday, July 2
Eppley Airport
Omaha, Nebraska

M onsignor William OSullivan was certain no one had recognized him. So why was his forehead damp? He hadnt 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 wasnt 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 Sophias 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.

Hed avoid the shortest route, not wanting to pass the exotic black woman handing out reading materialas she called itto 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 everyoneincluding those who huffed their responses and rushed byshe greeted them with yet another melodic, polite stanza, You have a most pleasant day.

Monsignor OSullivan 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 Gods 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 poloa gift from his sisterwas 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 OSullivan dared to look again, the young man was gone. Passengers rushed by without a glance. Even the black woman greeting and passing out her reading 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 familys estate changed to her name only. I wont let those bastards take our home.

He wished he were there now. It was nothing extravaganta 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.