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just got. A Brother Sebastian from the Omaha Archdiocese's office wants to know the condition of Monsignor William O'Sullivan's body."
    "You've gotta be kidding. How the hell did he already find out? We just ID'd the padre less than an hour ago."
    "Said he received an anonymous phone call."
    "Really?"
    Pakula could hear Detective Kim Carmichael crunching, a nervous habit that added to her waistline. Then the rest of them would pay, having to listen to her complain in a burst of choppy Korean expletives. But he'd trade Kasab for her, too.
    "Here's the thing, Pakula, actually two items I think you'll find interesting. Brother Sebastian seemed awfully concerned about the monsignor's personal effects, particularly one leather portfolio. Second, he wanted us to know that Archbishop Armstrong would help us, so it certainly wouldn't be necessary to bring in the FBI."
    "The FBI?" Pakula laughed. "Okay, Carmichael. Very funny. But it's been a long day, and I'm really not in the mood for __ "
    "I'm not kidding, Tommy. That's what he said. I even wrote it down."
    "Why the hell would we call in the FBI for a local homicide?"
    "He tried to sound nonchalant about it when he said it," Carmichael replied, "but I could hear something, you know. He was nervous and careful with his words, and yet, trying to be all like it's no big deal."
    Pakula stopped, leaned against the wall, keeping out of earshot of the coffee and doughnut counter. He couldn't remember seeing a leather portfolio. From the beginning he thought this was a random hit, maybe a robbery gone badly despite the padre's wallet left behind filled with euros. Euros were worthless to a local petty thief. But what if the killer hadn't been looking for quick cash? What if he knew exactly who he had followed into the men's bathroom? Was it possible someone intended to kill the good monsignor? That made it a whole different case.
    "Hey, Pakula, you fall asleep on me?"
    "Do me a favor, Carmichael. Give Bob Weston a call and fill him in on the details." '
    "You sure you wanna do that?"
    "The archbishop says he doesn't want us to bring in the FBI. Yeah, maybe I might check with the FBI to see why that is."

CHAPTER 7
    Newburgh Heights
(Just outside of Washington, D.C.)
    M aggie had just gotten home when her cell phone began to ring. She and Harvey were in the middle of their "welcome home" routine even though she had seen him several hours ago. Ever since she had rescued the beautiful white Lab, he treated each of her arrivals as if it was a pleasant surprise, those sad brown eyes so grateful she hadn't abandoned him like his previous owner. Rather than cut short his slobberfest, she sat down in the foyer and pulled out her phone.
    "Maggie O'Dell," she answered, trying to convince Harvey to keep his licks confined to her other hand. Now on the floor with her face within his reach, Harvey decided it, too, was fair game.
    "O'Dell, it's Racine. Did I catch you at a bad time?"
    Maggie wondered if Racine could hear the sloppy kisses and was referring to the sound or the time of night.
    "I just got home. What's up?"
    "I know it's late. You sure this isn't a bad time?"
    Maggie smiled. No doubt Racine could hear the wet licks. She patted Harvey's head rather than push him away. Maybe it was time there were some scandalous rumors about her nonexistent sex life.
    "No, this is fine. Go ahead."
    "The cell phone turned out to be a dead end."
    "Stolen?" Maggie guessed, continuing to rub Harvey behind the ears.
    "Yup. Reagan National. Last week. At least that's the last time the owner says he saw it. He seems to be on the level. Reported it missing to Sprint. It hadn't been used until this morning."
    "Any way to track where it was when the call was made?"
    "Only that it was in the D.C. area. It's probably been tossed in some Dumpster by now."
    Maggie wasn't sure why Racine was calling her after midnight to tell her what they both already suspected. She couldn't be expecting a profile before the autopsy.