The Thieves of Faith (10 page)

His philanthropic endeavors ran toward two areas: politics—with heavy contributions to politicians in South Boston, his place of birth—and children, the latter emphasizing foster care and adoption.

Busch drove up into the Beacon Hill area, home of Boston’s elite, the movers and shakers of the capital of New England. The town homes were refined and timeless, many standing as they had for hundreds of years.

“Jeannie’s going to be pissed when she finds out you’re playing detective, she’s going to think one thing will lead to another and you’ll be right back on the force.”

“I thought we were just looking for your parents.”

“We are. But you can’t tell me you’re not thinking of this as some legal puzzle to solve. You’re supposed to be retired.”

“Come on, you know me; it’s hard for this tiger to change his stripes. You know what I mean?”

And Michael did. Busch was a cop. Always was, always would be. The fact that he turned in his badge for a bar didn’t change who he was. Michael knew this better than anyone: Michael hadn’t done too well with his “retirement” either. Installing security just didn’t have the allure that compromising it had. “She’s still going to be pissed.”

“She’s not pissed. She told me to help. After hearing about Mary’s letter, the bit about your parents, she thought it was a good idea I went along,” Busch said. “You think this guy knows who your parents are?”

“That’s what I’m about to find out.”

Busch turned down a cobblestone street and drove past 22 Franklin. The building was a single-family, double-wide town house, its bricks freshly pointed, its decorative marble frieze as white as on the day it was carved. The topiary bushes that framed the five steps leading to the mahogany front door were perfectly symmetrical, as if trimmed with a pair of hand scissors. Gas lanterns hung on either side of the door, echoing the days of the building’s life before electricity. This was an address of distinction on a street of obvious exclusivity; a trophy of the privileged, of the well-to-do, coming about through hard work or inheritance—and, from the LexisNexis report that Michael had just read, he knew Stephen’s wealth came from the former.

“You want me to come with you?” Busch said as he turned the corner, pulling into a street-side parking space.

“No offense, but you’ve got this intimidating air about you.”

“What?” Busch was genuinely shocked.

“Hey, if I saw some six-foot-four guy come knocking at my door, I don’t know how readily I would answer his questions.”

“I am not intimidating,” Busch shot back.

Michael smiled as he looked at his bear of a friend sitting behind the wheel of his Corvette. His seat was back as far as it would go, as his giant hands gripped the wheel. “Hey, your warm personality shines through, it’s just the first impression that puts people off. But I don’t know if I’ll get a second chance with this guy.”

“Get the hell out of my car,” Busch said, shaking his head. He reclined his seat and closed his eyes.

It was a moment. Michael stared at his friend and then exited the car. But before he could close the door…

“Call me if you need me to intimidate anyone,” Busch grumbled.

Michael smiled as he walked around the corner and down the mansion-lined street. Busch was a good friend, his closest friend; Michael had no doubt that he would come charging to his aid as he had done in the past, but Michael highly doubted he would be having trouble with a fifty-eight-year-old attorney.

Michael walked up the five brick steps and stood on the landing before the large polished mahogany door. The knocker was a brass lion, the early morning sun glinting off its golden mane. Michael stood there a moment; he pulled out the business card and the report on the owner of 22 Franklin. He looked again at the address and took a moment to gather his thoughts about how he would approach this Stephen Kelley. Michael steeled his nerve and lifted the knocker. The resulting sound of it hitting the door echoed through what was surely an enormous house.

He waited a good thirty seconds and was lifting the knocker again when the door opened. Michael was taken aback. Not by the suddenness of the door opening, but by who stood before him.

She was around five six, and her dark hair was long, styled for business during the day and who knew what at night. She couldn’t have been more than thirty, dressed in a pin-striped jacket and matching skirt, custom tailored to a perfect fit. She appeared athletic, but at the same time carried a sexiness beneath her professional surface. But all these things aside, it was her eyes that made Michael’s voice catch in his throat. They were deep brown and large, affording a momentary glance at the soul within. And they were staring at him.

“May I help you?” the woman asked.

“Good morning,” Michael said, pulled back to the moment. “I’m looking for Stephen Kelley.”

“Do you have an appointment?” Her voice was firm and direct and it made Michael forget all about his recent review of her allure.

“No. My name is Michael—”

But then a man was there. He was about six feet. His salt-and-pepper hair—more salt than pepper—was slicked back and ready for business. His suit was charcoal gray, its creases crisp and perfect. He placed his left hand warmly on the woman’s shoulder. “Who are you?” The man’s voice was deep and demanding.

“My name is Michael St. Pierre,” Michael responded, a bit put off by the rude greeting of this pin-striped couple.

The man looked at Michael a moment, silently studying his face.

“And…?” the woman prodded.

“And…” Michael was pissed now and he was glad because it shook him out of his distracted state. He hated being treated as if he were second class. And as he considered the woman’s question he wondered if he was a on a fool’s journey, Busch’s words echoing in his mind:
“What are you really looking for, Michael?”
“My wife gave me your address.” Michael was as direct and firm as the couple before him.

Kelley looked at the business card in Michael’s hand. “May I?”

Michael passed him the card. Kelley held it up at eye level, turning it back and forth, examining it as if it contained the answer to some unasked question. He looked back at Michael, shook his head, and passed it back. “This is my personal card. I rarely give these out. Who gave you this?”

“It was found in a purse. But it happened to match this address”—Michael pointed at the front door—“that my wife gave me. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. That’s what I am trying to find out.”

Kelley looked at the woman. “Susan?”

She shook her head as her eyes bore into Michael. “Are you a cop?”

Michael shook his head no.

“I haven’t given your card to anyone recently,” Susan continued.

“Well, then, there you are. Ms. Newman and I are late,” Kelley said in a dismissive tone. He placed his right hand on the door, ready to close it in conclusion of Michael’s visit.

Michael looked back and forth at the two of them, surprised at their coldness, suddenly reminded why he hated lawyers. Even though there appeared to be a thirty-year age difference, they were obviously made for each other because they couldn’t be made for anyone else.

“I was told you might be able to help me find my parents, but I can see this was a mistake.” Michael’s voice was thick with sarcasm as he turned and headed down the steps.

Susan headed back in the house, leaving Kelley standing on the doorstep watching Michael walk away. It was a moment before he called out. “Michael…? Wait.”

Michael sat in a gentlemen’s den, a library. The room was warm and masculine. Dark mahogany walls, overflowing bookshelves, an imposing desk backed up to a large bay window ringed in maroon curtains. A painting of a majestic lion on the plains of Africa sat above an enormous fireplace that was filled with flowers and branches for the off season.

“I’m sorry,” Kelley said as he indicated to Michael to sit in a large leather wing chair.

Michael stared at the man as he sat down, still angry at his rude dismissal.

Kelley removed his suit jacket and hung it over the back of a large teak rocking chair. The man was taller than Michael’s first impression had suggested. He stood a little over six feet and appeared extremely fit, filling out his starched oxford shirt. His suspenders matched his pale blue tie; his salt-and-pepper hair was expertly cut. Everything about the man was exact. His hair, his demeanor, his choice of words. The man was polished in every sense. He struck a commanding presence as he looked directly at Michael. Michael had been in the company of the toughest of the tough, whether it was in prison, police interrogation rooms, or the streets around the undesirables he ran into years earlier when he was immersed in his profession. But at no time did Michael ever come up against so strong a personality; it was the first time that he had ever actually felt intimidated. But he quickly shook it off.

“Can I offer you something to drink, coffee, breakfast, perhaps?” Kelley asked.

“No, thank you.”

Kelley sat on the couch, crossed his leg and rested his arm along the back. “You caught me at a bad moment.”

“Is that how you always greet people?”

The air was thick, they both seemed to be struggling with what to say. “Depends on the day.” Kelley looked over Michael’s shoulder and his eyes began to lose focus, seemingly lost in his own home.

“Are you OK?” Michael asked. He watched the man’s face. The anger he saw earlier had dissipated, replaced by a sadness.

“I’m sorry to hear of Mary’s passing,” Kelley finally said, coming back to the moment.

Michael was taken aback, completely floored at the acknowledgment of his wife’s death, lost for words, not knowing how to respond.

Kelley abruptly stood and headed for the door.

“Did you…” Michael sputtered, confused. “Did you know her?”

Kelley stopped and turned back. He looked at Michael, slowly stepping back in the room. He gazed upon him with a sad smile before retaking his seat. “I’m not sure how she found me. She was a resourceful woman—but yes. She was sick when I met her, she said you were traveling on business at the time. She was trying to locate your parents.”

“When was that?”

“Around a year ago. She spoke of you with much love.”

Michael looked away.

“I’m sorry for your loss. I understand it all too well, the emptiness, the all-consuming despair,” Kelley said with a genuine sense of grief.

Michael nodded. “Thank you. She came to you, she thought you might be able to help her, she thought you might be able to help me.”

“I know. I expected to see you a year ago. I thought it inappropriate to discuss your parents with her without you present.”

“You know who my parents are?” Michael couldn’t hide his surprise.

“Your mother.” Kelley paused in respect. “She passed when you were born, Michael, complications from childbirth.”

Michael didn’t know how to react. It was like hearing of the death of a stranger, someone he never met but was, in fact, the first person to look upon him, to hold him. He didn’t even know what she looked like.

“Your father.” Stephen paused again. “Was but a teenager, incapable of even caring for himself.”

“Of course.” Michael looked down.

“Why are you looking for him now, after all these years?”

“It was my wife’s wish. She thought with her passing that I would need to reconnect, that I needed to find family.”

“It’s not your wish?” Kelley asked.

Michael looked up at the man, studying him. “My father, is he alive?”

Kelley took a deep breath, avoiding the question. “What do you do for a living?”

“I have my own security company,” Michael said with little patience.

Kelley nodded. “Good for you. Not easy owning your own business. Never know who you can trust…besides yourself that is. You must have a background in police work.”

Michael stared at Kelley, his words seeming like a challenge. “Sort of.”

“Do you like it?”

“Some days,” Michael said, growing annoyed.

“Yeah,” Kelley said. “I know what you mean. Some days…sometimes we have to do things we don’t much enjoy. Sometimes to do the right thing, we have to do some distasteful things. Moral compromise, if you know what I mean.”

The two men stared at each other, both understanding, both avoiding the moment. Michael broke away first. He looked about the room, at the pictures, at the life of this man. His mind raced; he knew moral compromise all too well, on too many an occasion. And he suspected that Kelley did also. “Can I ask you a question?”

Kelley nodded.

“Why did you give me up?”

The room grew uncomfortably small, time slowed, each hearing their heartbeat as the inevitable acknowledgment of their connection was recognized.

“That’s a question that has haunted me for…for my entire life. Half of me expected you a year ago, the other half…to never show at all.”

“How could you possibly know I would find you?”

“Your wife seemed pretty determined.”

“Did she know?”

“That I was your father? No, as I said, I thought it best at the time. I’m sure it was an emotional period, you didn’t need any more confusion in your world.” Kelley paused. “I’m glad that I got to meet her, though.”

Michael looked at the man with new eyes. The two men studied each other, lost for words at their uncomfortable reunion.

“You look like a Kelley,” Stephen said with no sense of emotion.

Michael didn’t know what to make of the statement. He studied the man before him: his blue eyes, his strong face, his athletic build. He had never thought on the appearance of his real father but was not surprised at what he found. But no matter what Kelley said, Michael was a St. Pierre, always had been, always would be.

“Do you have any children?” Michael asked.

“One son,” Stephen said, as his eyes drifted to the shelves behind Michael. “Besides you.”

Michael followed the man’s line of sight to a host of photos depicting what was obviously Kelley’s son throughout his life. He had the same blue eyes as Kelley; the same blue eyes as Michael. And Michael realized…he had a brother.