The People vs. Alex Cross (Alex Cross 25)

I went to the door and opened it, saying, “Welcome, Mr. Fio—”

The stocky man who stood before me was five ten, maybe two hundred pounds, with curly dark hair, brown eyes, olive skin, and a baby face. I couldn’t have guessed his age. But by his clothes, I certainly knew his calling.

“I’m sorry, Father Fiore,” I said. “Please, come in.”

CHAPTER

7

THE CATHOLIC PRIEST looked chagrined as he came into my office. “I should have told you on the phone, Dr. Cross. I just didn’t know what you’d think.”

“I’d think I’d be glad to meet you,” I said, shutting the door behind him. “And how can I help?”

Father Fiore smiled, but it was strained.

“Please, Father,” I said, gesturing toward an overstuffed chair in my office.

“This is odd,” the priest said, sitting down and looking around.

“How so?”

“I’m usually the one hearing confessions.”

I smiled and took my chair. “If you don’t mind my asking, doesn’t the church provide counselors?”

“It does.” Father Fiore sighed. “But I’m afraid this is a delicate subject, Dr. Cross, one they frankly might not understand even in the enlightened age of His Eminence Pope Francis.”

“Fair enough,” I said, picking up a yellow legal pad. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Fiore told me he got the calling to the priesthood when he was fourteen. He was ordained at twenty-two and worked in some of Chicago’s poorest neighborhoods. He made such an impression there that the church transferred him to Washington, DC, where he split his time between the parish of St. Anthony of Padua and the cardinal’s office, working to fund programs for the poor.

“My grandmother’s foundation makes grants to similar programs,” I said.

Fiore’s smile was genuine. “How do you think I got your name?”

I had to laugh. Leave it to Nana Mama to get me a priest for a client.

“She’s quite a lady, your grandmother,” Fiore said. “Won’t take no for an answer, and yet extraordinarily generous in spirit.”

“That describes her to a tee. But let’s get back to why you’re here.”

The priest’s face fell a bit as he continued his story. He explained that earlier in the year, he’d attended a fund-raiser with the cardinal at a hotel in Georgetown. He’d found a young woman named Penny Maxwell alone and weeping in a back hallway. He stopped to console her.

Mrs. Maxwell was a widow. It was the second anniversary of her husband’s death in Afghanistan, and try as she might, she couldn’t keep her emotions bottled up.

“She was suffering, grieving,” Fiore said. “So I did what a priest does. I listened and talked and prayed with her.”

After the party, he walked with her along the Georgetown Canal and spent three hours listening to her describe the challenges of her life as the widow of a gifted army surgeon and the mother of two wonderful boys.

Fiore was amazed and inspired by how courageous Penny was, by how determined she was to raise her sons right, and by how much she wanted to honor her late husband’s memory in their lives. To his surprise, Fiore learned Penny went to St. Anthony’s for services from time to time.

“Penny started bringing the boys to Mass, and I got to know them,” he said. “We did things together, hikes, a trip to the beach, and it was like I experienced a dimension of life that I’d thought I understood, but didn’t.”

“And what dimension was that?” I asked.

“Love,” Fiore said, sitting forward, hanging his head, and rubbing his hands. “I didn’t just fall for her, Dr. Cross. Penny became my best friend, and I became hers. And those boys are just … every time I leave them, Dr. Cross, I feel as if my heart has a new hole in it.”

“Does Penny know how you feel?” I asked.