Authors: Lisa Jackson
Devious (19 page)
Shoulders and abdomen, rigid and strong.
Hips and thighs, muscular and glistening in the candlelight. Buttocks round, flexed.
I see my reflection in the narrow mirror.
Tall.
Handsome.
Nearly perfect.
But there are flaws.
One in my shoulder where a bullet had lodged, buried in the tissue until I had the strength to extract it. There is still a depression, a dimple marring the skin, but it is small, barely visible now. No real damage had been done.
The other imperfection was more severe.
My right leg.
Beneath the kneecap, where calf muscles should bulge, there is a tangle of flesh and scarred skin. I smooth oil over the battered flesh, reminding myself that this is my battle scar, a war wound for a greater cause.
The reason I suspended my mission.
I spent years rehabilitating my leg, determined that I would walk flawlessly, run smoothly, hide my imperfectness from the world.
Until the time is right.
I run my fingers along the jagged scar, kneading the tortured flesh below my knee, oiling the old wound.
I have waited.
Been patient.
But now I know I am being rewarded.
God is calling.
The waiting is over.
I kneel, facing the mirror.
Taking a deep breath, I think of the women.
All of the women with their flirty smiles, come-hither glances, glistening lips, and dirty talk. Seductresses and whores, sirens and harlots, all thinking they would be the one special enough that I would break my vows....
If only they knew.
Would they tingle with excitement?
Pursue their need to baptize themselves in murky waters?
Of course they would.
Smiling in the darkness, remembering their sins, carnal and warm, flesh pulsing, the scent of want mingling with perfume and sweat simmering in the air.
I feel a tightening in my groin.
Warmth slips into my blood.
My maleness rises, beginning to throb.
I think of all those glorious rounded mouths, surprise and desire flickering in their long-dead eyes.
And then I pray.
F
ather Frank was conveniently MIA.
ather Frank was conveniently MIA.
And Bentz was burned. Montoya saw it in the set of his jaw as the older detective stared through the gate at Sister Charity.
Then again, the reverend mother, who had answered the buzzer herself, wasn’t pleased. Not at all.
“Father Frank is at the hospital,” she said, her lips tight, her eyes, magnified by her glasses, filled with quiet scorn as she stared through the wrought-iron bars. “You should have made an appointment.”
“I did,” Bentz insisted.
Her gray eyebrows knitted. “He was called away to the hospital.” She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her habit, as if waiting for them to leave.
Bentz stood his ground.
“Since we’re here, we might as well talk with the other people on our list.”
“But it’s late, at least for us here at the convent, and you can’t speak to Father O’Toole. So why don’t you come back tomorrow, at a time that’s more convenient?”
“Now is better,” Montoya had persisted. “When things are still fresh in people’s minds.”
Bentz agreed. “Besides, maybe Father O’Toole will show up.”
She seemed ready to argue, until Bentz started reeling off the names of staff they needed to interview.
“Fine,” she finally agreed. With a scowl, Sister Charity unlocked the gate before walking off stiffly to locate the people who needed to be questioned again.
Montoya had decided to talk directly with Sister Lucia, despite their connection. He wanted to see for himself her reactions when questioned about one of her friends. Now they were seated opposite each other, in the same room in which he’d interviewed Frank O’Toole less than twenty-four hours earlier. Same dim wall sconce and scarred table, same disturbing feeling that the truth was hiding in the corners just out of touch and skittering away from the light.
“You don’t remember what it was that woke you?” Montoya asked, checking his notes.
Sister Lucia shook her head as she nervously braided her fingers together. She was pale and looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but in this small room talking to the police.
The door to the outer hallway was ajar, a bit of cool air from the darkened corridor seeping inside. Montoya wanted to close the door, suspecting that the reverend mother was still prowling nearby, and her presence had an icy effect on the rest of the nuns.
On the other side of the chapel, Bentz was in a similar room, questioning people who resided in the convent—nuns and lay staff—whose statements needed clarification.
“No,” she said now, “I don’t remember a specific sound waking me. It was just a feeling I had.” She bit her lip anxiously, and he could see that she was a really bad liar. “Maybe I, er, heard a noise in my sleep, a dream or something, but nothing I can really name.”
“A scream?” he prodded.
She shook her head violently. “No.” She blushed and looked away.
“A cry for help?”
“No!”
“Footsteps?”
She met his eyes, her gaze miserable in her grief. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
They were getting nowhere. He tried a new direction. “Okay, then. Let’s talk about Father O’Toole. You found him in the courtyard that night?”
“Yes. Or he found me. I was knocking on Father Paul’s door, and Father O’Toole stepped into the light. He startled me,” she said, explaining again how she had suddenly found the younger priest behind her.
“You were Sister Camille’s closest friend,” Montoya suggested.
“Maybe.” She lifted a shoulder. “At least one of them. We’re all friends here.”
He doubted that. “You were the one she confided in about her pregnancy, the only one.”
Lucia’s eyes slid away. “Yes,” she said faintly, obviously uncomfortable. “Well, you know, we went to school together, though we never hung out much then.”
“Did she tell you the baby was Father Frank O’Toole’s?”
Lines formed across her smooth forehead. “She never mentioned him specifically.”
Montoya took note.
“But she did say that she and the baby’s father were, uh, ‘involved’—that’s the word she used. Which was pretty obvious since she was pregnant,” Lucia said.
“But she didn’t mention Father O’Toole?”
“No.” Lucia swallowed hard. “Not in so many words, but I, um, saw them together a couple of times. You know . . . embracing . . . kissing. When they thought no one was looking.”
She avoided his eyes, embarrassed.
“And others saw them?”
“I suppose.” She lifted a shoulder, her body stiff. As if she wanted to jump out of her own skin. “They tried to be discreet, but, you know, there’s always someone around.”
“How did Sister Camille feel about her pregnancy?” Montoya asked.
“She was . . . scared, I guess. She said she didn’t know what she’d do but that she’d probably have to leave the convent.”
“But she was intent on having the baby?”
“What? Oh!” Her eyes grew round when she understood that he was asking about the possibility of Camille terminating the pregnancy. “Oh, she was absolutely going to have the baby and raise it. She wouldn’t do anything to stop it. I mean, no, oh, no way.” Lucia was shaking her head violently. Passionately. Now she wasn’t hedging. “Sister Camille was adopted herself, and she was all about finding her birth parents. She didn’t believe they were dead, I guess. Because of this baby and . . . Oh, no, she would never do anything to hurt it. She wanted to raise the child.” Lucia’s little chin lifted defiantly, as if she felt she needed to save her friend’s reputation.
“Did she pressure Father O’Toole?”
“I . . . I don’t know. She talked to him, but she didn’t really say anything other than that she told him she was going to have a baby. If you’re talking about asking him to leave the priesthood and marry her, I don’t know about anything like that.”
“How did he take the news of her pregnancy?” Montoya asked.
“She said he was upset.”
“How upset?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. You . . . you should probably ask him.”
“We will.”
“Look, he didn’t kill her,” she insisted. “He swore to me that he didn’t!”
“You asked him?”
“No, of course not. He just told me later.” She explained her conversation with the priest, but as she did, she seemed to shrink away, as if she knew she shouldn’t have blurted out anything, that somehow she was betraying both Camille and Father Frank.
Montoya realized he’d made a mistake by questioning her himself. Sister Lucia was intimidated. Nervous. Maybe because he was a man, probably because he looked so much like Cruz. There was a chance Lucia might have opened up more to a female officer.
He asked about a BlackBerry or cell phone.
“I don’t know about anything like that, but she did have a diary, I think, or maybe it was just a notebook,” Lucia admitted reluctantly.
A diary. Could be revealing . . . though Bentz hadn’t come across it when he searched Camille’s room.
Montoya asked Sister Lucia what she knew about the diary, but she had never read it; she knew only that it existed.
Another dead end
, Montoya thought, ending the interview with more questions than he had answers. “Thank you,” he finally said.
, Montoya thought, ending the interview with more questions than he had answers. “Thank you,” he finally said.
Lucia’s shoulders seemed to sink in relief; she was obviously glad that the interview was over.
Outside the small room, they found Sister Charity pacing the hallway, her fingers running over the beads of her rosary, her lips and jaw tight.
“Are you finished?” she demanded. The penetrating eyes magnified by her glasses were trained on Montoya.
“Not yet.”
She shook her head, the hem of her wimple brushing the back of her habit. “This is the Lord God’s house,” she said softly, “not an interrogation chamber. I realize you are doing your job, but we really cannot stand for these disruptions.” For a moment her spine of iron seemed to melt a bit, her eyes pleading with him. “Of course, we want you to locate Sister Camille’s killer. He needs to be brought to justice. But at what price? All my sisters are on edge. Suspicion slithers down our hallways. Gossip, speculation, and fear have replaced hope, love, and faith.” She let out a long, world-weary sigh. “I trust in Our Almighty Father, as well as the Son and Holy Spirit, to carry us through this crisis. But as you do your job, please grant the house of God the respect it is due.”
“We’re just trying to conduct an investigation.”
“I realize that, Detective, but at what cost?” The lines in her face seemed more severe today, her usually fierce spirit defeated.
Montoya felt a twinge of compassion for the sister, but he stood his ground. He couldn’t back down . . . not even for Jesus Christ himself. “These things take time, Sister. I know you want us to do a thorough job.”
“Thorough?” Her lips pulled into a knot of annoyance. “Come with me,” she said, and with clipped, determined steps, her skirts billowing, she led him to the chapel and swung open the door. “Is this what you call thorough?” She lifted one disbelieving eyebrow and then grandly gestured to the interior of the little nave.
Fingerprint dust covered most of the surfaces, coating the wood of the pews and the upholstery of the kneelers. Hymnals and prayer books were scattered. The entire place was in disarray.
“We have to spend our time with the investigation.”
“Again, Detective, this is God’s house. No matter what atrocity was committed here, this place is holy. Sacred. Remember that.”
With a look of disgust, she left, walking swiftly away before he could ask any more questions.
He decided to let her cool off a bit and went to find Bentz, whom, he was told, had gone to reinspect Sister Camille’s quarters. Sister Devota escorted him to the dormitory area of the convent, down a narrow, windowless corridor dimly lit by wall sconces that looked like they may have been stolen from a dungeon. Was the eerie atmosphere caused by the musty smell and shadows or the fact that a woman had lost her life at the hands of a still-unidentified assailant?
Sister Devota pointed him to Camille’s room, where he found Father Paul and Sister Edwina, the tall nun with Scandinavian features, standing guard in the hallway, keeping watch over Bentz.
Inside the cell-like room, darkness battled the meager light of a small lamp. All the charm of a tomb. The bedding had been stripped to be analyzed by the crime lab.
His partner moved the cot aside to check the floor underneath. “Thought I’d take another look,” Bentz told him as he flashed his cell phone on the floor for light. Even with the single lamp lit, the room was dark as a tomb.
“You didn’t happen to find a diary, did you?” Montoya asked, leaning close to Bentz so the others couldn’t hear.
“Oh, that’s how it works. We find a diary and it spells out who the perp is. Happens all the time,” he said sarcastically as he glanced up at the bare, cracked ceiling. “Haven’t come across that yet.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” Montoya straightened as his eyes moved over the blossoming clouds of fingerprint powder on the flat walls. His gut told him they weren’t going to find anything here. Nothing. Nada.
He stepped around the small, bony cot. Surely this tiny bed wasn’t where Camille and Frank O’Toole had made love? It seemed unlikely, but anything was possible. When passion ruled, all bets were off. Common sense had a tendency to fly straight out the window.
But as he studied the mattress, he noticed something. One of the buttons pinching the stuffing beneath it together was missing. No big deal. Hardly noticeable. Yet, he found an evidence glove and yanked it on, then felt near the tiny hole where the button’s threads had raveled.
The tip of his finger encountered a bump, the tiniest of imperfections in the ticking. “What’s this?” he said, and saw that the mattress had been mended with tiny little stitches. Carefully, so as to disturb as little as possible, he withdrew his Pomeroy 5000, a utility knife with several blades, and sliced through the hand-sewn seam.
He felt inside the slit, and his fingertip touched the edge of something made of paper. Carefully he retrieved a long, slim envelope, wrinkled slightly from being wedged beneath the sheath covering the mattress.
No address on the outside, but the envelope had been sealed, a red-brown stain over the flap where it was glued down.
“Blood?” Bentz asked.
“Looks like.”
Bentz said, “Could be a print.”
“Got it.” Montoya wasn’t messing with the seal. Saliva, the blood, or fingerprints could be on the envelope. Using the thinnest blade of his utility knife, he sliced one thin end of the envelope and flexed it open to retrieve a single sheet of paper, a letter, written only to “My Beloved” and signed by “C.”
The paragraphs between the greeting and single-letter signature were written in a cramped, seemingly hurried hand, and they described in graphic detail what the writer, a woman, wanted from her lover. Rather than flowery and sickeningly romantic, this letter was a demand for sexual favors, specific in their intent, all indicating bondage was involved.
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