Ghost Image (7 page)

Officer Carroll tapped her pen on her notebook. The cap looked chewed on, as if she used it when she was thinking things through. “What research would that be?”

“Although Kevin's mostly known as an environmental conservationist, he has a PhD in botany. He was working on a botanical history of gardening and agriculture in colonial America.”

She frowned. “Go on.”

“He said he believed he'd made some kind of historical discovery and if he was right it could be worth a lot of money. Quite a lot of money.”

“Botany.” She shrugged. “That's plants. Any chance he could have been referring to something to do with drugs? Those kind of plants?”

Drugs.
The word dropped into the silence of this holy place and spread like a dark stain. My God, was she right? Not medicinal drugs but narcotics, derived from plants. Heroin, cocaine, hash, marijuana—what else was on that list? Had Kevin somehow gotten mixed up in something drug related?

I shivered as though a blast of cold air had just passed through the room, a specter moving from this life to the next. “I don't know . . . I mean, no. No way. Kevin . . . he was a good man, Officer Carroll. He would never knowingly get involved in anything illegal.”

She gave me a searching look. “You got any idea how many times I hear that? ‘I didn't mean it.' ‘It wasn't my fault, it just happened.' Usually right before they ask to cut a deal.”

“Not Kevin.” I was adamant, my hands clasped tightly together so she would not realize how badly they were shaking. “I would bet my life on it.”

“I hear that, too.” Her smile was grim. “Anybody else come to mind who didn't get along with him? Maybe someone who had a grudge against him?”

I knew this wasn't going to sound good, but I told her anyway. “Last night at a party I overheard him arguing with Edward Jaine, or rather they were arguing with each other.”

She looked up. “The Edward Jaine? The rich guy?”

“That's right.”

“What was it about?”

“I don't know. They were in a corridor by themselves and they kept their voices down.”

“But you're sure it was an argument and you're sure it was Edward Jaine and Brother Kevin Boyle?” When I nodded, she said, “All right, we'll check it out. As well as whether anyone else at the monastery knew about Brother Kevin being followed.”

If Paul Zarin, whom I'd just met, was the Paul who'd been there the other night when Kevin heard footsteps in the cloisters, he'd shoot that theory down right away. So would the knight who'd been in the catacombs with him. I didn't want Officer Carroll thinking Kevin was some loony tune who heard voices, or that he was paranoid.

So I nodded and didn't say anything as she flipped back through her notes. “You're sure you didn't see anyone else in the garden when you got there?”

“Positive.”

She shook her head in disgust. “Well, now that the grounds around that little cave have been contaminated thanks to everyone and his cousin trampling the place, it's going to royally screw up any chance of figuring out what the hell happened. Whose bright idea was that?”

I gave her a rueful look. “The Franciscan who was with Father Xavier and me when you first arrived. Paul Zarin. I told him that it might be a crime scene and that Kevin shouldn't be moved.” I shrugged. “For all the good it did.”

“It's not going to make the medical examiner's day, either.”

“There'll be an autopsy?”

“For an unattended death with no obvious underlying conditions there's always an autopsy,” she said. “Speaking of which, I didn't ask you whether Brother Kevin seemed unwell when you saw him this morning.”

“He seemed fine,” I said. “Are you saying he might have died of natural causes?”

“Until we have the results of the autopsy, we don't rule out anything. But if the ME finds injuries consistent with a fall and there are no witnesses, plus no obvious motive for his death—” She shrugged. “Then it may just well be an accident. It does happen, you know.”

“You mean you won't try to find out if he might have been murdered?”

She gave me a withering look. “Right before I came here I was with a mother whose twelve-year-old got shot walking home from school. He's at Children's Hospital about fifteen minutes from here, in critical condition. Probably not gonna make it. I promised that woman I'd catch the asshole who shot her son whose straight-A report card is now covered in his blood. I make a lot of promises to a lot of people, and I do my best to keep them.” She pointed to a small crucifix that hung on the wall. “But I'm not God.”

“I'm so sorry about that little boy.”

She said with feeling, “Me, too. We do the best we can, Ms. Medina.” She stood up. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta talk to a few priests about the death of one of their own. You're free to go.”

• • •

By the time I left the church, it was just after six o'clock. The temperature had dropped and the overcast moonless sky made it seem later. The lights in the arched Gothic church windows and
along the colonnade of the Rosary Portico glowed like lanterns, gilding the gardens so the place looked like an enchanted fairyland. Except for the two MPD cruisers parked at oblique angles in front of the statue of St. Christopher carrying the Christ Child, the Franciscan Monastery seemed serene and peaceful. Ursula Gilberti's Mercedes was gone, and presumably Yasmin had left, too.

After everything that had happened today, I hoped Ursula still didn't expect an answer to whether I would photograph Yasmin and Victor's wedding for free.

Someone called my name. Standing in one of the arches of the portico was a Franciscan, hood pulled low over his face, a dark silhouette backlit by the soft yellow light. I caught a flash of snow-white hair as he pushed back his hood.

Father Xavier. I walked across the lawn to where he stood.

“Officer Carroll said she just finished interviewing you,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were all right after what you've been through. Kevin spoke warmly of you, my dear. He was very fond of you.”

“Thank you, Father. I was fond of him. I still can't believe he's dead.”

“Nor can I.”

“Did you know Kevin thought someone was following him? He told me about it when I saw him this morning. It really bothered him.”

The old priest looked troubled, his face lined with fatigue and sadness. “Officer Carroll just asked me about that. I knew nothing about it. I wish Kevin had said something to me. To be honest, I was more worried about his health after what happened the other day.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He went to the ER at Providence Hospital complaining of chest pains three days ago,” he said. “Thought it might be his heart. They kept him overnight and released him.”

That explained Officer Carroll asking me if I thought Kevin hadn't looked well this morning.

I pulled the key out of my pocket. “Do you recognize this, Father? Does it unlock something at the friary? A door or a locker?”

He shook his head. “No. We have few locked doors or cabinets. The church and the chapels are another matter; it is a regrettable fact of life that we can no longer leave the place open as we once did. For insurance purposes and for general safety we installed a security system. But that key does not unlock anything here that I know of. Why do you ask?”

“I think Kevin might have dropped it today. I was going to return it, if it was his.”

He took the key and turned it over, rubbing his thumb over the etched number 58 on the head of the key. “Perhaps it opens a locker, as you suggest. Why don't you ask Edward?”

“Edward Jaine?”

“Yes, Kevin's benefactor.” He smiled at the expression on my face. “Ah, I see you are surprised. You didn't know about their relationship? He was very generous in supporting Kevin's research, paying for his trips and anything he needed for his work.”

“Last night at the Austrian ambassador's home I overheard Kevin arguing with him. And when Edward Jaine arrived at the party and walked into the room with Senator Gilberti, Kevin was really upset.”

Xavier's forehead furrowed. “Are you sure? When I saw Kevin this morning at breakfast, he said he had enjoyed himself last night.” His smile was tinged with regret. “Not that he would say any differently. Kevin kept himself to himself.”

I nodded. Kevin was also a peaceful person. So why had he been arguing with the man who paid for his research?

“Is there something else, Sophie? I didn't mean to upset you further.”

“I apologize for asking so soon, but I was wondering if you had any idea yet about . . . arrangements.”

“You mean Kevin's funeral?” I nodded, and he said, “Yes, of course. Kevin planned it himself.”

“He did?”

“It's one of our requirements,” he said with a small smile. “Each of us must specify the readings, the music . . . everything must be on file. Don't look so shocked . . . we all leave this earth to join God someday. So far, I haven't heard of a single soul who's found a way around that immutable truth.”

I smiled. “So you already know?”

“His funeral Mass will be here at Mount St. Sepulchre, of course, and he'll be buried with his brothers in our cemetery. But it probably won't take place for a few weeks to give Kevin's colleagues and friends from all over the country—all over the world, actually—time to make arrangements to attend.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Keep us in your prayers, my dear. I am expecting an onslaught from the press once word gets out. Kevin was an international celebrity, and the media attention we'll likely receive will be difficult for many in this quiet community to handle. In his professional life as a scientist Kevin was revered and admired for his work around the world, but, as you know, there were others who found him a threat for speaking his mind.”

I walked back to my car mulling over what Father Xavier had just said, along with Kevin's worry—fear, actually—that he was being stalked. His death was no accident. He hadn't slipped and fallen on those wet stairs or suffered a heart attack.

Someone had killed him.

Possibly someone who didn't like his politics, what he stood for, and decided to deliver his message in person this afternoon. Or had it been someone who knew about Kevin's current research, the discovery he'd mentioned to me this morning that he needed to keep secret?

Edward Jaine, maybe? Kevin said what he found might be worth “millions of dollars.” Jaine was a multibillionaire, even
though he'd invested in a few flops. He didn't need money, so perhaps that knocked him out as a suspect.

Then who was it? Who had cornered Brother Kevin Boyle, one of the kindest men I knew, in the Grotto of Gethsemane, a sacred place of agony and death, and killed him?

6

I
got in my car and turned on my phone. A text message flashed on the screen.

Just leaving work. Going straight to Trio's. If I get there first, I'll order us a bottle of red.

I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes. The message was from Grace Lowe, the first person I met the day I started school in Virginia after Harry and my mother got married. Last week she and I made dinner plans for tonight so I could fill her in on the book project I'd discussed with Kevin this morning.

As kids, Grace and I had been as close as sisters; even our teachers mixed us up, which we thought was hilarious since we looked nothing alike—my dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin inherited from my Spanish father, and Grace, a cool, fair, blue-eyed blonde. What had cemented our friendship for more than twenty-five years was a bolshie, restless curiosity that occasion
ally got us into trouble but eventually led us both to careers in journalism, me as a photographer and Grace as a writer. Now she was a senior reporter on the Metro desk at the “other” Washington newspaper, the
Tribune.

A month ago she covered what was supposed to be a feel-good story about the reopening of an elementary school not far from her home in Adams Morgan after a fire. When the interview was over, one of the teachers took her aside and told her about the kids in her class who missed school regularly because their parents could afford only a single pair of shoes, which all the children had to take turns wearing. Then there were families who lived in their cars, barely a rung on the ladder above being on the streets. Pride, the teacher said, kept most of the parents from asking for help. Grace had been so devastated by that kind of poverty in her own backyard that she came to me and asked if I'd help her raise money for new shoes for every child in the school. We wrote checks and passed the hat among our friends and family. Two weeks later, we had enough cash, so we went looking for a shoe store to sign on to the project. On Saturday, Sole Brothers Shoes in Adams Morgan was closing to the public for the afternoon so the kids and families could buy their shoes.

The idea behind the photo book was that the profits would go toward continuing the shoe project and also to raise money for the run-down Adams Morgan Children's Center, where most of those children went after school. The very last thing Kevin had said to me before he kissed me goodbye was that I could count on his help. The thought of taking this on without him was heart-wrenching.

I pressed the Call button on my phone. When Grace finally answered, I heard the familiar doorbell chime of the D.C. subway and a muffled voice announcing the doors were closing.

“I just got on the Metro,” she said. “What's up?”

“Gracie.” I raised my voice so she could hear me over the din. “I've got some bad news. Kevin Boyle is dead.”

She gasped as though someone had elbowed her hard in the ribs. “Oh, my God, Sophie, that's awful. What happened?”

I told her, and then she said, “I need to call the desk. Actually, I probably need to get off this train and go back to work. Someone's going to have to get out to the monastery and cover this.”

I massaged my forehead with the back of my free hand. Father Xavier said he expected to be inundated by the media because of Kevin's notoriety. I had just opened the floodgates. But if I were in Grace's place, I would have done the same thing.

“Are you going to do it?” I asked.

“I don't know,” she said. “We're also going to need an obit. I'm sure we don't have one on file. Kevin wasn't that old, only in his fifties, and nobody expected . . . oh, my God, I can't believe he's gone.”

“I know,” I said, and for the first time my voice wavered.

“Oh, honey. Soph . . . are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Look, Grace, can you keep my name out of the story?”

“I'll do what I can. Have you told anyone else?”

“No. Certainly not anyone from the press. I'll call Nick when I get home. And Jack. This is going to kill him.”

“Oh, Jesus. Yes, Jack. He's teaching tonight. I spoke to him earlier.”

“I'll leave a message, tell him to call right away. I don't want him finding out on the Internet or hearing it on the radio or television before I get a chance to talk to him.”

“I'd better go,” she said. “I think it's going to be a long night.”

I left vague messages for both Nick and Jack, though it would be awhile before Nick and I spoke because of the eight-hour time difference between Washington and Riyadh. As for Jack, his classes finished at nine o'clock, but he often stayed late for students who needed to talk to him.

By the time I heard from him it was a few minutes before eleven. I knew from his voice that he didn't know about Kevin,
but Jack can read me like a book. “What's wrong?” he said. “I hope it's not Nick.”

I was upstairs in bed with a glass of wine, channel surfing in the dark. I flipped to Channel 4 to wait for the eleven o'clock local news and hit Mute.

“It's not Nick,” I said. “I'm sorry, Jack. Kevin Boyle is dead. I found him today at the monastery at the bottom of a flight of stairs in the lower garden. When I got there it was too late. He was already gone.”

His silence went on for an eternity. Then I heard his heavy sigh and what sounded like a bottle being uncorked and liquid splashed into a glass. “My God, Sophie. We were all together just last night. I'd been expecting to hear from him today, so that explains why I didn't.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said again. “I'm pretty sure it's going to be on the late news. I didn't want you to find out that way. And Grace knows . . . we were supposed to have dinner this evening. She might be writing the story for the
Trib.
Or the obituary.”

I stumbled over the last word, and Jack said, “What happened?”

I heard the tinkle of ice cubes. Probably a Scotch on the rocks.

“I don't know for sure. The police came . . . they had to. The officer who talked to me said there would be an autopsy to determine the cause of death.”

“The cause of death?” He sounded as if he was still trying to process that Kevin was gone. “How could Kevin fall down a flight of stairs? That doesn't sound right.”

“I don't think he fell. I think he might have been pushed.”

“Are you serious?”

So I told him about Kevin's fear that someone had been following him. “Unfortunately, Kevin didn't tell anyone else about it. And no one at the monastery wants to believe what happened could be anything other than an accidental fall.”

“Why would someone push him?”

“I can think of two reasons. A lot of people hated Kevin's
views on climate change and the environment. Not to mention the businesses he alienated that had to hire lawyers to fight him in court and drug dealers who had to move when he tried to clean up a couple of parks.”

“If not liking someone's politics or what he stood for was enough of a motive to commit murder, Washington would be a ghost town, Soph. It's a big step off the edge into the abyss to go from hating someone to actually doing something about it. What's your other reason?”

I heard voices in the background on his end of the phone and glanced up at the television. “Here it is,” I said, unmuting the sound on mine. “I'm watching Channel 4.”

“Me, too.”

We were silent as an attractive blond reporter did a live stand-up in front of the monastery gates. The harsh spotlights lit her and the scenery behind her as if it were daytime while the camera panned to show bouquets of flowers, lighted votive candles, and handwritten notes placed in tribute in front of the entrance to the Rosary Portico.

“The tight-knit Catholic religious community in Brookland, often called ‘Little Rome' because of the many Catholic institutions located here, is reeling tonight from the death of one of their own,” the reporter said. “Brother Kevin Boyle, a Franciscan friar and internationally known environmentalist, was found—tragically—on the grounds of the Franciscan Monastery's magnificent gardens in northeast Washington, a place he knew and loved so well.”

She continued talking as the picture switched to B-roll of the monastery, showing the gardens in full bloom, dazzling sweeps of color against vivid greens, on a sun-dappled day. Eventually, the camera zeroed in on the Gethsemane Grotto, and the reporter didn't miss the opportunity to play up the irony.

I heard Jack's sharp intake of breath. “That's where you found him?”

“Yes . . . shhh, listen. She interviewed Father Xavier.”

The brief taped interview was poignant, and the old priest looked more weary than when I'd seen him this evening. The picture cut back to the reporter, who wove together Kevin's pioneering work as an environmentalist into the story of Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of plants and animals, before doing her sign-off.

Then the screen flickered to the story of the twelve-year-old boy who'd been shot, his mother's anguished face. I couldn't bear to watch her raw grief and turned it off.

After a moment, Jack said, “You were about to tell me the other reason why someone would push Kevin down those stairs. And why he thought someone was following him.”

“I think it might have something to do with his research.” I told him about the key. “I was going to ask Kevin if it was his, but obviously I can't anymore. Father Xavier didn't recognize it. He suggested I ask Edward Jaine. Did you know he was underwriting Kevin's research?”

“No.” Jack sounded as surprised as I'd been. “I didn't.”

“They were arguing about something last night at the party. I overheard them.”

“Sophie,” he said, “maybe you should just do what Xavier said and ask Jaine about the key.”

I didn't reply, and he said, “Let me guess. You want to keep it so you can try to find whatever it unlocks.”

“Not keep it, just hang on to it for a while. If Kevin and Edward Jaine were arguing, Kevin probably wouldn't want him to have it anyway.”

“You don't know that.”

“I just want to see if I can find out what it opens.”

“And if you do?”

“Then maybe I'll know why they were arguing and what to do next.”

“And if you don't?” When I didn't answer, he said, “It's a slippery slope, kiddo.”

“Come on, Jack. If the key is Kevin's, then why did he have to find someplace that he considered safer than the monastery to store something . . . or hide it? If the autopsy shows he died because of a fall and there are no witnesses who saw anyone with him, the investigation ends there. The crime scene's contaminated to hell. Every friar who was at the monastery went down there to pray over him. It's a mess. The police may never find out what really happened.”

“I don't think—”

“We owe it to Kevin. You know that. I know he's with God, but he should still be alive. There were so many things he wanted to do, so much good he could have done.”

I heard Jack take another long drink, and when he spoke, his voice was tinged with sadness. “He was an incredible person. And don't think I didn't notice that you've roped me into this.”

“Just give me twenty-four hours,” I said. “If I don't find anything by tomorrow evening, I'll try to contact Edward Jaine and see if he knows anything about the key.”

“If you do find anything, call me. And if I don't hear from you, I'll call you.”

“Don't worry. There's really only one place I can think of to look. After that, I'm out of ideas.”

• • •

Nick phoned the next morning when I was in the kitchen finishing my coffee and reading Grace's front-page story about Kevin. Her byline ran under the obit as well. Nick had already read the story on the Internet.

Long ago when I realized how much Nick would be on the road for his job with the Agency, we made a pact that we wouldn't share news that didn't travel well and would save the rough stuff for when we were together again and could talk it over face-to-face. I didn't tell Nick that I had found Kevin, or any of the rest of the story about him being stalked or my belief that his death
was no accident. He knew, of course, that something was wrong. You can't fool a spook, especially if you are sleeping with him.

“Are you okay, baby? I wish I were there.”

“I wish you were here, too. Jack took it hard and Grace covered the story for the
Trib.
Everyone's devastated.”

“I'm sure.” He exhaled the way he did when he wanted to get something off his chest. “Look, love, I know my industry fought hard against what Kevin stood for, that we don't accept his arguments and theories that we are somehow responsible for, or the cause of, climate change.”

We had had this discussion before, how industry lawyers and their scientists had come up with an avalanche of data and statistics refuting much of what Kevin had said in
Reaping What We Have Sown
. Nick was veering into the forbidden territory of news that didn't travel well. He and I had had our differences on this subject. Some of them involved shouting.

“I don't think we should—”

“Wait,” he said. “Hear me out. Kevin held our feet to the fire, standing there like the reincarnation of St. Francis of Assisi in his quiet, humble way. He never backed down and he wasn't afraid of anything or anyone. Everyone in my business listened to him, Soph. I know a lot of people who rooted for him privately though they couldn't say so publicly, me included. Now that he's gone, there's no one who can take his place. He was a formidable adversary. Everyone's going to miss him, and thanks to you, I was honored to know him as a friend.”

I reached for the dish towel and swiped at my eyes. Eventually I said, “I'm glad you knew him, too.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”