MASS MURDER (5 page)

The sound of footsteps brought him to attention
. H
e checked his watch.
It was eleven
-
fifteen.
He snuck a peek in the mirror to make sure he’d combed out the gray at his temple.
The fake moustache and goatee were hidden along with the padded envelope.
With little effort it seemed, he had taken care of business and eliminated the only evidence he ever existed at all.
When the sharp knock resounded on his door, he took a deep breath and turned to answer it.

Show time!

Chapter Four

Rocky’s small pickup rattled its way north, past middle class neighborhoods with perfectly manicured lawns and well-worn basketball hoops hanging off garage doors
.
There were few cars on the road and most
windows were dark.
The town was going to sleep.

Giorgio glanced at the illuminated dial on his watch.
It was eleven-
thirty.
C
old air forced its way through a broken seal in the cab window, bringing with it the smell of stale cigarette smoke and the faint aroma of perfume.
Giorgio knew Rocky had gone out the night before and briefly wondered which leggy
blonde
had occupied the seat before him.
Something clinked as it rolled across the floor
,
and he peered into the darkness at his feet.
It probably wasn’t an empty Coke bottle
. H
e contemplated saying something
, b
ut
changed his mind, turning instead to watch the darkened homes flash past the window.

A golden moon
stood alone
in the night sky
to
challeng
e
a bank of clouds gathering to the east.
Nestled at the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, Sierra Madre was a small bedroom community to Los Angeles where people knew their neighbors, mothers still volunteered for the PTA, and kids looked forward to decorating the annual Rose Parade float.
The only points of interest were an old Victorian Bed & Breakfast reputed to be the most haunted house in Southern California, and a bronze replica of a violin spider
in
the
central park
.
When Giorgio received the call for lead detective two years earlier, he ha
dn’t hesitated.
It was exactly what Angie wanted
−
a normal life away from the dirt and crime of New York City.
A few months later, Rocky followed, taking a position with the police department in San Marino, a posh community
only a few miles to the south.

The little pickup passed through a set of sturdy iron gates
with
a cast
-
iron plaque that read “St Augustine’s”
.
Beyond the gates were two hundred acres of undeveloped church property bordered on the west by a row of homes and on the east by a large drainage ditch.
The sprawling Spanish monastery held a commanding place at the top of the hill
,
while the distinctive bell tower loomed into the night sky like the centerpiece from a stage play.
The dark outline of the mountains presented an overpowering backdrop framing t
he whole picture in relief.

Giorgio knew more than the average person about the monastery because he’d helped Ma
rie research a paper
the year before.
St. Augustine’s had been a landmark in the area since the early twenties when it was built as a rural church on to
p of the ruins of an eighteenth-
century Spanish rancho.
Patterned after the Franciscan missions constructed along California’s coastal trail, the complex had been expanded over the years to include a monastery, commercial bakery, extensive library
,
and elaborate gardens.
An important part of the tradition of the Benedictine monks who owned the property was education.
For that reason, the building had been divided in
the
late
1930
s
to allow for a boys school.
Unfortunately, a major scandal closed the school only a few years later.
The monastery disappeared from public view for several decades until the monks opened the west wing in the early nineties as a conference and retreat center.

The road veered right at the top of the hill passing a small parking
lot
where the Medical Examiner’s van sat with the back
doors
open.
A single news van was parked along the downside curb.
Outside a young female reporter and her cameraman assembled their equipment. Giorgio recognized the local station. Fortunately, Sierra Madre was out of the direct line of media fire, and the main media wouldn’t pick up the story until the next day. But he was under no illusions. A murder at a Catholic monastery was almost as good as a political scandal. By the next afternoon they would be front page headlines.

Rocky circled around a three-tiered fountain and stopped where two police cars were parked head to toe.
A uniformed officer stood next to the walkway interviewing a man clad in a white dinner jacket, bow tie
,
and pencil moustache looking very much like the late Don
Ameche
´
.
A
woman stood off to one side dressed in a twenties-style white tailored suit, complete with
a
narrow slit
-
skirt and shoulder pads the size of saddle bags.
While Don
Ameche
´
absently stripped the moustache from his upper lip, t
he woman used a small mirror to lazily apply fresh lipstick as if she were waiting to be called to the set.

As the
brothers
approached the main entrance,
Giorgio
couldn’t help a curious glance back at Don Amech
e´
.

“Must be a costume party,” he mused out loud.

“Either that,” Rocky retorted, “or we never left the theater.”

Giorgio chuckled as they moved up a set of wide, brick steps that curved towards the front door
and
past
cactus gardens
dotted with
weathered benches, bird baths
,
and earthen pots filled with flowers.
The path ended at a massive wooden door that could have come straight out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, complete with iron metal work.
The doorframe was topped by a Moorish striped arch.
Some ten feet above that, a small rose window was cut into the stucco.
In between the arch and the window hung an ornate metal cross, reminding Giorgio of the brass button in his pocket.

Before entering, Giorgio
g
lance
d
to his right where a metal door led into the base of the bell tower.
The door was marked with a yellow and black sign announcing, “UNDER CONSTRUCTION/NO ENTRANCE”
.

“I wonder if it’s locked.”

“I’ll check.”
Rocky jogged over and tried the knob.
“Locked,” he called back.

“This place is huge,” Giorgio said, his eyes following a colonnade of arches along the front of the building.
“We’ll be here all night.”

Rocky rejoined him as he pulled open the main door and stepped into a wide entry where they were met with the smell of leather and incense.
A
large
harvest-colored tapestry depicting Jesus being baptized by John covered the wall to their left.
A darkened door to the administrative office sat quietly to the right
with
a plain cross mounted just below the window.
Next to the door, two stenciled lines of verse stood out against the aged, stained stucco.

"Let them prefer nothing whatever to Christ.
And may He bring us all together to everlasting life!"
Rule of Benedict

A few steps further in and they passed the darkened door to the gift shop
. A
hallway ran the entire length of the building to their right
,
connecting to the chapel at the east end.
Just in front of them
opened
an expansive lobby.

Giorgio’s gaze swept across the terra cotta floor tiles and up a wooden staircase that descended from the second floor like a tongue lolling from an open mouth.
Above their heads hung three authentic oiled wagon wheels, their electrified candle bulbs casting golden halos of light across the surrounding walls.
A large oil painting of the Resurrection hung to the left of an imposing
,
river rock fireplace where small votive candles lined a rough hewn, wooden mantle.

The lobby was filled with dark, mission
-
style leather furniture.
Heavy amber glass lamps anchored each corner of the room, while brass wall sconces dotted the walls like small glow bugs.
If it weren’t for the three women sitting in front of the fire dressed in gowns circa 1940, Giorgio could have pictured Father Junipero Serra taking up residence here.
Either way, he felt he was in the wrong time period.

Blending in with the foot of the staircase stood a monk clad in a traditional, cowl-necked brown robe.
One hand rested on the
elaborately
carved banister
,
while the other fiddled with the crucifix that hung from the tassels of his rope belt.
His small stature made him inconsequential in such broad surroundings and Giorgio would have missed him if the priest hadn’t noticed them first.
The two strangers seemed to give him purpose
,
and he stepped forward.

“May I help you?
I’m Brother Rosario.”

Giorgio produced his badge.
“I’m officer Salvatori.
So is he.”

The monk’s pale eyebrows arched in question, so Rocky produced his own identification.

“We’re brothers.”

The little man squinted through a pair of wire-framed glasses.

“You’ll want to go through there,” he said, smiling briefly.
He used the crucifix to point through an arched opening behind the staircase, thought better of it, and retracted his arm as he cleared his throat.
“Sorry.
I believe you’ll find what you want down th
at
hallway to your left and through the kitchen.”