Steps to the Altar (22 page)

“Nothing from the forties?”

“Nope. From what I can tell, the department didn’t start keeping accurate records until the late fifties. The forties were an especially hard time in the San Celina PD. Right at the beginning of the war they brought up a new chief from Los Angeles.” She grinned. “Sound familiar? Except then they did it to sort of clean things up.”

“There was corruption in the police department?” I wondered if that had any significance in the Sullivan investigation.

She finished the parrot by giving it a bright purple eye and said, “There you go, honey. Have a ball.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Sackett,” the girl said and jumped up to gaze at her face in the plastic hand mirror. She and her friends squealed in delight at Joan’s artwork.

Joan smiled at them indulgently. “Wish my rookies were as enthusiastic about my evaluation reports.” She turned back to me. “There wasn’t really corruption back then. It was more that everything was so small town. Kind of unprofessional. Until the war when Camp Riley was built and so many military men were shipped in to train here on the Central Coast, the county did not have a whole lot of serious crime. A few rancher squabbles about fence lines, a little cattle rustling, but nothing that required a big-city approach. The war changed this area permanently. Anyway, the new chief implemented a lot of improvements, kind of cleaned out the old timers, the ones not willing to change and try new techniques. He was the one who opened the police pistol range and started a program for regular firearms qualification.”

All of her information was interesting, but it wasn’t giving me what I wanted. “So, what about the Sullivan investigation?”

She stretched her long arms above her head and rolled her neck. “I’ve been doing this three hours straight. Didn’t know there were so many kids in San Celina. The Sullivan murder was never actually officially solved, as you probably already know. It’s pretty obvious what happened, but even though it was still an open case, no one saw fit to save any of the records or evidence.” She shrugged. “Too bad. Cold cases are being solved quite regularly now that we have so much advanced technology. Some departments even have special cold case detectives. Guess we’ll never know what really happened with Garvey and Maple Sullivan.”

“Is it possible that anyone who was a police officer then would still be around? Maybe he could tell me something about it.”

“It’s possible. Best I could do is ask some of the old timers in the department, see if they’re in touch with any of the retired officers. I’ll ask around on Monday.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Another customer, Mom,” her daughter said, pointing at a small, redheaded girl wearing a puffy pink ski jacket, black leggings, a pink skirt, and Beauty and the Beast sneakers. She looked about five or six years old and stared up at Joan with apprehensive brown eyes.

“So, what’s your favorite color, honey?” she asked, stooping down to the child’s level. Though I’d seen Joan in her professional personality when she could scare any cocky punk or mouthy rookie into terrified silence with a mere look, this Joan was as gentle as a cookie-baking grandma.

“Pink,” the girl whispered. “Then purple.”

“Then how about a pink-and-purple butterfly on your cheek?” Joan asked.

The girl smiled and nodded, more relaxed now. “My daddy’s over there. He says to tell you that sheriffs are better than police.”

We both looked up and saw Hud sitting on a stone fence ten feet away. He touched two fingers to his brown Stetson.

Joan laughed and showed a fist to Hud. “Honey, you tell your daddy that he’s a very nice, but ill-informed man.”

“Ill formed?” the girl said, her brown eyes wide.

Joan and I both laughed at her word choice.

“Good enough,” Joan said. “Though his form is actually quite fine.” She turned to me. “You know Hud? He’s quite a character. He and I became acquainted at a workday for the octagonal barn. I joined the historical society a while back though I never can seem to make it to a meeting. He’s good people, even if he is a sheriff’s deputy.”

“We’ve met,” I said, glancing up at his smirking face. “Thanks for the information, Joan. You saved me a trip down to the station to hunt you down.”

“No problem,” she said, settling Hud’s daughter on the stool. “I’ll call you as soon as I get a name.”

I went around the booth and walked over to Hud, who was sipping some kind of coffee drink with whipped cream floating on top.

“Having fun?” I said.

“Maisie is. My fun’s later.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What’s later?”

“The Masked Ball. You’ll love my costume.”

Assuming he meant the open-to-the-public ball at the Forum downtown, I said, “Well, too bad I won’t see it. I’ll be in Cambria at a fundraiser.”

“I know. That’s the one I meant. I’ll see you there.”

“
You’re
going to the ball at Constance Sinclair’s house?” I didn’t even try to hide my surprise.

“Don’t be such a snob. Is there any rule that says only the upper-crust society of San Celina can support the folk art museum?”

“No, it’s not . . . I mean I didn’t . . . You’re more than . . .” I stammered in my embarrassment at my obviously elitist attitude. What kind of person was I turning into? “I’m sorry,” I finally just said, feeling like bursting into tears.

He grinned at me. “Well, I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

At that moment Gabe’s voice, his words, echoed in my head.

“I don’t know.”

How could three little words turn my whole world so completely around? What was a little squabble about an old girlfriend had turned into something that was life changing.

“I don’t know.”

Could I ever hear those words again and not remember this day?

My head suddenly felt fuzzy, and I knew if I didn’t get away, I would start sobbing right there in the middle of three thousand people. I willed myself to maintain a calm exterior.

Apparently I failed because Hud’s normally smart-ass expression turned gentle and concerned. “Hey, it’s all right. I was just kidding. You’re forgiven.”

“Okay,” I said, still feeling disoriented. “I guess I’ll see you there.” I turned to walk away when he grabbed my upper arm.

“Sit down,” he said, steering me over to the stone wall. “You look like you’re ready to pass out.”

“I’m fine,” I said, but let him lead me to a spot a few feet away.

“I’d say you’re not, only you’re likely to bite my head off at the shoulders,” he said, pressing a warm paper cup into my hands. “Drink some of my cappuccino.”

I did as he said, grateful for a moment just to follow directions. I sipped at the hot drink, trying to hold back the trembling that was threatening to overcome my body.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, studying my face intently. “Did you get some bad news?”

I handed back his drink and stood up. “Nothing,” I said, irritated at myself for my momentary loss of control and how quickly I would let a man comfort me. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait,” he said, setting the cup down on the wall. “If you need to talk—”

“I don’t.”

He stepped closer, his face inches from mine. “Really, I’m a good listener. I know what it’s like—”

I didn’t let him finish. “Look, Detective, you gave me a sip of your coffee. That doesn’t entitle you to a stroll through my psyche.”

“Wait,” he said again, reaching out to me.

I walked right past him, ignoring his outstretched hand. When I reached my truck, I’d already made up my mind. There was no way I would live with Gabe while he was going through this crisis of . . . whatever. And luckily there was a way we could live separately that no one would suspect. At least for two weeks until our lease was up on our rented house. At the old house, I packed a suitcase, cleared my personal supplies out of our small bathroom, and left him a note on the kitchen table.

Gabe, I think it would be better if for the time being I stay at the new house and you stay here. Don’t call me or come by. I’m not ready to talk yet. I’m taking Scout.

Then finally, I let myself cry.

15

GABE

HE STOOD IN the garden of the historical museum and watched Benni walk away. And with her the sanity and peace he’d always known would only be temporary. Above him a mockingbird perched on a pepper tree branch and screamed an insane melody.

Why had he answered Benni that way? Was he really still in love with Del, or was it just something he’d lashed out with to hurt his wife, to hurt the person he loved more than his own life, a person he loved more than he could imagine loving anyone except his son. He didn’t know. It had just fallen off his lips like broken glass, leaving his mouth tasting of blood and bitter salt.

He closed his eyes, felt the February breeze cool the burning heat on the back of his neck. Del’s face swam before him in the darkness, her honey-colored hair bright as a lighthouse beacon.

“Why did you get married?” she’d asked him last night over the bottle of cabernet he had ordered. “You swore to me you’d never get married again.” Her voice had been slightly accusing.

He’d looked at his glass a moment, seeing his reflection in the deep red color. Guilt was a sharp knife dividing his ribs.

“How’s John B?” he’d asked, changing the subject. “Does he still eat fried chicken for breakfast?”

He stood in the empty garden wishing he could go back in time a half hour, snatch back the words that had stained his wife’s cheeks as surely as if he’d physically slapped her. Though he wasn’t sure how he felt about Del, he didn’t want to lose Benni. As sick as it was, he wanted them both.

He went through the gate, not bothering to close it behind him. Around him people talked and laughed, the smell of fishy gumbo floated through the air along with the tinny, cheerful sound of zydeco music. Someone greeted him and he heard himself respond through the sound of cicadas in his ears. Except this wasn’t Kansas. There were no cicadas in California. And it was February. He gritted his teeth and willed the buzzing away.

Minutes later, he found himself inside the Mission Church, crowded and noisy with visitors, their hard shoes obscenely loud on the painted cement floors. He stood in the cold dim light and mentally willed the tourists away. He wanted to scream at them—show some respect, lower your voices, let this place be what it is supposed to be, a sanctuary for those seeking peace.

He walked through the crowds to the front, past the paint-peeled wooden statue of the crucified Christ, and without kneeling or crossing himself, turned right. Only one of the two confessional booths was free, the small red light above it dark, so he ducked inside and stood there in the dimly lit room, not caring if a priest was there or not, just wanting to find some quiet, impossible in the packed church where people snapped pictures with disposable cameras and snuck bites of candied apples held low in their hands.

A shuffling, then a soft cough came from the priest’s side. Gabe froze for a moment, feeling like a boy caught stealing a pack of baseball cards. Why had he come here?

Out of habit, because it was either this or flee, he knelt down on the padded kneeler in front of the curtained half wall, made the Sign of the Cross, and said automatically, his voice scratched and torn, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” He searched his memory. “It’s been . . .” He faltered, unable to remember exactly the last time he’d been to confession. “I don’t know how long it’s been . . .”

“That’s all right,” murmured a low masculine voice. “God knows. Go ahead.”

Gabe leaned forward, trying to swallow and speak over the rawness in his throat. His heart felt burnt, like a black cinder in the middle of his chest.

Neither of them spoke for two minutes. It stretched into three, four, then five.

Finally, the priest said in a normal tone, “Gabe, you want to go get some pasta? I’m starving.”

“Father Mark?” Gabe said, relief and embarrassment making him laugh. Sweat pooled under his breastbone.

The tall, muscular man wearing a priest’s collar opened the wooden door separating them.

“Sounds to me like you’re not quite ready to confess,” Father Mark Dominguez said. He was as tall as Gabe though thicker in the chest, with upper arms that could bench-press two hundred sixty pounds. His handsome, acne-rough face and penetrating brown eyes gave him a dangerous look that not only helped when dealing with sullen teenage boys down at the Youth Authority where he volunteered, but had caused more than one female parishioner to attend Mass often enough to make her husband suspicious.

“I didn’t realize it was you,” Gabe said, unable to look the priest in the eye. “Where’s Father Leo?”

Mark was a friend, a person he’d jogged with occasionally and spotted at the gym. They originally met when Gabe joined the gym the first months he’d lived in San Celina, before he knew Benni. At first meeting, Gabe had been certain that Mark was a gang member . . . or at least a former one. His years working narcotics in East L.A. had taught him how to spot homeboys immediately, even if their tattoos weren’t obvious, that quick gaze about the room to check it out, the tendency to choose the gym equipment where your back is to the wall, unexposed. He was either a gang member or a cop, and Gabe knew he was no cop.