The Prodigal Nun (22 page)

Sister Agatha had to admit she enjoyed being with Sister Jo, too. It was a blessing to be with someone who made the most out of every moment. She had no doubt that Sister Jo was very close to the Lord’s heart.

“Are we going to look at more photos?” Sister Jo asked.

“Yes, but only of Senator Holman. Maybe there’s a photo on file that’ll show him wearing a cap, like the man you saw with the deputy.”

Sister Jo’s usual smile turned to a worried frown. “What if I still can’t confirm that he was the one with the deputy?”

“No matter what happens, the problem’s in God’s hands, and we’ll trust Him to handle everything in the right way.”

“Then let’s go for it, Sister Agatha!”

As they drove into a parking slot outside the
Chronicle
’s only building, she remembered that she’d promised Chuck some of Sister Clothilde’s cookies. “Rats! I totally forgot,” she said, then explained. “Remind me to bring him some next time, Sister Jo.”

“I have two cookies inside my pocket. They’re still wrapped up in a napkin,” Sister Jo confessed, pulling them out.

Sister Agatha looked at her, surprised. “How did you get those? They look a bit like Sister Clothilde’s new recipe.”

“They are, but this version of Miraculous Munchies has piñons and less powdered sugar,” she answered. “I work a lot in the kitchen helping prepare the lunch meals. Since I’m already there, Sister Clothilde has designated me as her official taster.”

Sister Agatha smiled, knowing that was just like Sister Clothilde—rewarding any of them who went that extra mile. “Would you mind giving those to Chuck?”

“Not at all,” Sister Jo answered. “I’m sure they’re wonderful. Sister’s cookies always are.”

A moment later, Chuck greeted them as they came through the door. “Hey, Sisters. What brings you here so early in the morning?”

“Early?” Sister Agatha checked her watch. “It’s a little after nine.”

He took a sip of his coffee and gave them a bleary-eyed look. “Sister, I’m usually here well past midnight every day. Anything before 11:00
A.M
. is early.” He offered them coffee. Then, as he took the cookies from them, his eyes brightened considerably. “Thanks!”

Seeing that he was in a far better mood now, Sister Agatha continued. “Chuck, we need to do a computer search on Dwight Holman. Can you help us?”

“Ah, Holman. I recall our most recent article on the freshman senator,” he said. “It was a delicate issue. About a month ago, Holman rear-ended another vehicle, and there was a fatality. We had to be real careful not to print anything that couldn’t be verified outright. Holman’s a close friend of the mayor and could have brought some serious pressure down on us—more than a small press like ours could take.”

“I don’t remember hearing about that accident,” Sister
Agatha said, “but then again, we don’t subscribe to any of the local papers, and we don’t have a television.”

“We were the only news outlet that carried the story. That’s what made it even more interesting to me.” They all huddled around Chuck’s new computer as he called up the information. “Here’s the story,” he said, pointing to the screen. “Holman’s sedan rear-ended another car that had slowed down because of poor visibility. At the time it had been raining hard. The other driver, Beatriz Griego, a Mexican national and legal resident of the United States, died.”

They stared at the photo of the damaged cars, plus one of the victim and another of Holman. “That could be him,” Sister Jo said at last, “but I’d need to see him in person wearing a cap to be sure.”

Sister Agatha looked over Chuck’s shoulder, reading the article. “I see Holman was cited for following too close.”

“That’s all he got, too. The passenger in Griego’s car wasn’t injured and gave the police a statement releasing Holman from any culpability. She claimed that Griego had nearly come to a stop in the lane because she’d been distracted talking on her cell phone, and that’s why Holman’s vehicle had struck them.”

“You don’t buy it?” Sister Agatha asked, reading him accurately.

“I really dug deep on this story, and there were things that didn’t fit. For one, according to other drivers I’ve spoken to, the rain in the area wasn’t that bad. And it was only four in the afternoon, not after dark, so visibility couldn’t have been that low. The whole thing has a stink to it, but I’ve never been able to prove anything.”

“Sounds like someone worked hard to hush things up quickly,” Sister Agatha said.

“I searched the Web sites of the area newspapers and the local television stations, too, but they barely mentioned the accident,” Chuck said.

“Do you have the name of the officer who responded to the call?” Sister Agatha asked.

He opened another screen on his computer, then answered her. “Sergeant Michael McKay.”

Sister Agatha considered everything she’d just learned. Holman…and McKay? She remembered the sheriff telling her that during the time of Jane Sanchez’s murder, McKay had supposedly been playing golf with Holman. Maybe she’d just found the connection.

“He didn’t show up for court, so the case was thrown out,” Chuck added.

“I’m assuming they did a Breathalyzer test at the accident scene, particularly since it resulted in a death, is that right?” Sister Agatha asked.

“No. A field sobriety test was conducted, but there was no Breathalyzer on record. Sheriff Green was really upset about that, but by the time he found out, it was too late. McKay was suspended for a week without pay for not following protocol, and Holman got ticketed for following too close. That was it.”

“There was no lawsuit?” Sister Jo asked. “Everybody sues nowadays, and after all, Holman did get a ticket for a traffic violation.”

Chuck shook his head. “Lawsuits are public record, and I haven’t seen a thing. The victim didn’t have any close relatives in the area, apparently, or maybe they were paid off under the table.”

It didn’t surprise her that Tom hadn’t mentioned any of it.
He prided himself on his department. Things like this rarely happened, but when they did, he usually clamped down on everything and everyone.

What had come as a shock was hearing that McKay had gotten off with only a brief suspension. That just didn’t sound like something Tom would do. Maybe he was still following up on it, and that was the reason he’d wanted her to back off.

“I’d like to talk to the passenger in the victim’s car. Do you have her name?” Sister Agatha asked.

“Carmen Morales. I tracked her down, but to be honest I didn’t have much luck questioning her. Her English is pretty spotty.”

“I can help. I was born Angela Montoya and raised in a Las Cruces household that spoke Spanish nearly as much as English,” Sister Jo said.

“Tell me where I can find Carmen,” Sister Agatha added, glancing at Chuck.

“I don’t know where she lives, but I do know she works for Katherine Brown.”

“The architect?”

“Yes. Katherine has an office adjacent to her home, so once you look up her office in the phone book, you’ll have both addresses.”

Thanking Chuck, Sister Agatha got ready to leave, and Sister Jo followed. Soon they arrived at a large pueblo-style home. From what she could see, there was a detached smaller studio at the back of the driveway. The sign over the door announced it as Brown Architectural.

“Do we talk to the owner first,” Sister Jo asked, “or go to the house and try to find Carmen?”

“Judging by the three high-end cars parked by the studio,
my guess is that Katherine’s with clients. Let’s go to the main house and see if Carmen answers the door.”

Sister Agatha parked by the side, well away from the studio, and then led the way up to the front door. The doorbell had a pretty tone, like distant church bells.

A moment later, a young Hispanic woman opened the door. Before Sister Agatha could say a word, she gasped, dropped a feather duster, and ran toward the back of the house.

“Go around! Stop her at the back door,” Sister Agatha called out to Sister Jo.

As Sister Agatha hurried inside after Carmen, she held on tightly to Pax, who at the moment wasn’t sure if this was a game or not. The race was short, and Sister Agatha managed to corner Carmen in the kitchen. Beyond, she could see Sister Jo standing outside the door.

“Why on earth are you running? I mean you no harm,” Sister Agatha said gently.

“Déjame!”
She said, recoiling from her and Pax.
“No sé nada.”

Sister Agatha’s Spanish was rusty, but she caught that much.
Déjame
was “leave me alone,” and
no sé nada
meant “I don’t know anything.” The fact that Carmen had run and felt compelled to say that told her a much different story.

Ordering Pax to sit and stay, she softened her voice even more and continued.
“Estás en este país legalmente?”
Sister Agatha said, asking if Carmen was in the country legally.

Carmen’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.

“Relax,” Sister Agatha said quietly. “I’m not Immigration.
Soy monja, una hermana. No inmigra,”
she added, telling Carmen that she wasn’t part of the border patrol, that she was simply a nun—she hoped. Sadly, her accent and command of the language
were so bad, she wasn’t one hundred percent sure whether she’d said she was a nun or all wet. She never could remember the difference between
monja
and
mojada
.

The woman’s eyes narrowed with distrust. “He say that
inmigra
come dressed like nun,” she said, pointing. “Like
you.”

“No, I really
am
a nun,” Sister Agatha said calmly.
“No tengas miercoles,”
she said and saw the woman’s puzzled face.

“You just told her not to have Wednesdays,” Sister Jo said, stepping inside the room.
“No tengas miedo,”
she said,
“that
means don’t be afraid.”

“He said you would come dressed like nun to fool me—and send me back,” Carmen said.

“I’m
not
part of Immigration,” Sister Agatha repeated firmly. “Who told you that crazy story?”

“The
policía
. He say if I talk to anyone I go to jail—then back to Mexico.”

“Which deputy told you that?” Sister Agatha asked.

Seeing her hesitate, Sister Agatha lowered her voice and met her gaze. “Won’t you help me? If you do, I promise to pray for you—that
you
might receive a blessing, too.”

“And if I say no?” she asked.

“I can’t force you to do anything. If you won’t help, then we’ll leave.”

She nodded slowly, fear slowly melting away from her features. “I help. The deputy was Mac Cai,” she said, pronouncing it carefully.

Sister Agatha wasn’t surprised. “Tell me what happened the day of the accident.”

The woman took a deep, shuddering breath. “Beatriz gave me ride because it rain, but wipers not work so good in her car. Then bam! I use seat belt, but Beatriz…” She shook her head,
and a silent tear ran down her face. “I no can help. The steering wheel…her face. Then policeman come.”

“McKay was the officer who arrived first?” Sister Agatha pressed.

“No. First officer
más joven
…young, and not tall. He help me to his car and put me in backseat. Then Mac Cai come. He talked to Señor Holman. Very soft. I couldn’t hear. Then Mac Cai helped Señor Holman into the front seat of his police car.”

“You mean the backseat,” Sister Agatha corrected. The rear seat of a police cruiser had no door handles and no way for a suspect to get out.

“No. Front,” she insisted.

“Before putting him in the car, did the deputy make him walk a straight line, or touch the tip of his nose?” Sister Agatha asked, demonstrating.

Carmen shook her head. “No. He just put him in car…and they shake hands.”

Like friends, Sister Agatha mused silently.

“Mr. Holman no walk very good. Had too many
cervezas
that day,” Carmen added quietly.

“Beers,” Sister Jo translated.

“That one, I got,” Sister Agatha said, then looked at Carmen. “And you signed a statement, right?”

“Sí
, but my English not so good. Mac Cai wrote and said to me just sign. He said keep my mouth shut.”

Sister Jo glanced at Sister Agatha. “I don’t get any of this. Why would Sergeant McKay tell her that Immigration would come for her masquerading as a nun?”

“McKay must have known that I’d become a threat to him if I found out about this. And he was right. Now that I have, I’m not letting this go.” Sister Agatha turned to Carmen once more.
“When
did McKay tell you to be careful about speaking to nuns?”

“He come to my apartment. Yesterday at night.”

Sister Agatha nodded pensively. At long last they were on the right track.

B
EFORE SISTER AGATHA COULD SAY ANYTHING ELSE, A
woman came through the back door. Sister Agatha recognized Katherine Brown from her photo in the yellow pages.

“Hello, Sisters,” she said with a smile. “I saw your monastery’s famous wheels outside. If you wanted a donation, you should have gone straight to my office.”

“You were with clients, and actually I wanted to talk to your housekeeper,” Sister Agatha said, shaking her hand.

Katherine glanced over at Carmen, then reached into her pants pocket and brought out several bills. “Here you go, Carmen,” she said. “Thanks.”

The young woman muttered a quick
“Gracias,”
then hurried out the front door, where a sedan was waiting for her. Within seconds, the car disappeared from view.

“Something must have upset Carmen. She forgot to schedule
a time to come next week. What did you say to her?” she demanded, glaring at Sister Agatha.

“Did you know she’s in this country illegally?”

“How would I know something like that?” Katherine countered smoothly.

“Do you always pay your employees in cash?” Sister Agatha countered.

“She prefers it that way.” Katherine stood at the window, looking out at her driveway. “I wonder if I’ve just lost my housekeeper,” she added with a sigh.

“Do you know about the accident she had?”

“It couldn’t have been her fault. She was just a passenger,” Katherine answered flatly.