Many of them had left already for what they saw as safer places, but many remained in a show of bravado and self-importance. They'd all be in his debt once he helped surface the killer. God knows, he thought, Tom Patterson sure isn’t doing enough to figure this out. Or that M.E. Then he smiled, because he knew that there wasn’t any God to know anything at all. If there was an all-knowing being in this tale, it was Wilson himself. And what he didn’t know for a fact, he was going to make so, if he could.
He caught a typo in the story he had just finished and corrected it, then gazed out his office window to the street beyond. It was early morning, but he saw the familiar figure of Father Matt, in his running clothes this time, jogging down the street. His pace was steady and his face drenched with sweat. Wilson smiled to himself and re-read the end of the story he had just corrected.
The lawyers would have at this, he figured, though the chances of a priest suing over a newspaper article were pretty slim, and potshots at Patterson were totally protected. He’d come close to the line, but he hadn’t crossed it. And besides, he was certain time would prove him right. He attached the story to an email and punched send.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JUNE 17
I was consolidating the multiple piles on my desk into the green canvas bin I kept for purposes of episodic neatness when Eoin Connor strode through the door, handed me a Dasani and a grin, then settled himself in my comfortable easy chair. I dropped the last of the papers into the bin with the resolution that tomorrow, finally, I would get to them. I took my time, silently running my one-to-tens in a couple of languages before I trusted myself to respond. “Good morning to you, too. Do you always take such liberties with another person’s office?”
I cracked the top of the bottle, which was sweating now and dripping on my hands. I took a sip and excavated a coaster from underneath one of the remaining piles.
“No liberties. Just wondering about your murders. Have you figured out what’s pulling them together yet?”
I shook my head.
“No idea, really, none. It’s driving me crazy.”
I gave up on the tidying and took a seat on the couch opposite Connor, trying not to be annoyed that he had already propped his feet up on the coffee table.
Connor tipped his bottle, drained nearly half of it at one gulp.
“Pete Wilson does.”
He handed me the morning paper. I ran out of languages halfway through the brief story and was running through my considerable store of multilingual cuss words by the time I came to the end:
Witnesses report seeing the priest coming down from the bell tower of St. Patrick’s Church in the aftermath of Cosette Anira’s murder. The good father, who manages to stick his ecclesial nose into everyone’s business, couldn’t be bothered to walk down the street to tend to a dying woman. Could it be because the shot came from the direction of the church? Would it be that Fr. Gregory was reluctant to aid the dying because he knows more than he’s telling? The bell tower can hide a great deal more than a tall man.
Then there’s the fact that Marla Kincaid has been a regular visitor over the past few weeks to the church offices, in off hours. One neighborhood resident confirms that she was there the afternoon that Mitch Houston was shot, and he saw her leave in the company of the priest. He was later seen that same night in Mountain Village, hurrying toward the gondola. Away, as it turns out, from another dying person. The woman who reported the murder remembers seeing him hurrying toward the gondola as she got off. And Marla Kincaid was seen in Father Gregory’s embrace in the Steaming Bean yesterday morning.
A priest who fails in his priestly duties isn’t news these days. And cowardice in the face of death is nothing compared to the abuse scandals that continue to be uncovered. But isn’t murder higher up in the hierarchy of sin than molesting altar boys? It’s interesting to know that in his college days, the good Father Matt was a sharpshooter on his ROTC team, presumably before he felt that call to ministry. Was it the thought of all that killing in his future that made him run to the church? Or was it a false conversion, one that never really took? Is he a comforter or a predator?
He’s been identified in the vicinity of two of the murders at the proper time. He’s kept company with a woman accused of murder.
Means and opportunity. Maybe the sheriff is waiting for an explanation of motive to bring him in for questioning. How about this, the oldest motive in the world? Gregory wouldn’t be the first priest to fall for a pretty face. And he wouldn’t be the first man to compound one crime with others in an attempt to cover it up. And what better cover up for one murder than a string of murders that diverts attention. A priest of Rome, he’d be well-trained in that.
And no matter who is responsible for the shootings, the sheriff has been so busy with the shootings in town that the Houston murder has been dropped. The longer Patterson delays pursuing the evidence in Houston’s death, the more likely it is that the killer will get off scot-free. Patterson’s motives themselves are muddied. He was spotted having a late night beer few days ago with a petite blonde who, from the back, looked a lot like Marla Kincaid.
“That one goes straight for the throat, he does,” Connor remarked. “One-tenth fact, nine-tenths pure meanness. Do you think there’s anything in it?”
“No.” My response was reflexive and protective. “Not a chance. Not Father Matt. Not only is he not the killer, he isn’t involved with Marla Kincaid.” I repressed the image of Father Matt embracing his old girlfriend for the time being, then brightened. “I’ll bet Wilson saw Father Matt with his old girlfriend. She looks a lot like Marla. Case of mistaken identity.”
Eoin Connor cocked his head.
“You’re letting your heart get the better of your head,” he said. “It was clear from his reaction—and hers—that the first time they saw each other was in the coffee shop. Houston was killed long before that.”
I wrestled with that reality for a moment before answering. “You’re right. Still, I don’t think Father Matt has it in him to kill anyone, and that’s a flimsy motive at best. You yourself said these murders feel like revenge. And anyway, there’s not just one…”
I stopped myself but Connor finished the sentence.
“Not just one shooter. I wondered if you’d come to that conclusion. There are two guns involved, right?”
“How did you know?”
Connor took out his pipe, raising a warning eyebrow at me and clamped it between his teeth.
“A good woman, you know, would let me light this, rules be damned.”
“You may not have noticed, but I am not a good woman. How did you know?” Please God, I thought, do not let Ben be the answer.
“Nothing particularly difficult about it. No ballistics report came out in the paper. If all the bullets had matched, Patterson would have played that up. He didn’t. Ergo, the bullets didn’t match. I’m guessing you have two, maybe three, guns involved.”
He tamped the tobacco in his pipe absently and lit it in spite of my scowl. “I can understand why you are worried about your shop. Wilson seems to have a lot of information he ought not.”
When I said nothing in reply, he went on.
“I’ve learned a lot about what coroners release and what they don’t. Wilson reported the series of deaths before you were ready, am I right?”
I sighed. “You are. And yes, two guns, but not three. That probably means a tag team, two shooters.”
“Three. There are three guns. Houston was shot with a nine millimeter. And he’s a rich kid, too, or so my sources tell me. Could it be that he’s the first? And if that’s the case, perhaps Marla and the good Father are your team. “
I shook my head. “Motive? Marla has a motive for killing Houston, but not the others.”
“Decoy murders. Besides, young Marla grew up poor indeed, and I gather was not well treated on her way up the Hollywood ladder. She could have a grudge against the rich.”
“Nonsense. She wanted to be rich.
She is rich. I don’t buy it. Besides, how does Father Matt fit in?”
Connor shifted in his seat. “That’s a bit of a tangle, I admit. I have a hard time seeing the good Father as a cold-blooded killer, too, but there are those who won’t. I think Wilson is tracking the wrong chase. Patterson is a more likely candidate.”
Tom Patterson was a good man, one of the best. I didn’t agree with him on this investigation, but that was no reason for Connor to set him up as the murderer.
“Go on.”
“Jeff, that young deputy, cornered me yesterday. He saw Patterson's boot on the surveillance tape. And Patterson was in Ophir the morning that climber got shot. And he was here awfully fast the day that Bedsheet was murdered.”
“Kessler. His name was Paul Kessler.”
Having held the man’s heart in my hands, I couldn’t bring myself to keep calling him Bedsheet.
“Paul Kessler, then. Patterson got to your place fast that evening. Too fast.”
“So what? He must have been in town, and if Jeff is right about that boot, he was. He makes a point of patrolling around on foot to be seen. He’s the sheriff. He’s always somewhere.”
“True enough. But look at this.”
Connor handed me a stack of various newspaper articles. I flipped through the stack. The usual batch of gossipy drivel I had come to expect in Telluride, with a few lines highlighted. It was dated from May, three years ago.
Patterson almost lost his bid for re-election thanks to the efforts of local Paul Kessler and his coalition, Trusties for Truth. When asked about his next move now that Patterson has secured his office for another four years, Kessler replied, “We’ll be watching him. Closely. It’s only a matter of time until we find the information we need to remove him from office and put an honest man in.”
This was news to me. I scanned the remaining articles quickly. Apparently Kessler had raised a stink about Patterson’s campaign funding an inexplicably luxurious home down valley, claiming Patterson was taking payoffs from rich locals to look the other way at various infractions of the law, major and minor. The hostility — or at least journalistic interest in it — had clearly died down before I came to town.
“There was no love lost between Kessler and Patterson.”
“Big deal. Patterson is a fair man.”
“Maybe not. Care to know the odd bit?”
I took another sip of water and smiled. It was nice to be able to hash this out with Connor, though I didn't like the way his argument was shaping up. Since I’d picked up his latest book —and one of his first — In Between the Covers, snagging the copies fresh out of the front window, I’d come to appreciate the quick mind behind that genial exterior even more. It was a sharp book, and he’d connected the dots with startling clarity. And he wrote with the same understated, musical clarity with which he spoke.
“Sure. What’s the best part?”
“Patterson started life as an army sharpshooter before coming to town and taking on that shiny badge. And all the victims were healthy contributors to his campaign. All except Webster.”
“Connor, that makes no sense! What politician kills off his contributors?”
“One who can’t risk their being pressed on the subject of contributions, for fear of being found out. He accepted contributions from wealthy folks who aren't residents. Who have no stake in the election — but who need a friend in the constabulary.”
He passed over another stack of papers, leaning back in the chair. I couldn’t decide whether his smile was expectant or self-satisfied.
Either way, the material was interesting. It took me several minutes to scan through the articles Connor had assembled. I had to admit, it was an attractive prospect for the Kessler murder. Still, there was Webster to contend with, and I wasn’t enthusiastic about the possibility of more than one deranged killer on the loose. On the other hand, if the two shootings weren’t related, then maybe I’d have a slow day tomorrow.
“Occam’s razor says not. ‘Whenever possible, assign only a single cause — not two or three — to things that can have one plausible explanation.’”
“They taught me that one, even in Belfast, thank you,” Connor grinned. “Pluralitas non estponenda sine necessitate. Besides, if I am right, you can relax. With Kessler gone, there should be no reason to go killing anyone else off. All that remains is to prove Patterson is the murderer.”
“Touché.” I had a sudden frisson of discomfort. “Wait here,” I told him.
I strode down the hall and called to Ben, still in the break room.
“Bring me those things we confiscated at the Webster murder site.” Something Connor said about Patterson’s boot jostled a visual memory in my mind from the day before.
Ben was back almost before I sat down again, the evidence box in hand. I rooted around until I found it: a tiny, triangular piece of intricate metal. The match to the missing one from Tom Patterson’s boot. I showed it to Connor.
“We found this at the Ophir Wall. It’s from Tom’s boot, I’d swear to it,” I said, not liking at all the words I was saying. Not only had Tom been in Ophir, I could link him to the Ophir Wall, too.
Connor took the bit of metal from my hand and turned it over thoughtfully.
“So the razor cuts after all. Webster’s daddy was well-connected in national politics. I wonder if Patterson has higher ambitions? I wonder if Webster was one of Kessler’s political pals? He could do considerable damage to an aspiring politician if he put a flea in his daddy’s ear. More than one murder has been done in pursuit of high office.”
He passed the metal tip back to me.
I dropped it back in the box as though it would burn my fingers.
“I still don't believe it. There has to be some other answer.” Even as I said it, I knew I’d be asking Ben to plot Patterson's movements, if he could, on the fatal days. Please, God, I thought, don’t let Connor be right.
I handed the papers back to Connor, who looked very comfortable in my favorite chair, feet pushing aside the magazines on the coffee table. He’d switched to wearing sandals, and in typical European fashion, had dark socks on with them. I needed to give him a fashion lesson. They looked dreadful.
Wool gathering again, and far too personal. I flushed.
“Maybe you and Ben can help pinpoint Patterson’s movements more closely on the days in question.” I paused. “Marla Kincaid’s too, and I guess Father Matt’s as well. It really cannot be him, Connor. It can’t. There has to be some other explanation.”
I didn’t sound very persuasive, even to myself. I’d been betrayed by one friend in murder. Was this another betrayal?
I was spared further thought when the phone rang. Connor made to leave, and I waved him down. I wanted to take proper leave of this conversation, and really, I didn’t want him to go. He settled back in the chair as I trotted to my desk to take the call.
It was my lawyer.
“Jane, glad I was able to get you."
Rick Glass manages my varied business and financial interests well, but his wheezy voice, tending to break at the most inopportune times, would forever keep him from the courtroom. Good thing for me. He’d very nearly made a second fortune out of the one I’d wrested out of Tom Berton and his corrupt corporate cronies. It would be five years tomorrow that this nightmare began with the verdict against Tommy Berton. I had almost forgotten. How odd that such a stroke of accomplishment and good luck could also be my ruination.
“You need something?”
“Just a decision.” Rick hesitated. “I got a call from Kiki Berton. She’s having a hard time, Jane, she can’t make her mortgage payments.”
In one of many creative arrangements that had led to the undoing of the practice once it had a significant judgment to pay, Berton had arranged for his own corporation to hold the note on his house, at sweetheart-low rates. I got the note at ten cents on the dollar in settlement, just as I had the house on Aspen. I’d literally taken everything that Tommy Berton had set asid
e for his old age: his house, his company, his retreat. Fair enough. He’d taken everything from me.
Now that Berton was in jail, I had no doubt that it meant his wife was unable to meet her bills. Kiki was Berton’s third—and trophy—wife. She’d worked as the practice receptionist and married up, promptly bearing Tough Tommy two boys and retiring thenceforth and thereafter from the working world. If I remembered, the sons would be in middle school now. I was frankly surprised I hadn’t gotten the call before, and I was surprised that the tone of Rick’s voice was sympathetic.
“She’s asking for you to give her a few months to sell the house. She’s got the house on the market, but things are slow, and the bank turned down her application for a second mortgage to liberate enough equity to pay you and to live on until she finishes her degree and gets back on her feet. She’s studying to be a paralegal.”
Good for her, but it made no difference to me.
“Until she snags another husband to pay her bills, more likely,” I said. Though with another fifteen years and two kids on the adorable twenty-five she had been when she married Tommy, it might be a little harder. “Or is she still married to Berton?”
“Still married. Visits him every time she can.”
I was unsettled by the admiration in his words. I was unsettled that she appeared to be a faithful wife to that son of a —
“Well, I’m not. Still married,” I clarified. And never would be, never again. She might have unpaid bills and a financial crisis, but Kiki had something I didn’t: a husband. I’d put Tommy out of reach, but he was still hers. Very well, then, I’d take the house he gave her, clearly and finally. “No. Tell Kiki no extension. And as soon as the law allows, I want you to move foreclosure. When will that be?”
Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1) Page 26