I heard the shuffling of papers.
“She’s already several months in arrears. I’ve sent notices. Not long.”
I ignored the disappointment, the judgment in the tone.
“Do it. Is that all you needed?”
“That’s it.” A sigh, a silence, then Rick, all business once again. "I’ll have your quarterly statements by the end of the week.”
I thanked him. As I turned from the desk to go back to the couch, I noticed Connor regarding me with a troubled look. He didn’t wait for me to sit back down on the couch before he spoke.
“You know, Jane, taking that poor woman’s house isn’t going to put out that fire in your gut. It’s not going to bring back your husband. She’s not responsible for your pain — there’s no need for you to punish her.”
His accent made “poor” sound more like “pure.”
I was momentarily speechless. He’d only heard half the conversation. Was he clairvoyant? Then I remembered — he’d been researching me for his next book. He already knew all about Kiki and Tommy and John and me. I felt exposed and vulnerable, and suddenly I was mad as hell, at Tommy, an anger that never left, at Kiki, and more importantly, at Connor, sitting there evaluating me in his own comfortable, unchanging world for another of his books just like he’d been evaluating Tom Patterson and Marla Kincaid and Father Matt.
“Maybe not,” I said evenly. “But it will spread it around a bit.”
We stared at each other like two cats for a minute or so in silence. We might as well have been screaming at each other. Finally, Connor stood up, the table and my anger separating us as clearly as an ocean.
“That’s as may be. But you’ll find that spreading it around, you’ll have just as much as you did before, maybe more.”
His voice was even, too, just as controlled as mine, though for the life of me, I had no idea what he had to be angry about, and I didn't care. He tossed the empty bottle in his hand toward the wastebasket by my desk. It arced, hit the edge and rattled in, both bottle and basket echoing emptiness. He dusted his hands in satisfaction—or was it dismissal?
I listened to the clock John had given me for our fifth anniversary. It was the wood anniversary according to the chart, and the antique timepiece was housed in a gorgeous cherry case. Its comfortable ticking had been a mainstay of our marriage, the soft chimes orienting me when I woke in the night with worries, and cuddled closer to my husband at its sound. He’d given it to me, he said, not just because it was wood, but because it would mark all the time we shared, which, after all, he had smiled, was the important thing.
The clock still ticked but my marriage and John were both gone. The ticking became unbearable and I finally spoke. Even I was surprised at how hard and cold my voice was. It took Connor aback, I could see it in his face.
“How dare you? I know I have to live with it. I live with it every day of my life. I wake up knowing that, and I go to sleep knowing that, and if I want to make a perfectly respectable decision to foreclose the mortgage of the woman whose husband killed mine, I’ll do that, and thank you to keep your comments to yourself.”
I felt the red creeping up my neck. My kids always had the sense to leave before it reached my jaw. I wondered if Connor would, too. He did, but not without a parting comment.
“You’re not living with it, Jane Wallace. You’re dying from it, you stupid girl.”
*********
Father Matt Gregory had just made the last turn before the shelf road going up the side of Little Cone when his cell rang. He was surprised. Reception was spotty out here.
He supposed that the combination of the open, upward curving road and the cloudless blue sky improved things. He fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for the phone, one hand on the wheel, still making steady uphill progress. He hoped it wasn’t anything that would call him back to town. He needed the climb to the top of this little dormant volcano to clear his head of the misery that had enveloped his town and his people since the murder of Mitch Houston and the increasing list of others.
The smart phone’s screen flipped to “missed-call” just as he extracted it. He recognized the area code and frowned. This cannot be good, he thought to himself. He edged past a dusty green jeep that had pulled as far to the side as space permitted to let him pass. The driver, a middle-aged man wearing an Indiana Jones hat and mirrored sunglasses, raised a hand in greeting. Father Matt returned the gesture.
The road widened sufficiently to permit him to pull off about a hundred yards beyond, where a broad curve bounded by piles of rock provided an overlook of the narrow road below to a colony of marmots. He saw one duck into a crevice as he pulled his vintage Land Cruiser to a stop and heard the whistle-dialog as he waited for the cell to reconnect with the previous caller.
“Bishop’s office.”
Father Matt’s anxiety increased. Bishops didn’t call parochial vicars for no reason. He forced a smile into his voice.
“This is Father Matt Gregory. I just missed a call from this number.”
“Oh. Father Gregory.” The administrative assistant, Mildred Haynes, paused for a pregnant moment. “I just left you a voicemail. The bishop wanted to speak to you, but when he couldn’t get you, he left early for a meeting. I’m afraid...I’m sorry, he can’t...um...perhaps he can call you later this afternoon?”
Her words brought her image instantly to mind: short, pale, mid-forties, tottering about on four-inch heels, with teased, bottle-black hair and tight skirts and weighed down with costume jewelry, she looked like a comedy-skit caricature of the clueless secretary. In fact, she was as canny as a card shark and known throughout the diocese for protecting both the bishop and his turf.
Father Matt forced the smile from his voice to his lips. How bad can it be if His Excellency couldn’t wait even a few minutes on the chance I’d call back?
“Look,” he said. “I’m going to be out-of-pocket for a couple of hours myself. This is the best number to reach me. I’ll keep my phone close.” Of course, it will be close to me in a place where the reception map looks like fine Emmenthaler.
Five minutes more brought him to a cul-de-sac at the end of the last graded road on this part of the mountain. A breeze ruffled the leaves of the aspens, and a few columbine nodded. Father Matt grabbed his beaten-up red backpack from behind the driver’s seat. He rummaged around in it until he found his GPS, pulled up the coordinates for the top of the mountain, and clipped the gizmo to his belt.
The first time he’d come up this mountain, he’d gotten thoroughly lost. If it hadn’t been for the good luck of encountering another hiker, rare on this peak, he might still be wandering around. He’d bought the GPS the very next day, then hired a guide to lead him up again. The price was worth it; the view from the top of the mountain was beautiful and except for that first day, he’d never encountered another living soul on this trail. It made him wonder whether that hiker had really been a resident of the pricey subdivision that snuggled up to the peak, or his guardian angel.
The trail was poorly marked and wound upwards alternatively through meadows, stands of pine and fields of scree. By the time he reached the ridge line that led through the boulder field to the summit, his shirt was soaked and he was breathing hard, the exertion a welcome relief from the thoughts that had plagued his every waking moment since Marla Kincaid — pretty, persuasive Marla Kincaid — had first walked through his office door.
He stopped to sit on a boulder, eat a handful of trail mix and swig some water, still cool; the ice cubes hadn’t quite melted. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, feeling the sun warm on his face for a moment before he stood, stretched and untied the red bandanna from his belt. He poured some of the water onto it and wiped his face and neck, then tied it loosely inside his collar. Slinging his pack back on, he started out across the field of rocks with careful determination not to think about Telluride or the murders or Marla Kincaid.
It took him almost an hour more to make the summit, but finally he rea
ched the cairn of rocks that hid the pickle jar that held the notepad and pencil, the humble record of successful summiteers. He signed his name and the date, noted with satisfaction that no one had been here since his last climb a month ago. He thought of this particular spot as his own. He placed the jar carefully back in its place of repose. Then he made the sign of the cross, said a prayer, and sat down to eat his long-overdue lunch and think.
Mountains clear the mind, make it easier to sort out difficult problems. Moses went up on the mountain for answers, and so did Patrick, he thought. Maybe I can find a way out of this mess up here. He shook his head, and a wry smile twisted his lips as he thought, If not, maybe I can just stay here.
He had just finished the double-chocolate brownie from Leona’s Cafe when his cell phone shrilled again.
He considered ignoring it, but his curiosity and a sudden sense of unease that rose unbidden out of his ruminations compelled him to answer. The worried conscience never rested easy, not even on top of the world.
“Father Gregory.”
The bishop’s raspy voice sounded distant and matter-of-fact. Father Matt noticed the lack of obsequies and answered in kind.
“Bishop. I’m sorry I missed your call.”
“Yes. Well…”
A pause. Father Matt’s eyes narrowed and his heart started to race. The bishop was a loquacious man, if a clever and sometimes manipulative one. Silence was not his style. Father Matt heard him clear his throat and resume.
“Father, some disturbing news has come to my attention. I’m afraid it involves you.”
“Disturbing in what way?”
Father Matt needed to pace, but the rocks wouldn’t permit it. Instead he rocked back and forth, rooted to the spot, fearing what might come next. He had done his best, that he knew, but the boulder forming in his gut told him it wasn’t going to be good enough.
Another discreet cough.
“Father, have you seen today’s paper? Your paper, the local one...the...”
Father Matt could hear papers shuffling in the background. The mess on the bishop’s desk was legendary.
“No, I haven’t.”
His voice was calm, but his words were sharp. Not good. He heard the shuffling stop.
“Perhaps you should. There’s a story in it about you, and it makes some serious allegations. Allegations I cannot ignore.” The bishop coughed, then resumed. “I assumed you would have seen it.” A pause. “I really did. Otherwise I would have come in person.” Another pause, then, more to himself than to the priest on the other end of the line, Father Matt heard him say, “I really should have come.”
Father Matt ran a hand through his hair. The act expended just enough energy that he was able to answer calmly, with no note of the anxiety he felt betrayed in his voice.
“I’m sorry, Excellency. I haven’t had time to read it today. There’s been a lot going on. I spent the morning on parish business, said Mass, and then decided to take a hike. What is the article about?”
He steeled his nerves for the answer, his mind racing to figure just how much trouble he was in, how badly his well-intentioned actions had been misplayed in the press. He was framing his defense, mentally taking stock of just how close he had to come to the line of truth when the bishop answered. Time, he needed time, to sort this out. It could all still be made right. He knew it could.
“It accuses you of murder, Father Matt. Rather credibly. It seems you were seen coming down from the belfry of the church the day one of those poor unfortunates was killed, and it seems the shots came from there. There’s also a suggestion that you have been...seen with...the girlfriend of one of the people who has been murdered.”
Still another pause, and when he resumed, his voice was gentle.
“I want you to know I am certain this is a complete misunderstanding, but it seems you are in the middle of a murder investigation. Mildred has been fielding calls all day long.” The bishop sighed. “I have no choice but to suspend you until this is sorted out. I’ll be sending the vicar general tomorrow. He needs to meet with you, needs to ask you some questions. You probably need to get a lawyer. I’ll...”
But the bishop was talking to himself, the smartphone sailing in a clean arc across the bright blue sky to bounce and shatter on the rocks below the summit. Matt Gregory plucked the glass jar from its hiding place and sent it cascading after, shards of glass spreading like bright drops of water in the afternoon sun, then stumbled to the edge of the mountain, dropped to his knees, put his head in his hands and wept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JUNE 17, EVENING
It was just after five when I finished the last of the reports on my desk. I was tucking the last of them back into its dark green folder when my eye caught sight of the coffee stain on the wall next to my door. I’d hurled my favorite coffee cup at the wall after Connor left. I decided that I’d had most of the day to cool off, and called Tom Patterson to find out about the case against Father Matt. I caught him just as he was leaving.
“What the hell is all this about, Tom?”
“What’s what about?”
I heard him bark orders to someone in the background and waited for him to return his attention to the call.
“You know damn good and well what. Father Matt. The article in the paper this morning.”
He answered with a long sigh. “Doc, you know how reporters are.”
“I know how reporters are and I know how cops are. What the hell is going on?”
“Wilson came by a few days ago, claiming he had some information on the case. We had to follow up on it. No choice.”
My temper rose and I counted to ten. “Tom, I'm going to ask you one more time. This is part of a murder investigation. I run the forensic lab for the state in this area. Why is it that I am just now finding out about this from the...” I counted again. Swearing was coming far too easily to my lips these days. “…local newspaper.” I emphasized the words.
“Doc, we just investigated yesterday...”
“Without any of my techs there, apparently.”
“We found a .22 round, unspent, on the floor of the belfry. It's bagged and ready.”
I closed my eyes in exasperation.
“I repeat— without benefit of my team there. No prints. No trace. No photos.”
“Photos.” He interjected. “Carter took them. There was really nothing to see — the floor had been rained on day before yesterday, pretty hard, and it was pretty clean except for a few leaves and that bullet.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Come on, Doc. The priest’s fingerprints are all over that bell tower. Why waste your time?”
I counted again. I get so very tired of excuses for not doing what needs to be done. I expect it in some quarters, but I thought I’d cured Tom Patterson of it.
“Tom,” I finally said evenly. “When this office investigates a case, we do it thoroughly and we do it the same way every time. EVERY time. And unless I misread the authorizing legislation that established the Center, we get to call the crime scene shots. Not you.”
There was a long silence. Patterson and I had collided over this before when I had first arrived in town and he had failed to call me to a DUI scene. Net result, the inebriated driver walked because there was no one there to draw a blood alcohol, and by the time one was drawn in the ER, there was sufficient wiggle room for his expensive lawyer to argue his way out of a conviction. The Center was something new and different in law enforcement, in some ways neither fish nor fowl. The powers that be had made it very clear that having a central, well-trained forensic laboratory was a priority, and the Western Slope Forensic Center was the prototype. Calling it into being had stepped on plenty of law-enforcement toes, some of those toes in well-appointed, silver tipped boots that used to have the free run of crime scenes before I arrived.
When he finally replied, his tone was stiff and formal. “I understand, Doctor Wallace.” Emphasis on the doctor. “I'll see that the evidence gets ov
er to you right away. It won’t happen again.”
The line clicked dead before I had a chance to say, “Thanks, and see that it doesn’t.”
I clicked on Outlook and dashed off an email to Lucy and Norman, telling them to get themselves over to the church and process the bell tower at the first opportunity, then thought the better of it and deleted it. There was still plenty of light. I grabbed the forensic kit and headed out the door to process the scene myself.
Then I stopped. I was already ass over teakettle in conflicts in this case, and the scene was already compromised. That I know Father Matt is no secret to anyone, and there was no need for my hard-headedness to make things worse than Patterson’s had. I stepped back to my desk and dialed Lucy’s extension. She picked up on the first ring and agreed to accompany me to the church to do the grunt work. I went along to work off the nervous energy that shattering my coffee cup had failed to dissipate.
As usual, I found the door to St. Patrick’s open. Lucy and I walked into the silent, dark interior, afternoon sun streaming in through the windows and dappling the floor.
Lucy looked around slowly, taking it all in, her eyes wide. They lingered on the massive font in the middle of the floor, then on the crucifix.
“First time in a Catholic church?” I asked.
She nodded. “My family is Buddhist.” Meaning, I supposed, that she was not, like so many of her twenty-something peers, having abandoned the faith of her parents for nothing much. She cocked her head, then added, “I saw pictures in art history, of course, and in museums. I didn’t think they actually had stuff like this in real churches. Real American churches,” she amended.
I chuckled, the sound reverberating in the stillness.
“Well, they do. And most of the time we aren’t in the business of processing them in a murder case. Let’s get busy.” I started up the balcony stairs. “If there’s an interior access to the belfry, it will be here.”
My first glance at the ceiling identified it, a pull-down stairwell in the middle of the ceiling. I pulled it down over the middle row of seats, and a few sticks and leaves fell out onto the worn plush upholstery. I let go of the pull-rope and knelt down in the aisle, taking note of the detritus on the floor. Clearly the maid gave short shrift to the balcony, all to the good in this case.
Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1) Page 27