The 7th Canon

by Robert Dugoni

  “Where?”

  “In the upper right-hand drawer of my desk. I keep the log inside my Bible.”

  Donley stopped writing and looked up from the pad.

  “The success of the shelter depends upon trust. Except for state funding, I keep the names in that book, and what each boy brings to the shelter, strictly confidential.”

  Donley reviewed his notes. “I should be getting the police and witness statements this afternoon. The show I put on in court was pretty much from the hip. Right now their case is blood and fingerprints. They’ll use a lot of scientific data and statistics to impress the jury, but I can argue that away. The rest might not come into evidence because they didn’t have a warrant to search your office. There are ways around that, but we have a chance because you also used it as your personal residence. We’ll have to argue that whoever left the photographs also bloodied the letter opener, but without something more solid, we’ll look like we’re grasping at straws.” Donley put the cap back on his pen and stood. “This will get me started.” He picked up his briefcase and put on his jacket.

  “Do you pray, Peter?”

  Donley fixed his cuffs. “I’m afraid not too much, Father.”

  “I believe that God is nearest in our darkest moments.”

  Donley disagreed but wasn’t about to debate it. “I’ll have to take your word on that one.”

  They shook hands. Then Donley walked to the metal door and knocked twice.

  “Merry Christmas, Peter.”

  The door opened. Donley had forgotten again. Christmas Eve. “Merry Christmas,” he said. He stepped into the hallway, and the heavy door swung shut behind him.

  Chapter 12

  Father Martin knelt at the side of the metal-frame bed attached to the wall, an empty dinner tray on the thin mattress. It was the first meal he’d eaten in more than forty-eight hours, but it still hadn’t been satisfying. The fried chicken and mashed potatoes had a chalky, high-carbohydrate taste. The green beans were overcooked. Still, he ate every bite.

  Peter Donley had given him renewed hope.

  He refocused his attention on his daily prayers, and he dedicated those prayers to Donley. He didn’t know what was in Donley’s past that had darkened his perception of the world, but he had worked long enough with troubled young men to recognize one. Donley had carefully crafted an appearance to hide whatever it was that had made him so guarded and jaded, but Father Martin knew that never lasted long. He suspected an alcoholic household and parental abuse, likely by Donley’s father.

  As he prayed, Father Martin’s concentration wandered and he thought he detected the faint sound of Christmas music. He was uncertain whether he was actually hearing the music, or if his mind was filling in the notes he’d come to know so well. Either way, he deduced the song to be “The First Noel.”

  The jail had extended visiting hours for family, and he had overheard one of the guards say there would be some semblance of a Christmas party, though not for Father Martin. He would not be let loose in the general population. On the ladder of crimes, pedophiles and child killers were at the bottom rung. The other inmates wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.

  The sound of the lock on his cell door disengaging interrupted the music and refocused Father Martin’s attention. He looked up from the side of the bed as a deputy sheriff with a meaty face and thick, wedge-shaped mustache walked into his cell, holding the handcuffs and chains. He’d never seen the man before.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “Blood work.”

  “Tonight?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  “No fooling. And I get off as soon as I deliver you. So let’s go.”

  Father Martin stood and forced his stocking feet into the rubber slippers. He hesitated and picked up Peter Donley’s business card from the bed. “I’d like to call my lawyer,” he said.

  “You can make that call after your blood work. Transporting you is the last thing I have to do tonight.”

  Gil Ramsey was pleased, though not surprised, at the large turnout for his Christmas Eve party at his spacious home in Pacific Heights. Limousines and expensive automobiles pulled up the circular driveway to the valet, and men and women in expensive suits and dresses emerged beneath a temporary awning. Inside, a five-piece orchestra played in the foyer beneath a crystal chandelier, and the caterer’s staff walked through the crowd in white coats carrying silver trays with hors d’oeuvres and crystal flutes of chilled champagne and expensive wine.

  The crowd, a who’s who of the state’s politicians, had been ensured by Augustus Ramsey and included a former US senator, a current US senator, a Congresswoman, a former White House chief of staff, an ambassador to France, a California Supreme Court justice, a Superior Court judge, a handful of actors and actresses who called the city home, and enough blue blood San Francisco families to make the New York Stock Exchange take notice.

  Gil Ramsey greeted each guest beneath a large oil canvas—a portrait of his father painted when he served as governor. He took particular notice when Linda St. Claire walked in the front door in a white-silk gown with a plunging neckline, her arm entwined around the arm of a prominent San Francisco plaintiff’s lawyer. Ramsey would have liked more time to admire her figure, but this was not a social affair. Not for him. This was business. After greeting his guests, he flowed from one group to the next, holding conversations on a variety of subjects. Well versed and well read, Ramsey took pride in his ability to discuss the 49ers as readily as the Asian-tapestry exhibit currently on display at the de Young Museum. When prompted, he’d even discuss politics, though his standard line for the evening was, “No politics tonight. Eat, drink, and be merry.”

  But, of course, the night was all about politics. With the upcoming election, Ramsey did not have time to eat, drink, and be merry. He barely had time to take a piss. While his father had not been able to parlay the governorship of one of the richest electoral-vote states in the union to the White House, Ronald Reagan had, and Augustus Ramsey believed the same fate could await his son. Neither was about to let Christmas get in the way of the first step toward that goal.

  As Ramsey charmed the curator of the Asian Art Museum, a hand touched the back of his elbow. Without losing eye contact with his guest, Ramsey leaned back far enough for the assistant to whisper in his ear. Ramsey nodded once, giving no other outward indication that his attention had been diverted. Then, at an appropriate break in the conversation, he excused himself and glided past his guests, promising to return. The aide waited for him in the corner of the kitchen.

  “Did he give you a name?” Ramsey asked, annoyed.

  The young woman shook her head. “But he was very persistent. He’s in your study.”

  “And he said this was about the campaign?”

  She nodded.

  Ramsey groaned. “Talk to the caterer. Tell them the punch is flat, and the caviar tastes like shit.”

  He walked through the kitchen, which tonight served as the caterer’s battleground, and dodged trays on his way to his study at the back of the house. Stepping in, he smelled the aroma of one of his Cuban cigars. A trail of smoke wafted above the back of his green-leather chair, which faced away from him, toward the view out the French doors leading to the back deck.

  “Can I help you?” Ramsey asked.

  The chair swiveled.

  Ramsey dropped his glass, shattering it.

  Donley mingled among the crowd in his living room wearing a red-wool sweater and a Santa Claus hat trimmed with white fur. The ball at the tip of the hat flopped to the side, weighted with Christmas bells. Kim was in the kitchen, dressed similarly, the kind of “couple’s outfit” Donley had sworn he’d never wear. At least the bells thrilled Benny, who continued going strong an hour past his bedtime. At the moment, he was wearing out his grandfather’s knee getting horsey rides on the living-room couch. Donley suspected the sugar pulsing through hi
s son’s system from the chocolate fudge, cream puffs, and candy canes could have powered an entire grade school.

  Most of the guests were Kim’s relatives, close friends without local family, and a few clients. Four years earlier, Kim had had the idea of a party for a few friends whose families lived out of state. The party had evolved from there. In years past, Lou and Sarah had come. Donley missed having them.

  He did his best to deliver refills on drinks and collect empty bottles and glasses as he worked his way toward the kitchen, where the aroma of Kim’s crab hors d’oeuvres enticed. Making his way through the crowd was proving difficult; everyone wanted to talk to him, and most conversations started with the person having seen Donley on the evening news. The stations were particularly fond of playing the part outside the courtroom where Donley had confronted Ramsey and St. Claire about the problems with the evidence.

  Judge Trimble would not be happy.

  Still, Donley was doing his best to not think of Milton Trimble, Linda St. Claire, or Gil Ramsey. Several beers had helped, though they had not quieted his thoughts about Father Thomas Martin.

  God comes in our darkest moments.

  Donley wondered how a man who dealt with so much despair, who witnessed children abandoned on the streets like discarded furniture and abused by sick and twisted adults, could have such faith.

  Where was their God?

  Where had God been those nights Donley hid beneath his bed, praying? God had not answered his prayers. God had not helped him or his mother in their darkest hours.

  The smell of crab intensified, and Donley bumped and grinded through the crowd to the sound of Christmas carols sung by Elvis Presley—the tape a gift from Mr. Anitolli’s three sons. The judge had ruled in their favor.

  Kim held the tray of crab hors d’oeuvres in gloved hands and was issuing a warning to the group of bodies between her and the wooden cutting board.

  “Coming through. Coming through.”

  Donley walked past her, did a spin move to avoid the tray, and pinched her butt. She ignored him until she’d put the tray down, then turned and smiled. He picked out two of the wedges and popped one into his mouth.

  “Hot,” she said. Too late.

  He fanned his tongue, the crab burning, grabbed a bottle of beer from an outstretched hand, and took a long drink.

  “Damn,” he said, running his tongue along the roof of his mouth and feeling it already starting to peel.

  Kim laughed. “I tried to warn you.”

  He spotted a tray of custard-filled, chocolate-topped cream puffs, popped a whole one in his mouth, and planted a messy cream-and-chocolate kiss over Kim’s lips. The crowd in the kitchen hooted.

  “Doorbell,” Kim said, wiping the chocolate from the corner of her mouth.

  “What?”

  She pointed at the buzzer located over the entrance to the kitchen. “Get the door.”

  Donley kissed her again and made his way through the dining room, dropping off two beers and a glass of white wine on his way. He pulled open the front door. Mike and Rochelle Harris and their two children stood on his porch dressed in the same matching red sweaters and hats, bells dangling to the side. Harris’s son and daughter raced past Donley in search of Benny. Rochelle stepped in holding a tray of stuffed mushrooms. Donley tried to steal one.

  She swatted his hand. “They’re not cooked yet. Where’s Kim?”

  “Kitchen duty. I’m on drink patrol.”

  Rochelle turned to her husband, who held a bottle of wine and wrapped presents. “I’ll be in the kitchen giving Kim a hand. Be good. You still have a bike to put together tonight.” She left the two men standing under the mistletoe.

  “You can stand there, but I’m not going to kiss you,” Donley said.

  Harris looked past him. “You have any other brothers at this party, or am I the Christmas token, again?”

  “If I wanted a token, I’d have found someone a hell of a lot cooler than you.”

  “You’re in a good mood.” Harris stepped in and Donley closed the door. “How many have you had?”

  “Enough to forget.”

  Harris handed Donley the bottle of wine. “You were front and center on the six o’clock news, pal.”

  Donley put a hand to his face. “I’m sorry, Mike.”

  “I should have known you’d take on Ramsey and The Chair. You just can’t help yourself.” He handed Donley the presents. “Merry Christmas. It’s another sweater.”

  “Thanks for the surprise.” Donley laughed. “Come on in. I’ll get you a beer.”

  Donley found a beer in the fridge, twisted off the top, and handed it to Harris. “I assume you don’t want a glass?”

  “Bottle is fine.”

  Donley watched Kim answer the phone in the small nook off the kitchen. She put a finger in her ear as she walked out the back door onto the deck. After a moment, she returned, made eye contact with Donley, and mimed that the phone was for him.

  Thinking it could be his aunt Sarah, he walked out onto the deck. The temperature was brisk. “Who is it?”

  “The county jail,” she said.

  Donley took the phone, expecting to hear Father Martin’s voice. “Hello?”

  “Peter Donley?”

  Donley stuck a finger in his ear. “Yes. Who’s this?”

  With one sentence, Donley’s Christmas Eve came to an end.

  Dixon Connor removed his black wingtips from the corner of Gil Ramsey’s desk and stood. Behind him, French doors to the English garden framed the Golden Gate Bridge, a silhouette outlined by sparkling white lights that reflected off the darkened waters of the San Francisco Bay and stretched to the Marin Headlands.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Ramsey asked.

  “Long time no see, Gil.”

  “I’m calling the police.” Ramsey walked to the edge of the desk and picked up the phone.

  “Wouldn’t,” Connor said.

  “Breaking and entering is a crime, Connor.”

  Connor picked up the remote control from the desk and pointed it at a television on a built-in shelf across the room. The television blinked. Ramsey turned his head. The image was grainy and dark, but he could make out two people.

  “Not the best quality,” Connor said. “But good enough, don’t you think?”

  Ramsey lowered the phone back to its cradle and walked closer to the television screen. Whoever had been filming zoomed in, and Ramsey froze. Stunned. Unable to speak.

  “The eyes don’t lie, do they, Gil?” Connor waited a moment before clicking off the remote, leaving Ramsey staring at his reflection in the darkened glass.

  “Shocking, isn’t it? Who would have thunk it? I mean, a video camera, of all things. Never would have thought the little shits were that enterprising, would you?” Connor walked around the room, picking up and putting down things from the desk and shelving. “Almost as surprising as you and me ending up at the same shindig. What are the chances of that, huh?” He sniffed the air. “Something smells good. What’s in the oven?”

  Ramsey pulled his gaze from the television. “What do you want?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

  “I’m sorry. Did you say something, Gil?”

  Ramsey swallowed with difficulty. His voice croaked. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

  Connor shrugged. “I can’t say I’ve honestly made up my mind. You see, Gil, in the vernacular, now I got you by the balls, just like you once had a grip on my old man’s nut sack. What do they call this . . . poetic justice?”

  “I—”

  “I only wish he were still alive to see it. God, he would have loved this. Opportunities like this don’t come around but once in a lifetime. So, a man has to be judicious with how he uses something like this. He can’t rush his decision. He has to be patient and prudent.” Connor pointed the cigar. “You look a little pale, Gil.” He motioned to the chair behind the desk. “You want to take a seat?”

  Ramsey did not respond.

  “Cat
got your tongue? Why don’t I try for you? Holy shit!” Connor yelled.

  Ramsey flinched and turned quickly to the door.

  “What’s the matter? You afraid one of your other guests might hear me? Hell, I don’t have to yell.” Connor started for the door. “I’ll just go mingle through the crowd and whisper in their ears. Or maybe I’ll pop the video in the family television.”

  “No,” Ramsey said.

  Connor turned. “I must be losing my hearing. Did you say something?”

  “What do you want?” Ramsey asked again.

  “I told you, I’m really not sure, but I’m thinking half a million. Cash. Can’t accept a check or credit card, I’m afraid.”

  Ramsey’s jaw dropped. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Of course you do. You and your father could probably scrounge that up tonight if you stood at the door and held out a hat. Hell, you should consider it cheap, because it is. And we both know it. The alternative is murder one—”

  “Murder? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Let me fill you in on this bit of police procedure I picked up humping my ass for the past twenty-five years. It’s something my dad taught me before . . . well, we don’t really have to get into old history tonight, do we? After all, it’s Christmas Eve. Anyway, as I was saying, police procedure, detective stuff. If you want to solve a crime, you always look for the guy with the motive. Who has the motive, Gil?”

  Ramsey shut his eyes.

  “You need a drink or something, Gil? You really do look like you’re going to be sick.” Connor pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “I figured it out. If you take my old man’s salary, what he would have earned until he voluntarily resigned, which I think was the way you put it, plus the full pension he lost, along with the equity in the house and the stocks he had to cash in to pay his attorneys’ fees, it comes to just about $223,000. Hell, he was just a civil servant. Wiped him out.” Connor again pointed the cigar. “Now that’s just the hard costs. I’m adding a fee for pain and suffering. What do they call that, punitive damages? You understand. But, hey, I’m not totally unreasonable. I didn’t add even a penny of interest.” Connor winked. “That’s just the kind of guy I am.”