The Last Sin

by K. L. Murphy

  The old man was stubborn. “Probably,” he said.

  Onscreen, a red-haired sports analyst in a low-cut blouse interviewed a heavily muscled basketball player almost twice her size. She smiled up at him, her expression fixed throughout the exchange. The two men watched the TV in silence until the interview ended, neither hearing a word of it, each lost in his own thoughts. Cancini picked up his phone again. Nothing.

  Smitty spoke then, his voice quiet. “How’d Julia take it when you told her you couldn’t take her to the airport?”

  Cancini tossed a handful of peanuts into his mouth, crunching. “Fine.”

  “Things good between you?”

  It was a fair question, but he didn’t know the answer. He liked Julia Manning—more than liked her—but he was in D.C. and she’d left for a story in New York. She said it was temporary, but it wasn’t the first time. A relationship was hard enough for regular people, but considering what they both did for a living, he wondered if he wasn’t better off being alone. He drained the rest of his scotch. “Fine,” he repeated.

  Smitty finished his beer, stood, and threw some bills on the bar. “I’d better get going.”

  Cancini nodded. He checked his phone a third time. What was she doing? He knew she was a night owl, often writing late into the night. Was she working? Was she alone? He wouldn’t blame her if she weren’t. He couldn’t understand what she saw in him anyway. Julia drew people to her in the same way he repelled them. He loved the sun-kissed freckles that dotted her nose and the dimple that popped up on her left cheek when she grinned. He liked the way her ponytail bounced when she walked and the way her laugh made him smile even when he had no idea what was funny. He relaxed when he was with her. She made it easy. It was different than it had been with Lola. That was work. His breath quickened and he picked up the phone, punching the numbers before he changed his mind.

  “Hi, Mike.” He heard the sound of rustling sheets in the background, and his fingers tightened over the phone. “I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.”

  He let out a long breath. “I just wanted to make sure you got to New York safely. I feel bad about this morning. There were all those thunderstorms.”

  “It’s okay. My flight was delayed, but it wasn’t bad.” He heard the hesitation in her voice. “Was it that priest that got shot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” Silence crackled over the line. “I’d rather hear about New York. The book.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Mike.” Her words were quiet, measured.

  He cradled his glass in his hand and looked up to the ceiling. He didn’t know the right things to say or when to say them. He didn’t know how to do any of this. “I know I don’t.”

  “Not that I wouldn’t love to talk about the book or my work if that’s what you really want.” She laughed then and added, “But you might be on the phone way longer than you planned.”

  “Not going anywhere.” His lips turned up as he listened to her talk. They’d met months earlier during the Coed Killer case. She’d been assigned to the story when Leo Spradlin had been granted a writ of innocence after more than two decades in prison. Cancini, the arresting officer in the original case, had been drawn back into the investigation and the small town where—following Spradlin’s release—the murders began again. Emotionally and physically wrung out after the case, she’d quit the paper, quit her doomed marriage. She’d freelanced for a while but wanted a fresh start. She claimed writing this new book about a fifteen-year-old unsolved Manhattan murder was just what she needed. He hadn’t wanted her to go to New York, but she hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t stopped her. It was her life. He understood what it was like to come out of a failed marriage. He wouldn’t pressure her.

  “The families,” she said. “Bringing it up is like living through it all over again for them. Even though it’s been years, it’s still raw. They lost their loved ones. It’s not a story or a book to them. It’s real.”

  He heard the doubt in her voice. “You’ll figure out a way. They probably just need you to listen, show compassion.”

  “Wow.” She laughed again. “Is that the official advice of the tough D.C. detective?”

  He hesitated. Was that what she thought, that he was tough? He didn’t feel so tough most of the time. Working homicide was a maze of dead bodies, ruined lives, and devastated families. Shootings, stabbings, beatings. He’d seen them all. Cancini recognized it could desensitize a man, harden him to tragedy. He’d seen it happen. But homicide hadn’t made him tough. It had softened him, and he knew it. With each new investigation, he found things weren’t always as black and white as they appeared. He believed in justice, he believed in the law, but he wasn’t tough. He lost a piece of himself with every case, but he didn’t know how to do anything else. She laughed again, and the moment was gone. “I think I like this side of you, Detective.”

  “Good to know.”

  “I’m glad you called.” The words came faster. “I should be honest. I wasn’t mad this morning, but I was annoyed.”

  The text he’d sent her had been short, no explanation. “I should have told you why I couldn’t take you to the airport. I’m not very good at this sometimes.”

  A few seconds ticked by. “I’m not looking for ‘good at this,’ Mike. I had that once. It didn’t work out.”

  Her voice, tinged with sadness, washed over him, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. He took a deep breath. What the hell? “I miss you.”

  “You’re full of surprises tonight, Detective.”

  “Hope that’s a good thing.”

  “It is.” She paused. “I miss you, too.”

  He sucked in his breath, and the lightness in his stomach made him smile again. “Talk to you tomorrow?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He laid the phone back on the bar. Monty refilled his glass and wiped the counter in one motion.

  Cancini hadn’t expected to care about a woman again. After Lola had traded him in for Martin, he’d been happy to have her gone, happy to let her take it all. Her absence had left a trail of quiet, a legacy of solitude. He’d socialized little, dated even less. He’d worn that solitude like a cloak, armor on the job and in his personal life. It was easier that way. But Julia had come along and made him wonder. For better or for worse, Julia had slipped under his skin.

  He pushed the scotch away and slid off the stool.

  “Gonna call it a night?” Monty asked.

  “Yeah. Long day tomorrow.” The bartender picked up the empty glass and waved a hand. Cancini slid off the stool. The phone on the bar vibrated. He snatched it up and read the glowing screen. A text from an unidentified number lit up the screen.

  Follow the money.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Papers and pictures covered the surface of the long table. Smitty pointed to a photocopy of Holland’s wish list, the one that had been pinned to the bulletin board outside his office. “Stained glass. Landscaping. Steeple. Paint. Basement. And that’s just the beginning.” He paused and whistled softly. “That’s quite a list.

  Father Joe ignored the paper. “Matthew had big goals. It is also true that the church needed a lot in the way of renovations.”

  “And the other stuff on the list?”

  From the corner of the room, Cancini appraised the old man. If possible, Father Joe looked worse than he had he day before. A weary voice, pallid complexion, and red-rimmed eyes suggested he’d spent a long and restless night.

  “Matthew was not only interested in the physical problems of the church. That was one thing,” Father Joe explained. “But more, he wanted to increase attendance, get people back in the church, show them faith and give them hope. He created outreach programs and Bible groups and support groups.”

  Smitty uncrossed his long legs. “And did he? Give them hope?”

  “I think so, but I’m not sure he thought it was good enough or fast enough. Matthew had a
tendency toward impatience. He wanted to get the windows fixed right away. He wanted the pews to be filled every Sunday.” Father Joe looked down at his hands. “Most of all, he wanted to help those he considered lost—and he didn’t want to wait.”

  “How noble,” Smitty said.

  Father Joe stiffened.

  “All those repairs, the stained glass, getting people in the church, that takes money, right?”

  Father Joe looked up, moon-shaped crevices between his brows. “Yes.”

  “A helluva lot of money that St. William didn’t have. Am I right?”

  Father Joe sighed. “Yes, Detective Smithson, you’re right. St. William has needed money for a long time. Matthew was frustrated by that, but it’s not uncommon in the poorer churches. I have several friends in similar situations, but they aren’t dead because of it. What exactly are you getting at?”

  Smitty put down his pen and notebook and slid his chair closer to the table. He leaned forward, his voice even. “What I’m getting at is that we know money was an issue and we know Father Holland was anxious about it. As you said, he had a tendency toward impatience.” Smitty paused and waved a hand in the air. “I’m asking if Father Holland might have taken a few shortcuts.”

  “Shortcuts?”

  “Let’s call it nonstandard methods of acquiring funds.”

  Father Joe’s face turned pink. “You mean illegal, don’t you?”

  “A loan at a very high interest rate, then?”

  “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? Matthew was a good man. He was a man of his word.” He placed both hands on the table, his voice rising with each word. “He wouldn’t go to a—a loan shark or anything else like you’re suggesting. It’s absurd.” He took several deep breaths and ran a trembling hand over his bald head. “He was a good man,” he said again.

  Smitty pushed copies of the threatening e-mails across the table. “What about these, then? Someone was angry enough to threaten him.” Father Joe stared at the e-mails. “Go ahead. Read them.”

  Five long minutes passed as Father Joe read one e-mail after another. His complexion, already ghostlike, paled, and the shadows under his eyes darkened. He laid the papers back on the table. “I didn’t know about these.”

  “Do you know who wrote them?”

  “I just told you I didn’t know about them.”

  Cancini sat up straighter in his chair.

  “Let’s try this, then. Do you have any idea who might have hated Father Holland enough to send those e-mails?”

  “I could think about it, I suppose.” He looked around, licking his lips. “Could I get some water?”

  Cancini’s head pounded. Father Joe might not have known about the e-mails before that moment, but Cancini didn’t believe for a minute he had no idea who might have sent them. He stood up, drawing both men’s attention. “Father Joe, I know this is hard. Losing someone you care about is difficult no matter how it happens.” His back itched and he sensed Martin’s eyes burning behind the glass. Cancini had done exactly the opposite of what Martin told him to do and inserted himself in the interview. Too bad. “Just a few more questions.”

  The old man’s face sagged. “I do want to help.”

  “I know you do.” He pulled out a chair close to the priest. “We’ve looked through all of Father Holland’s e-mails—including the ones he sent you—and according to those, the two of you did meet on a regular basis, for lunch on Wednesdays.”

  “Not always. Sometimes one of us had a funeral or special Mass.”

  “But most of the time it was a Wednesday, and yesterday was a Monday. Also, you were seeing him for breakfast instead of lunch. Was there a reason you couldn’t meet this week at your usual time?”

  Father Joe looked at his hands again. “Not that I know of. He didn’t say. Just e-mailed me and asked me to meet him Monday morning.”

  “E-mailed you on Sunday?”

  “Yes, between the noon and five o’clock Masses.”

  “He e-mailed you three times in two hours.”

  “I guess he did. I didn’t answer the first two because I hadn’t checked my e-mail yet, so he sent another. As I said, Matthew was often impatient.”

  “Did you think it was strange that he wanted to meet on Monday?”

  “Unusual but not strange.” Father Joe touched the collar at his neck. “Is there a point to this?”

  “Why didn’t he just call you? Or text you?”

  “Matthew didn’t like talking on the phone, and you know how I feel about texting.” He held up thick fingers. “My fingers don’t work so well all the time.”

  Cancini leaned in, his face close to Father Joe’s. “Impatient or not, sending three e-mails in two hours seems excessive. What was so important that it couldn’t wait until Wednesday?”

  The priest pressed his lips together. “The e-mails didn’t say.”

  “But you knew?”

  Father Joe shifted in his chair, eyes still downcast. “I knew he wanted to meet for breakfast. I like breakfast, so I said yes.”

  Cancini frowned. More evasion, truth without truth. He glanced at Smitty and shook his head. It was the best he could do.

  Understanding they wouldn’t get anything more, no matter how many questions they asked, Smitty wrapped up the interview. “Father Joe, why don’t we get someone to take you home? We’ll let you know if we have any more questions.”

  Martin burst into the room the minute the priest had gone. “Goddammit, Cancini! I told you to stay out of it. Are you trying to screw up this case? Smitty had him ready to tell us who might have had it in for the guy, and you start talking about a couple of random e-mails. What the hell were you doing? Why did you let him go?”

  Cancini exhaled slowly. “We let him go because he isn’t a suspect.”

  “I don’t give a shit if he’s a suspect or not. We need information and you let him walk out.”

  “He’s an old man. He was tired.”

  “He was tired? For Christ’s sake. Should we let every suspect we interview leave when they get tired?”

  “He’s not a suspect,” Cancini said again.

  “I told you I don’t give a shit. Pull one more stunt like that and you’re off the case,” he said, and stormed out of the room.

  Smitty returned to the conference room, pale lips pressed together. “I think you were right. That e-mail about the breakfast Monday meant something. Father Holland was worried.”

  “Not only that,” Cancini said, his heart heavy, “whatever it was, Father Joe knew about it. He’s in this up to his neck.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  2005

  “I got accepted.” Matt waved the letter in the air, a broad smile creeping across his face.

  Father Joe grinned and hugged the young man. “I knew you would.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” Matt said. The old man reddened, but his smile deepened. Matt hugged him again. It was true. The priest had given him a place to sleep, food, and a place to study. He’d breezed through his high school equivalency exam and sent off applications to three small Christian colleges. All accepted him.

  “I’m so proud of you, Matthew.”

  The young man shrugged his shoulders and then let out a whoop. It was the first step and he’d done it! If only his mother could see him now.

  Father Joe poured two cups of tea. “Well, which one is it going to be?”

  “This one.” Matt held up the letter in his hand. “Assumption.” Father Joe lowered his eyes, and he understood in an instant. Assumption was in Massachusetts, the farthest of the three schools.

  “That’s a good school.”

  “It’s the best one,” Matt answered.

  “It’s also the most expensive.”

  “I’ve got money.”

  “Ah.” Father Joe picked up his cup and saucer and blew gently on the steaming tea.

  The old man wouldn’t look at him, but the young man heard the questions in his mind anyway. Where did the money
come from? Was the money how he’d survived? Where had he spent the last three years? He’d discouraged questions up to now, easily steering the conversations back to the present, but he knew the old man’s concerns would not go away.

  “Padre.”

  Father Joe looked up. “Yes?”

  “You seem upset. Aren’t you happy for me?”

  The priest offered a resigned smile. “Of course I am. I’m sad because Assumption is so far away. You just got back, and I feel like I’m losing you again. But I’m extremely happy for you.”

  Matt leaned forward, his face serious. “I want to be far away. Not from you,” he added quickly, “but away from other people here, other stuff.”

  “Running away won’t solve your problems,” Father Joe cautioned.

  “I know that.” Matt stood up and went to the window. Sunlight poured through, wrapping him in white light, and he shivered under the warmth. He’d run away at fifteen and he’d run away a second time—this time to Father Joe. He swung around, his eyes flat. “But leaving gives me time.”

  “Time for what exactly?”

  Matt shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, pushing up the hooded sweatshirt. “Lots of things. Time to think. Time to fix things. Time to change my life.”

  The corners of Father Joe’s mouth turned up for a moment before the smile faded. “You’ve really thought this through.”

  “Yes.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Father’s Joe’s head shot up. “Why so soon?”

  Matt looked at the floor, then back out the window. When he spoke, the pride and excitement that had tinged his earlier words was gone, resignation in its place. “I can’t stay here any longer. It’s not safe. For me or for you.”

  “What do you mean, not safe?”

  The color had drained from the old man’s face, and Matt felt a pang of guilt. “Someone’s looking for me. At least I think they are.” Maybe they’d given up, but he couldn’t take the chance any longer. “I need to leave before they find me or figure out I’ve been here.”