by K. L. Murphy
The boy had frowned. “So, let me get this straight. No matter what I tell you, no matter how bad, you won’t tell anyone.”
“If you come to make reconciliation, I am bound by the sacrament. I cannot tell anyone.”
“Even if you wanted to?”
“Even then.”
Wide-eyed, he’d sat dumbfounded. Then it had dawned on him. Going to confession was like a code, like a street code. Father Joe couldn’t rat him out. It was against the rules. Instead, he offered forgiveness. Matt didn’t know why, but he felt better, lighter.
“Matthew, are you still there?”
Father Holland blinked and the past receded. “Sorry, I was thinking about what you said.” The memory gone, he felt the burden of unconfessed sins. They both knew he could find someone else, but he wouldn’t. The confessional was where he went to cleanse, to feel whole again. And it had to be with Father Joe, the man who knew who he was and where he’d come from. It saved time. “I need to do this and I need it to be you. It’s the only way for me.”
He heard the priest sigh again. “Are you ready for your penance?”
Matt clasped his hands together. “Yes, Father.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Smitty focused on the road, silent, lips pressed together. He turned the car and they sped past a dozen boarded-up row houses that rose like shadows from under the streetlamps. After a few blocks, the row houses gave way to short, squat apartment buildings with small, rectangular windows. Ahead, an illuminated Washington Monument pierced the skyline. Lines creased Smitty’s brow, and the long fingers of his hands opened and closed over the steering wheel.
Cancini stared unseeing out the window. He understood Smitty’s frustration, shared it even. Father Joe had been able to tell them very little about the shooting. He’d seen nothing and heard nothing until the shot rang out. His leg had buckled and he’d fallen. He’d looked up to see a dark sedan speeding down the street, but he couldn’t tell them the make or model. His face had been blank when they’d asked if he’d caught any of the license plate.
Smitty pulled into the precinct lot and slammed the gear into park. He made no move to get out of the car. His fingers tapped the steering wheel.
“Spit it out,” Cancini said.
“He told you something before I came in the room, didn’t he? Are you going to tell what it is?”
“You think I’m holding something back.”
The words hung in the air. Smitty rubbed the tips of his long fingers with his thumb. “Are you?”
The older detective let out his breath. He didn’t know anything that changed the evidence they had. He didn’t have any new leads. All he’d learned was that their victim was having regular confession sessions with Father Joe. Without a more intimate knowledge of those conversations, he couldn’t justify betraying Father Joe’s confidence. “Not the way you mean.”
Smitty faced Cancini. “You didn’t say a word when I questioned him about the shooting.”
“You were doing a good job. I had nothing to add.”
“Or you already knew everything he was going to say.” Smitty shook the hair from his forehead. His blue eyes fixed on Cancini. “I have to ask you. What did you talk about before I came in?”
“We talked about his relationship with Father Holland. He told me they were close, but we already knew that.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing important. They’re going to keep him another night to watch his blood pressure.”
“That’s all?”
Cancini was quiet a moment. The old man had always been devout and had always been stubborn. Being shot had not changed that. “You can’t ask me about his confessions, Michael,” he’d said, hands clasped across his belly. “I won’t tell you anything. I will not break my vows.”
“Even if it could help us find his murderer?” Cancini had asked.
The old man had blinked only once. “Even then.”
Cancini had been disappointed but not surprised. There were things about the Catholic faith he would never understand but was forced to accept. Father Joe, for better or for worse, would never break his word.
The priest had shivered under his sheet. “I must ask a favor of you now.”
Cancini had rubbed Father Joe’s hands, warming the old man’s flesh. “Let me guess. You’d rather I not mention the confessions at all.”
“It wouldn’t change anything. All priests go to confession. I go to confession. But there are some who would not understand, who might misinterpret that even priests have sins to confess.” Cancini had pulled back. “You don’t like it?”
“No, Father, I don’t. I’m not going to promise you I won’t say anything. If it seems important, I won’t have any choice. He may have told you something, especially recently, that could be the break we need in our investigation.”
The old man had shrugged. “I couldn’t say. You will find his murderer, Michael. I have faith in you.”
“I hope you haven’t misplaced it this time, Father.”
“Never.” Father Joe tipped his chin toward the door. “When do you expect your partner?”
“Any minute. I know you’re tired. I’m sorry.”
“There is nothing to apologize for.” He’d laid his head back again, and white tufts of hair fanned across the pillow. “It is sometimes a terrible world we live in. Good men are gunned down and lives are lost. It makes me sad.” He looked out the window into the darkness, words of the past spilling out. “When Matthew came home, after he finished seminary, he was disappointed to see that his neighborhood had gotten even worse. The drugs, the prostitutes. I tried to warn him, but he would not be dissuaded. He felt it was his mission from God, no matter the consequences.”
Cancini had frowned. It seemed the consequences were high, and Holland’s mission had left him dead. Was that what the old man had feared all along?
Smitty cleared his throat, and Cancini was jolted back to the present. He considered his young partner. There was nothing to be gained by sharing the knowledge of the confessions without their substance. Father Joe was right. All priests went to confession, and Holland was no exception. As evidence, it meant nothing. “That’s all. He didn’t tell me anything we can use.” He paused and added, “But I wish like hell he had.”
Chapter Twenty-six
“I gotta tell you, Captain. This guy, he might’ve been a priest, but he had a way with the ladies, if you know what I mean . . .” Bronson raised his eyebrows.
“Don’t be an ass, Bronson,” Martin said.
Cancini stifled a grin and peeked at his watch. Martin loved meetings—the more participants the better—counting the time as hands-on involvement in the investigation. For fun, he liked to call them at seven in the morning. While Cancini didn’t mind, Bronson looked like he could use an entire pot of coffee on an IV drip.
Bronson shifted in his chair, red splotches erupting on his fleshy cheeks. “For one thing, since Holland took over as permanent priest, membership has doubled.”
“So?”
“Almost eighty percent of those were women. All ages, too. They all wanted to come and see the good-looking priest. One guy said it was turning into St. Wilhelmina Church.” He chuckled once.
Martin’s forehead creased. “I get it. What else?”
Bronson’s smile faded. “It wasn’t just at the services. They started a ladies’ Bible study on Wednesday mornings. Holland would come in at the end, have coffee and such. Got pretty popular according to a couple of the regulars.” He cleared his throat. “The secretary was there, too.”
Martin’s voice grew strained. “So the guy was good-looking and the ladies’ Bible study was popular? Where the hell are you going with this, Bronson?”
Bronson stuck out his chin. “The husband. That’s where I’m going with this.”
“What husband?” the captain asked.
“I think he means the secretary’s husband.” Cancini leaned forward as he spoke. “Sonny Harding.”
“Yeah.” Bronson twitched, his voice a whine. “You told me to watch him, let you know if anything seemed weird, so . . .”
Martin’s head swiveled around to Cancini. “Why is Bronson watching this man and why is this the first I’ve heard of it?”
Cancini ignored Martin, his focus on Bronson. “And did something seem weird?”
“Not at first.” Bronson shifted in his seat, his eyes darting between the captain and Cancini. “He takes the wife to work, picks her up every day. Lotta guys do that. Then I saw he drives her to the grocery store and waits. Same with the hairdresser. Then I heard about the Bible study.” He paused and licked his lips. “On Wednesdays, he brings her to work like always. At ten, the Bible study starts. A couple of the ladies who went said the husband started showing up, waiting for his wife. When she comes out of the meeting, they talk, then he leaves.”
Cancini made a few notes. “What time does he drop her off in the mornings?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“Maybe he just stuck around on Wednesdays.”
“Nah. The other ladies said he wasn’t there when they would go into the meeting, but he was standing right at the door when they came out.”
“So he would wait for his wife, talk, and then leave. Anyone say if he seemed angry? Anything unusual?”
Bronson shook his head. “But I did hear more than once that maybe the husband wasn’t too fond of the deceased.”
Martin leaned forward, irritation forgotten. “In what way?”
“The ladies said Father Holland tried to talk to him a couple of times, but the husband wouldn’t look at him and barely said a word. They thought it looked like the secretary might’ve been embarrassed. A couple people told me she seemed nervous about everyone watching. She would take him out of the church, they’d talk, and he’d leave. Every week for the last couple of months.”
Cancini made a few more notes, then looked over at Smitty. “Do we know if Mrs. Harding has a driver’s license?”
“She does,” Smitty said.
“How many cars do they own?”
“Just one, but St. William is only a short walk from the metro and about the same distance from their house.”
“Technically, she doesn’t need a ride to work?”
“Not technically, no.”
Cancini closed his notebook and stood up. Martin stood with him. “Why don’t you do a little more digging into Mr. Harding’s background?”
“Got it,” Bronson said, and left the conference room.
“Hold on a minute.” Martin raised a hand when Cancini stood. “I’m curious. Why did you have Bronson watching the husband?”
“The wife seems to have a lot of injuries.” Cancini knew he might have misjudged what he’d seen, but something about the lady felt off, felt like she was hiding something from them.
The captain’s face was blank. “What does that mean?”
“She has a lot of bruises that don’t seem to be explained. She’s not a big woman and works in a church. It’s not a physically demanding job. Her husband is big, muscular. She’s either awfully accident-prone or . . .”
Martin chewed his lower lip, turning the words over in his mind. “You think this guy is using his wife as a punching bag?”
“Maybe.”
“We just heard the husband didn’t like our victim. Are you thinking maybe he’s hitting his wife because he’s jealous? Of a priest?”
“I don’t know, Captain. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“Just when you think you’ve heard it all . . .” Martin shook his head as he spoke. “Fine. Check the guy out.” He pointed a finger at the detectives. “But I don’t want you wasting a lot of time on this theory if you can’t tie him to the e-mails. The guy who sent those, he’s our killer.” He swept his folder under his arm. “I’ll expect an update at the end of the day.”
The door swung shut behind him. Cancini’s stomach rumbled and burned. The captain wasn’t wrong. With the e-mails, they had evidence of threats and a relationship that appeared to have gone from mildly unfriendly to outright hostile in a hurry. Follow the money. The sudden increase in funds at the church was a giant red flag, too. Could Holland have been playing fast and loose with church money? Either way, neither the e-mails nor the church funds could be tied to Harding. At least not yet.
Chapter Twenty-seven
2013
Carlos Vega slipped into the booth. “I’m here.”
Matt inhaled and sat back against the hard plastic of the bench seat. Goose bumps rose on the back of his neck. It had been close to a decade since he’d seen his former friend. A single gold rope glittered against the dark hair that peeked out over the collar of his shirt. His hair, shiny with oil, was tucked behind his ears. A thin white line ran from his cheek to his chin, and tattoos decorated the insides of his muscular forearms.
Carlos looked around the diner, one heavy eyebrow arched. “I still don’t know why you dragged me out to the middle of nowhere. We’re city boys, Matty.”
A waitress in a pair of stretch pants and a T-shirt set a cup and saucer on the table. Matt waited. She poured Carlos’s coffee, refilled Matt’s cup, and tossed two menus on the table. When she was out of earshot, Matt said, “I wanted to talk to you alone, without anyone around.”
“Shit. You coulda just come to my crib for that.” Carlos dumped three packets of sugar into his coffee. “My guys coulda waited outside.”
Matt glanced out the window at the black Escalade with the tinted windows. How many others were with Carlos? Two? Three? He pulled his baseball hat lower. “I didn’t want other guys around, even outside.”
Carlos’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Yeah? It’s been a long time since you split. You in some kinda trouble, man?”
Matt shook his head. “No, nothing like that.” He pulled aside the collar of his jacket, exposing the stiff clerical collar. “I’m a priest now.”
His former friend flopped back against the bench. “Get the fuck outta here.”
“No, it’s true,” Matt said with a sheepish grin. “Kinda surprised myself, actually.”
“A priest? For real?”
“Yep. That’s where I’ve been these last few years. Studying at seminary.”
Carlos shook his head. “You mean like you went to school for that shit?”
Matt smiled. Carlos had always missed more school than most, his job on the streets requiring his presence, even as a teen. He had no use for the kind of education the teachers were giving. “Yeah. I went to school.”
“Shit,” Carlos said again, drinking his coffee. “You comin’ back to the hood?”
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Carlos, friendly one moment, was suddenly all business, expression wary. “What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Fuck that, man. Everybody wants somethin’. You didn’t haul my ass to this shithole after I haven’t laid eyes on you in who knows how many years ’cause you don’t want nothin’.” His face hardened with each word.
Matt nodded. He did want something. “Fair enough.” He licked his lips and let out a long breath. “I want to be left alone.”
Pink crept across Carlos’s dark skin. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Matt flinched, but pressed forward, keeping his voice low. “It means I’m going to be taking over at St. William. That’s my assignment. I’m the new pastor there.” He paused, watching Carlos’s face. “It means I can’t go back to my old life.”
“Or your old friends.” Carlos spoke through a clenched jaw, his words clipped. “You too good for me now? What you really want is for me stay away, act like we don’t know each other so I won’t mess with your priest image.” He shook his head again. “Fuck. You think you know a guy.” He pushed the cup and saucer across the table, the black liquid spilling over the sides. “I thought we were friends. Wasn’t I there when your mama took the pipe? Didn’t I help you p
ay the rent? Didn’t I stick around even when that priest wanted to put you in a foster home?” Carlos’s words came faster. The white of his scar glowed against his skin. “Who the hell gave you a place to live and a job? It was me, you shithead. I don’t give a fuck if you’re a priest. Now you want me to act like we don’t know each other? Is that the fuckin’ reason you brought me out here?”
Matt held Carlos’s gaze until the other man threw up his hands and slid out of the booth. Matt reached in his pocket and pulled out an envelope. He laid it on the table, smoothed out the creases, and slid it toward Carlos. “I want you to take this.”
Carlos sat down again, black eyes guarded. He picked up the envelope and turned it over between his thick fingers. “This some kind of trick?”
“No trick.”
Tearing open the envelope, Carlos pulled out a check. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s all I have left,” Matt said. “You’re right. You were there for me. Helped me stay alive, brought me into the business.”
“It’s my business now.”
“I heard.”
The sharp lines of Carlos’s face softened. “We had good times didn’t we, Matty? We were small-time, but it was fun, right? Good weed, hot ladies.” He laughed loudly, drawing the attention of the waitress.
“Yeah, good times,” Matt said, voice quiet, head turned away. It had been good for a while, but that was a long time ago in another life. There’d been weed and girls, but they were mostly Carlos’s idea and Carlos’s problem. He’d never noticed Matt slipping out the door, Matt disappearing until the party was over, or Matt cleaning up the mess after. Carlos had embraced the life they made on the streets. Matt remembered doing what he had to do. He nodded at the check in Carlos’s hand. “I used what I needed for seminary, but the rest is for you.” He hesitated a moment, touching the collar at his neck. “I don’t need that now.”
Carlos read the numbers on the check a second time. “How’d you have so much left, man?”