by K. L. Murphy
“I invested some of it when I turned eighteen.”
“You invested some of it?” He flopped back against the seat. “Man, you’re just full of surprises, ain’t you? First the priest shit, and then you’re some kinda stockbroker?” Matt raised one eyebrow. “Yeah, I know what a stockbroker is. I got one a couple o’ years ago. Seen too many guys blow it all.”
Matt nodded. He wasn’t surprised. Carlos played the part, talked the part, but he’d never been stupid. He played hard and he worked hard. “Glad you’re doing well,” Matt said, and he meant it.
“I’m doing fuckin’ great.” Carlos grinned and twisted a shiny gold watch on his wrist. He tossed the check on the table. “I don’t need this. But you already knew that.” His smile faded. “Can’t erase who you are, Matt, or what you done. You can’t get clean by givin’ it away.”
Matt’s head bowed. “I can try.”
“Won’t work.” Carlos slid from the booth and stood over his old friend. “Invest it. Use it for somethin’ good if it makes you feel better.” He tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “I’ll leave you alone if you want, but only if you give me your word.”
Matt raised his head, pulse racing. “My word?”
“You keep your mouth shut.”
Matt breathed in and out. Wayne, the crew boss back in the day, hadn’t been pushed out. He’d been forced out when his blood had been emptied in the backroom of that crappy bar. Matt had thought it was just another handoff, but Carlos had always been ambitious. Matt lifted his napkin and swiped at the beads of sweat dotting his upper lip. “I never said anything.”
“Yeah? You left me hangin’, Matty. How the fuck was I s’posed to know what you would say after you skipped out on the job, skipped out on me? You ran, left town when the shit hit the fan. Things got hot and you just disappeared. Poof. Police start comin’ around. Asking questions.” All trace of nostalgia had faded from his voice. He paused, then picked up the envelope and pocketed the check. “On second thought, I think I’ll hold on to this for insurance.” His lips turned up, the corner of his mouth twisting the scar. “And I better not ever hear you ratted me out, man. Being a priest ain’t gonna save you.” Carlos leaned close until his breath brushed against Matt’s ear. “You do, man, and you’re fuckin’ dead.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
“Take me through it again.” Cancini squinted and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingertips.
“Maybe this will help.” Landon tapped the keys and pulled up a spreadsheet. “This is a list of all Holland’s accounts and current balances.”
Cancini struggled to understand what he was seeing. There were five accounts in all, each with a string of numbers. A column to the right listed the current balance in each one. He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re trying to show me. I don’t see any money.”
“That’s right,” Landon said, nodding fervently. “Because there is no money.” He looked at Cancini, eyes wide and expectant. “It’s gone.”
Cancini pulled out a chair. “I don’t understand. I get an anonymous text telling me to follow the money. Then you tell me Holland was planning to pay for repairs at the church, but now you’re saying there isn’t any money.”
“He moved it.” Terry tapped the keys again. Another page came up with a ten-digit account number across the top. This one did have a balance, a six-digit balance. “This is a foundation set up by Father Holland a few weeks ago.” The forensic accountant spun his chair around to face the detective. “Wanna guess where it came from?”
A dull pain gathered at the base of Cancini’s neck. He hated guessing games. “No, Terry. Just tell me. Where did the money come from?”
The words tumbled out of Landon’s mouth as he described a long history of accounts and large deposits and equally large withdrawals. The young man’s excitement rolled off him in waves. When he finished, Cancini sat still, unsure he’d heard the young man correctly. “Hold on. I need a minute to think.” He stood. “Is there coffee around here?”
Landon pointed to the break room.
Cancini filled a Styrofoam cup and drank as much as he could stand without burning the roof of his mouth. He topped off the cup and sat down again. “What you’re describing sounds an awful lot like money laundering.”
Landon’s triumphant smile filled his young face. “Exactly. This account, the 2144 account, was used to funnel the money. There’s no other possible explanation.”
“Jensen?”
“I think Landon’s right. I’ve worked a couple of fraud cases, and the cash in and out is the same.”
Cancini didn’t know if it was the coffee or the dull ache at the base of his skull making his head buzz, but he knew it had been a long time since he’d been this blindsided. “Let’s assume for now you’re right. This 2144 account was used for money laundering. The balance is zero now, right?”
“Right. Actually, that account is closed now, but the money for the foundation came from this account.”
Cancini’s head pounded. “How much did Father Holland transfer to this foundation?”
“About a half-million dollars.”
Jensen whistled. Landon nodded. “There’s more. The 2144 account was opened on his eighteenth birthday. That first deposit was five thousand dollars. All in cash. Not really enough to raise eyebrows but unusual, right?”
Landon clicked on another page, and Cancini squinted at the screen. “Go on.”
“Over the next month, he added to it each week, always less than five thousand at a time, but after a few months, the balance stood at $33,824.” He pointed at the screen. “These two accounts. These are investment accounts. They also started at five thousand dollars each.”
“Investment accounts?”
“Stocks. Holland did pretty well. Took some risks. Some not so great, but the ones that hit, hit big. He made money. Those profits he transferred back into the original account, the 2144. It grew steadily, and the only withdrawals during those next few years went to the college and seminary school he attended. After graduation, around the time he came back to D.C., the balance had dropped to just over eight thousand dollars.”
Cancini looked at the dates. They coincided with the time Father Holland showed up on Father Joe’s doorstep. He’d never asked the old man how Father Holland had paid for school. How had an eighteen-year-old kid come up with tens of thousands of dollars in cash? What had he been doing? “What else?”
“When he first returned to D.C., the 2144 account sat dormant, the balance unchanged outside of interest and fees. He opened another account at a branch closer to St. William.” Landon touched the screen. “Any money he earned at St. William went into that account and paid his expenses. The balance was rarely over a couple thousand dollars.” He changed the screen again. “Then two years ago there was a series of cash deposits to the 2144 account. Again, nothing that would send up alarms but adding up. Usually when it got close to a half million, the money went back out.”
Cancini read the series of deposits and withdrawals. “Where did it go?”
“A security company based in Germany. Limited liability.” Cancini raised an eyebrow. “It looks like all the transactions were done online. The company in Germany has an address but no phone. When I try to find it on Google Maps, this is what I get.” He tapped the keys, bringing up a screenshot of an empty parking lot. “The company is a shell as far as I can tell.”
Cancini rubbed his hand over his head again. Why would a priest be sending money to a shell company in Germany? And where the hell was the money coming from in the first place? He ignored the pounding in his head and clapped Landon on the back. “Thanks, Terry. Good stuff.”
“You might not want to thank me yet.”
Cancini’s stomach flipped.
The young man at the computer flushed, his open face a light pink. “Father Holland’s will. We found a copy in his safe deposit box.” The sinking feeling in Cancini’s belly grew. “In the event of his death, t
he foundation he created was to be managed by a single executor. There would be other trustees, but the executor would have the power of attorney to manage the money . . .” Landon looked at the floor. “Father Joe Sweeney.”
Landon handed the copy to Cancini. The detective scanned the document and flipped to the last page. It had been witnessed and signed by a notary, Erica Harding. He looked again at the screen and the endless lines of numbers. Too many questions. Too many secrets. “Jensen,” he said, “tell Smitty to pick up Erica Harding.”
“What about Father Sweeney? Do you want me to bring him in, too?”
The old man was still weak, his blood pressure still too high. He needed to rest, but he wasn’t just a witness anymore. Cancini swallowed. “Yes. And tell him to call his lawyer.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
“I already told you I don’t know anything about the church’s finances,” Erica Harding said.
Cancini locked eyes with the secretary. “Or Father Holland’s?”
“Or Father Holland’s.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you like.” She tossed her head and turned away. He studied her profile. The bruise at her temple had faded. She’d pulled her hair back into a high ponytail, elongating her graceful neck. One hand lay on the table next to a glass of water. Her left arm was pulled in close, held against her side.
Cancini pushed a manila file across the table. “Open it.”
Her eyes went from him to the file. “What for?”
“You might find it interesting reading.”
She huffed but reached out with her right hand. Minutes ticked by as she scanned the first page and then the remaining pages. Her fingers trembled when she reached the financials. Closing the file, she tried to feign indifference. “So?”
“You notarized these documents for Father Holland when he created his foundation.”
“I’m a notary. That’s one of the reasons I got the job. You never know when you’re going to need one, and that gave me an advantage over the other applicants.”
“What do you know about the foundation?”
“I know he named it after his mother.” Her face softened. “That’s one of the things the foundation was supposed to be for, women like his mother. He wanted to help them get clean, get them off the streets. Father Holland had been doing good work. He took food to people every day and gave out blankets in the winter. He would sit with folks when they were sick. Everyone knew what a good man he was. But he needed more money. There were so many people in need.”
“What else do you know about the foundation?”
“That’s it. He never talked about it again after I notarized the documents. I just assumed everything was okay.” She looked from one detective to the other. “Was that wrong?”
Cancini cocked his head as though suddenly curious. “Did you know the anonymous donation of funds came from the foundation?”
The color drained from her face. “Should I have? I only notarized the last page for him. He asked me to do it. He asked me . . .” Her pink lips quivered as her voice faded.
“How many documents did you notarize for him?”
She stared down at the table, her right hand dropping into her lap. When she looked up, her eyes shone with tears. “A few I guess.”
“Did you notarize his will?”
“I might have.” She took a shaky breath. “I don’t remember.” She glanced over at Smitty, who sat at the far end of the conference table. “I’m sorry.”
Cancini ran his fingers along the edge of the table. “Larry Henderson handled the funds for the church. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Were he and Father Holland close?”
She flushed again. “I wouldn’t say they were close.”
“Did they dislike each other?”
She brushed away the stray hair that had fallen from her ponytail. “Father Holland liked everyone.” She hesitated a brief moment. “I guess sometimes they had disagreements, though.”
“What kind of disagreements?”
She sighed. “Larry wanted every major expenditure approved by the financial committee. He’s like that—a stickler for procedure. And he’s always talking about building up a cushion for emergencies before spending money on the windows or the parking lot.”
Cancini sat forward, his pen poised. “Mrs. Harding, you told us you took the notes at those meetings, but I didn’t see anything about any disagreements in those minutes.”
“I didn’t think it was necessary.”
“But Mr. Henderson and Father Holland did argue?”
“Sometimes, I guess.”
“Did it ever get heated?”
She dropped her gaze, folding her arms in tight across her belly and chest. “Maybe once or twice.”
Cancini’s heart skipped a beat. “Recently?”
She nodded again. “Last week. There was that anonymous donation Father Holland talked about, the one he wanted to use to fix the stained glass.”
“But Mr. Henderson didn’t?”
“Oh, no, and he was thrilled with the money. He just thought there were more important things to fix first, like the heating system. I couldn’t really blame him. It’s pretty old, and to tell you the truth, it’s really cold in there sometimes. But Father Holland wouldn’t listen. Everyone knew he dreamed of making St. William beautiful again. Larry said it didn’t matter if the church was beautiful if no one came because it was freezing cold inside. Father Holland laughed at that and . . . and Larry stormed out.”
“Is it possible he could have been mad enough to want to kill Father Holland?”
Her hand fluttered to her neck, fingers wrapping around the gold cross that hung just below the hollow of her throat. She shook her head. “No, not Larry. He would never do anything like that. He does get angry, but it never lasts.”
Cancini glanced over his shoulder at the one-way glass. He hoped whoever stood on the other side was already gathering some background on the angry Larry Henderson.
“Mrs. Harding, do you have a list of names of everyone who has served on that committee since Father Holland came to St. William?”
“Yes.” Her voice shook as she spoke.
“Good. I’d like to get a copy of that.”
Cancini scratched out a few more notes. A blanket of silence fell over the room while he reread the words he’d written. His image of the young priest kept shifting and changing. He didn’t know what to think about the man. Where did the money come from? If he was laundering money, why? It didn’t jibe with Father Joe’s description or the one he was getting from Erica Harding. Why did he really come back to the neighborhood that killed his mother? To do good or to do something else?
He cleared his throat and raised his head. “Mrs. Harding, one more thing.” Cancini tapped his pen against his notepad. “Do you think it’s fair to say Mr. Henderson didn’t know the anonymous donation actually came from a foundation set up by Father Holland?”
“Yes, that’s fair. Nobody knew.”
Father Holland had been less than honest with his own committee. What else had he been less than honest about? “Is it also fair to say that Mr. Henderson might not have liked it?”
She let out a breath, the words soft as air. “Yes.”
Chapter Thirty
The lawyer set his briefcase on the table with a thump. He took out a notebook, a black pen, and a bottle of water. After closing the briefcase, he placed it on the floor. “Gentlemen, my name is Ben Harvey. I’ve been retained by the diocese to represent Father Joseph Sweeney.”
Father Joe hobbled to the table, juggling a pair of crutches as he dropped into a chair. Breathing more heavily than he should have, his face flushed pink and his forehead shone with perspiration.
The lawyer glanced down at his client. “Are you okay?” Father Joe nodded. “Good. Are we ready?”
Cancini retreated to the far end of the table. Although his presence had initially been discouraged, i
t was now thought he might be needed to coax a more complete response from the witness. And although he didn’t really believe Father Joe would be any more forthcoming whether he was there or not, he did think the man needed to see a friendly face. It wouldn’t be enough to know he was on the other side of a large pane of one-way glass.
Smitty sat across from the lawyer and the priest. Jensen, Martin’s idea of insurance, sat to his left. The video camera in the corner recorded every word.
“Thanks for coming in, Father Sweeney,” Smitty said.
Harvey answered. “As I understand it, Detective Smithson, my client has already been very cooperative—without the benefit of my presence. He exercised poor judgment when he agreed to speak without the benefit of an attorney.” The lawyer shot a stern look at Father Joe. “The diocese has determined that a lawyer should be present for all future interviews, if there are any.”
Father Joe lowered his head, but not before Cancini caught a flash of irritation in the old man’s face.
“Right,” Smitty said, his tone neutral. He opened a file and pushed it across the table. Both Father Joe and the lawyer leaned in. “Have you ever seen this document before, Father Sweeney?”
The priest reached out and touched the first page. “No.”
“A will?” Harvey asked.
“Father Holland’s will,” Smitty said. “Take a look.”
The gray-haired lawyer picked it up, flipping page after page. When the lawyer got to the last page and the estimated value of the foundation, his lips twitched. Harvey turned away from the detectives, whispering in his client’s ear. Father Joe’s head jerked up, his eyes wide. The two men exchanged a few words until the lawyer dropped the document back on the table.
“Jog your memory?” Smitty pressed.
“He said he’d never seen it.” Cancini watched Father Joe. His knuckles whitened as he held on to the table in front of him. “It’s unusual, I’ll agree,” the lawyer continued, “but Father Sweeney would not be the first to be unaware he has been named in a will.”