The Last Sin

by K. L. Murphy

  “Father Holland never spoke of this with you? Seems like he would have,” Smitty said, keeping his expression bland and his tone just south of accusatory.

  Harvey rose and laid a bony hand on the priest’s shoulder. “He already told you he didn’t know about it. Do you doubt this man’s word?”

  Cancini watched the old man. His bulk seemed to sway in the chair, shifting under his lawyer’s hand. Cancini went to him, kneeling at his feet. “Father Joe? Are you okay?” He took Father Joe’s hands in his, rubbing them back and forth. After a moment, the priest blinked and looked around. “Are you okay?” Slow and dazed, Father Joe shook his head once. Cancini looked over at Jensen. “Can you get him a glass of water?”

  A silence fell over the room until Jensen returned. When he brought in the glass, Cancini took it and brought it to the old man’s lips. Father Joe sipped, then wrapped his hands around the cup and drank. He set the empty cup back on the table and looked up at Cancini. “Thank you.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Father Joe nodded. “I will be. I just need a minute.” He looked around the room. “I’m sorry.”

  The lawyer patted him on the shoulder. “As I’m sure you can gather by Father Sweeney’s reaction, this news has taken both of us by surprise. Of course, he would like to cooperate, but I don’t know what else he can do to help.”

  Smitty shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Like it or not, Mr. Harvey, that document could be thought of as providing motive.”

  “Motive?” The lawyer snorted. “Motive for what? The man has an alibi and he knew nothing about the will. Being named executor of a foundation isn’t a crime.”

  “That may be, but right now, it’s as good as anything else, and we only have your word he didn’t know about the will.”

  The lawyer did not try to hide his skepticism. “You have got to be kidding. This has gone on long enough. If you need—”

  “I didn’t know about the will,” Father Joe said, his voice weary, his skin ashen. “If I had, I would have insisted I be taken out of it.”

  Cancini coughed.

  Smitty hesitated. “Let’s say I believe you. What about the foundation?” Smitty leaned forward with each word. “Did you know Father Holland had this kind of money? Do you know where it came from?”

  Father Joe held the young detective’s gaze for only a moment, then looked briefly at Cancini before dropping his head. The lawyer whispered again in the old man’s ear, then leaned over and picked up his briefcase.

  Smitty battered him with questions. “Did you know about the money going in and out of his accounts for nearly two years? Did you know that’s how he started this foundation?”

  Shielding Father Joe with both his body and his words, the lawyer gave Smitty a stern look. “Gentlemen, that’s it for today. Father Sweeney is extremely tired, and he is recovering from a gunshot wound.” Harvey helped the priest to his feet and handed him his crutches. “Please contact me if you wish to speak with my client again.” Jensen held the door and escorted them out.

  After they were gone, Smitty gathered up the will and his notes. “He knew about the money.”

  Cancini sighed. Father Joe’s non-answer was the same as an acknowledgment. “Yes, I think he probably did.”

  “What about the money laundering? Where the money came from in the first place?”

  The same questions had already occurred to Cancini. Whatever was going on with the money was far from legal. The more he learned about Father Joe’s relationship with Father Holland, the more he feared for him. “It’s hard to say.”

  Smitty shook his head. “I’d feel better about it if he would tell us what he knows.”

  “He won’t.” Cancini didn’t like it any better than his partner, but the old man would never knowingly break a vow.

  “The shooting . . .” Smitty hesitated. “I’m starting to think maybe it wasn’t so random after all.”

  Cancini understood the logic. If Holland had been involved in money laundering, he might have been involved with some unscrupulous people. Cancini’s mind jumped from one theory to another, but without facts, they were only guesses. Even without facts, he had to wonder if the money was the reason Holland was murdered. And if Father Joe did know about the money laundering . . . Cancini shook the thought from his head.

  “We might want to keep an eye on him,” Smitty said. “Maybe talk to Martin about protection.”

  Cancini nodded, his blood running cold. The image of Holland, clad in his black robes and his blood spilled across the steps, sent a shiver up his spine. “I’ll talk to him,” Cancini said, finally.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Larry Henderson wiped his forehead with a wadded-up handkerchief and pushed silver-framed glasses up on his nose. “I don’t really know how I can help you.” He shot worried looks at the tellers watching on the other side of the glass.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Henderson?” Cancini asked. “You seem nervous.”

  The man shook his head. “No, I just don’t know why you’re here. I’m trying to run a bank here. There are customers . . .”

  Smitty waved a hand and smiled. “No reason to worry. This won’t take long. We just have a few questions,” he said. “We’re speaking to several St. William members who’d seen Father Holland in the few days before his death on Sunday.”

  “Oh. I guess that makes sense.”

  Smitty looked down at the notebook in his lap. “I’ve been told you had a finance council meeting at the church last week. Both you and Father Holland were there.”

  “That’s true. There were six of us that morning, I think. We usually meet once a month or so, unless something unusual comes up.”

  “Unusual?”

  “Like a heater breaking or flooding or something that requires a big expenditure.”

  Smitty pointed at two pictures that sat on the bookshelf behind Henderson. The faces of three children seated on colored blocks—the kind you saw at Sears or Penney’s—stared back out from a large frame. A smaller picture sat next to the larger one, this one of a middle-aged woman with short dark hair, hands folded primly in her lap. “That your family?”

  Henderson turned briefly. Cancini watched the man as he talked. His face changed, lightened. “My wife, Carmen, and my kids.” What remained of his hair was combed straight back on his head, making him look older than his forty-three years. He was slim, with long, thin arms, and wore an inexpensive suit. The frayed cuffs of his shirt stuck out from the sleeves of his dark gray suit jacket. The desk was clear except for matching in boxes that contained neatly stacked papers.

  “Looks like they keep you pretty busy,” Smitty said.

  Henderson smiled. “Oh, they do.” He jerked his thumb at the picture of his kids. “That’s an old photo, but it’s one of my favorites. My wife keeps giving me new ones. I like that one though.”

  “How old are they now?” Smitty asked.

  “My oldest is in high school and about to get his license. My wife’s not happy about having to share a car, but you know how it is,” he said with a shrug of his shoulder. “The girls are in middle school, full of drama.” He chuckled. “It’s no wonder I like the old picture so much, right?”

  Cancini leaned forward, his face unsmiling. “I’m told you didn’t like Father Holland much. Is that true?”

  Henderson’s laugh faded. He glanced at Smitty. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Cancini cocked his head to his shoulder. “I think you do, Mr. Henderson.”

  Looking away, the man bit his lip. After a moment, he raised his head. “It’s not true that I didn’t like Father Holland. I did. I do.” He picked at the frayed cuff of his shirt. “When he came to St. William, he brought an excitement, an energy the church hadn’t seen in a long time. You could feel it. We were all so thrilled to have him.” He paused and took a breath. “I’ve been going to St. William since I was a boy. The neighborhood . . . it wasn’t always so rough. There were good people there. My mo
ther still lives just a few blocks from the church. Even with the crime and drugs, you can’t pry her out of that place. I’ve tried to get her to move in with us, but she says she’s lived in that house for almost fifty years, and she’s not leaving unless it’s with her feet in the air.” He shook his head. “So we drive into town every Sunday to St. William. It makes Mom happy.”

  “What about you, Mr. Henderson? Does it make you happy?” Cancini asked.

  He blinked, then spoke slowly. “Yes, most of the time anyway. Being a part of St. William is kind of like going home. And like I said, when Father Holland arrived, we all got excited again. He had such great visions for the church. He wanted to renovate. He wanted to do outreach. He wanted to fill the church. It was contagious.”

  Cancini sat back. “So you volunteered to serve on the finance committee.”

  “It made sense at the time. I’m in banking, and I wanted to help. For a long time, I was glad to do it.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “Lately, I was struggling with my role.”

  “Because you weren’t getting along with Father Holland?”

  Henderson sighed and resumed picking at his thumb. “It wasn’t the way you’re making it sound. Father Holland was good for the church in so many ways, but he was also a dreamer. We all bought into that dream, but the reality was that everything he wanted cost money—money the church didn’t have. And there were other issues. The heating system was barely hanging on.”

  Cancini raised one eyebrow. “As I understand it, there had been some money recently, from an anonymous donor. Shouldn’t that have eliminated your worries?”

  “No, and that’s exactly my point. An anonymous donation is one thing, but it wasn’t enough to cover the things Father Holland had in mind. He was soliciting estimates for windows and landscaping and I don’t know what else. To count on more . . .” Doubt crept into his eyes. “Where was it coming from? Who was this anonymous donor?” His voice rose with each word. “I didn’t like it, and I told Father Holland that.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Henderson frowned. “Say? He didn’t say anything. He laughed at me and told me not to worry so much. Be grateful to God is what he said.”

  “And you didn’t like that?”

  “The truth is, I don’t think God had anything to do with it.”

  “Oh?” Cancini’s shoulders tensed. “What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Henderson?”

  The banker rose, moving to the glass wall. “We work with nonprofits all the time. I’ve seen anonymous donations, but they’re typically a one-time deal. I couldn’t understand how he could be sure the money wouldn’t run out.” He turned back to face the detectives. He licked his lips and gave one shake of his head as though making a decision. “I wanted to replace the windows, too, but at what cost? It wasn’t right.”

  “What wasn’t right, Mr. Henderson?”

  “The anonymous donations.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “The money. I think it was dirty.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Friday, January 22: One Month Before the Day of

  Matt pulled off his collar and tossed it on the bed. He flopped down and stretched out his legs. It had been a long day. He held the collar up in the air and turned it over in his hands. How long had he been at St. William? Not long enough to accomplish what he wanted. He knew that. But other days, he thought maybe it was too long. Maybe he wasn’t really cut out for this job.

  He closed his eyes. There were days when it was hard to keep his vows, hold steady in his resolve. He was a man, after all. He had feelings. Yet he’d voluntarily signed up for this, for the very idea that his feelings were to be sacrificed. So far, he’d been able to do it, to keep the faith. But lately, it was getting harder. Her beauty was hard to ignore. And she was always there, wide-eyed, devoted. He sat up. There must be some secret, some way to ignore women and stay true that they’d forgotten to teach him in seminary. It shouldn’t be this hard.

  He shook off the thoughts. He had a bigger problem. Carlos. He should have known he couldn’t trust Carlos to leave him alone. Matt had asked him nicely, and still he’d broken his word. Sure, he’d stayed away from the church, stayed away from Matt physically, but he’d done something much worse. It must have been the check. How could Matt have been so stupid? He shouldn’t have given it to Carlos, should have just handed him cash, but it never occurred to him that Carlos would hack his account. Matt didn’t know exactly how he’d done it—Carlos had never been that good with computers. It didn’t matter how, though. Carlos had somehow been able to make deposits and withdrawals in Matt’s name. The bed creaked when Matt rolled over and opened the drawer of his nightstand. He pulled out a stack of bank statements and scanned the numbers and dates. Almost two years of transactions. The amount of money was obscene. He groaned. He couldn’t go to the police now. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t known about it initially. Ignorance couldn’t protect him.

  Hiding his anger and shock hadn’t been easy in front of the bank manager, but he was glad now. At first, the banker couldn’t understand why he needed the statements. “But we’ve been sending you online statements. Is there a problem with your online banking services?”

  “No, no,” he’d answered. Matt had gone on to assure the banker it was only a matter of printer problems and he needed the financial statements that day. Relieved, the banker had printed the statements without another question.

  If only the man had really known who was using those services. Things might not have been so pleasant. Not that it mattered now. Matt looked at the latest balance. It wasn’t much. Still, if the last several months were a good indication, there would be a hefty deposit hitting the account in the next three days, then another, and then another. Things would be different this time. He was ready. He’d asked Carlos nicely. Now he was done being nice.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Cancini dropped a heavy file folder on the table. “Bronson, tell me what you’ve got.”

  The slick-haired detective pursed his lips. “Not anything that helps.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  The detective lifted a rounded shoulder. “I checked out Henderson like you asked. He’s not rich, but no big debts or problems I could find. Alibi’s solid. Picked up his mother for Sunday dinner at five and drove her home at nine. Stayed and had a cup of coffee. Left at nine-thirty. Home by ten. There all night until about seven-thirty the next morning when his kids left for school. He drove straight to work and was there a few minutes before eight a.m.”

  “Any chance he slipped away from dinner and got back in time to take his mother home at nine?”

  “Nah. The neighbor came by and joined them for dessert. Plenty of witnesses.” He licked his lips. “I can look some more if you think I need to . . .”

  Cancini shot him a look. “Do you think you need to?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.” Smitty cleared his throat, and Cancini looked up to see him nodding once in Bronson’s direction. Bronson and Jensen were actually doing passable work, but wasn’t that their job? Did they need gold stars, too? Cancini ignored his partner and plucked a report from the file. “Let’s move on. This is the transcript from the secretary’s last interview. I’ve also taken a look at the tape from that session and the others. As we discussed, the lady seems to be a little accident-prone. Did you talk to any neighbors or friends?”

  Bronson pulled out his notes. “They live in a town house over in Arlington. It’s one of those old neighborhoods that’s trying to be new again. Mostly young couples like the Hardings. I talked to the neighbors on each side. The lady in the end unit said she didn’t really know the Hardings at all. She works nights and sleeps during the day so she has a different schedule. The ones on the other side—”

  “Wait,” Cancini interrupted. “They’re in a town house so they share walls, right?”

  “Right. On the other side is a couple like the Hardings, no kids, about the same age. Now
those neighbors, they were more than a little curious about why I was asking questions.”

  “Why’s that?” Smitty asked.

  “Seems they’ve tried to be friendly with the Hardings, but while the Hardings are polite, they pretty much give ’em the brush-off. They came to the neighborhood picnic but kept to themselves. Mrs. Harding, she talked a little more, but when she did, her husband stayed close. The neighbor told me that her husband called him the bodyguard.”

  “The bodyguard, huh?” This was consistent with the way he waited for her after Bible study or meetings or when she finished work. Seemed she was rarely out of his sight. “Had they noticed anything unusual?”

  “You mean like bruises and stuff? Nah. Nothing like that, but sometimes there was yelling or what she said sounded like something being thrown against the wall.”

  Lines creased Cancini’s forehead and he wrote two words in his notebook—Domestic violence? “Did she call the police?”

  “No, she said it only happened a few times and it didn’t last long. By the time she thought maybe she should, whatever was going on over there was over.”

  “No proof anything abusive going on, then?”

  “Not anything specific. Do you want me to drop it?”

  Smitty pushed back his chair, his long fingers twitching at his side. “I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I.” Cancini watched his young partner pace the small room. Three steps forward. Three steps back. “But that isn’t the case we’ve been assigned.”

  “It’s still not right.”

  Cancini understood Smitty’s discomfort, but he couldn’t allow that to be a factor in the investigation. Still, Mrs. Harding was very close to their victim, and if Mr. Harding was as overprotective and jealous as he seemed to be, it could mean something. “Good work, Bronson,” he said, instantly hoping he wouldn’t regret it.

  Bronson’s face brightened. “Thanks, boss. I don’t know if it matters, but there is one more thing. Mrs. Harding is off most Tuesdays. Most of the time on those days, her husband goes to work and she’s home alone—except when she isn’t.”