by K. L. Murphy
Cancini’s patience wore thin and he snapped at the detective. “For Pete’s sake, Bronson, get to the point.”
“Okay, okay. The neighbor lady I talked to works from home. She sets up her computer at the front window so she can see what’s going on in the neighborhood. Kind of a nosy Nellie if you know what I mean.”
“Now, Bronson.”
“The last three Tuesdays Mrs. Harding had off, she had a visitor, a male visitor, for lunch. Anyone want to take a guess who that was?” Cancini and Smitty exchanged glances. “Yep. Father Matt Holland.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Friday, February 5: Two Weeks Before the Day of
Matt sat in the back of the coffee shop, eyes glued to the bank across the street. The sun shone down and the glass front shimmered under the bright sun. Carlos had been inside two minutes, maybe three. His bodyguard stood at the front door, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Matt had emptied the account an hour earlier, transferring the entire balance to the foundation he’d set up only the week before. He shook his head. The amount of money boggled his mind. As soon as the transaction had been confirmed, he’d closed the bank account permanently. Carlos had been forced to visit the branch when he couldn’t complete his own transfer online. Matt had timed his transfer to occur before Carlos could move the money out. He breathed out, his heart clattering like a locomotive. It appeared he hadn’t been wrong.
Another long minute passed, and the bodyguard flipped his cigarette butt onto the street. Matt sucked in his breath when Carlos flew through the doors, his brown leather coat flying up behind him. The bodyguard scurried to get the car door open, and Matt caught a glimpse of Carlos’s face through the glass. His former friend had grown a heavy beard in the years since they’d met at the diner in Maryland. While it covered the white moon-shaped scar that marked his chin, it couldn’t mask the venomous expression he wore. Tires screeched as the silver car tore down the street.
Matt’s phone vibrated and skipped forward on the table. He read the screen—unknown number—and the blood rushed to his head.
“Hello.”
“You and me. We got a problem, my old friend.”
Matt swallowed. “We don’t have any problems.”
“The fuck we don’t. You stole my fuckin’ money, you asshole. You think I’m gonna let you get away with that shit? I left you alone like you asked and this is how you fuckin’ thank me?”
Matt wanted to scream into the phone. Carlos hadn’t left him alone. He’d played him, used him like a pawn. Matt clutched the phone and counted to ten. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We had a deal. I kept my part of the bargain. So, no problems, right?”
“Fuckin’ bullshit.” Matt held the phone away from his ear. Carlos yelled and cursed, his words turning to threats. Matt’s fingers shook. It wasn’t too late to give the money back, but he knew he wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t.
When the screaming faded to a loud bluster, he brought the phone back to his ear. “Hey, hey, calm down.” He forced concern into his tone. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you, I’m really sorry, but I don’t know how I can help you.”
“The hell you don’t.”
“I don’t. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? I know we’re not friends anymore, and I can’t be involved in your, uh, business, but I can listen. We have hours most afternoons.”
“You mean for fuckin’ confession?”
“Yes. What else would I mean?”
“No way. That shit’s for my mother, not for me.”
“That shit, as you say, is for everyone.” He paused. It was time to plant the seed, do his best to buy some time. “You seem upset, Carlos. I know how it is, all those people working for you, depending on you. Some wanting a bigger piece of the pie. Are there problems with the business?”
Carlos didn’t say anything for a moment. When he spoke again, Matt heard the suspicion in his voice. “What makes you think I would have any problems in my business? How would you fuckin’ know anything about it?”
“I hear things, Carlos.” The words rolled off his tongue. “Your operation has grown quite large, I believe. Management becomes more difficult. It’s the same in the church hierarchy. Employees get disgruntled. They talk. Lots of moving parts. People you think you can trust want a little more of the action. Sometimes they aren’t so patient . . .”
Matt heard the sharp intake of breath, the mumbled curse words. After a moment, Carlos said, “Yeah, well, I ain’t got no problems you need to worry about.”
“If you say so. Don’t forget my offer.”
“I ain’t goin’ to no fuckin’ confession.”
“That’s up to you.”
“Sure is. So long, Matty.”
Matt laid the phone on the table. He breathed in and out. He had no idea how long it would work, but for today at least, he’d pointed Carlos in another direction. Carlos would look inside to find who’d taken the money, starting with the savviest technical man in the organization. Carlos wouldn’t find anything, or maybe he would, but eventually it would come back to Matt. God help him.
Chapter Thirty-five
The heavy doors thudded closed and the voices faded to a whisper. One by one, heads turned toward the four priests coming up the aisle, the gleaming coffin balanced on their shoulders.
“Here they come,” Smitty said.
Cancini heard the edge of anticipation in his partner’s voice. Just the hour before he’d explained the service.
“So the priest gets two funerals?” Smitty had asked.
“Not exactly. The first one is called the Mass of Transferal. It’s basically how it sounds. The body is transferred from the funeral home to the church where the priest has worked. The next day is the Funeral Mass and the burial.” Cancini had repeated what he’d learned from Father Joe. “When a priest dies, he is honored with two Masses, but they’re technically different. That doesn’t really matter though. The main thing is to be at both.”
Smitty had raised an eyebrow. “To see who shows up.”
“Exactly.”
Cancini’s gaze fell on the crowded pews. As he’d expected, the Mass of Transferal was heavily attended, the church filled. Parishioners huddled together, alternately looking backward and whispering. Curiosity seekers craned to see, and the few reporters who’d sneaked in the back wrote feverishly in their notepads. Martin, Bronson, and Jensen stood in the back watching.
Behind the altar, large and small arrangements of bright flowers filled the empty space on the floor. Burning candles cast a soft glow. The archbishop stood waiting, his hands clasped among the folds of his cassock. A snow-white vestment hung around his neck. Father Joe, positioned between a half-dozen local priests, balanced his injured leg with a cane. His face, pale and somber, was a mask. Only his eyes, focused on the slow processional in the aisle, betrayed the swirling emotions he must be feeling. Cancini sighed and shifted his attention back to the pews.
Near the front row, he spotted the Hardings. Erica leaned heavily on her husband, tears shimmering. Sonny Harding, stone-faced, ignored the priests and the coffin as it drew parallel to them. She clutched at his arm and he bent toward her, whispering in her ear. Cancini glanced back at Bronson and nodded once. They’d agreed the younger detective would watch the couple as they entered and exited the service. He would watch them again during the Funeral Mass the next day.
The priests climbed the steps and lifted the casket from their shoulders, placing it in position behind the altar. A fifth priest draped an array of flowers across the coffin. A low murmur rose among the mourners. Cancini heard the whispers around him.
“The casket is closed. It’s not supposed to be like that.”
“I heard they couldn’t have an open casket.”
“So, it’s true then? He was shot in the face?” Cancini heard the horror in the elderly woman’s voice. They’d kept the details out of the paper, but he understood the rumors would escalate now.
“Must be. W
hy else?”
The archbishop stepped forward, his voice rising and falling throughout the service. Cancini moved to the rear of the sanctuary. Weeping ladies and somber-faced men bowed their heads in a final prayer. Larry Henderson hurried down the aisle, his arm draped protectively around the shoulders of a gray-haired woman. His wife followed closely behind. As mourners moved into the Commons, Cancini slipped out through the vestibule.
Outside the church, the street and parking lot were filled with cars and black-clad mourners. Pockets of men and women dotted the lawn and sidewalk. Evening had settled over the city, and a chilly wind gusted. Henderson came down the steps with his mother, her thin arm looped through his elbow. The banker paused and scanned the crowd. He froze, his face ghostly under the lights. Cancini searched the street, but saw only the figure of a man helping a woman into a car. The woman slid behind the wheel, waved, and pulled away. Henderson ignored the car, focused only on the man. Cancini squinted, straining to see the man in the dusky light. He pushed through the clusters of grievers. The man walked away from St. William, stopping once to light a cigarette. Cancini walked faster, closing the gap. One hundred yards. Fifty yards. The man reached the corner and stopped again, staying just out of the glow of the streetlamp. A car pulled up, and the passenger door opened. The man ducked under the light and got in the car. Cancini straightened, and his breath caught in his throat. It was the man with the beard and the brown leather coat—the same one he’d seen the morning of Father Holland’s murder.
Chapter Thirty-six
“I’m coming home for the weekend.”
Cancini muted the TV and pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Really?”
“Well, not the weekend exactly, but Saturday. I’m taking the train home. I have a few things to take care of and then I’ll be taking the train back on Sunday. One of my sources can meet with me Sunday night so I have to get back.”
“Uh-huh.” A few things to take care of, and all in less than twenty-four hours. He figured he got the message. “Well, hope it goes well.”
“Mike.”
“Yeah?”
“Can I see you? It would have to be late, but maybe dinner?”
As quickly as his heart leaped, it sank again. “Dinner would be good, but . . .” Cancini started, then stopped. What was wrong with him? Two minutes earlier he was disappointed, annoyed even that she wouldn’t be available. Now she wanted to see him and he was hedging. He felt like a teenager. “The truth is, I want to see you. It’s the case.”
“Oh, I forgot.” She laughed at herself. “Only a few days in New York, and I’m already out of the loop. The priest, Father Holland, right?”
“That’s the one.”
“Not much progress then?”
“Not really. Tonight was the Mass of Transferal.”
“That sounds kind of weird. How was it?”
It was a good question. He leaned back against the headboard. A ceiling fan whirred over his head. The Mass was the first Catholic service he’d attended in longer than he could remember, and while he’d expected it to feel foreign, it was surprisingly familiar. The candles. The words. Even the music sounded the same. Maybe that’s what people liked about it. But it wasn’t the service he’d been interested in. The church had been filled, and he expected the same at the funeral the next day. The Hardings. Henderson. The man in the brown leather coat. Who was he and would he be there? “It was like every other Mass, I guess. Father Joe was there, on the altar with the other priests.”
“How is he?”
“Better, I guess. Using a cane now. But . . .”
He heard only the hum of the long distance for several seconds. He pictured her face, light red brows knitted over crystal-blue eyes. Her voice was gentle. “What are you worried about, Mike?”
“He’s taking it pretty hard. He’d known Father Holland since he was a kid.”
“Like you?”
His fingers gripped the phone. He’d told her only the basics about his mother’s murder, his father’s withdrawal, Father Joe. He’d told her how grateful he’d been for the priest, but stopped short of telling her how he’d cried himself to sleep for months, how he’d craved and needed the steadiness, the dependability Father Joe gave, how he’d learned to love the man.
“Sort of. Father Joe was more of a mentor to him, helped him become a priest, but it was more than that, I think.” Cancini swallowed. “Like a father and son relationship. Even had disagreements just like a father and son.” It struck him then that maybe the father-son dynamic was his problem. He’d missed out on that. His relationship with his own father was better now, but it didn’t change the years when it wasn’t. He sighed. “I think Father Joe is really having a hard time with all of it.”
“That only makes sense.” He heard the hesitation in her voice. “Was he able to tell you anything about the shooting?”
“Not really. He says he doesn’t know anything.”
“You sound like you don’t believe him.”
He did and he didn’t. Cancini had no doubt the priest knew more than he was willing to tell, but he couldn’t be sure how much. The foundation. The money. Throw in the confessions, and Father Joe was right in the middle of it. He sighed. “I can’t really talk about it.”
She laughed then. “We’re a pair, aren’t we? Both of us have jobs where we can’t talk about anything. I have sources. You have evidence. Crazy. Maybe later, after the case is over, you can tell me.”
“Maybe.” He yawned. “Saturday then?”
“Saturday.”
He slid under the covers, a slow smile spreading across his face. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Cancini checked his watch and tapped his foot on the linoleum floor. The funeral for Father Holland was set to begin in less than two hours. His eyes itched and a dull ache had taken up permanent residence at the base of his neck. He swallowed the last of his coffee and turned his attention back toward Landon. “I’m not following. You’ve traced the money to the shell company—we know where it went—but we still have no idea where it came from in the first place?”
“Technically, that’s true.” Landon’s head bobbed up and down. “All the deposits into the bank account were wire transfers from an account that lists St. William as the owner.”
Cancini leaned back against his chair, his head throbbing with any movement. “Are you saying the money that went into Holland’s account came from the church?”
“Yes and no. The account owner name is St. William but the nonprofit ID doesn’t match the one listed on their tax forms. Also, the church accountant said he’d never seen the account before.”
“It’s a fake account?”
“Right.”
Cancini ran his hands through his hair and glanced at his partner. Smitty’s brows drew together and he shrugged. Cancini had only three accounts: checking, savings, and his pension, and he had trouble keeping track of those. Even so, he knew they required paperwork. “How could someone set up a fake church account?”
“There are lots of ways, really, and it’s not like banks are in the business of turning away money. Actually, the church status made it a perfect vehicle. Who’s going to question that?”
“But they had to do it in person, right?”
“Not necessarily. You could do it by phone or online if everything looked legit. From what I can tell, there was a weekly deposit of cash in the overnight drop. That’s easily explained as collections.”
Cancini took a deep breath. “So, someone sets up a fake account and makes regular cash deposits. Then that money was wired to Holland’s account from there.”
“Exactly.”
He shook his head. Follow the money. It sounded easier said than done. “How long did this go on?”
“Close to two years. I’ve got the dates and amounts right here.” He handed copies to Martin and Cancini.
The captain whistled as he read the numbers. “That’s a lot of dough.
Gotta be drug money, right?”
Cancini’s instincts were telling him the same thing, but he didn’t comment.
Martin announced his theory. “Maybe someone was on to him and he was being blackmailed.”
“I don’t think so.” Landon kept his eyes on Cancini. “Holland’s account, the 2144 I told you about, was dormant for a couple of years, no money coming in or out. Like I said the other day, it was used to pay college expenses, but when he lived in Boston and the first year he moved back to D.C., there was no activity at all. He opened accounts close to the churches where he worked. He used those. It was like he forgot about the other account.”
Martin snorted. “People don’t forget about this kind of money.”
“Right about the time the deposits started, someone switched all the statements and notifications to online,” Landon said, voice quieter.
Cancini raised an eyebrow. “What are you trying to tell us, Landon?”
“I think it’s possible Father Holland’s bank account was hijacked.”
“You’re thinking someone hacked this account to funnel money?”
“Yes.”
Martin snorted again, but Cancini leaned forward. “Why?”
Landon cleared his throat. “Well, for one thing, Holland didn’t use online banking for any of his other accounts. He had one credit card and he sent paper checks to pay the bill. Same with his cell phone bill. I mean, who does that anymore?” His voice grew stronger as he spoke. “About two years ago, just before the first deposit, someone opted into online banking. They set up passwords using Holland’s personal data and social security. By switching to online banking, that someone was able to transfer large sums in and out without ever speaking to or seeing anyone. There was no reason for the bank or Father Holland to suspect anything.”