by K. L. Murphy
“How is it you can’t prove what he’s up to?”
“He’s careful. He changes phones on a regular basis. He likes women, but he never spends more than one night with them. His inner circle is small. It used to be easy to spot the gang leaders. They would flash rolls of cash, load up on jewelry and cars. Vega doesn’t fit the mold. He has an expensive watch but just one. He stays away from his product. He shows up at his franchise stores on a regular basis. We’ve tried bugging the bathrooms, the dining room, even had an undercover kid working the fryer in his Southeast store. Nothing.”
“But if you’re right and he’s running an organization that big, he has to talk to people, meet with people.”
“He does, but none of our usual surveillance methods have yielded anything. He frequents clubs, but he sticks to one or two drinks. He takes women to hotels, never to his home. He runs every day, always with someone we’ve marked as part of the organization, but short of running alongside them, you can’t hear the conversation.”
“What about setting up microphones along the route he runs?” Smitty asked.
Talbot shook his head. “He runs several different routes a week—mixing it up—making it unpredictable. Even if we could do all of them, he has someone running the route ahead of him and someone else behind. Not only does it keep anyone from getting close to him, they act as scouts.”
“Shit,” Smitty said. “The guy is something else.”
Talbot nodded. “I agree. He’s also smart enough to keep his nose clean. Like I said, he keeps his expenditures in line with his claimed earnings. He pays every cent in taxes. He pays his mortgage on time.”
Cancini rubbed his forehead. Frown lines appeared at the corners of his mouth. “What about his financials?”
“That’s where we’re looking now, but so far, the accounts we can find are clean.”
“The accounts you can find,” Smitty repeated.
“He uses a local accounting firm for his personal and franchise businesses. But there is one guy in his circle we’ve been watching. He runs with him at least once a week.”
“Who is it?” Cancini asked.
“Justin Blackwood. Grew up in the neighborhood like most of his circle, but he was tagged gifted as a kid. He made it into one of those charter schools and then got a full ride to Dartmouth. Double majored in computer science and accounting. He got his master’s in finance at Harvard. Following graduation, he came home to D.C., and according to some sources, to act as CFO for Vega.”
Cancini stroked his chin. A man with a talent for computers and a balance sheet would be able to hack a priest’s bank account in no time at all. He could set up a shell company and transfer funds with a few pecks at a keyboard. For the first time in days, the pounding in Cancini’s head eased. Out loud, he said, “A guy like that would be smart enough to know how to launder money.”
“Agreed, if we could prove it, but Vega doesn’t make many mistakes.”
“Maybe not,” the detective admitted, and pointed at the sketch of Vega. “But he may have made one now.”
Chapter Forty-one
Tuesday, February 16: Five Days Before the Day of
Matt scrolled through the e-mails, the lump in his gut growing. Less than a week and Carlos would make good on his threat. He’d bought some time, gotten a few things done, but it wasn’t enough. St. William needed him, needed more than a paint job and new stained glass windows. He didn’t ask for the money. He didn’t seek it out, but there it was with his name on it. Technically, he didn’t steal it, but he knew better. That money didn’t belong to him. Still, it didn’t really belong to Carlos, either. That money came at the expense of a lot of good people. That money came from the drugs he sold, the same drugs that left people too stoned to see how lost they were, and too wasted to do anything about it. That money came from the high-heel-wearing teenagers who earned a living on their backs. It came from the gambling addicts who couldn’t stop themselves from spending the diaper money on a game of blackjack or craps. In a way, Carlos had stolen the money from these people. He’d taken advantage of them, used them. In much the same way, Matt reasoned, Matt had used Carlos’s bank account for his own gains.
Had Matt done the right thing? No matter. It was done now. He’d created the necessary legal documents to set up the foundation. He’d funded it and already funneled some of the money into the church. He needed trustees in addition to himself and had already named Father Joe. He had a lawyer, too, but there was one more he needed. If she said yes, the money would be untouchable. It was risky, but if it worked, Carlos would never hurt him. He couldn’t. They were different, but they were brothers. Still, he wasn’t taking any chances. He needed to talk to Father Joe. He needed him to understand. He already knew Joe didn’t approve, didn’t believe that two wrongs could make a right, but Father Joe hadn’t grown up in the projects. He hadn’t sold bags of weed or pills on the street to buy crappy food and pay for a rodent-infested apartment. He’d never needed to hide from social services or walk the streets wondering if he was going to get hauled away to some group home. He looked up to the sky. Sometimes the ends did justify the means.
His leg twitched and his foot swung back and forth. The pills the doctor had prescribed helped but couldn’t do for him what Father Joe could. He rose, stretched out on the sofa, and crossed his arms behind his head. It wasn’t just the money. Father Joe knew his difficulties with the secretary, knew the untenable situation. Matt knew what Joe would say. He would tell Matt to remember his vows, remember his faith. It wasn’t always that easy. Matt kept breathing until the pounding in his chest slowed. She was expecting him. He was going to have to do something soon, but he didn’t want to. She’d touched him more than he cared to admit. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was cut out to be a priest after all.
Chapter Forty-two
Smitty laid out the money laundering trail, Father Holland’s actions at the branch, and Vega’s run-in with the branch manager. “The sketch is practically a photograph.”
Talbot agreed. “Pretty convincing, but as far as I can tell, you don’t have proof Vega did anything illegal.”
Cancini watched the interchange with a sinking feeling.
“What about trying to access another person’s account?” Smitty asked. “Isn’t that fraud?”
“But he didn’t access anything. If called on it, he could deny that’s the account number he gave or say he must have transposed numbers.” Talbot’s answer was apologetic. “I’m sorry, but even the eyewitness testimony can’t be corroborated. The cameras show a man, nothing more. He didn’t speak to anyone else or draw attention. He was in the branch for only a few minutes.”
“Talbot is right,” Cancini said. “But even if we can’t prove Vega was the man behind the money laundering, we now have a pretty good idea who was behind those e-mails.”
Talbot leaned forward. “What e-mails?”
Cancini handed the FBI man a paper-clipped stack of pages. “Turn to the ones with the sticky notes.”
The FBI man read, flipping page after page. When he got to the final marked e-mail, he read out loud. “‘Matty, time is up. Don’t think I don’t know you’ve gotten every single one of my e-mails. You have till tomorrow. I’m watching, so you’d better not be late or you’re a fucking dead man. You got me? Bring the cash OR ELSE!!!! And keep your trap shut if you want to live.’” Talbot stopped and looked up. “This was written Sunday, the day Holland was murdered.”
“Right,” Cancini said. “Holland died with one eye gone and the other wide open.”
“He didn’t wait until Monday. Instead, he went inside the church and shot the man.”
Cancini’s brows creased and he gave a shake of his head. “Or someone did.” Cancini plucked another page from the file. “We have at least a dozen witnesses who were at the evening Mass who saw a man with a skull tattoo in the pews. He wasn’t there long and left before Mass was over, but we all know what that man does for a living.” Cancini hand
ed Talbot another sheet with a drawing of the tattoo.
“Death Squad. A bunch of mercenaries.” Talbot looked up again. “You think Vega used one of these guys to do the hit on the priest?”
Cancini lifted both shoulders, knots in his back tightening. “It seems logical, but sending the Death Squad either means he’d already recovered the money and he was tying up loose ends, or he’d been forced to let it go.”
Talbot shook his head. “Vega would never let it go. It’s not about the money for someone like him. From what I know about Vega, no one could be allowed to steal from him and get away with it. There would be hell to pay, and it wouldn’t be pretty.”
“But he didn’t get the money. We’ve verified it’s still sitting in a foundation account designated for the church.” Follow the money. Cancini picked at the file with his fingers, his mind flitting through unconnected bits of information. “I think Vega was there the morning the body was discovered, on the street in the crowd. I couldn’t see his face clearly under the umbrella, but he had a beard and was wearing a long brown leather coat. And again at the service the other night.”
Smitty’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Vega’s a bad guy, and money laundering—even murder—are normal for him. Holland is a do-gooder. He hands out food and clothes. He volunteers at clinics. From everything we’ve heard, the man lived for St. William. I don’t get it. How does a priest get involved with a guy like Vega in the first place?”
“I might be able to answer that one,” Talbot said. “They grew up in the same low-income housing, Barry Farm, before it was condemned. They even went to the same high school until Holland’s mother died and Holland disappeared. My guess is they stayed in touch.”
Cancini brushed his fingers over the file. He pictured Holland and Vega, scrawny teens growing up in rat-infested apartments, slogging through low-budget schools that couldn’t keep track of the numbers of kids skipping, and the never-ending presence of dealers and users. Maybe they were good friends once. Maybe Vega knew where Holland was during the years he was missing. Someone had helped him before he suddenly appeared on Father Joe’s doorstep at age eighteen. “It makes sense they knew each other,” he said. Cancini stood and pumped Talbot’s hand. “Thanks, Derek. You’ve been a big help. Carlos Vega just jumped to the top of the suspect list.”
Chapter Forty-three
Julia sipped her wine and cocked her head. “So, tell me something about Mike Cancini that I might not know.”
Before he could answer, a waiter dressed in a black T-shirt and black pants whisked away their plates. A single candle glowed on the table. Wax cascaded down the green glass bottle and dripped onto the tablecloth. The golden light cast soft shadows across her face.
“Not much to tell,” he said after the waiter was gone. “I’m really not that interesting.”
“I disagree.” She smiled. “But if it makes it any easier, I’ll tell you something first.”
He grinned, intrigued. “Shoot.”
She lifted her shoulders, sitting taller. “I’m really good at fly fishing.”
“What?”
“Fly fishing. Have you heard of it?”
He tried to think, fumbling to remember where he’d heard it or seen it. “Uh, I think I saw a movie once with that.”
She laughed. “That’s what most people say. A River Runs Through It. Brad Pitt.”
“That’s the one. It looks hard.”
“It is,” she told him. “My dad taught me. We used to go to Wyoming every summer when I was a kid. I have an uncle and some cousins there. Would you be interested in learning sometime?”
“Around here?”
“There are a couple of places not far away.”
He thought about the movie. The men waded into the rushing waters to cast their rods. Behind them, tall trees reached up to a clear blue sky, and time stretched endlessly. It was as far from the life of a D.C. homicide detective as he could imagine. “I think I’d like that.” She beamed, and a warmth spread through him. “Sounds like fun.”
“Good.” She sipped her wine again and pointed at him. “Now you.”
“Okay, okay. Let me think.” He rubbed his chin. His face grew warm. “Uh, there is one thing. I took a cooking class once.”
“No way.” She sat back, considering. “Wait. I thought you said you couldn’t cook.”
“I can’t. I actually failed the class. Or I would have if I hadn’t dropped out.” He finished his scotch and shook his head. “The teacher said she’d never met anyone who couldn’t even boil water. I was so hopeless, she even wanted to give me my money back. I couldn’t take it, though. It wasn’t her fault.” He watched Julia giggling, and he smiled again. “That’s why I stick to takeout and toast now.”
“I can’t believe you even took the class. It seems so unlike you.”
“Yeah, well . . .” His smile faded. “Lola signed us up. I think she thought—well, I don’t know what she thought.”
She was quiet a moment. “You look tired, Mike.” She pushed her hair behind her ears and rested her chin in her hand. “Are you all right?”
He drank in the sight of her. Auburn hair shot through with gold, cinnamon freckles, cerulean-blue eyes. He was better than all right. “I’m good,” he told her, and meant it.
“How’s Father Joe?”
He put his napkin on the table. “Better. Still using a cane, but still plans to say Mass tomorrow.” Cancini clucked his tongue. “Won’t rest at all. Stubborn.”
“Is that where you get it from?” A dimple popped out on her cheek when she smiled. “Your stubbornness?”
“Am I?”
She pinched two fingers together. “Maybe a little. You could use some rest, Mike.”
“Probably,” he said, but knew he wouldn’t. Images of Vega, skull tattoos, and Holland lying across the steps to the altar kept intruding on his thoughts.
“Are you worried about him?”
Cancini looked around for the waiter. Most of the tables were already empty and the hour was late. “We should probably get going. It looks like they’re trying to close.”
She reached out and placed her hand over his. “They can wait. You didn’t answer the question.”
He sighed. “Ballistics didn’t match. The shooting being a drive-by isn’t just a theory anymore. It’s official.”
“You’re unhappy about that.”
He was, but he wasn’t sure he could explain. The old man wasn’t going to die. There was no evidence he’d been targeted specifically and yet . . . Two shootings. Two priests. What if Holland was the missing witness called Matty? He was never found. Another coincidence? Cancini just didn’t think he could buy it. What if Father Joe wasn’t the victim of a random drive-by, but was targeted? If that was true, the shooter didn’t miss when he got the old man in the thigh, and it wasn’t an accident. Someone had issued a warning.
“I guess I am.”
She took a deep breath. “Then do something about it. You’re the police, aren’t you? Can’t you protect him?”
The department was stretched thin, and Martin had already made it clear they couldn’t afford police protection for the old man. “It’s complicated.”
She clucked her tongue. “Don’t tell me. Money.”
“Partly.”
She tapped the table with her fingernails. “Could you have someone stay with him? So he won’t be alone?”
“I tried that. He refused.” He threw his napkin on the table. Father Joe had scorned the idea of protection.
“I don’t need a babysitter, Michael,” he’d said, his voice stern. “It’s completely unnecessary, and as you can see, I’m fine.” He’d pointed at his cane. “I’m getting around better every day. Even you said so earlier.”
“That may be true, but you still look terrible. What did the doctor say?”
The old man had sighed. “I have to keep taking those pills for a while, maybe forever.”
“For your blood pressure?”
Father Joe had shrugged, looking down into his coffee. “I guess.”
Cancini’s heart had fluttered. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing important. Just some follow-up appointments next week.”
A follow-up appointment wasn’t out of the ordinary, but something in the old man’s voice had made Cancini sit forward. “What kind of appointments?”
Father Joe had set his cup aside. “You have enough on your plate right now. Enough about me.” Cancini had tried to protest, but the old man would have none of it, mouth set in a firm line. “You have far more important things to worry about than me, Michael.”
Cancini looked back at Julia. “I think he might be sick.” She waited, face grave. “When I was visiting him in the hospital, a cardiologist came to see him. I thought it was just routine, but now I don’t know. He admitted he has a bunch of appointments next week, but didn’t want to worry me.”
“You think he’s having heart trouble?”
Father Joe was not a young man, and his weight had blossomed in recent years. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”
Piano music floated over their heads, the sound tinkling and the tune bubbly. A lump formed in his throat, and he dropped his head. He hoped he was wrong, but even if he wasn’t, he had more immediate worries. How much did Father Joe really know about Father Holland’s money issues? What did he know about Vega? Cancini’s gut and the ache in his head told him the old man was hiding more than medical issues. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the gunshot to the old man’s thigh was more than it appeared.
“Promise me you’ll take care of him.” Her soft voice made him look up.