by K. L. Murphy
Julia was right. The old man was stubborn, and he wouldn’t take care of himself. Cancini nodded once. “I promise.”
Chapter Forty-four
“Someone should stay with you for a few days.” Cancini leaned forward, his hands folded in his lap.
“We talked about this.” Father Joe couldn’t hide the irritation in his voice.
The detective hesitated. “What if that shot at you wasn’t an accident?”
“Well, a drive-by is hardly an accident, is it? Only who gets hit is an accident.” Father Joe lifted his injured leg and laid it on the ottoman. A cup of coffee teetered on the arm of the overstuffed chair. “Is there something I should know?”
“No. Just a precaution.”
Father Joe sighed. “I don’t need protection, Michael. You worry too much.”
Cancini rose, took the cup, and placed it on a table overflowing with books. He glanced at Smitty leaning against the doorway to the tiny office. “Father, worry has nothing to do with it. Whether you like it or not, you’re a material witness in a homicide investigation.” Father Joe opened his mouth to protest, but Cancini raised his hand. “We’re not taking any chances.”
“You mean you’re not taking any chances. I don’t want a stranger in my house.” The priest’s lips closed tight in a hard, thin line. He tipped his chin up a fraction of an inch. Cancini sighed. He knew the look all too well, and it would do no good to argue with the man. He’d let it go—for now.
Cancini nodded at Smitty. “Since we’re here, I wondered if we could ask you a few questions.” The priest arched his silver brows. “Unless you want to call the lawyer.”
Father Joe sank back into the chair. “You know better than that. Ask, and I’ll answer if I can.”
Smitty cleared his throat. “Father, have you ever met a man named Carlos Vega?”
“Yes, several times. His mother was a member of St. William when I was a visiting priest. Still is, as far as I know.”
Cancini made notes as Smitty asked questions. “Did Mr. Vega attend St. William?”
Father Joe scratched at his chin. “I doubt it. I know he went when he was a young boy. I officiated at his first communion at the request of his mother. She’s a lovely woman. Very devout. He stopped coming to Mass around the time he entered his teens. I know it broke his mother’s heart, but I tried to tell her to have faith. I’ve told other parents the same.” He hesitated. “Many times those who fall away from the church come back when they need it.”
Cancini looked up to find the old man’s eyes on him. He kept his voice neutral. “Did he come back, Father? Did he find God and return to the church?”
The priest shook his head once. “No, I don’t believe he did.” He picked at a loose thread unraveling on the arm of his chair. He spoke slowly. “I hear things from time to time. It seems Carlos may have chosen a different path in life—one that has taken him away from God.”
“Unlike Father Holland, who found God.”
The old priest blinked. He looked from one detective to the other. “What is it you want to ask me? Spit it out.”
“All right.” Cancini crossed the room and sat down across from the old man. “How long had Vega and Father Holland been friends?”
“I don’t know that they were friends anymore.”
“But they were once.”
“I suppose.” Father Joe looked out the window. He twisted his hands in his lap, turning them over and over. “They went to school together when they were young.” He drew out the words as though forming his thoughts one by one. “Matt left for college and then seminary. He was gone from the city for many years. I don’t think they had anything in common when he returned to take over St. William.”
“Are you sure, Father?” Cancini leaned forward. “Maybe something from when they were young, some bond between them still . . .”
The priest shrugged his shoulders. “Anything’s possible.”
“Were they enemies? Had their friendship turned into something else?”
Father Joe looked back at Cancini. “I really couldn’t say.” He swung his leg to the floor and pulled his bulk from the chair. He reached for the knotted-pine cane. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’m due at the church for a council meeting.” He held up the cane. “And as you can imagine, it’s taking me a little longer to walk over than it usually does.”
Cancini stood. “I’ll walk with you.”
The priest shot him a look. “That’s not necessary. I’m perfectly capable, and you have business to attend to.”
Cancini looked at his young partner. “Smitty, since our friend here refuses help, what are the chances we can at least have someone come over here to check on things every hour?”
The lanky detective shrugged. They both knew the department budget. “Maybe every couple of hours.”
“Can we get a car outside at night?”
“I doubt it.”
Father Joe clucked his tongue. “I don’t need a car and I don’t need someone to watch over me.” He leaned on his cane and smiled weakly. “I’ll be fine, Michael. You’ll see.”
Chapter Forty-five
Wednesday, February 17: Four Days Before the Day of
Matt pulled off his coat and threw it on an empty chair. “They say confession is good for the soul, right? Isn’t that what we want people to believe?” He picked up his menu.
“Whose soul?” asked Father Joe, his lips turned down in a frown. “You’re twisting the purpose.”
Matt set the menu down again. “Are you mad at me, Padre?”
“You’re damn right I am.”
Matt laughed out loud. He was still laughing when the waitress took their orders. Father Joe folded his arms across his chest. “I’m glad you find this all so amusing, Matthew.”
The younger man wiped his eyes. “Oh, I do. I really do.” The waitress returned, filling their coffee cups. “I’m sorry, Padre. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Yes, you did.” He cut off Matt’s protests. “You knew perfectly well how I would react to your confession. How would you react if the situation were reversed?”
Matt smiled again. “That would never happen.”
“That’s beside the point. Matthew, confessing to me, what do you think it accomplishes? I don’t believe you’re only looking for absolution or you would go to someone else. You want me to know.” Father Joe paused, his face flushed. Matt said nothing. The old priest sighed. “Look, Matthew, I’m not just an anonymous confessor. I know you. I know Carlos. These threats are not going to go away.”
Matt was quiet. Although he’d kept the e-mails to himself, Father Joe knew Carlos had made threats. “You’re right. They won’t go away unless I make them go away.”
Father Joe shook his head. “I don’t see how you can do that unless—”
“Unless I give him what he wants.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to do that. It doesn’t belong to him, and it never did.” Matt clenched his fists once under the table and took a breath. “He knows why.”
“Matthew, you’re being stubborn. It doesn’t matter why. He’s not a boy anymore, and neither are you. He has men with guns. I’m worried about you. I’m afraid you’ve made a choice that will hurt you and . . .” His voice dipped low, and the young priest leaned forward to hear. “And maybe that will hurt other people. Can you really live with that?”
“I don’t have any choice.”
“You do have a choice. Matthew, I have a friend who might be able to help. He’s—”
“I’m not returning the money. That’s final.” He looked away from the naked fear he saw in the old man’s face. Father Joe didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. They sat in silence until the waitress returned with two burgers and fries. Father Joe looked down at his plate, then pushed it away. Matt raised an eyebrow. “No appetite?”
“What will you do then?”
“I’m going to try talking to him, try to reason with him,�
�� Matt said between bites.
The old priest gaped. “What makes you think he’ll listen?”
Matt put down his napkin. “At first, he’ll listen because he wants the money. After that, I don’t know. But I do have an idea that might work.”
“What idea?”
Matt reached for the salt and a knife. “I can’t tell you.” He took a large bite of his burger and washed it down with coffee. He smiled at his mentor. “Do you have faith in me, Padre?”
Chapter Forty-six
Bronson brushed by Smitty and tossed a typed report on Cancini’s desk. He rocked back and forth on his feet. Cancini eyed the report. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’ve you got?”
“Sonny Harding. You were right.”
Smitty’s head jerked up. “Hitting his wife?”
“Don’t know about that, but he does have a temper.” Bronson grabbed a chair and plopped down. “I got one incident at the company where he works—Mankin Construction. They build large office buildings and stuff like that. A lot of their work is out near Dulles.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Cancini said. The Dulles corridor, close to the airport, was populated by glass buildings, an expo center, and large corporations. The extended metro line contributed to the building boom.
“I interviewed some of his coworkers, and a couple things came up.”
“Such as?”
“The first time was on the job. He threw a hammer at some guy because he said he screwed up. According to one guy—his name was Tucker—it was a minor issue and could have been fixed easily. Not so with the hammer. The guy ducked and the hammer missed him, but it was thrown so hard it smashed through the new drywall and it all had to be redone.”
“What happened to the guy who screwed up?”
“Fired.”
“Anyone else back up this guy Tucker’s story?”
“Nah. No one wanted to say much. Think they might be worried about getting fired, too. I got a tip to talk to the bartender at Joe’s Tavern, though. I showed him a picture of Harding, and he recognized him right away. Said Harding got in a fight with some other guy. Bunch of glasses got smashed and the other guy ended up with a shiner. According to the bartender, Harding felt bad after. He paid for the damages, bought the guy a drink, and left. Hasn’t been back since.”
Cancini flicked through the report. Harding had demonstrated a quick temper. After, he’d shown what appeared to be genuine remorse. Cancini knew it was a common pattern for some abusers. “Did he know what the fight was about?”
“Couldn’t be sure, but the bartender thought it was over Harding’s wife. Something about how the guy needed to keep his mouth shut and ‘Stay away from my wife’ and jealous shit like that.”
Cancini scratched at his late-day stubble. Bad temper. Possessive behavior. “It could be something.”
Smitty said, “It helps establish motive.”
“I agree, but it’s still a long ways from a bar fight to cold-blooded murder.”
“Not if something was going on between the Mrs. and the priest.” Bronson’s thin lips puckered. “Harding coulda blown a gasket.”
“Maybe she was just confiding in the priest,” Smitty suggested. “Maybe she was telling him about her husband beating her up—”
“Allegedly beating her up,” Cancini interrupted.
Smitty frowned but let it go. “They already work together. She said they were close. I know he was a priest, but it makes a weird kind of sense.”
Cancini got to his feet, his knees cracking in protest. He crossed to the large whiteboard and followed the line he’d drawn between Erica Harding and Father Holland. The theory did make sense, and all other explanations bothered him. Was it his Catholic upbringing, or was it just the idea that the young priest might have been breaking his vows that bothered him? Cancini turned to the timeline he’d scratched across the bottom of the board. The murder had taken place Sunday evening when both Hardings claimed to be home together. “Even if we have motive, we don’t have opportunity. We can’t make a wife testify against her husband, and if we can’t prove he wasn’t home, we’ve got nothing.”
“I might be able to help with that,” Bronson volunteered.
“Go ahead.” Cancini crossed his arms over his chest.
“Like I said earlier, I asked a couple of the guys if they knew what Harding did outside of work. Other than the occasional drink on Thursday evenings, most of them had no idea. Except one guy thought Harding might’ve had a small gambling problem. Said Harding is a huge NBA fan. Watches a lot of games at Wild Wingos in Roslyn and usually has a wager down. I checked last Sunday’s schedule. There was a Wizards game that didn’t end until after seven-thirty because it went into overtime.”
“Now that is interesting,” Cancini said. If Harding was at a bar, he wasn’t home with his wife. “Have you checked with—what was it?—Wild Wingos?”
Bronson shook his head. “No confirmation yet. The manager recognized Harding’s face, said he’s been in before, but the manager didn’t work that night. He thought the bartender might remember, but he’s been out of town. He comes in at eight tonight, so that’s where I’ll be.”
Cancini nodded. His gaze returned to the board, following the line that connected Father Holland to Erica Harding to Sonny Harding. He nodded at the young detective. “Good work, Bronson.”
Chapter Forty-seven
“Why are we bothering with the secretary’s husband?” Martin asked. “I thought Vega was the primary suspect.”
Cancini kept his voice noncommittal. “He is, but it’s still speculation at this point. Even if we can prove Vega is behind the threatening e-mails, it’s circumstantial if we can’t tie him to the weapon or place him at the scene.”
Martin spit a shredded toothpick in the trash. As he reached for another, his hand froze over the bowl of fresh toothpicks. “Damn.” He shook his head and reached in his desk for a pack of gum. Face sheepish, he said, “Lola doesn’t like the toothpicks.” Martin shoved the gum in his mouth and chewed hard, his jaw in constant motion. Cancini looked away, the man’s chewing giving him a headache.
“Bronson’s on his way to meet with the bartender now. If Harding was at the bar, he was lying about being home with his wife.”
“Watching a game at a bar doesn’t make him a murderer.” His lips smacked together as he talked and chewed. “I briefed the brass this afternoon, and I don’t mind saying, everyone—including the mayor—would like to see Vega off the streets. If we can get first-degree murder and money laundering charges to stick, it would be a coup for this department.”
Cancini swallowed a groan. He understood the pressure Martin was under, but he wouldn’t let it dictate how he ran the investigation. “I appreciate that everyone wants to nail Vega for the murder, but I’ve got to follow the evidence—all the evidence. Tonight, that means checking out Sonny Harding.”
The two men stared at each other. Cancini knew full well Martin only tolerated him. They would never be friends, but for better or for worse, the captain’s recent marriage to Cancini’s ex had actually bought him some rope. After a moment, the captain waved a hand. “Fine. But after you rule out Harding, I want everyone assigned to this case working on Vega.” He leaned forward, the wad of gum visible on his tongue. “Do we understand each other?”
“Perfectly.” Outside the office, Cancini added, “Asshole.”
“Is that our captain you’re talking about?” Cancini’s head whipped around to find Smitty laughing. “What did he do now?”
After Cancini repeated the conversation, Smitty whistled low under his breath. “Well, he’s not going to be any happier after you hear what Bronson found out.”
“Harding was at the bar?”
“Yep. Got there during the first quarter.”
“How long did he stay?”
“Well, the bartender said Harding got a call on his cell. He didn’t say much, just listened. Then he threw some bills on the bar and left. That was at six-fifteen, six-thi
rty at the latest.”
“He’s sure about the time?”
“Yeah, because another bartender clocked in at six-thirty, and by the time she came on, Harding was gone.”
“It could have been his wife on the phone. He could have gone home.”
“True.”
Cancini frowned. Harding had motive and maybe opportunity, but Martin was right. There was no reason to assume Harding had penned those threatening e-mails or had any knowledge of the money. Vega had motive and wouldn’t hesitate to gun down a priest in cold blood. He was the logical suspect, but Harding nagged at him anyway. “I want Bronson to stay on this, see if he can track Harding’s movements, find out if any neighbors saw him return home that night. Might be good to get Mrs. Harding back in here, too.”
“I’ll call Bronson right now.” Smitty yawned and picked up his phone.
“Good. Then I want you to go home. Get some sleep.” Cancini shut down his computer. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
“What about you?”
“Headed to Father Joe’s. Gonna swing by my place for a toothbrush, pick up some food, and call it a night.”
“Thought he didn’t want you to stay? He seemed pretty dead set against it.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said, wasn’t it.” Cancini pulled on his faded leather jacket and grinned. “But since when do I listen?”
Chapter Forty-eight
Thursday, February 18: Three Days Before the Day of
Matt pulled the lockbox off the shelf. He inserted the key and turned until the lid popped open. He sifted through the contents: letters from Father Joe, his birth certificate, social security card, a handful of papers. After a moment, he pulled out a photo and placed the rest of the contents back inside the box. He held the picture up to the light. In the picture, he stood awkwardly, Carlos’s arm draped over his narrow shoulder. It was faded now, but the recollections of the day he’d run away from social services still burned in his memory.