The Last Sin

by K. L. Murphy

  “I put him at my place.”

  “Fine. I want a uniformed guard outside the door until this investigation is closed.”

  “Already done, Captain.”

  Martin’s head whipped around. He opened his mouth, closed it again. With deliberate slowness, he fished a toothpick out of his pocket and unwrapped the cellophane. He chomped a minute, then said, “What I want to know is, can we tie the fire to Vega?”

  Smitty shook his head. “Not yet. I met with forensics this morning. Cancini is right. The fire was deliberate, but it was set with stuff you can get at any hardware store or gas station in the city. What’s left is so charred, there’s no chance of finding any fingerprints.”

  “What about witnesses?” the captain asked.

  “It was close to two in the morning when the fire was set, so most of the residents on the street were asleep,” Cancini said.

  “So, another dead end.”

  “Well, maybe not. I talked to a woman named Cora Adkins. She lives across from the church, a couple of houses down, and her bedroom window faces the street. Suffers from insomnia and was awake. She had the TV on and thought she saw the glare of headlights come down the street and stop. She got up and went to the window, but it was dark and there were no headlights on. She got back in bed, kept the TV on but turned down the sound. Then she heard a car door slam. She got up again. This time, she saw the taillights of a car heading south.”

  “Why didn’t she call the police?” Jensen asked.

  “What was she going to report? That she saw a car driving down the street at two in the morning?”

  “What about the fire?” Jensen whined. “She coulda reported that.”

  Cancini spoke through clenched teeth. “She couldn’t see the back corner of the church from her bedroom window.”

  Martin shot a look at Jensen, whose gaze returned to his shoes. Bronson kept his mouth shut. “So she saw the car. Assuming the driver is our arsonist, can she tell us anything about the car? Make? Model?”

  Cancini flipped open his notebook. “According to Mrs. Adkins, the car was a dark blue or black 1959 Chevrolet El Camino.”

  Jensen looked up from his shoes. “How could she know that? It had to be pitch black out there.”

  Cancini grinned. “True, but the 1959 El Camino has very distinctive taillights. If you see them, you’ll notice.”

  “You’re telling me she identified a car from nothing but the taillights.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “C’mon,” Jensen said, scowling. “Isn’t she like eighty-five years old? She’s probably half blind. How the hell would an old lady know an El Camino from a Camaro or a Monte Carlo?”

  “She’s eighty-one. She was wearing both her glasses and her hearing aid at the time. So my guess is she can see and hear better than you on your best day.” He turned his back on Jensen. “The reason Mrs. Adkins is so positive is she drove an El Camino for most of her life. Her husband was a huge car buff, and while they had other cars, they kept that one. She sold it to a collector after he died.” He dropped a picture of the car on the table. “See how the taillights have that long, curved shape? You can see how you might remember them—especially in the dark.”

  Martin picked up the photo, then passed it around the room. “Let’s say she’s not only right, she’s credible, which is all we have to go on right now. There can’t be that many of those old cars around. It should be easy enough to get a list of owners.”

  “I’ve already put in a request with the DMV.”

  “Good. Let’s expand that to all the counties within fifty miles of the city. It still shouldn’t be a long list. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll get lucky.” Martin looked at his watch and stood. “I’ve gotta brief the chief before the press conference.” Cancini started to speak, but Martin held up his hand. “I got it.” He looked around the room. “The El Camino will not be part of the briefing, and is not to be shared outside of this room.” Cancini exhaled and nodded. “Officially, as far as the fire is concerned, we’re investigating all possible leads. End of statement.” He paused. “I want every available man on Vega. I don’t care how many rocks we have to dig under or how many people we have to interview. Let’s get that asshole.” He headed for the door, then stopped short and bowed his head. “Cancini, sorry about your friend being involved. We’ll do what it takes to keep him alive.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  “Father Joe okay?” Smitty asked, and swiveled his chair to stretch his long legs.

  “Yeah. Complaining, but okay.” Cancini half smiled. “More worried about having had to move today’s Mass to another parish than about himself. Typical.” He glanced up to find Bronson standing close. The young detective shifted from one foot to the other. “What is it, Bronson?”

  “Well, after the fire and everything, and what Martin said . . .”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Harding. I’d planned to see if I could track his movements the night of Holland’s murder, see if he went straight home or somewhere else. Might be nothing and maybe I should be on Vega . . .”

  Cancini tapped his pencil in his hand. “But?”

  The man dipped his head and licked his lips. “But I’d kinda like to see it through.”

  Looking over the man’s shoulder at the whiteboard, Cancini found the line connecting Harding and Holland. It was a tenuous connection, speculative at best. A jealous husband with a bad temper? And jealous of a priest? It would be almost laughable if it didn’t seem oddly possible. Men had killed over less.

  He nodded at Bronson. “Talbot’s sending over some financials from Vega’s restaurants. Jensen can handle those with Landon. In the meantime, see what else you can find on Harding.”

  “And the captain?”

  “Will see how hard you’re working.”

  Bronson smiled and moved away. “Thanks, boss.”

  Cancini studied the board, eyebrows furrowed. Sensing Smitty behind him, he turned. “What is it?”

  The blond shrugged one shoulder. “Just wondering what that was all about. I thought we were focused on Vega.”

  “We are, but Bronson’s showing some work ethic for a change. Besides, Harding has a temper. We’ve both seen his wife’s bruises.”

  Smitty frowned. “Nobody wants Harding to get what he deserves more than I do.” He paused and slowed his breathing. “But the fact that he’s a wife beater doesn’t make him a murderer or an arsonist.”

  Cancini sat forward. Even though Smitty had good reason to dislike Harding, he was willing to hold off and focus on Vega. As the lead detective, he recognized it was the right call. He just wasn’t sure he could do that yet. “He lied to us about where he was when Father Holland was murdered.”

  “Again, that doesn’t make him guilty. Everything points to Vega. Follow the money. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember.” Vega—or more likely someone working for Vega—was the logical suspect in the murder, the shooting, and the arson. But that didn’t stop Cancini from wanting to tie up loose ends, and right now, Harding was a loose end. “Where are we on the car?”

  “The DMV has a listing for four ’59 El Caminos in the district, one in Alexandria, two in Great Falls, and three in Potomac.” Smitty handed Cancini a copy of the printout.

  “Ten total?”

  “Yep. Probably more if we expanded, but it’s a good start.”

  Cancini scanned the list. “This gives us names and addresses. What about ages, sex, anything else?”

  “I’ve already started looking into it. The first name is John McGinty. He’s sixty-three and a CFO in some design firm. Lives in Georgetown and owns three other cars from the fifties, as well as a two-year-old Aston Martin. I’m guessing he’s a collector.”

  “Okay. You take the top five on the list and I’ll take the bottom five.”

  An hour later, his cell phone buzzed. Seeing it was Bronson, Cancini picked up the line. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t know whether it’s something or not, boss,
but Harding is definitely a suspicious guy.”

  Cancini sat down and slugged back a cup of lukewarm coffee. “Get to the point, Bronson.”

  “I just got to Harding’s building and he came out for lunch, so I followed him. He met with some guy at a deli. There was some kind of an exchange.”

  “An exchange?”

  “Yeah. Looked like they swapped envelopes. Not only that, but Harding seemed angry. He got in the guy’s face and had his finger in his chest. People were looking.”

  Cancini put the cup back on the desk and gestured to Smitty. “What happened after that?”

  “Harding left. I figured he was headed back to work, so I followed the other guy. He made a couple of stops—dry cleaner, drugstore—then went back to his office. I waited about ten minutes, then ducked inside. Only three names on the sign inside: a real estate guy, an accountant, and a private detective. My money’s on the private detective.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  “Yeah. Hank Goins.”

  Cancini made notes and held them up to Smitty. “Has he left the office since?”

  “Not yet. I’m parked close to his building so I can see if he leaves, but I thought I should check with you first, see what you wanted me to do next.”

  “Good work. Hang on a sec.” He covered the cell phone with his hand and nodded at Smitty. “Can you run a check on this guy Hank Goins? Supposed to be a private detective.”

  “I’ll make some calls, see what I can find.”

  Cancini took his hand off the phone. To Bronson, he said, “Hang tight, Bronson. Stay where you are until I call you back. If he leaves the building, let me know.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Cancini looked over at Smitty, already on the phone and typing on his keyboard. Assuming Bronson was right, why would Harding hire a private detective? To follow his wife? Cancini rubbed a hand across his head, then reached into the top drawer for a large bottle of ibuprofen.

  Smitty hung up. “Goins is a former cop. He was in vice for fifteen years, then took an early retirement.” Cancini arched one eyebrow. “Yeah. Story is he might have been sampling the wares. There were a couple of accusations and rumors, but he resigned before it got any further.” His blond hair flopped over his forehead as he read from his computer screen. “Until the last six months or so before he quit, he had a clean record.” Smitty looked up again. “I reached out to a friend that used to work Vice. Said Goins was an okay cop, ‘passable’ was his word.”

  “‘Passable’ is not an endorsement.”

  Smitty grinned. “I knew you’d say that. According to my friend, Goins got caught up in a bad situation. Things were tough at home, divorce, custody, the whole works.”

  Cancini had heard similar stories for years. The job took its toll on a lot of marriages, a lot of families. “Anything else?”

  “He set up the private business about a year ago. His Web site says he specializes in domestic cases.”

  Cancini glanced across the room at Martin’s office. The door was closed. Around him, the focus was Vega. Everything Vega touched and everyone he knew was being scrutinized more than once. Martin was working on getting warrants, but their case was flimsy. Vega had a problem with Holland. Vega wanted his money back. Vega had motive. Vega had connections to the Death Squad. Vega had opportunity. Cancini didn’t doubt that Vega was more than capable of ordering the murder of a priest, and he was not above burning down a church. They just had to prove it. “Can you handle going through the rest of the names on the list until I get back?” Smitty nodded and raised one eyebrow. Cancini stood up and slipped on his jacket. An image of Erica’s bruised temple crossed his mind. “I need to have a little chat with Mr. Hank Goins.”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Saturday, February 20: One Day Before the Day of

  “Thank you for staying after today, Sophia. I hope I’m not keeping you from anything.” The late-afternoon Mass had ended and the parishioners had gone. “I promise I won’t keep you long.”

  “It’s no problem, Father Holland.” She sat on the hardback chair, hands folded in her lap. Her dark hair, speckled with gray, had been swept into a tidy bun at the base of her neck. Her only makeup was a subtle color on her lips.

  “I asked you here to thank you.”

  Twin lines appeared between her brows. “Thank me? For what?”

  “For everything you did for me when I was a boy.”

  She waved a hand in the air. “It wasn’t me. It was Carlos.” She smiled at him. “Did you know I didn’t even know you were staying with us for the longest time?” She frowned. “The truth is, I don’t remember you being there all that much.”

  “I spent a lot of time out when you weren’t at work. I didn’t want to be a burden.”

  “Oh, you could never be that.” Her face brightened. “And look at you now. A priest.” She hesitated, then said in a soft voice, “I think your mother would have been proud of you. I didn’t know her well, but I know she loved you.”

  Tears pricked at his eyes, and he bowed his head. “Thank you.” After a moment, he raised his head. “Sophia, I want to give you something.” Her lips parted, surprised. “Before you say you can’t accept it, let me tell you it’s not a gift—not exactly.” Her mouth closed. He bent his head and took a breath. “It’s more of a favor actually.”

  “I’ll help if I can.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled. “As you know, we’ve been working very hard to rebuild this old church.” He waved a hand around the office. “We’ve also been working to bring in more parishioners and grow our outreach program to help people who are unable to help themselves.”

  “And you’ve been doing a marvelous job, Father Holland. Everyone says so.”

  “You’re a good woman, Sophia.” He reached over to the coffee table and picked up a large manila envelope. “I’d like to give this to you.”

  She stared but did not take it. “What is it?”

  He smiled again. “It’s something I hope we can work on together.” He pushed it gently into her hands. He nodded at the envelope. “St. William has had some good news. We have a very generous benefactor, someone who believes in this church and our mission. This person—who chooses to remain anonymous—has set up a foundation to help fund the renovation and our other projects.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Her surprise melted into confusion. “But I don’t understand. What does this have to do with me?”

  His smile widened. “The donor has designated you to serve as one of the trustees. I am also a trustee. There are three more, an attorney, a bishop from the diocese, and Father Sweeney. Originally, I was the only trustee, but I believe a larger committee is better. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, but I still don’t understand. Why me?”

  He squeezed her hand. “I hope you’ll forgive me. It was my idea. I wanted someone who had been a member of this church for a long time. I also wanted someone who understood the challenges of living in this neighborhood, in this community. It’s getting better. I believe that, but we still have a long way to go.” Again, he smiled and held her hands in his. “I also know what an honest and giving woman you are. You’ve always been kind to me. It would be an honor to have you as one of our trustees.”

  “Well”—she bowed her head—“I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes.”

  Her eyes rose to meet his. “Yes.”

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Cancini eyed the darkening sky. Thick clouds heavy with rain hung overhead. He walked faster, dodging fat raindrops. Huddled under the overhang, Bronson waited outside the P.I.’s building.

  “He’s still in there,” Bronson said as Cancini joined him. “On the third floor.”

  “Is there a secretary?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  Cancini scanned the street. Most of the buildings on the block were old. Some looked as though they could be abandoned, and traffic was almost nonexistent. “Not exactly in the best
part of town, is it?”

  Bronson snorted. “That’s for sure. I’ve only seen three people go in this building all day, and one of ’em was Goins.”

  The dark-haired detective looked up and down the street one more time and pushed open the door. “Let’s go.”

  Bronson entered the outer office first. A single desk—empty—took up most of the space. A metal file cabinet pushed in the corner was topped by a dusty, vinelike plant with curling, brown leaves. A silent phone sat on the bare desktop. Cancini nodded his head toward the door behind the empty desk. Bronson followed.

  In the doorway, Cancini held a finger to his lips. The shorter detective nodded, careful to step in quietly. Hank Goins lay stretched out on a sofa, his feet hanging over the arm, nearly touching the floor. A newspaper over his face rose and fell with every breath, occasionally interrupted by short spurts of snoring. Low voices came from a TV perched on a battered credenza. Cancini moved to the desk, where the rest of the newspaper covered the surface. There was no sign of an envelope. He nodded once at Bronson, then slammed the door closed, rattling the hinges.

  “Wh-what?” Goins shot up off the sofa. The newspaper rustled and floated to the floor. “Hey. Who are you?”

  “I’m Detective Bronson, and this is Detective Cancini.” Bronson jerked his thumb at Cancini. “We were hoping you could answer a few questions.”

  Small and wiry, Goins scurried across the room, flipping on the lamp and clearing the papers from his desk. He looked at both detectives, his close-set eyes coming to rest on Cancini. “You know, I used to be on the job, too, before this . . .” Goins’s voice drifted away. He waved a hand at the two chairs. “Have a seat.” He dropped into the chair behind his desk. “What can I help you with?”

  “I want to know about your client Sonny Harding,” Cancini said.

  “Former client, you mean.” Goins’s top lip curled. “Asshole fired me today.”

  “Why’d he fire you?”