The Last Sin

by K. L. Murphy

“Just wasn’t working out, you know.”

  “No. I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

  The small man’s foot swung under the desk, and his hands fluttered over the desk. “Nothing to tell really,” Goins said. “Domestic case—that’s my specialty—but just wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “Your client—excuse me—former client has a bit of a temper and is a little on the possessive side when it comes to his wife.”

  Goins straightened a pile of paper clips. “I don’t know about that, but his wife is a looker.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Harding is very pretty.” Cancini watched the P.I.’s face as he spoke. “Maybe even pretty enough to attract a priest.”

  Goins’s mouth fell open. “You know about that?”

  “Yes, I know about that.”

  “I guess I shoulda come forward before, but Harding is my client.” His foot swung back and forth. “I mean, was my client.”

  “Come forward about what exactly?”

  “Nothing really. It’s just, you know, the priest . . . he’s dead now.” He stared at the floor, lips closed tight.

  “Harding had you following his wife, right? That’s how you discovered the relationship between Mrs. Harding and Father Holland. You saw him visit her at the Harding’s home while Mr. Harding wasn’t there. Is that right?”

  Goins blinked. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And like any good private detective, you gave that information to your client.”

  “He hired me to watch her. I had to tell him.”

  “Because he was paying you.” The man nodded. “And you were still watching her.”

  Goins picked at a scratch on the desk. “He didn’t trust her.”

  “But he fired you anyway.”

  “Yeah. I gave him a written report and he paid me.”

  Cancini tapped his pen against his notepad. “You said he didn’t trust her. You reported on her activities, right?”

  “Yeah?” Goins cocked his head, his tone wary. “I guess he thought he’d learned enough. Plus the priest was, uh, dead.”

  “Right. But you didn’t say the case was closed. You said he fired you.”

  “‘Fired’ might be a bit strong.”

  “Did he think you weren’t doing your job?”

  Goins face flamed. “I did my job.”

  “But he fired you anyway?”

  “It wasn’t my fault his wife gave me the slip.”

  Cancini and Bronson exchanged glances. “What do you mean gave you the slip?”

  The private detective looked away. “The asshole blamed me. She probably knew he was having her followed. He wanted to know everything she did. For Christ’s sake, I think he would’ve had me follow her into the bathroom if it was possible. I mean, I’ve worked with some weirdos, but I’m telling you, this guy’s obsessed with his wife.”

  Cancini didn’t like it. In his experience, even the most banal obsessions could grow into something sinister. They already suspected domestic violence. How far would Harding go? “How’d she evade surveillance?”

  “He was out. I don’t know where.” Goins shrugged. “I was parked halfway down the block, and I saw her leave the house in a cab. I followed until the driver dropped her off at Ballston in front of Macy’s. The cab pulled over to the loading zone to wait. I parked as quick as I could and waited, too. It was just before six, and the stores were getting ready to close, so I figured she was picking something up. She never came out.”

  Cancini’s fingers tightened around the pen in his hand. “What about the cab?”

  “It left at six-fifteen without her. That’s when I knew I’d been had. I called Harding as soon as I realized it.”

  “Where do you think she went?”

  “Hopped on the metro is my guess. Don’t know after that.”

  “When did this happen?”

  Goins mouth screwed up in thought. “A week ago Sunday.”

  “Shit,” Bronson said. “That’s the night Holland was—”

  Cancini glared. “How did Harding respond when you called him?”

  Goins’s forehead scrunched, and his eyes seemed to grow closer together. “Hey, you don’t think this has anything to do with the priest’s murder, do you?”

  Cancini ignored the question, asking his own. “What did Harding say when you told him you lost his wife?”

  “He didn’t say anything at first. He was pissed—like I knew he would be. But then he just said he had to go. That’s all.” His gaze shifted between the two detectives. “He didn’t say anything else. I swear. Do you think it means anything?”

  “Doubtful,” Cancini said. He sighed and pasted a disappointed expression on his face. “Think you might have been right about Harding after all. Just a weirdo.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Cancini stood and stuck out his hand. “So sorry to have wasted your time. Thanks anyway.” Cancini left the office, Bronson trailing after him. He remained silent until they reached the street. Heavy rain came down in sheets. Rivers of water dotted with trash flowed down the gutters on the silent street. The dreary sky matched his mood.

  “Bronson, I want you to dig deeper. See if you can track Harding’s movements Sunday night, and go back further if you can. I want to know everything there is to know about Sonny Harding.”

  “So, that bit about it being nothing? That was just for Goins’s benefit?”

  “You’re learning.”

  “What about the wife? You want me to find out about her?”

  Cancini paused. On Monday morning, Erica Harding had been distraught, weeping, and she’d been recently struck. Was that for sneaking out or for something else? “Yeah. Her, too.” Cold rain dripped under the collar of his coat. He started to walk away, then stopped short. “And Bronson?”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Don’t interrupt me during a questioning again. Ever.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  “Start over,” Cancini said.

  Smitty tossed a stack of papers on his desk. Dark smudges under his eyes gave his face a haunted look. “What’s the point?” his partner asked. “I’ve spent the whole damn day on this, and nothing. I can’t see any of these owners having anything to do with Vega.”

  “It won’t be obvious,” Cancini said. He kept his voice neutral in spite of his disappointment, in spite of the pounding at the back of his skull. “Let’s start with the collector. Tell me one by one about every owner, how long they’ve had the car, how many drivers in the household. I want to know if they’ve ever had any brush with the law, even a speeding ticket.” Smitty lowered his gaze to the motor vehicle report. His narrow shoulders drooped. Cancini’s own body felt like he’d been in an NFL game. They’d all been working too many hours. “Tell you what. Let’s duck out for a half hour. Grab a sandwich and some decent coffee for a change. Then we’ll get at it.”

  Smitty looked up and exhaled. “Yeah. That would be good.”

  Cancini’s cell phone buzzed. He looked down at the caller ID. “Give me a minute. I’ll meet you downstairs.” Smitty nodded, already pulling on his coat.

  “Father Joe?” The tired muscles in his body tensed. “Everything all right?”

  “Fine, Michael. Fine.”

  “You’re okay, then?” The priest, at Cancini’s apartment since the fire, was being guarded twenty-four hours a day. He didn’t like it, but Cancini had given him no choice.

  “Of course, I’m okay. But if you must know the details, food was delivered an hour ago so I won’t starve. Your officer won’t let me go anywhere. He won’t leave the front door—not even to use the bathroom or get a drink of water. Apparently, he’s under strict orders.” Father Joe did not hide his annoyance. “So I’m good if you don’t count not being able to leave or go to Mass or do any of the things I’m supposed to be doing.”

  Cancini sighed. He sat down again and stretched his legs. “It’s only temporary.”

  “Well, I hope so. We have a shortage of priests in the city already,
in case you’ve forgotten. The diocese is scrambling to find replacements on such short notice.”

  “I’m not going to apologize.”

  “Wasn’t expecting you to.”

  Cancini spotted Martin coming out of his office with his suit coat clutched in his hand. The captain stomped down the hall and down the stairs. “What’s that all about?” he muttered.

  “What? Michael, did you say something?”

  “Nothing,” Cancini said. “You called me. Did you need something?”

  “I wanted to run something by you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Sophia Vega called me today.”

  Cancini inhaled and his shoulders straightened. “Carlos’s mother.”

  “Yes. She said she wanted to talk to me about the foundation Matt started. She said it was very important that she talk to me and me only.”

  “How did she know about it?”

  “I asked her that. She said she’d rather not say on the phone. She wants to meet.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I’m not worried about Sophia Vega. That’s not why I told you.”

  “Well, I am. Her son could be using her as a pawn.”

  “No. She doesn’t have anything to do with his illegal activities. I’m sure of it.”

  “You’re too trusting.”

  “And you’re too suspicious.”

  Cancini raised his eyes to the ceiling. “You asked my opinion.”

  “No, I didn’t. I said I wanted to run something by you. I told her I would meet with her, but I don’t want her coming here with the guard outside. I don’t want her to be uncomfortable.”

  “Now who’s being suspicious?”

  Father Joe ignored the comment. “Can you get your man to disappear just long enough for her to meet with me? An hour. That’s all I’m asking.”

  Cancini sat forward, bending his knees again. Sophia Vega might be the closest link they had to Carlos. If they were to approach his mother for any reason, Carlos would be alerted. If her coming to them was as innocent as Father Joe believed, then it might not raise any alarm bells. “Maybe. When does she want to meet?”

  “Tomorrow morning. At eleven.”

  It wasn’t much time, but it would have to do. “Call her back and tell her to meet you then.”

  “No guard?”

  “No guard.”

  “Thank you, Michael.”

  Cancini hung up and joined Smitty at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Everything okay?” Smitty asked.

  “Yeah,” Cancini said. “I might need your help on something tomorrow.”

  The men ducked out of the building, both bracing against the wind. Smitty pulled on his gloves. “Do you think this car thing could be a dead end? A waste of time?”

  Walking faster to match Smitty’s long stride, Cancini considered the question. He shoved his hands far into his pockets, rolling his shoulders into a hunch against the bitter wind. Darkness had fallen over the city like a blanket, covering the ugliness of the day. Was it possible Mrs. Adkins was wrong about the make and model after all? He dismissed the idea. She was too sure, too definite. The lady was old, but she was more together than many young people he knew. “No,” he said finally. “There’s something there. We’ll find it.”

  Chapter Fifty-six

  “Did I wake you?” she asked, her voice soft and hesitant.

  “No. What time is it?” Cancini sat up on the sofa, hanging his pounding head. He glanced toward his bedroom. The door was closed. He’d insisted Father Joe take the bed, arguing he often slept on the sofa. It wasn’t entirely true, but he did spend many a sleepless night on the sofa, abandoning the bed for hours at a time. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  Julia gave a short laugh. “Can’t sleep again, huh?”

  “Nope.” He stood, padded to the kitchen, and pulled an icepack from the freezer. “Father Joe is staying with me.”

  “Really? Why?” He gave a brief rundown on the prior evening’s events, leaving out the details of the investigation. “That’s terrible,” she said. “How’s Father Joe doing?”

  “He’s fine. As bossy as ever.” Julia laughed, low and husky with exhaustion, and he was suddenly overcome with the desire to see her, touch her. Biting back on the words he felt, he asked, “How about you? Anything as exciting as church fires going on up in the Big Apple?”

  “No, can’t say that there is, but things are definitely happening with the story.” She paused. “Do you want to hear about it?”

  It was the reason she’d called and he recognized it, recognized the need to share, to have someone else learn what you’ve learned. He knew little about her assignment beyond research into the unsolved murder case in Manhattan. Theories had been swirling that the murder had ties to New York money and politics, but so far, nothing had been proven, and the body had never been found. The woman, a young beauty queen who’d worked her way into New York society, had disappeared on the eve of her engagement to the governor’s son. The story had been big news, and with the discovery of some new evidence, could be once again. But it wasn’t the story that would make him say yes. He just wanted her to keep talking. “Tell me,” he said.

  He settled down into the sofa, letting the icepack numb his head. Whenever she paused, he made the appropriate comment, but mostly, he listened. When she finished, he was impressed and told her so. “That’s pretty damn good investigating, Ms. Manning. Maybe you should be a detective.”

  She laughed again. “Thank you. I don’t have everything I need yet, but I’m getting there.” Her tone changed. “How do we look for Saturday?”

  He hesitated. He wanted to tell her they looked good. He wanted to tell her he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and hold her. But he knew he couldn’t. After marriage to an unfaithful husband, she was sensitive to promises, and he knew better than to make them. “Still the same. I’m trying.”

  Cancini heard her soft breath through the line. “I know you are.”

  After she hung up, he remained on the sofa, the ice no longer cold and his head throbbing just a little less. The last date had been better than he’d hoped, more than he deserved. He was trying. They were both were. But what exactly were they trying for?

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  “I took your advice,” Smitty said, handing Cancini a steaming cup of coffee. “I included family information, jobs, locations, anything I could find.”

  “And?”

  “And I think I’ve got one.” He read from his computer screen. “Gerald Ketchum, age sixty-two, lives in Potomac and works as CFO of Anderson Analytics. His office is on M Street.”

  “A collector like the others?”

  “Looks like it. He owns five cars; three are classics. He’s married to Evelyn Ketchum and they have two children, a daughter who lives in Florida and a son—also Gerald—who lives here in D.C.”

  Cancini took a sip, grimacing when the coffee scalded his tongue. He blew on it once, then sipped again. “Does the son live at home?”

  “No. He’s twenty-nine and lives alone in an apartment in Georgetown. He’s a part-time student with no obvious means of income. Looks like Dad pays the rent.”

  “This sounds like there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

  “Oh, there is. The son dropped out of college when he was twenty-one. Joined the marines. Served seven years”—Smitty paused and cocked his head—“before he was dishonorably discharged.”

  “Ah.” Cancini set his cup on the desk. “What did he do?”

  “During a tour in Afghanistan, he belonged to an elite unit that specialized in terrorist kills. He’s an expert shot and trained in explosives.”

  “And the dishonorable discharge?”

  “Punched a superior. Had a little trouble with authority.”

  “I see.” Cancini fingered the files piled up on his desk. “And how long has he been back in the city?”

  “He’s been in the apartment for ab
out six months.”

  Cancini stood and walked over to the large whiteboard. It was covered in lines and names and dates. Taped to the corner was a drawing, a crude reproduction of the skull and knife tattoo. He pulled it down and turned back to Smitty. “Let’s pay Mr. Ketchum Senior a visit.”

  “I already made an appointment. He’s expecting us in twenty minutes.”

  “Good.”

  “Cancini. I need to talk to you.” Martin’s voice carried across the precinct.

  Cancini looked up and muttered, “What is it now?”

  Martin crossed the floor in three quick strides. “Please tell me you and Bronson are not wasting time chasing after that secretary’s husband. I specifically told you to put every man on Vega.” Out of the corner of his eye, Cancini caught Jensen making a quick exit down the stairs. Spit flew from Martin’s mouth with each word. As he grew louder, the room grew quieter and eyes looked anywhere but at the captain or Cancini. “Let me say this again. Harding is not our prime suspect here. He has an alibi. Vega is our prime suspect; therefore, he is our focus. Have I made myself clear?”

  Cancini let several seconds pass. He clenched and unclenched his fists until the immediate tension drained. “Actually, Captain, we’ve been working the Vega investigation, and we’ve got a promising lead.”

  “Really?” Martin scowled. “What kind of lead?”

  “The ’59 El Camino.” Smitty held up the file and waved it in the air. Cancini grabbed his coat off his chair and slipped it on. He looked at his watch. “We’ve got an appointment about it right now.” He nodded at Smitty, and they skirted desks, heading for the stairs.

  “Keep me posted,” Martin said, the bluster faded from his voice.

  Smitty and Cancini crossed the parking lot. Looking over the car, Smitty said, “Martin was pretty pissed.”

  Cancini frowned. The captain wasn’t entirely wrong. Their focus should be Vega. The money was motive enough. The long-standing relationship. The e-mails and threats. All of that was real—although circumstantial. They just needed to prove it. But Harding bothered him. Was it the bruises? Was it the possessiveness? Was it the suggestive relationship between the secretary and the priest? He didn’t know—only that he couldn’t let it rest until he knew the answer. He waved a hand and ducked into the car. “He’ll get over it. Just blowing smoke like always.”