The Last Sin
Page 20
Chapter Fifty-eight
Sunday, February 21: The Day of
He watched the couple as they left the pew. The Hardings followed the crowd, waiting in line for communion. She would come to him as she always did, reaching up with the fingers of her cupped hand, touching his for a second, maybe even less. Did her husband notice? He guessed the man did. He guessed the man noticed a lot of things she did.
As usual, she dressed conservatively. This Sunday, she wore a heavy wool skirt that fell to mid-calf, hiding her knees but not long enough to hide the shapely legs underneath. A turtleneck covered her arms and neck, although he could still see the purple bruises peeking out near her hairline. It had been risky, but he was glad he’d gone to see her. Mr. Harding hadn’t been home, and it was her day off. At the church, he couldn’t approach her without risking being interrupted. Outside of church, her husband was always there. Even at the church, the husband followed every move she made.
She’d been working for him for months before he’d really noticed her. He worked so hard, took almost no time off, and he had a mission, one he held close. He couldn’t say how it had started exactly. Maybe it was a whiff of perfume. Maybe it was the way her brows knitted together when she concentrated. Maybe it was the way she hobbled around on a sprained ankle. He couldn’t really place it. Only that her nearness was something he knew was wrong, and yet he wanted it anyway. She jumped when he called for her. She covered her body with clothing that somehow revealed luscious curves.
He knew he was a handsome man. His mama had told him when he was a boy. “My little Matt’s gonna be a heartbreaker,” she used to say to her friends. “The ladies are gonna swarm around him like bees to a honeypot, I tell you.” More than one had offered to “break him in” but his mama had shooed them away. “You wait,” she’d told him. “Make it mean somethin’. Not like it is around here.” She hadn’t elaborated, but he’d known what she meant. His mama had done things he didn’t want to know about. It wasn’t her fault, though. It was the drugs. He’d stayed away from the ladies, not because he wasn’t eager to test his manhood, but because he was afraid. He saw the life around him for what it was. Death disguised as living. He hadn’t wanted that then, and he didn’t want it now.
But Erica wasn’t like those women. She wasn’t cheap or the type to go looking for one-night stands. He’d known she was special. The visits hadn’t relieved his anxiety as he’d hoped, though. Did he feel better or worse? He didn’t know. As she approached the front of the line, she kept her head down, hands pressed together in prayer. She came closer and closer still.
He held the wafer in his hand and placed it into the palm of her cupped hands. “The body of Christ,” he said.
“Amen.” She turned away and placed the wafer in her mouth.
He repeated the communion words and handed the next wafer to Erica’s husband. The man stood still, holding up the line. Matt was forced to look at the man, look into his face. “Amen, Father,” he said, eyes hard as stones.
Matt exhaled. It was only then he realized she hadn’t touched him, hadn’t brushed his fingers with her own. For better or worse, something had changed.
Chapter Fifty-nine
Gerald Ketchum led them to a five-car garage. It stood thirty yards behind the house, nearly invisible from the street. Cancini and Smitty followed him inside. Four classic cars glowed under the fluorescent lights. The El Camino, a deep navy blue, was parked in the last bay.
“I’m a bit of a collector,” he said, expression sheepish. “I know it must seem like a rather indulgent hobby—and it is—but to me, these cars represent a piece of history.”
“Is that an Aston Martin, like the ones in the Bond movies?” Smitty asked, pointing at a cherry-red convertible with a caramel top.
“Yes. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” The man nodded with a smile. “I bought that car in 2001. It’s the reason I built this garage.” Cancini’s hazel eyes swept over the windowless garage. Large fluorescent lights hung over each car. A workbench at least fifteen feet in length ran along the far wall. Shiny tools hung from hooks, and car manuals sat on the bench next to a desktop computer and printer. Heating and cooling units had been installed at each end of the garage. “I spend a lot of time in here, probably too much if you ask my wife. She only puts up with it because, years ago, she thought it was good father-son time.” He turned to Smitty. “Do you know much about cars?”
“A little,” Smitty answered. “My uncle was a mechanic at a garage that worked on a lot of imports. I helped out sometimes.”
“A good mechanic is worth his weight in gold,” the man said. He pointed toward the El Camino. “Well, here it is.” Cancini walked the length of the car while the man talked. “I bought this beauty at an auction about seven years ago, although it didn’t look this good back then.” He chuckled. “Took me months to restore, but it was worth it.”
Ketchum rambled on about the engine and the seats, but Cancini had stopped listening. He stood behind the car, taking in the sweeping rear end and distinctive taillights. Mrs. Adkins could have been mistaken, but he didn’t think so, and the color matched her description. He stepped closer and crouched down, bending his head to see under the bumper and around the exhaust. He pulled his phone from his pocket and took a picture.
Smitty asked a question about the horsepower, and the conversation ground to a halt. Ketchum rubbed his hands together. “Well, you’ve seen the car. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Cancini stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. “A witness identified a dark-colored ’59 El Camino speeding away from the scene of an arson earlier this week.”
Ketchum shook his head. “There must be some mistake. You can’t think I had anything to do with that.”
“Where were you between one and three a.m. on Monday morning?”
The man blinked. “You’re not kidding, are you? It has to be another El Camino or maybe even another car.” He looked from one detective to the other. “I was here. In bed. My wife can verify that.”
“I’m sure she can, but we’ll have to ask her anyway.” Cancini nodded toward the car. “When was the last time the car was driven?”
Ketchum smiled briefly. “That’s easy. Labor Day weekend. My wife and I took the car out for a drive.” He reached out and caressed the hood of the car. “I try to keep the mileage down, but it was a beautiful day and I thought I’d take it for one more spin before the weather turned.”
Smitty glanced once at Cancini, then asked, “So you only drive it in the summer?”
“For the most part. That’s true with all my cars. I don’t take chances in rain at all. Call it a quirk . . .” He shrugged as his words trailed off.
“So there hadn’t been any rain or bad weather the last time you drove this car?”
“That’s right.”
Cancini frowned. “Odd then.”
“What?” Ketchum looked at the car and back at the detective.
“There’s something that looks a lot like mud spatter under the rear bumper on the passenger side.”
“What? That’s impossible.” He got down on one knee and inspected the car. After a moment, he rose, his salt and pepper brows furrowed. “I clean these cars myself every week. I don’t understand.” He moved to the driver’s door and opened the car. Sliding inside, he leaned forward to read the odometer. Getting out, he walked to the workbench and opened a notebook. He closed it and laid it gently back on the bench. He turned to the detectives. “Thirty-two miles.”
“Sir?” Smitty asked.
“Thirty-two miles have been added. Somebody drove it after I parked it last September.”
Cancini watched the man’s face. His eyes hadn’t left the polished exterior of the El Camino. V-shaped lines covered his forehead, and his mouth hung open. Cancini cleared his throat. “Does anyone have access to this car besides you?”
Ketchum’s gaze returned to the detectives. “My wife, but she doesn’t like to drive them. Besides
, she was asleep with me that night.”
“Anyone else? A friend? A mechanic? A relative?”
“No. There’s only me and my wife and . . .” He spun around as though someone had appeared over his shoulder, his head panning the garage.
Cancini followed the man’s gaze but couldn’t find what Ketchum was looking for. After a moment, the man’s head bowed and his shoulders slumped. He took a deep breath, then faced the detectives. “My son and I are not close. We were once, a long time ago. But something changed. I don’t know when or how exactly.” The lines in his face deepened and he seemed to shrink in size. “After he flunked out of school for the second time, I suggested the military. I hoped they could straighten him out. Lord knows, I couldn’t control him.” Ketchum looked over their shoulders, lost in a memory. “I thought for a while things were working out. He sent letters to his mother. She was happy. Then, about six months ago, he showed up at the door, dishonorably discharged. I don’t know what he did—something to do with a fight, I think. The truth is, I didn’t want to know. He only stayed a couple of days. He spent most of the time here, in the garage with the cars. He drove each of them, and then he was gone. I don’t know where he is now.”
“Does he know how to access the garage?”
“Yes.”
Cancini searched the wall behind Ketchum again. Car covers were folded on shelves. Cleaning mitts, soaps, and waxes were stacked nearby. Keys hung from five silver hooks. “Would he have access to the keys to the El Camino?”
The man jerked a thumb toward the silver hooks. “I keep the keys right over there. Anyone who can get in the garage can find the keys.” He paused, then added, his words barely a whisper, “The El Camino was always his favorite.”
Cancini pulled a folded sheet from the inside pocket of his coat. Opening the page to the copy of the crude drawing, he held the paper up for the man. “Mr. Ketchum, does your son have any tattoos? Maybe a tattoo like this?”
“I—I don’t know. He might have.” He swallowed, his voice shaking. “We don’t see him anymore. We don’t really know him.” One tear slipped from the corner of his eye. “He’s our only son.” His chin dropped to his chest and his narrow shoulders shook just enough that the detectives remained quiet. “I’m sorry.” Ketchum lifted his head again. “It’s just hard, that’s all.”
“Take your time.”
The man nodded. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and took several deep breaths. “I don’t really know if my son took the car—only that it’s been moved. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Mr. Ketchum, with your permission, we need to have forensics go over the car as soon as possible. It’s important to find out whether or not it may have been used the night of the arson. Check the car for fingerprints. Debris in the tires. Anything that could help.”
Ketchum rolled the handkerchief into a ball and stuffed it in his pocket. “I need to speak to my wife now. This is going to be quite a shock.”
“Of course,” Cancini said. “We can see ourselves out.”
When he was gone, Smitty turned to him. “So we’re thinking the son took the car and set the fire. Why? What’s his motive?”
“Money. If I’m right, after his dishonorable discharge, he joined the Death Squad here. He was hired for the job.”
“By Vega.”
“Exactly.”
“Makes sense, but the guy’s not going to volunteer Vega as the one who hired him.”
“I don’t expect him to admit anything. First thing is to prove he drove the car the night of the fire.”
Smitty walked around the car, leaning in. “That’s not going to be easy.”
“The son tried to wipe it clean, but he was either in a hurry or missed that spot.” Cancini nodded toward the bumper. “Chances are there’s not a single print inside that car other than Ketchum’s from today, but we could still get lucky.”
“How?”
“He might’ve forgotten to wipe the keys.”
Smitty looked at him, face breaking into a grin. “Good thinking.”
Cancini shrugged. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
Chapter Sixty
Cancini checked his watch. It was past lunch. He sighed, disappointed. Sophia Vega would be gone by now. He’d hoped to be there, to speak to her himself, but between finding the car and Martin insisting on another one of his infernal meetings, it hadn’t worked out. Cancini stretched his legs and stifled a yawn, barely hearing the captain.
“It comes back to the money.” Martin held up a copy of Holland’s bank account records and whistled through his teeth. He smacked a wad of pink gum and dropped the report back on his desk. “It’s a helluva lot of money. People are gonna want to know how a priest had this much cash running through his account.”
Cancini’s head came up. “People?”
Martin shrugged. “People. The press. It’s not like we can keep this quiet forever. I can see the headline now. Dead priest laundering drug money. Or maybe: Dead priest steals from the poor to give to the rich. We can’t have that.”
Cancini sat up straighter in his chair. His jaw tightened. “He didn’t steal it.”
“Well, what the hell would you call it then? That money didn’t belong to him. He didn’t earn it, and as of right now, we can’t prove Vega put it there.” The captain was technically right. They knew the money was being illegally funneled through Holland’s account, but proving it was something else. “Besides, how do we know he wasn’t the one using Vega?”
Cancini didn’t answer right away. He’d wondered the same thing. There were too many things about Father Holland that bothered him, and the relationship between Vega and Holland was one of them. Longtime friends? Partners? It was possible, but he didn’t think so. The e-mails and Father Joe’s memories painted a different picture. “We don’t, but the e-mails support the theory that Vega or someone who worked for him hacked Holland’s account and used it to funnel the money.”
“Have the e-mails been authenticated?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Good. I want Vega, but I want it to stick.”
Cancini nodded and stood.
“Can we prove motive with the e-mails?” Martin asked.
“Threats were made. We still have to prove Vega was the source of the e-mails.”
“Let’s think about this.” Martin leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. Cancini sighed and sat down again. “If we assume Holland knew the money was Vega’s, why’d he take it? He had to know the danger. Why do it?”
It was something the detective had considered as well. “At first, I think maybe he was angry. Then, when he calmed down, he decided he could get even and do a good thing at the same time. So he planned, moved the money, then set up the foundation. Pretty smart, really.”
“Yeah? Well, if he was so smart, how’d he end up dead?”
“He ran out of time.”
Martin stared.
Cancini licked his lips. He had a few ideas, but none he could verify yet. “Look, I’m thinking he had some kind of plan to deal with Vega. I think he thought he could convince him somehow to forget about it.”
“No one forgets about that kind of money.”
“Maybe not, but—”
Both men turned toward the knock on the door. Smitty stuck his head in, nodding at his partner. “I need to see you for a minute.”
Cancini stood. “I’ll check in with you later.”
“I have meetings all afternoon,” the captain said. “Let me know if anything breaks. Stay on Vega.”
He raised a hand and followed Smitty down the hall. “Thanks, partner. I could really use some coffee.”
Smitty passed the coffeepot, looked over his shoulder, and headed to the garage stairs. “I need to talk to you.”
Cancini followed him down. A chill in the air seeped into his bones, and his stomach turned. “What is it?”
“Father Joe is missing.”
Chapter Sixty-one
“I—I didn’t know it was your apartment. He just said he was staying with a friend.”
“That was true. The friend is me.” He brushed his hand over his head. “What time did you arrive at the apartment?”
“A few minutes after eleven.”
“How long did you stay?”
“About an hour. He’s such a lovely man, you know. We talked and then he went downstairs with me and walked me out.”
“To the street?” Cancini had placed the guard outside the building in the Laundromat across the street. The officer reported that the lady had left just after twelve. She’d come out of the building alone. He’d waited five minutes, then gone inside and returned to his post outside the apartment door. At one, a delivery man had brought Father Joe’s lunch. The guard had knocked on the door and there was no answer. He’d knocked again but heard only silence. Inside, the apartment was empty.
“No. Just to the door.” She smoothed her hair, touching the pins at the base of her neck. “Is everything all right?”
“Did you see whether or not he came out of the building after he walked you out?”
“I . . . I don’t think so. It was chilly outside so I stopped for a minute at the front door to put on my gloves. I looked back at Father Joe and he was standing at the elevators, waiting. He waved good-bye.”