The Last Sin

by K. L. Murphy

  “Did you see him get in the elevator to go back up to the apartment?”

  “I saw him get in the elevator, but I don’t think he went up.”

  “He got back out?”

  “No. I think he went down. The down arrow was lit.” The lines between her painted brows deepened. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all.” Cancini blinked, thinking. Each apartment was assigned a storage space that was in the basement. It was only accessible from inside the building through the elevator, but there was an exit at the rear of the building. It could be unlocked with a keycard. He’d stationed the officer in front of the building and had a second tailing Mrs. Vega. Damn. He’d never considered the basement. “He just missed a meeting,” he told her. Cancini stood and touched her on the shoulder. “I’m sure everything’s fine.”

  “Detective?” Looking up at him, she twisted a handkerchief between her fingers. “I know you can’t tell me anything, but thank you so much for investigating the murder of Father Holland. It’s just so horrible, so sad.” Her voice cracked and she covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m so sorry. It’s just that I’ve known Father Holland since he was a boy. He and my Carlos were friends in school.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Vega.” He sat down again. “Your son and Father Holland. Were they still friends?”

  “I don’t think so. My Carlos is not a religious man. He’s a good man, mind you, but he doesn’t go to Mass.” She blinked. “It’s just awful, isn’t it? Carlos came by that morning to check on me, brought my favorite cheese pastry. He does that, you know. Anyway, we were sitting here having coffee together when Angel Marquez called. She’s the one that told us. Said there were police all over the church, and Father Holland had been shot in the face. Is that true, Detective? Was he really shot in the face?”

  “He was shot, but I’m not at liberty to discuss the details, Mrs. Vega.” She nodded, her face somber. “How did Carlos react to the news?”

  “He was devastated, of course. He went all white and could barely speak for a minute.” Her eyes shimmered with tears. “Then he said he had to go.”

  “Have you spoken to him about it since?”

  “Oh yes. He called to see how I was doing and asked me to let him know about the funeral arrangements. He went to the Mass of Transferal with me. I told him how much it would have meant to Father Holland.” She bit her red-stained lips. “I know he would have wanted Carlos to be there.” She breathed in and out, her voice steadying. “I still can’t believe it. I told Father Holland how proud his mother would have been of him. He was such a sweet man. Thanked me for giving him a place to stay when he was just a boy. He’d run away from foster care after his mother died, though I didn’t blame him one bit. I don’t know if you knew that about him.”

  “I did.”

  “Anyway, I always pretended I didn’t know why he was there, but I knew. He needed to be around family, not strangers, and we were the closest he had left.” The tears spilled from her eyes. “I even pretended I didn’t know he lived with us. I never asked questions. Carlos took care of him mostly, and then one day, he was gone.”

  “Do you know why he left, Mrs. Vega?”

  “Not really. He was eighteen I think, though.”

  “How did Carlos take it?”

  She shrugged and sniffled. “I think he was okay. Carlos had a girlfriend and the boys didn’t spend as much time together. Neither of them talked about it, but maybe they were already drifting apart.”

  “Do you know where Father Holland went when he stopped living with you?”

  “No, he disappeared as suddenly as he’d arrived. I didn’t see him again until he came back to take over St. William.” She half smiled. “He’d grown into a man by then, so handsome and strong. A man of God.”

  “But as far as you know, after Father Holland came back, he and Carlos weren’t friends again.”

  “I don’t think so. Carlos said he wasn’t comfortable in the church. Wouldn’t go with me. Breaks my heart. But Father Holland told me not to worry about it, that God would see the good in Carlos. We prayed together for him.”

  “When did you do that?”

  “The day before he died. That’s why I know Father Holland would want Carlos there. He told me how much he loved him and that even though they were no longer friends, they were still family.” She tried to smile again. “You understand? Family is everything, and we always take care of family.” The tears flowed now.

  Cancini handed her a tissue and waited. “Why did you want to see Father Joe?”

  “About the foundation.” She reached behind her and pulled out a large manila envelope. She handed it to Cancini. “This is why.”

  He slipped the document from the envelope. The words swam in front of him, a blur of legal jargon, but he picked out charitable trust, restrictions, and board of trustees. His head pounded. “How did you get this?”

  “Father Holland gave it to me on Saturday after the evening Mass. He asked to speak to me, and that’s when”—she paused and blew her nose—“he gave it to me.” She pointed at the papers. “The last page is why he wanted to see me.”

  Cancini flipped to the last page, a single document declaring Sophia Vega a trustee of the foundation. He sifted through the pile and found four additional trustee documents. Father Joe, the St. William finance committee chair, an attorney, and Father Holland.

  Cancini sat back against the soft cushions of the sofa, the pages in his lap. He’d been right. Father Holland did have a plan, a way to keep the money and stay alive. He’d planned to use Sophia Vega’s involvement with the foundation as insurance. Had the plan backfired, or had it just been too little, too late?

  He cleared his throat. “Did Father Holland tell you how much money was in the trust?”

  “Yes. Quite a large sum. I almost fell out of my chair when he told me. He got very excited when he told me all the great things he hoped to do with it: the repairs to the church, expanding the outreach program, so many good things.”

  “Did he mention where the money came from?”

  “An anonymous donation. Can you believe that? A blessing, he called it. A gift from God, I said.” She spoke the words with no guile and no trace of suspicion. “That’s why I felt it was such an honor that he chose me to serve on the foundation. I told him I didn’t think I was worthy. I’m old, I said. But he told me he wanted my experience, my dedication to the church.” She leaned forward. “I think he just wanted to thank me for all those years ago.”

  He held up the envelope. “Do you mind if I borrow this? I’ll have it sent back as soon as we’ve made a copy.”

  “Of course you can.” The lines between her heavy brows deepened. “Do you think it’s important?”

  “Probably not,” he said evasively. “Just covering all our bases.” She nodded. “Mrs. Vega, did you and Father Joe discuss anything else this morning? Father Holland? Carlos?”

  “He asked me about Carlos’s business. He owns several chicken restaurants now. Chicken del Rey? Have you heard of it?” Her voice echoed with pride. He nodded and knew instantly Father Joe had been right. Mrs. Vega didn’t know about the illegal activities. “Silly name, I know, but the rotisserie chicken is wonderful. It’s quite busy for lunch and dinner. You would love the food.”

  Cancini tucked the envelope under his arm and got to his feet. He’d come for information about Father Joe, and instead learned something about Father Holland. While he didn’t doubt that Sophia Vega might make an excellent trustee for the foundation, he felt sure her dedication to the church had nothing to do with her appointment. “Thank you, Mrs. Vega. I appreciate you seeing me today.”

  “Please tell Father Joe thank you again for meeting with me today.”

  Where was the old man? He wasn’t answering his phone. No one had seen him. Fighting to keep his voice steady, Cancini took the hand she offered and did the only thing he could—lie. “I will, Mrs. Vega. I will.”

  Chapter Sixty-two<
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  Cancini stood with his feet apart and his hands shoved in his pockets. In front of him, the large whiteboard was a maze of names and lines and dates. Crime scene photos and pictures were taped on the wall around the board. Father Joe’s face, lined and innocent, stared back at him. Damn. Cancini’s chin dropped to his chest and his hands curled into fists. Where did Father Joe go? He raised his head again to find Jensen hovering, waiting. Cancini sighed. “Have we got anything?”

  “Not much. No sign he’s been back to his apartment or the church,” Jensen said. “I talked to the foreman cleaning up the damage at the church. He said he hadn’t seen anyone that fit Father Sweeney’s description. Just a few curious onlookers.”

  Cold fingers of fear crawled up Cancini’s spine. Father Joe hadn’t been seen in more than six hours. He grabbed a fax from the top of his desk and handed it to Jensen. “This is a list of the sick from his parish. Let’s find out if he’s making rounds. Two of those names are men at Holy Memorial. He could be there.” He paused, took a breath. “There’s a Bible study that was scheduled for seven o’clock. It’s probably still going on now, and we need to find out if he’s there. It’s been moved from the church while they clean it up. The address is on the bottom of that page. Also, I want someone at tomorrow morning’s Mass if he isn’t located before then.”

  Jensen glanced at the list, started to say something, then held his tongue. “I’ve got it.”

  Cancini’s attention was drawn back to the board. He needed to find Father Joe, but he also needed to find Holland’s murderer. He didn’t want to think about how one action could affect the other. He nodded toward his partner. “What’ve we got on the El Camino?”

  Smitty opened a file folder. “Small amount of residue and gravel under the bumper are consistent with the gravel from the driveway at the front of the church.” He looked up. “You were right. The inside and the rest of the outside of the car were wiped clean. But the key did contain a partial. We’re running it now to see if it matches Ketchum’s son.”

  “But we still haven’t found Junior?”

  “His apartment is empty. One of the neighbors in the building said he hadn’t seen Ketchum since last Sunday. Told me he usually plays music so loud he bangs on the wall to make it stop, but since Sunday afternoon, nothing.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The neighbor said Ketchum has a tattoo on the inside of his forearm.” Cancini shivered. “A tattoo of a skull and dagger.”

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Sunday, February 21: The Day of

  Matt slipped into the sanctuary, taking a seat in the last pew. On the altar, six women and two men of varying ages practiced the week’s communion anthem. It was a small choir but better than having none at all. Their voices rose and fell with the tempo of the old piano, and he smiled, letting the harmony wrap him in the warmth of the message. After they finished, he stood and exchanged pleasantries as they filed past him. When the last of the choir was gone, he glided down the aisle to the altar. He fell to his knees, his eyes on the plaster sculpture of Jesus on the cross. Clasping his hands together, he prayed. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty; Creator of Heaven and Earth.” He bowed his head, and the words he knew so well fell from his lips. He followed the Apostles’ Creed with the Our Father, three Hail Marys, and finally one Glory Be. Each prayer was said one after the other, his voice soft as a whisper.

  He raised his eyes again to the cross hanging high on the wall. The blood at the hands and feet of Christ had faded from red to brown. Even in need of repair, Matt could not deny the beauty and forgiveness in the face of Jesus. Matt reached up and removed his clerical collar. He laid it gently on the floor. He moved his lips again.

  “Lord Jesus, I come to you as a man, not as a priest.” He inhaled, his chest expanding as he settled his nerves. “Help me to know if I’m doing the right thing, if I’ve finally gotten it right. I just don’t know.” He shook his head, and his voice trembled. “I’ve made so many mistakes. There are so many things I’m not proud of. Am I doing the right thing now? Am I good?”

  He thought of the woman who’d brought him into the world, the woman who’d done her best in spite of her weaknesses. She’d taken care of him until she couldn’t. As a young man, he’d been compelled to reverse the order and take care of her instead. It wasn’t a conscious choice or even one he’d questioned. It was the way it had to be. Even now, he missed her face, her voice, her smile. She’d been weak, but her love had been strong. Before she died, they’d had a good day, trekking through the National Zoo. He thought he was too old by then but went anyway. Walking through the grounds, they’d pointed at the animals, shared a bag of popcorn, and laughed. Her sunken eyes had glowed in the bright sun, and for once, her sallow skin had looked more porcelain than paste. She’d reached out and held his hand, and they walked that way for the rest of the day. His embarrassment had faded with each squeal of joy, each warm glance.

  He was a teenager by then, tall and lean. She’d stood on tiptoes and planted a warm kiss on his cheek. “You are a good boy, Matt, a good person. Don’t let the rottenness in the world take that away.” She’d stepped back and cocked her head. “Promise me, Matt.”

  He’d held on to her hand, not wanting to let go. “Promise you what?”

  “Promise me you’ll never lose that goodness. Hang on to it. Don’t ever let it go.”

  “Okay,” he’d agreed, ready to tell her anything that day.

  “No.” She’d gripped his hand tighter. “You need to promise.”

  He’d hesitated. The light in her eyes had burned, and there’d been an urgency in her voice he hadn’t heard before. “I promise,” he’d said finally.

  She’d smiled, but the joy of the day had faded away. His hand had slipped out of hers and they’d returned to Barry Farm. The next day, she’d OD’d.

  Had he kept his promise? He couldn’t be sure anymore. Was there still goodness in him or only a distorted sense of what was good? He sighed and wiped away the tears. He picked up his collar and got to his feet. He needed to prepare for the evening Mass. The image of Jesus looked down on him, and he crossed himself. “Help me, Jesus.”

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Bronson’s shadow fell over Cancini’s desk. “I gotta talk to you, boss.”

  Smitty watched the exchange, light brows arched. Cancini stood and gestured to both men. “In the conference room.” He shut the door behind the group. “What is it?”

  “The wife, Erica Harding. I just got a hit from the Fairfax emergency room.”

  “Shit.” Smitty paced, his face reddening with each word. “What is it with that asshole?”

  Cancini waved a hand and pulled out a chair. “Calm down. Let’s hear what Bronson has to say.” Smitty sat and crossed his arms over his chest. Cancini patted him on the shoulder. Tensions ran high and they were all well past exhausted. He nodded at Bronson again. “Go on.”

  Bronson shot a wary look at Smitty. “I did like you said and asked all the ERs in the area to let us know if they had any new admissions for Mrs. Harding. Fairfax called. She came in three hours ago. They treated her for a broken wrist and sent her home.”

  “Not that it matters, but what was her story?” Cancini asked.

  “Fell down the stairs. The nurse confided—off the record—Mrs. Harding had been in before.”

  Cancini rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin. “How many times?”

  “Three. Two last year and again today.”

  Falling down the stairs was suspicious enough, but adding in two previous ER visits counted as excessive by anyone’s standards. Still, broken bones didn’t tell the whole story. The lady had tried to hide bruises on her arms and neck with makeup and a sweeping hairstyle. Something ugly was going on in that house. If the man could break his wife’s bones, what else could he do?

  “Where’s Harding now?”

  “Still at work as far as I know.”

  Cancini pushed back his chair. “Pick him
up.”

  Bronson opened and closed his mouth. “On what charges?”

  “None. We just want to talk to him.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  Smitty’s cell phone buzzed. He held up a hand, nodding as he listened. He covered the phone with his hand and mouthed, “They got Ketchum.” He listened again. Cancini waited. The cool air in the room prickled at his neck, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Smitty hung up. “Picked him up about twenty minutes ago outside his apartment building. They’re bringing him in now.”

  Cancini licked his lips, considering the questioning ahead. “Can we get the ladies from the church in for a lineup? I want to know if he was the man at Mass the night Father Holland was murdered.”

  Smitty moved toward the door. “On it.”

  Bronson hesitated, his high forehead creased. “Boss? You still want me to pick up Harding? I can stay here if you need me.”

  Smitty was right. Things were happening, and with a positive ID from the parishioners, they might be able to connect Ketchum to Father Holland and the fire at Father Joe’s church. Still, Harding had hurt his wife. Again. He couldn’t let that go. Cancini clapped the younger man on the shoulder. “I do need you, Bronson. I need you to pick up Harding now.”

  Chapter Sixty-five

  “I have nothing to say.” Ketchum Junior lifted his chin and turned away.

  Cancini studied the young man in front of him. Medium height but powerfully built, he rested his hands on the table as though ready to spring out of his chair at the slightest provocation. The short haircut he’d worn for the military was long gone, his stringy hair falling to his shoulders. He had his father’s square chin and straight nose, but his eyes were ice-gray, wary, persecuted. Metal studs decorated his black leather jacket.