by K. L. Murphy
The warm odors of oranges, cinnamon, and coffee hit them in the face. Cancini’s stomach growled. The biscuit Smitty had brought him was still sitting on his desk, uneaten and cold. A middle-aged woman stood at a long counter watching both detectives. Behind her, in the small kitchen, Cancini spotted a man with hunched shoulders prepping foods. He moved toward the cashier.
Introducing himself, he pulled out a photo of Father Joe. “Do you know this man?”
She leaned in. “I’ve seen him before. He’s a priest that comes to St. William sometimes.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God. Has something happened to him?”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “We’re just trying to find him to ask him some questions.” He could see his answer didn’t fully alleviate her suspicions, but he didn’t have time to waste. “An unrelated matter.”
“It’s Father Joe, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Smitty stood next to him. “Have you seen the father in the past few days? Maybe he came in the store for something?”
She shook her head. “No. Not that I’ve seen.”
“Does anyone else ever work the cash register? Anyone else that might have seen him?”
“Just my husband and my daughter.” She waved a hand behind her. “Jorge?” she called. His head came up and he shuffled up to the counter. “This is my husband, Jorge. He comes in early to make coffee and pastries.” She pointed at the picture. “They want to know if we’ve seen Father Joe in the store this week.”
He wiped his hands on the apron tied around his waist and leaned toward the photo. “Nope. Not this week. Not ever.” He turned away.
Cancini looked back at the woman. “What about your daughter?”
“Sorry. She’s been out with the flu all week. It’s just been me and Jorge.”
The bells jingled again, and a young couple came into the store, arm in arm. Cancini combed each aisle, searching behind items and under the shelves. Smitty went to the front windows where two small tables were placed. He scanned the windowsill and around the tables. He shook his head once when they returned to the front counter.
“Were you looking for something?” The cashier placed her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised.
“A cell phone,” Cancini said. “Father Joe’s was stolen, and we wondered if you had found it here.”
The bells rang again. “No.” She tilted her head to see the door.
“Do you mind if we look around? Check the bathroom and the kitchen?”
She hesitated, then stepped back toward the kitchen. She spoke rapidly, the words Spanish and mostly unintelligible to Cancini. Jorge glanced over his shoulder and shrugged.
Smitty nodded toward the single restroom in the corner of the store and disappeared. Cancini headed into the kitchen. Jorge worked at a shiny counter in the center of the room. An oversized refrigerator and freezer sat against the back wall. A sink, oven, and battered cabinets hung against another wall. Opened boxes loaded with dried goods and cans filled metal shelves. He moved to the open boxes, searching through the contents. More boxes were piled in the corner, unopened. He shifted them, inspecting the floor around and behind them. A trash can sat at each end of the silver counter. The one closer to Jorge held the morning’s trash: coffee grounds, an empty flour bag, and fruit peels. The other was empty.
He looked up to find Jorge watching him. “Where do you take the trash?”
The man nodded at a door next to the freezer. He spoke with a heavy accent. “Dumpster in the alley.”
Cancini crossed the kitchen and pushed the door open. He stepped outside to a narrow alley and saw a large Dumpster to his left. Jagged shards of glass littered the ground, and “No Parking” signs hung from the fence. On the other side of the fence, several squat, concrete buildings lined the block. Plywood and plastic sheeting covered several windows, and faded graffiti stained the walls. To the right, behind the pizza restaurant, sat a smaller Dumpster. Cancini went back inside.
“There are two Dumpsters in the alley.”
Jorge looked up and came over to the open door. He waved a butcher knife in the direction of the larger Dumpster. “We use that one.”
“Does anyone else use it?”
“Chicken del Rey.”
Cancini’s jaw tightened. “Anyone else?”
“Who knows? Some of the neighborhood punks, maybe some squatters.” He indicated the run-down cinder-block building. “Punks,” he said again and spit on the ground.
The pit in Cancini’s stomach grew. A wind blew up and closed the door. “How often does the city empty the Dumpster?”
“They come on Tuesday mornings.” His wife came into the kitchen, and Jorge returned to chopping, no longer interested. Smitty came in behind her.
“That was two days ago,” Cancini said. The Dumpster hadn’t been emptied since before Father Joe had disappeared. He glanced at Smitty then back at the woman. “Would you mind if we took a quick look in the Dumpster, see if the phone is in there?” He didn’t need her permission but figured it was better that way. And if there was anything—or anyone—to find in there, he didn’t want it to be someone else who found it.
The front bells rang again, and she waved a hand in the air. “Do what you want.”
Outside, both detectives pulled on plastic gloves. Smitty used a pair of milk crates to hoist himself up and looked over the opening to the trash bin. Cancini’s nose wrinkled at the odors of discarded and rancid food. He shivered and looked up and down the alley. The weather had been cold all week. The smell could have been worse.
“I’m going in,” Smitty said.
Cancini nodded. The phone had been traced to this address, and neither Father Joe nor the phone was in the store. The Dumpster was the last place to search. Cancini wanted the trace to be wrong. His heart thudded in his ears and he bowed his head. Over the noise from the street, he heard Smitty moving and pushing his way through the bin. After several long minutes, his partner’s head appeared over the top of the bin. “Just trash.”
Cancini exhaled and bent over at the waist. The words were all he’d needed to hear. His heart slowed, and he breathed in and out. Just trash, but they still needed to find that phone. “I’m coming in.”
A half hour later, Cancini’s hand closed around a hard, rectangular item. Covered in grease, it slipped from his grasp. “Damn.” He dug further, found it again. Holding it up, there was no doubt it was a cell phone. He shivered again. Father Joe wouldn’t have thrown his cell phone in the Dumpster. Had it been accidentally swept into the trash? Cancini wanted to believe that was possible, but the lump in his stomach and the cold fear in his heart told him otherwise. Someone else had thrown that phone in the Dumpster. Maybe someone who didn’t want Father Joe to be found.
Chapter Seventy-two
“What’ve we got?” Cancini leaned in, his face close to Landon’s.
The young man tapped his computer screen. “The phone definitely belongs to your friend. It matches the number he gave us. I verified it with the phone company.”
“What about activity in the last forty-eight hours?” Cancini steadied his breathing.
“Mostly incoming only. I’ve got a handful of calls and texts.” Pointing at the spreadsheet, he said. “There were several calls made to the phone by you. I’ve highlighted those in blue.”
Cancini nodded. He’d called the number at least two dozen times in two days.
Landon touched the screen again. “These are the rest listed under recent calls. Most were made before Tuesday. This one is from Sophia Vega and the others look like they are related to church business. This one is your father, right?” Cancini looked at him. “It’s in his contacts.” Cancini squinted at the screen, reading the time of the call. Close to two o’clock on Tuesday. Landon changed the screen. “And here’s a short list of texts, four to be exact, again mostly church business.”
“Father Joe doesn’t like texting.”
Landon pushed a button and another screen came up. “He must have gott
en over that.”
Cancini studied the screen. He pointed at an unidentified call. “What’s that?”
Landon glanced at him. “I had to do a little tracking but I found the source.” He paused. “CDR, Incorporated.”
Cancini shifted in his seat and his heart skipped a beat. He knew that name. “Chicken del Rey?”
“Yep.”
Cancini pulled his phone from his pocket and called the number.
A pert young voice answered the phone. “Chicken del Rey. How can I help you?”
“Can you tell me which location I’ve called?”
“Southeast.”
“Thank you,” he said, and hung up the phone.
The Southeast store had a large office in the back. Talbot had told them Vega frequented that office on a regular basis. His blood ran cold and he looked away. Father Joe had called the Chicken del Rey number just past noon. That would have been right after he’d met with Sophia Vega. The last outgoing call was to Cancini’s father two hours later. That was followed by the list of incoming and outgoing texts. He squinted at the screen. “Is this ten-thirty p.m. Tuesday?”
“Yes,” Landon said. “That’s the last outgoing message.”
“Who did he text?”
“This one was a little more difficult, but it’s also a CDR phone. It’s listed in a group of company phones for employees. According to their office, they aren’t specifically assigned. Just available, and no one keeps track of them.” Cancini picked up his phone to dial again, but Landon laid a hand on his arm. “I already tried a bunch of times. The phone’s been disconnected.”
“There’s nothing after that last text?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Cancini stared at the list, his stomach swirling. He’d been holding out hope the old man had left the apartment building on his own and been unreachable out of stubbornness. But even if he could convince himself of all that, he also knew Father Joe would never let him worry unnecessarily. There’d been no note and he hadn’t taken any of his clothing or his medications. Wherever he’d gone, he’d planned to return. Cancini’s head pounded and every nerve ending in his body screamed. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of nose. There were too many questions and not enough answers, and the ones he did have weren’t comforting.
He focused on Landon again. “Did this CDR number ever try to reach him?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Had he ever texted that number before?”
“Not that I could find.”
Cancini took a deep breath. “Show me the text.”
Landon pushed a couple of buttons, and a piece of paper shot out of his printer. He handed the page to Cancini.
I know what you’ve done. We need to talk. I’m coming to you.
The fingers of his hand curled around the printed page. Mind numb, he shoved the balled-up paper in his pocket. “Thanks, Landon.” Evidence or no evidence, Father Joe’s safety was the only thing on his mind, and his only lead came back to Vega.
Chapter Seventy-three
Sunday, February 21: The Day of
Matt held the scrap of paper between his fingers. Inside, a number had been written in heavy, black ink. His stomach fluttered. He’d found the note slipped under the door of his office after the evening Mass. Had the man with the tattoo visited his office during the Eucharist? It would be easy enough to do. The doors weren’t locked. Even though there was no name next to the number, he knew. Carlos.
He fell into the chair and waved his fingers until the trembling stopped. The man with the tattoo had shaken him more than he’d realized. When the last parishioner had left, his body had gone cold. He’d hurried to his office and closed the door. Now, he slipped the paper in his pocket and hurried to the corner market. Using the old pay phone on the wall, he dialed the number. Carlos picked up on the second ring.
“Yes?”
“It’s me.” An icy silence filled the line. “I’m not going to return—”
“Then we have nothing to discuss.” The line went dead.
Matt hesitated, then dropped in more coins. He spoke as soon as he heard his former friend pick up the line. “Carlos, don’t hang up.” The words rushed out. “I spoke to your mother yesterday—”
“You did what?”
Matt could feel Carlos’s anger pulsing across the line. “After services. I asked her to stay so I could discuss something with her. Something important.” He gripped the phone and concentrated on his words. “I wanted to talk to her about the money and all the good we could do. She’d like to help.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Matt pressed the phone to his ear. His heart thudded in his chest, and he touched the cross around his neck. “She wants—”
“You told my mother about the money? I will fuckin’ kill you.”
“No. It’s not what you think. I didn’t tell her about you or . . . your business.” A calm came over him, and the words slowed down. “We talked about the foundation money for St. William.”
“I don’t give a shit about some stupid-ass foundation money. I want my money.”
“You’re not listening. Your money is the foundation money. That’s why I can’t return it. I used it to set up the foundation. There are trustees and a lawyer. Every dollar that goes in or out has to be accounted for.”
Seconds ticked by, and Matt waited for Carlos to understand. It didn’t matter. “I don’t care where it is or what you’re calling it. Get my money back. You’re running out of time.”
“I can’t. It’s too late.”
“Then you’re a dead man.”
“Carlos, talk to your mother. Please.”
“Goddammit! I told you to leave my mother out of this. She’s not part of this, and if I find out you said one fuckin’ word to her, I swear to Christ, I will fuckin’ kill you myself.”
“Carlos, talk to Sophia.”
“Fuck you, Matty.”
The line went dead again. Limp, Matt let the phone drop from his hand. He walked back to his office, sinking into his chair. He struggled to breathe, weakness taking over his body. After a moment, he raised his head, eyes coming to rest on the picture of his graduation from seminary. His heart quieted then. He reached up, touched the cross he wore around his neck, and prayed. His pulse slowed, and his strength returned.
“Amen,” he said aloud.
Calmer, he knew he needed to get back to the church and close up for the evening. He pushed away from the desk, the slip of paper still clutched in his hand.
He sank into the front pew, his cassock fanning out below his feet. An exhaustion stole over him, but he looked up to the cross. He would not give in. He would help the people of this church and he would give them back their community. No matter the cost.
Chapter Seventy-four
“Judge Koon won’t sign the warrant.” The words, delivered in a monotone, matched the blank expression on Martin’s face.
“Shit,” Smitty said, and flopped back in his chair, arms folded against his chest.
Cancini couldn’t blame Judge Koon. The warrant for Ketchum had made some sense. A warrant to search Vega’s home and computers could be risky. She knew Vega’s reputation and his access to legal advice. And what did they have to back up the warrant anyway? A missing priest, a text to a corporate cell phone, and a payroll stub for Ketchum, a man who had not yet been convicted of a crime and wouldn’t talk. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t anything, but they needed that warrant.
“She’s not the only judge in town,” Cancini said. His eyes itched with grit and exhaustion. “What about Simpson?” he asked. Judge Simpson didn’t mind playing a little fast and loose. More importantly, he abhorred street gangs and drugs.
“I’ll talk to Emma,” the captain said.
Cancini watched him walk away. He was dead on his feet; his neck and shoulders ached. He was no closer to arresting a suspect for the murder of Holland, and worse, Father Joe was still missing. They�
�d been able to keep it out of the papers so far, but they wouldn’t be able to for much longer. He stared at the whiteboard and the lines connecting Father Joe and Father Holland. Another line connected both men to Sophia Vega. That line stretched to her son, Carlos Vega. He stepped closer to the board and blocked off an empty corner. He wrote the hours of the day, beginning with the last hour Father Joe was seen. One by one he filled in the phone calls and texts Father Joe had made and received on Tuesday, the day he disappeared. In his pocket, his phone buzzed.
“Dad? Everything okay?”
“I didn’t get my lunch.”
Cancini frowned. The nurse should have been serving dinner at this hour. “Isn’t Jada there?”
“Of course she is. Thanks to you, the damn woman never leaves. She’s always fluffing and hovering. You know how I can’t stand that, and when she does leave, the other one comes.” Cancini’s chin fell to his chest and he counted silently to ten. His father kept complaining. “I don’t know which one of them is worse. Maybe the one at night. She wears enough perfume to choke a horse. Doesn’t she know I can’t breathe?”
“I’ll talk to her,” Cancini said. He glanced over at Martin’s office. The captain had his own phone to his ear. “Is there anything else, Dad? I’m on a case.”
“Father Joe didn’t bring my lunch today, and he’s not answering his phone. Do you know where he is?”
Cancini’s shoulders sagged. He’d been wondering when this question would come. “No, Dad. I don’t. Maybe he forgot about lunch and his phone battery died.” He hated the lie, but didn’t know what else to do.
“Humph. He wouldn’t forget.” Cancini’s fingers tightened around the phone. “He told me he’d bring me barbecue today. When he didn’t come, that lazy Jada made me one of her nasty tuna sandwiches. I was really looking forward to that barbecue.”
“When did he tell you that, Dad?”
“I don’t know. The other day. What difference does it make?”
“It doesn’t.” Cancini spoke the words carefully. “I’m just wondering if it was Tuesday. I saw him then, too. Was it Tuesday, or maybe it was yesterday?”