The Last Sin

by K. L. Murphy

  The old man clucked his tongue. “You’ve never just wondered anything in your life, son. What’s really going on?”

  Cancini sighed. His father’s mind wasn’t entirely addled by oxygen yet. He debated how much to tell him. “Someone tried to burn down St. Ignatius a few days ago. You might have seen that in the paper. Father Joe’s been laying low. That’s why you probably didn’t see him today.”

  “Laying low, huh? That doesn’t sound like Father Joe to me.” Cancini heard the clicking of the oxygen machine in the background. “Does this have anything to do with the murder of that priest at St. William?”

  “I can’t talk about that case, Dad.”

  His father was silent, the only sound the terminal clicking. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “He was here Tuesday. He comes every week because he knows I can’t stand staring at these walls all day. We played a game of chess and then he left.”

  “Did he say where he was going when he left?”

  “Said he was going over to St. William to take care of some business.”

  “Did he talk about going anywhere else or seeing anyone else?”

  “Nope. Just that. Then he said he’d be back Thursday with my barbecue. It’s Thursday.”

  Cancini looked up to the ceiling. “I’ll have some sent over.”

  “Don’t bother. I don’t want it anymore. I’m not an idiot, you know.” The old man’s voice cracked, and Cancini’s eyes stung. “Find him. Please.”

  Chapter Seventy-five

  Cancini stood outside the heavy doors of St. William and pulled his overcoat tight, the damp air seeping into his bones.

  Smitty shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands jammed deep in his pockets. “Why are we here again?”

  Shoulders hunched against the cold, Cancini glanced over at the empty parking lot. “Gotta do something. I can’t sit around waiting for that warrant another minute.”

  “Judge Simpson promised to review it before six.”

  “We’d already have it if Landon could find who sent those e-mails to Holland.”

  “That’s a big if.”’

  “Probably.” Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Father Joe came over here after he visited my father. Might as well find out what he was doing.”

  Smitty pulled open the door and waved a hand. “Lead the way.”

  Cancini stepped through the vestibule and peeked in the empty sanctuary. Cold candles and dying flowers sat on the altar. While Masses had resumed, the church remained without a resident priest. They passed through the sanctuary to the Commons. The church office door stood open, soft music spilling out.

  Erica Harding swiveled around in her chair, her broken wrist pressed against her side. She switched off the music coming from her computer. “Detectives, I wasn’t expecting you today. Is everything okay?”

  Cancini nodded toward her arm. “Maybe I should be asking you that.”

  “Wh-what?” She looked down at the soft cast around her wrist and forced a laugh. “Oh. That. It’s just a sprain. I slipped on some ice.”

  Smitty coughed and stared at the ground, his face red. They both remembered she’d used the stairs as her excuse at the hospital. Aloud, Cancini said, “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you.” She sat up straight in her chair, a pink cardigan draped over her shoulders. Her hair, pulled back into a ponytail, accentuated her arched brows and sculpted cheekbones. Her makeup, subtly applied, almost masked the faded bruise at her jawline. “What can I help you with, Detectives?”

  “Were you working on Tuesday?”

  “I was. That’s normally my day off, but with Father Holland gone, I’ve been coming in to cover the office and trying to get things ready for whoever is coming in to say Mass this week. The diocese is doing their best, but I’m afraid it’s going to be at least another couple of weeks before a new priest is assigned to St. William.”

  “Have you heard about Father Joe’s parish?”

  Her smile faded. “Yes. I saw it on the news. Why would someone do a terrible thing like that?” She flushed, and her lower lip trembled. “Why does anyone do terrible things at all?”

  “Did Father Joe talk to you about the fire on Tuesday? He mentioned he was coming by the church.”

  “He did come by. He was so sweet to do that, checking to see how we’re doing over here, but we didn’t talk about the fire. Mostly, we talked about Father Holland and how hard everyone is taking it.” She raised a hand and swiped at a tear. “It’s been difficult, you know. Without him, the numbers are already dropping. I mean, Sunday was still busy enough, but the daily Masses are mostly empty.”

  “Was your husband here that day?”

  She frowned. “What day?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Does that matter?”

  Cancini shrugged. “Just wondered. He hangs around the church a lot.”

  Tears gone, she glanced at the door. “He wasn’t here.”

  “How long did Father Joe stay?”

  The line creasing her brow deepened. “Ten minutes or so. After we talked, I saw him go into the sanctuary. I don’t know how long he was there. I assumed he was going in to pray, so I left him alone. When I went in later, he was gone.”

  “What time would you say he went into the sanctuary?”

  She touched her finger to her chin. “A little before three, I think.” The phone rang, and she turned away.

  Smitty’s head came close to Cancini’s ear. “What do you think?” he asked.

  Cancini shrugged. “It would be like him to come by and check how things were going. Even though he’d been shot and his own church had been burned, he would’ve put others first.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “No, it’s not that. He went to see my dad. He came here. What I can’t understand is why he left the building in the first place when he knew it wasn’t safe.”

  “You said he was going stir-crazy. Maybe that’s all it was.”

  Cancini shook his head. Erica was still on the phone and typing into her computer. “No. He didn’t like it, but he understood why he had to be there. It was something else.”

  “Vega.”

  Cancini didn’t say anything. Father Joe had called Vega’s restaurant and texted a CDR number. He hadn’t been seen since.

  “Gentlemen?” Erica stood. “I’m getting ready to close the office for the day. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Did Father Joe happen to mention where he was going after he left here?”

  Her ponytail swung. “No. Should he have?”

  “Just wondering,” Cancini said. “Was anyone else here Tuesday afternoon?”

  “Father Renwick came to say the evening Mass, but that was about an hour and a half later. We’ve been on a very lean staff here—especially lately.”

  Cancini watched as she turned off her computer and straightened her desk with her right hand, the left held against her side. “I hear they’re forecasting an early snow tomorrow. You might need to get a new pair of boots.” He paused a beat. “I wouldn’t want you to slip or fall down the stairs again.”

  She looked up sharply. “Thank you, Detective. Maybe I’ll go shopping tonight.”

  “You do that.”

  “Have a nice evening, Detectives.” She began to tidy her desk, closing drawers and stacking papers.

  “Speaking of shopping,” he said, his hand on the door. “I understand you and your husband were not home together the night Father Holland was murdered.”

  “That’s not true. We were together.”

  “Later, but not the whole night. Weren’t you both out earlier, separately?”

  She flushed pink. “My husband told me you asked him about that. Sonny had gone out to watch some game. I don’t care for sports, so he does that sometimes.”

  “And you?”

  “I decided to run a personal errand.”

  “What was the errand, if you don’t mind my asking?”r />
  Her eyelashes fluttered and she looked down at her hands. “I was planning to buy a nightgown, a negligee. I thought my husband would like it. I was going to surprise him.”

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Surprise him?”

  “Oh.” She blushed again. “No, I couldn’t find anything that he wouldn’t have, um, disliked, and the mall was getting ready to close. Guess it wasn’t good planning on my part.”

  “You took a cab to the mall.”

  She nodded. “I do that sometimes.”

  “You told the cabdriver to wait for you, but you never came out.”

  “I took the subway home. Please don’t tell my husband that. Sonny doesn’t really like me to ride the subway. There are strangers standing next to you or sitting next to you . . .” Her voice faded away.”

  “Why didn’t you just take the cab home?”

  “I didn’t like the way the driver was looking at me.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Maybe I’m becoming as suspicious as my husband, but I didn’t trust him. I took the subway and walked. It’s only a few blocks. Sonny came home early and we were home the rest of the night, just like we told you.” Her fingers trembled as she smoothed her hair. “My husband is on his way to pick me up.”

  Smitty cleared his throat and leaned in toward Cancini. “It’s almost six.”

  “Right,” Cancini said. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Harding.” She nodded mutely, and Smitty followed Cancini back through the sanctuary. They paused in the vestibule.

  “No way that lady has that many accidents. Why does she keep protecting him?” Bright pink spots appeared on his pale cheeks. “I saw it with my own sister, but I still don’t get it.”

  Cancini clamped a hand on Smitty’s shoulder. He didn’t blame him. He was equally bothered by Harding’s possessive behavior and volatile temper, but whatever was going on there would have to wait. “Now isn’t the time. As much as we’d like to do something about it, we came here to track Father Joe.”

  Smitty opened his mouth, closed it again. He pushed open the door and buttoned his coat. “This weather sucks,” he said. “Feels like it’s been raining and cold for days.”

  His young partner was right again. Cancini spotted a bright red umbrella propped in the corner near the door. He was tempted to borrow the abandoned umbrella, thought better of it, and followed Smitty outside.

  Sleet hit the windshield and slowed traffic to a crawl. They rode in silence for several minutes. Cancini, mind racing, scratched at the stubble on his chin. Cold rain dripped from his hair down the back of his neck. “Why would Father Joe try to see Vega at night?” He laid his head back against the seat, letting the words tumble out. “And why would he go alone? He knew Vega was a suspect. He knows how dangerous the man is. Why would he take the risk?”

  Smitty parked and glanced up at the precinct. He made no move to get out of the car and let his hands rest on the wheel.

  Cancini slammed the dashboard with the palm of his hand. “Dammit! I feel like I’m missing something.” The car heater whirred and the sleet tapped on the foggy windows. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m just frustrated. We’re running around in circles and we’ve got nothing tying any of this together. We’ve got a mountain of maybes.”

  Smitty drove for several minutes before breaking the silence. “Where do you think he is?”

  Cancini stared out the window. Gray skies darkened the streets, matching his mood. “I wish I knew.”

  Chapter Seventy-six

  Cancini rose from the hard cot and arched his back, the stiff muscles screaming in protest. Gritting his teeth, he splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection. His skin, ghostly under the single light, itched under two days of stubble. The whites of his eyes were stained pink, the fragile blood vessels burning and swollen. He washed his face a second time, dried with paper towels, and slipped on a clean shirt. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he checked for messages or an alert from Missing Persons. No word on Father Joe. His shoulders drooped and his head fell to his chest. A phone ringing in the squad room jolted him out of his inertia. Grabbing his items, he left the locker room.

  The Vega file sat open on his desk, dozens of pages spread fanlike across the surface. He sighed again. Simpson hadn’t signed the warrant. He’d wanted to, but claimed he needed more than an unanswered text and conjecture. Cancini swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. Vega was dirty, more than dirty, and no one could do a damn thing about it. They’d applied pressure during the night, brought in the usual informants, grilled as many sources as possible. In every case, it was the same. Twitchy fingers. Shifty eyes. No one would talk. Some claimed ignorance, others clammed up. None could hide their fear.

  Searching for anything that tied Vega to Father Holland or Father Joe, Cancini combed through the file, reading everything two and three times over. Around him, the precinct filled slowly. Voices, hoarse with exhaustion, too much coffee, and too many cigarettes, echoed across the jumble of desks. He swallowed some aspirin and held his aching head in his hands. Smitty set a bagel and coffee on his desk.

  “Good morning, boys,” Martin said. The smell of spearmint clung to the captain’s clothes. “What’ve we got?”

  Cancini’s cell phone rang, and he snapped it up. “Yeah?”

  A woman’s voice came across the line. “Well, hello back to you, Detective. How are you, this morning?”

  “Fine, Emma,” he answered automatically. Smitty sat up straighter, and Martin leaned forward. “And you?”

  “Better than fine and you’re about to be, too.”

  He made notes as she talked, the pounding in his head forgotten. Hanging up, he leaned back in his chair.

  “Well?” Martin asked, chomping hard on a fresh stick of gum.

  “Ketchum rolled.”

  Martin and Smitty exchanged a look.

  “He’s willing to take a plea to charges of arson and assault. The ID on the El Camino from the gas station pushed him over the edge. That with the ballistics match on the drive-by, the payroll report, and the receipt. Maybe he just couldn’t stomach the idea of jail. Either way, he’s willing to testify that Vega paid him to set the fire and take a shot at Father Joe.”

  The captain clapped his hand on the desk. “Holy shit. I knew it. I knew we’d get him.”

  Cancini shook his head. “We don’t have him yet. Vega will lawyer up, and all we’ve got is Ketchum’s testimony and a payroll report. And Ketchum won’t cop to the murder of Father Holland.”

  “Why not?” Smitty asked.

  “A couple of reasons. First, his lawyer knows we don’t have any evidence tying Ketchum to the murder scene. The gun used in the drive-by isn’t the same as the one used to shoot Father Holland, and there are dozens of witnesses who saw Ketchum leave the church before the Mass ended. Second, according to Lawrence, Ketchum says Vega only asked him to scare Holland. His story is that if Vega hired someone to shoot the priest, it was someone else.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he hire someone else? Had to be Ketchum,” Smitty said.

  Cancini paced the floor in front of the whiteboard. Smitty’s logic sounded right. Why would Vega hire one thug to scare Holland and another to shoot him? Would he risk expanding the circle of those threatening the priest? “Lawrence said Ketchum was adamant he had nothing to do with the murder.” Cancini shrugged. “For what it’s worth, she believes him.”

  Martin puffed his chest. “Since when do we start believing hired killers?” Cancini and Smitty remained quiet as the captain’s voice pitched higher. “Ketchum will say whatever he needs to say to avoid a capital murder charge. No way we’re letting him walk on that one even if I have to sit in on the goddamn plea deal myself.” He paused to catch his breath. “It doesn’t matter right now anyway. Simpson will sign the warrant this time, and the arson and assault are enough to question Vega.” He wagged a finger at Cancini. “Find him and bring him in.”

  Chapter Seventy-seven />
  Vega’s lawyer came to her feet when Cancini entered the room. Watching him, she laid one hand on her client’s shoulder and smiled. “I’ll allow you five minutes of this charade, gentlemen,” she said, her voice soft but firm. Chocolate-brown eyes looked over horn-rimmed glasses balanced on the end of a wide nose. Her dark hair, prematurely streaked with gray, was pulled back into a twist. Still smiling, she touched the collar of her white blouse and fingered a single strand of pearls. She placed her card on the table and pushed it toward Cancini.

  He leaned forward to read it. Sylvia Morris.

  “Shall we get started?” she asked.

  A bored-looking Vega stared at the one-way glass. If he was angry, he hid it well. Cancini dropped a thick file onto the table, the sound like a shot. Vega’s dark gaze slid to the file and then to Cancini, one heavy brow arched. “Is that supposed to scare me?” The left corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Detective.”

  The lawyer touched his hand. “Gentlemen, you are fortunate we even agreed to come in today. Your time is running out.” Vega smiled wider.

  Cancini took the chair across from Vega. He let the seconds tick by, his fingers drumming the file. He glanced back toward the glass. Martin and the D.A. were watching. “Mr. Vega, we’d like to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Gerald Ketchum.”

  Vega’s brows drew together. “Ketchum? Do I know him?”

  Cancini opened the file and pulled out the payroll reports. He spread them across the table. “Your company paid him twice recently. I assume you know him.”

  “A lot of people work for me at my chicken stores,” he said with a shrug. “I can’t remember all of them.”

  “What does Mr. Ketchum do for you?”

  He shrugged again. “I told you. I can’t remember all of them.”

  “This employee has a very distinctive tattoo. Skull bisected by a dagger. Three drops of blood.”