by K. L. Murphy
“Why not?”
“Not enough evidence. The kid denied it. Insisted she’d pursued him and they’d dated for several months. When he tried to end it, he said she went ballistic and came up with the assault accusation.”
It could have been true or not. Cancini had heard it all. “And the husband knew about this?”
“The whole town knew, and from what I heard, believed Erica’s story. Even though the charges were dropped, the kid was suspended from school anyway. He moved away. Haven’t found him yet.”
If Erica’s story was true, she’d suffered a horrible attack. “How old was she when this happened?” Cancini asked.
“Seventeen.”
Cancini was quiet a moment. “Are you thinking this is why Harding is so protective of his wife, because she’d been raped?”
Bronson shrugged. “I thought so at first, but then I got to thinking, the guy hits her. Doesn’t seem all that protective to me.”
The only domestic abuse cases Cancini had worked were the ones that ended in tragedy. He frowned thinking of the beatings that culminated in shootings or stabbings, families left broken and shattered. Emotions ran high in those cases and sometimes swung from wild anger and jealousy to deep remorse and self-loathing. Other times, there was no remorse at all. Where did the Hardings fit on the spectrum? “No, it doesn’t,” he said.
“There’s something else.” Bronson consulted his phone, then spoke again. “The Hardings got together again after that, went to college together. Then in their senior year, during the middle of the semester, one of Erica’s professors gets fired. The story was that he was fired because he’d been sleeping with one of his students and his wife found out. The professor tried to end the affair and the student went to the administration to complain he’d taken advantage of her. The student took out an ad against him in the school paper, plastered signs all over campus. Pretty nasty stuff.”
Bronson looked at him expectantly and Cancini’s skin prickled. “Erica was the student?”
“Yep.”
“And after that?”
“The professor was fired, his wife left him, and his kids abandoned him. Guess he was pretty sorry after that.”
Cancini tapped his foot on the floor. “What about Erica?”
“Far as I can tell, she went back to Harding again and they got married a year later. No other incidents I could find after that. Just Harding’s temper and following his wife.”
Around them, the precinct grew quieter as the celebratory mood was replaced by the reality of paperwork and the vetting of evidence. Martin disappeared into his office, presumably to prep and primp for the press conference. Cancini bowed his head in thought, images of Erica’s bruises and injuries flitting through his mind. If what Bronson had learned was true, Harding was the one man who’d stayed by her side, supported her even when she entered into other relationships. And yet he was also the man who showed his love with his fists. The lines in his forehead deepened. If he’d thought their relationship strange before, he sure didn’t know what to think now. “What’s your take, Bronson?”
The detective snorted, the sound a high-pitched whistling. “The only thing I know is if I had a woman like Erica Harding, I’d hang on. For one thing, she’s hot as hell, and for another, I wouldn’t want to cross her. Not that I blame any of those guys. Shit, a woman like that, I’d ride it as long as I could, too.” Cancini stared hard at the younger man. Bronson shrank back against the wall. “Sorry. It just came out.”
Cancini let it go, unfolding his arms. His head ached. Erica Harding had never fit the mold of mild-mannered church secretary. Still, a woman who took beatings didn’t seem consistent with a woman who screamed rape and plastered posters of straying professors on telephone poles. That woman didn’t sit there while her husband beat her. She fought back. The hair on the back of his neck rose.
I wouldn’t want to cross her.
Cancini’s gaze shifted to the large window facing the street. Wet snow mixed with freezing rain fell from the sky, hitting the ground in sheets. By mid-morning, the streets would be covered.
What was the nature of the secretary’s relationship with Father Holland? The lunchtime visits. Harding’s jealousy. What did it mean? As a teenager and then college student, Erica Harding hadn’t taken rejection well. She’d made the men who’d left her pay and pay dearly. Had Father Holland let her down?
Cancini touched the glass, the cold sharp against his hand. Outside, the light faded to gray, the sky and sidewalk blending to one. A portly man emerged from a building across the street, huddled under a red and white umbrella. He sucked in his breath. Father Joe? The man broke into a trot, and Cancini’s shoulders sagged. He blinked, watching the man turn the corner, the bright red of the umbrella gone.
I wouldn’t want to cross her.
His head shot up. “Jesus Christ.” He raced to his desk, his heart knocking into his chest.
“What?” Smitty asked, his eyebrows high on his forehead.
Cancini shrugged into his coat. “No time to explain. Let’s go.”
Chapter Eighty
Tuesday, February 16: Five Days Before the Day of
Matt wanted desperately to wipe away her tears, take her in his arms, and hold her. What man wouldn’t want a woman so beautiful, so warm? What man wouldn’t want to run his fingers through her silken hair and breathe in her musky scent? And she needed a hero, or at least he’d thought she did for a while, but even knowing the truth didn’t matter. When she sat close to him, he held his breath. When her knee touched his, his heart raced and he felt things he thought he’d forgotten. But he wasn’t just any man. He was a priest. His rules were different. His commitment did not lie in the fruits of the flesh but in God. He repeated the words in his mind even as she fell to her knees, her face in her hands. He looked away, ashamed. He hadn’t meant to hurt her.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a while.
“Stop saying that,” she begged. Dark mascara trailed down her cheeks, and the red lipstick she wore appeared to darken against her porcelain skin. “I get it. You don’t want me. You think I’m awful.”
“You know that’s not true. I don’t think you’re awful.” He hesitated. “And I do want you, but I can’t. We can’t.”
She swallowed a sob. “Because you’re married to the church.”
“And you’re married to Sonny.”
“Right. And that would be a sin.” She didn’t bother to hide her resentment. “And we don’t want to be sinners, do we? The great and wonderful Father Holland can’t be found to be a sinner, now can he?” Matt blinked. Erica held on to the kitchen counter, climbing to her feet. “Some of us only sin when it’s in our best interest.” Her lips turned up. “Isn’t that right, Father?”
He slowly shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” She splashed water on her face, wiping away the smeared makeup. She flicked at the damp tendrils curling at her cheeks. “You think I’m a sinner, don’t you?”
He let out a long breath. “None of us is without sin, Erica. You know that.”
“I know the verses as well as you do.” He stiffened. “No offense,” she added quickly. “But if we’re all sinners, what difference does it make which sin we’re guilty of? God knows we’re going to sin and forgives us. He does forgive us, right?” She angled her head to one shoulder and smiled.
He half smiled, unsure where she was going. “I suppose he does, but there is confession and repentance.”
“Right. Of course. What I was wondering, though, is which is the greater sin, Father? Adultery or”—her lips twitched as she spoke—“or stealing?” A vein at his temple twitched and his smile faded. “No answer, Father?”
“I don’t think there’s a ranking system on sins,” he said finally.
She waved a graceful hand in the air. “Exactly what I would have expected from you. No answer at all.” He stepped back from her. “But as long as none of us is without sin, what diff
erence does it make if we add one more?”
“You know it doesn’t work that way, Erica. You’re twisting my words.”
“Am I? I didn’t mean to.”
He sighed, looking over her shoulder. The sun had settled over the rooftops. Her husband would be home soon. He needed to leave. He felt her eyes on him as he drew himself up to his full height. “I have to get going,” he said. “Are you going to be okay?”
She rubbed at an angry purple bruise that covered the inside of her forearm. “That’s your question? I’ve devoted myself to you for more than two years. I’ve been there for you in every way you needed.” Bitterness dripped from her words. “I’ve pledged my love to you, and you’ve taken all of it. Everything I had to give, and you ask me if I’m going to be okay.”
His hand came up, fingering the cross hanging at his throat. “I’ve been your friend, Erica. You make it sound . . . dirty.”
She laughed, the sound harsh to his ears. “Oh please. You’re no different than any other man. You stare at my breasts, rub your leg against mine. You smell my hair, smell my perfume. You get off on my attention.” His face flamed, but he didn’t flinch. “You’ve imagined what it would be like between us. Same as me.” She closed the space between them, pressing her body close to his. “I’ve been waiting so long.” Her hands slid up to his shoulders, squeezing. He froze, his hands hanging at his sides. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his neck. He shivered, willing his body to be strong. With both hands, he gently pushed her away.
“What you say is true. I haven’t been without sin. I should have put a stop to this . . . this flirtation a long time ago.”
“Flirtation?” She raised her chin, eyes challenging him. “Then why didn’t you?”
“I’m weak,” he said, the words soft. “I thank God we never crossed the line. It has to stop now. It’s not good for either of us.”
The lines of her face hardened, and her tone was icy. “You’re choosing St. William over me.”
“I’ve chosen to dedicate my life to serving God.”
“Then you’ve chosen God over me. It’s the same thing. I’m not important to you. I’m nothing.”
He raised his hands, palms upward. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
She stepped forward, the space between them barely more than a few inches. The tears, long gone, had been replaced by a cold glare. “I want you to say the truth.”
Chapter Eighty-one
Cancini burst through the doors of St. William, pausing only long enough to pick up the red umbrella in the corner, exactly like Father Joe’s umbrella. In the sanctuary, he walked up and down the aisles. He inspected the confessionals. Nothing. He hurried to the office, where he found Erica typing at her computer.
Startled, giant eyes looked back at him. “I wasn’t expecting you today, Detectives.” She folded her hands on the desk. “I’m finishing the bulletin for Sunday, but I have a few minutes. Is there something I can help you with?” Cancini circled the small room and opened the door that led to Father Holland’s office. She jumped up from her chair and followed him. “What are you doing?”
Without answering, he left the inner office as quickly as he’d entered it. Cancini returned to the Commons that led to the sanctuary, Erica trailing after him. His gaze settled on the long hall at the back of the Commons. Doors on both sides of the darkened hall stood closed. “What are those rooms?”
“Some offices, conference rooms, classrooms.” She raised a hand and pointed. “There’s a kitchen at the end of the hall. What’s this all about anyway?”
“You wouldn’t mind if we looked around, would you?”
“I—I guess not.”
Cancini opened each door one by one, his heart pounding under his coat. Each room was as she described. Desks and file cabinets, conference tables, chairs arranged in circles. Inside each room, he opened cabinets and closets. Erica stayed close, her questions nonstop.
“Did something happen I don’t know about? What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you.”
Silent, he closed one door after another. His breathing quickened. He came to the kitchen at the end of the hall. He flipped the switch, banishing the shadows. White counters and cabinets glowed under canned lights. The air smelled faintly of bleach and lemon. The drawers and cabinets held dishes, pots, and food. He yanked open the refrigerator. Nothing out of the ordinary. He slammed the door shut. His head pounded with doubt. He’d been so sure.
Wordless, he returned to the office, where Smitty waited. He clicked on Erica’s computer, and up came the bulletin.
“What are you doing?” she cried, hands on her hips. “It’s taken me all afternoon to work on that.”
Smitty took her by the arm and pulled her gently back from the desk.
Cancini opened the drawers one by one. Pens, folders, a key ring. In the bottom drawer, he saw her purse. He closed the drawer, searching the rest of the office. Erica’s coat hung from a rack in the corner. A framed photograph of the pope hung on the far wall next to the bulletin board. Father Holland’s wish list of projects was still pinned near the top. He’d seen nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to indicate Father Joe had been there any longer than the secretary had already said. He held up the red umbrella in his hand.
“This umbrella was here yesterday. Do you know who it belongs to?”
She frowned. “People leave umbrellas here all the time. I usually put them in a lost and found box.” She pointed to a box under a table. He saw two other umbrellas inside. His chin dropped to his chest and he took a deep breath, fighting the despair that threatened to overwhelm him.
Smitty cleared his throat. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Harding. That will be all for now.”
“That’s it.” She put her right hand on her hip, her face flushed in anger. “You come in here and search the whole place. You even go through my desk, and that’s it.” She spoke faster, louder. “Thank you for your time,” she imitated. Watching, Cancini realized this was the woman Bronson had described, the one who lashed out when she felt wronged. “Don’t come back here again,” she hissed.
Smitty flinched, physically taken aback at the change in the church secretary. “This is the scene of a murder investigation,” Smitty said after regaining his composure. “We’ll come back whenever it’s necessary.”
“Then solve the murder, and get out. Now.” She slammed the door behind them.
Cancini leaned against the wall in the Commons, hands shaking. He blinked and slowed his breathing. How could a priest just disappear?
“Are you ready?” Smitty asked, voice soft.
“In a minute.” Above them, a bell chimed in the steeple, breaking the silence and echoing through the building. He looked up, drawn back to the dark hallway. The bell rang a second time and a third. He passed door after door, stopping in front of a large wooden credenza topped by a tall hutch. He motioned to Smitty. “Turn on that light at the end of the hall, would you?”
The fluorescent came to life, brightening the hall. Cancini stepped back from the credenza and looked down at the floor. Black scratches marked the floor for several feet in the direction of the Commons. The credenza had been moved. A shadow on the wall above the marks showed him where the credenza had once been. He glanced back toward Erica’s office and licked his lips. Holland’s wish list of items. The obvious things he remembered. Steeple, windows, parking lot, but there was more, wasn’t there? And then it came to him. The basement. The church had a basement. But where? He looked back at the credenza, and his heart fluttered. With his hand, he reached behind the hutch, feeling for it, stopping when his bony fingers hit on the molding.
“Smitty.”
“What?”
“There’s a door.”
Cancini placed both hands against the credenza and pushed. The furniture slid easily, revealing the basement door. He tried the handle. Locked. His stomach lurched. There had to be a way in. He glanced back down the hall to the Commons. It was nearly six. Son
ny Harding would arrive any minute to pick up his wife. He pulled his gun from his holster and broke into a trot.
Erica sprang to her feet when the door swung open. “I thought I told you to leave.”
“Move,” he said, gun trained on her. She backed away from her desk, full lips set in an angry line. He yanked open the drawer and pulled out the key ring. Cancini looked over at Smitty. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Unlocking the door, he found himself at the top of a narrow staircase. He fumbled for the light switch and flipped it on. Nothing. He pulled a penlight from his pocket and picked his way down the stairs. With each step, he inhaled the odors of mold and must. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Waving his light, he could just make out a cavernous room to his left. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, brushing his head and shoulders. Broken tables and chairs, layered with dust, were piled up in the large space. He moved closer, shining his light into the corners. A rat scurried along the floor and disappeared behind a sea of cardboard boxes. “Shit.”
On the other side of the stairs, he found a long hall lined with doors, similar to the one upstairs. Sweat trickled down his neck and under his collar. He took a deep breath and tried the first door. Boxes filled the room, stacked from floor to ceiling. Against the far wall, he spotted trash bags, chewed and soiled. He closed the door and stood outside the next door. Cupping his hand around his mouth, he shouted, “Father Joe?” His words bounced back, the silence a stab to his gut. He opened the next door and the next. Boxes, rusty tools, and broken tables filled the basement rooms. The darkness wrapped around him, the air cold and damp. He banged on the next door, pushed it open, and called his old friend’s name again and again. Then it came, a sound too low to distinguish, and he rushed from the room. Waving his light in the direction of the noise, he saw three doors, the last padlocked.
Hands shaking, he tried one key after another. None worked. He wiped the sweat from his brow and pounded on the door. He put his ear against the wood. The sound came again, muffled but louder. Knocking? Scraping? He didn’t care. Someone or something was on the other side. He threw his shoulder against the door again and again, but it wouldn’t budge. He leaned over, his chest heaving. “Goddammit!”