The Last Sin

by K. L. Murphy

  Straightening, he pulled out his gun and aimed at the padlock. The shot reverberated through the empty basement, and the broken lock clattered to the floor. The door swung open. “Father Joe?” His light scanned the room until he found him, sitting slumped against the wall, tape plastered across his mouth. Dried blood stuck to his head, darkening his cheek. The old priest’s eyes found his before they closed, his body sliding down the wall to the floor. Cancini rushed to his side and sank to his knees. Mumbling the words to the only prayer he could remember, Cancini dialed 911.

  Chapter Eighty-two

  “Can I see her?” Sonny Harding sat across from Cancini, his shoulders hunched, his face gray.

  “Later.” The dark-haired detective flipped the pages of his notebook. “When did you know your wife had murdered Father Holland?”

  The man shivered. He gazed at the floor, licking his lips. “I didn’t know. I don’t know. I mean . . .” He looked up. “We never talked about it. She hasn’t been herself lately.”

  “You’re still protecting her.”

  “I’ve always protected her. I’m her husband.”

  “We found the gun she used in the back of your closet. Do you know where she got that gun, Mr. Harding?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “In the box with the gun was a pair of gloves. One of them still had traces of Father Holland’s blood on the fingertip. Your wife is going away for a very long time.”

  Harding sat mute.

  “We know she went to St. William that night to murder Father Holland. What we don’t know is why.”

  Harding sank further down in the chair.

  Cancini tapped his pen against the page. “She hurt herself, didn’t she?”

  Harding’s head rolled from side to side. “I tried to stop her,” he said finally. “I couldn’t understand it, but she wouldn’t listen to me. You don’t know how she is. She’s so strong, so beautiful. I wanted to protect her from herself, but she wouldn’t let me.” He twisted his hands in his lap. “I love her so much.”

  “Why do you think she would hurt herself, Mr. Harding?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you ever think she might have wanted people to feel sorry for her? She might have wanted people—people like Father Holland—to believe her husband was abusing her?”

  “I never touched her.” His face contorted with each word. “I would never do that. Never.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Harding.” Cancini paused. He thought he understood Erica’s reasons, what drove her to injure herself, to murder Father Holland, but he needed to be sure. “I’m asking if maybe your wife hurt herself to get attention. Maybe to get Father Holland’s attention?” Cancini leaned closer.

  “Mr. Harding?”

  “Maybe. Probably. She talked about him a lot. She was excited for her job every day. I know I wasn’t. I hated going to work. But not Erica. She just seemed to love it more and more . . .” His voice drifted away.

  Cancini kept his voice low, his tone soft. “She loved Father Holland more and more?”

  Harding nodded, mouth clamped shut.

  “Were you jealous, Mr. Harding?”

  The man blinked several times. “Jealous? Not the way you think. Erica would never leave me. I know that.”

  “Then why did you have your wife followed? Why did you drive her to work when she could have taken the subway? Why did you hang around the church when you weren’t working?”

  He shrugged. “To protect her.” Cancini glanced once at Smitty. The blond shook his head.

  “Protect her from who?”

  Harding picked at his fingers. “It’s hard to explain.”

  Cancini leaned forward. “Try.”

  The man shrugged, his eyes vacant. “Erica thought she was in love with Father Holland.” He bowed his head. “Maybe she was. She thought he loved her, too.”

  Cancini arched one dark eyebrow. “She told you all this?”

  “Not in so many words. She hinted. She wanted me to know. I saw her flirting with him sometimes. She didn’t try to hide it. She knew I’d never leave her. I couldn’t. She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved.” He took a deep breath. “I figured I’d wait it out—like I did before.”

  “Like when you were teenagers and you broke up?”

  Harding nodded.

  “She dated someone else.”

  “Yes, but she came back to me.”

  “You told us that before. We did some checking around,” Cancini said. Harding’s skin turned ashen. “We know about the rape and the professor.” Harding picked at his fingernail, pulling at the skin until it bled. “That boy didn’t rape her, did he?”

  “No.”

  “Why did she accuse him then?”

  Harding blinked. “He’d hurt her. He didn’t love her like I do.” He looked down at his hands. “The Bible is the only book Erica reads. Did you know that? She can quote the whole thing.”

  Cancini’s body went still. He’d known a man like that, a man who’d taken the Bible in the most literal sense and used it to justify the murders he committed. He was convinced God spoke to him through the words and pages. Cancini spoke slowly, “The boy hurt her so she needed to hurt him back. An eye for an eye?”

  “No.” He gave a shake of his head. “Maybe. You don’t know how she suffered. She prayed and prayed after that.”

  “And after the professor lost everything—his job and his family—did she pray about that, too?”

  Harding looked up, his voice shaking. “You don’t understand.”

  Cancini slid forward, his hands on his knees. “You’re wrong, Mr. Harding. I think I do.” He paused. “I think it would it be fair to say your wife doesn’t handle rejection very well. In fact, she’s likely to take revenge against anyone who rejects her. Isn’t that right, Mr. Harding?”

  Harding rocked back and forth in his chair.

  “You said she loved Father Holland. I believe that’s true. She did her best to make him love her back. Because he was a priest, she knew it would be harder and take longer. She was patient. She hurt herself to gain his sympathy and his attention. It almost worked, too. But in the end, he couldn’t do it, wouldn’t break his vows for her.” Harding’s shoulders shook, his face wet with tears. “Father Holland rejected your wife, just like the others, and he died for it.”

  Epilogue

  Cancini let the breeze blow open his coat, savoring the unusually mild weather after the rain, sleet, and snow of the last several days. Julia hooked her arm through his and laid her head against his shoulder. The moon shone bright overhead, and the stars twinkled in the dark sky. The case was over, and she was home for a long weekend. He draped his arm over her shoulder and slowed his steps.

  “What will happen to Vega?” she asked as they walked.

  It was a good question, and one he’d wondered himself. Vega had a good legal team, led by the matriarchal Sylvia Morris, but Ketchum’s testimony looked credible. “Probably get the minimum, but he’ll be off the streets for a few years anyway. If Talbot can prove the money laundering, he’ll go away for longer. The German authorities are cooperating. It could take a while though.”

  “You got the murderer and the gangster.” She cocked her head and smiled up at him. “Pretty good, Detective.” He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. “What will happen to his organization?”

  “Someone will move up. Vega had two or three lieutenants, but it won’t be easy for any of them. There’s liable to be more competition among the gangs with Vega gone, more jockeying for territory and product. The FBI and the local gang department are planning to use this case to make a wide sweep before it gets violent. In a weird way, Father Holland’s murder might have some positive effects. The church gets renovated. The community gets cleaned up. Vega’s off the streets.” Cancini paused. “He would have been happy, I think.”

  They walked on in silence. The door to a neighborhood tavern banged open, and a couple staggered outside. Laughter and blar
ing music filled the air. When the door slammed shut, the night was quiet again. At the corner, Julia asked, “Who’s going to take over at St. William?”

  “Still temporary for a while, but Father Joe tells me they’ve selected a new priest. He should be starting in a month or so. The old coot even says he’ll be helping out over there as soon as he has all his strength back.”

  She stood still, concern etched in her face. “Really? Is that a good idea?”

  “According to him, it’s a great idea.”

  “But I thought he was still on bed rest.”

  “He is, but not for long if he has anything to say about it.” Cancini sighed and wrapped his arm around her again. Father Joe had been half dead when he’d found him. Weak and dehydrated, he’d been locked in that dark basement for three days, no food and only the water Erica brought him. He wouldn’t have lasted much longer. His recovery would be slow. He was an old man already dealing with a gunshot wound and a bad heart. Cancini swallowed and forced the memory of his fear from his mind. It was over now, and Father Joe was safe and under a doctor’s care. “He’s stubborn. He’ll be up and about sooner rather than later.”

  “I’m not sure that sounds like a good thing.”

  He glanced down at her. There was no criticism in the expression she wore, just a warm curiosity. He thought maybe she was right. He would always be worried about the old man, but he couldn’t help admiring his courage and his strength.

  “I’m just glad he’s going to be okay,” he said.

  Julia squeezed his arm. “Me too.” A minute passed. “I still don’t understand why he went to see her, though. Why wouldn’t he come to you?”

  “Misguided faith.” Cancini shook his head. “Father Joe believes in forgiveness. He wanted to give Erica a chance to confess her sins. Same reason he went to see Vega. He knew everything, wanted to offer them both reconciliation. Vega turned him down flat.” He breathed in the fresh air. “Because he was Father Holland’s confessor, Father Joe knew Holland had been struggling to keep his vows. He’d been counseling him, helping him. Father Joe thought he was doing the right thing by going to Erica. Instead, she realized he knew what she’d done. All of it.”

  “You mean about the faked injuries?”

  “That, and Father Joe also figured out Erica knew more than she’d let on about the money, the foundation. As the notary, she’d seen the documents. Father Holland may not have realized how much she understood until it was too late, but before that, they were close. He’d even confided some of his past to her in private moments. She used that to steer attention away from herself toward Vega. She sent the text to Vega’s holding company and threw Father Joe’s phone in the Dumpster. It’s still not clear how she got the number, but she might talk in time.”

  “Smart lady. And very sick.”

  Cancini nodded. He’d been a detective for more than two decades and had never seen anyone do the things that Erica had done to herself. He wouldn’t be surprised if psychiatrists used her as a test case.

  “I hope you don’t mind all these questions,” Julia said, her blue eyes darker under the night sky.

  “You’re a reporter, Ms. Manning. I would expect nothing less.”

  She laughed until her face grew serious. “So, how did Father Joe know it was Erica that had shot Father Holland in the first place?”

  “He didn’t until Sophia Vega came to see him. She told Father Joe that her son knew about her role in the foundation, talked to him about it at almost the exact time Father Holland was murdered. She was not only his alibi, but Father Joe understood Vega would never have Father Holland killed after that. He would never do anything to hurt his mother. That left Erica.”

  “Wow.” Julia’s hair swung with a shake of her head. “It’s crazy.”

  Cancini agreed, although he thought perhaps that was understating the case. Erica Harding would plead temporary insanity, and he realized, in spite of a solid case against her, she could win. Even crazier, he suspected her husband would stay by her side until the end, unable and unwilling to break the hold his wife had on him.

  Julia came to a stop, face turned toward the gray brick building in front of them. “Isn’t this your place?”

  “This is the one.” His stomach fluttered and he hesitated. For the first time, the timing seemed right. Since his wife had moved out, no other woman had stayed the night. No other woman had been important enough or touched him in the way that Julia had. He reached down and brushed the hair from her face. He traced the line of her cheekbone to her lips. “Are you sure?”

  She sucked in her breath and raised her hand to his chest. He pulled her close, and she whispered. “Yes, Detective. Very sure.”

  Acknowledgments

  Full confession: the tiny idea that grew into this novel came from a story I’d heard many years ago involving a stately and well-liked priest who’d had great success growing his parish. After a few years, one of the parishioners became infatuated him. She began to come around more often than necessary, write him notes, and ultimately resorted to what might kindly be described as low-level stalking. Obviously, the woman wasn’t homicidal, no one was murdered, and the situation resolved itself when the priest moved to another city and church. No harm done. Still, the story stuck in my mind.

  When I began writing The Last Sin, I set out to explore both the notion of “a woman scorned” and the humanity of the priest. Young and handsome, Father Holland is not without sin. It made me wonder. Does that make him less of a “good” man and priest or more of one? Ultimately, however, each reader must decide for themselves.

  During the writing of the novel, I leaned on a pair of priests to fill in some of the blanks for me when it came to the sacraments and many of the rituals. I will always be grateful to them for their help. Any mistakes in this story as it relates to Catholicism are strictly mine.

  As always, I am indebted to those kind souls who were willing to read and critique an early draft of The Last Sin. Thank you to Donna McGrath for your pages of notes and spot-on comments. As an avid mystery reader, you can be counted on to tell me what worked and what didn’t. Thank you for that.

  I also need to thank Cameron Murphy, my beautiful daughter, for acting as both beta reader and sounding board. You are always available to listen to plot points and your skills with a red pen are appreciated. It is a gift to get an honest critique and edit delivered with humor and kindness. I love you.

  Finally, to my loyal beta readers, Kate Melia and Maria Gravely, thank you for always jumping in and for loving the story in spite of the obvious warts. Whole paragraphs and personality traits died necessary deaths after your sharp critiques. And thank you also to Beth Rendon for listening and being there.

  Even after two, three, four revisions, a writer can wonder. When I did finally deliver the finished manuscript to my agent and publisher, I held my breath. Time went by until the enthusiastic reception I received from my agent, Rebecca Scherer, made my day. Thanks, Rebecca, for that and for always being there when needed. Thank you to Chloe Moffett, my editor, who helped turned the manuscript into a tighter, better novel that I’m thrilled to have as the third in the Detective Cancini series. Thank you also to HarperCollins/Witness Impulse for the support along the way.

  Writing is hard work. While it’s different for every author, the multiple revisions between the first draft and submission can be even harder. Thank you to my husband, David, for your patience and understanding during all the hours it took to finish The Last Sin. More importantly, thank you for your sense of humor and making me laugh out loud every day. Thank you again to Cameron, and to my other amazing children—Thomas, Luke, and Meredith—for your support and flexibility. I know how lucky I am.

  Finally, I am very grateful to the readers and mystery lovers who picked up The Last Sin, Stay of Execution, and A Guilty Mind, as well as to all those who’ve asked for more. Happy reading!

  An Excerpt from Stay of Execution

  If you liked The Last Sin,
>
  keep reading for an excerpt from

  another Detective Cancini Mystery

  by K.L. Murphy

  STAY OF EXECUTION

  Available now wherever e-books are sold

  Chapter One

  Shadows danced along the cinder-block walls. A light shone through the tiny window in the door, then moved past as the guard made his rounds. The prisoner lay still while the steps faded, then rolled to a sitting position, rusty bedsprings squeaking under his weight. His head jerked up toward the door. He waited before standing, bare feet hitting the cold, concrete floor.

  In a few days, a week, it would all be over. No more guards. No more looking at the same walls twenty-three hours a day. No more crap food. No more of this godforsaken hellhole. He would go home, where he belonged.

  On the far wall, a steel container served as his toilet. The stench of old piss stung his nose, but for once, he didn’t mind. How quickly things had changed. Maybe he should’ve been surprised, but he wasn’t. Hell, he’d been expecting it for a long time. Some would say he was lucky, might even call his release a miracle. Shit. Maybe it was a miracle. After all, it wasn’t every day a man on death row got handed his walking papers. Not that he cared much about cheating death. So what if he wouldn’t be executed tomorrow, or next month, or next year? He would still die eventually. Everyone does.

  He knew how it would go. The lawyers would show up in their tailored suits and Italian shoes, all smug with their accomplishment. There’d be backslapping, and ­people he’d never seen before asking what he needed. No one had done that in a long damn time. He ran a hand over his heavy beard. They’d have clothes in his size, a suit and a tie. A barber would give him a haircut and shave. They’d clean him up. It was part of the deal.