Saenz turns to be greeted by a middle-aged woman in a tailored grey suit. Mrs. Atsuko Iwasaki is a sparrow in the sea of preening peacocks and flamingos around them. Her fine, straight, greying hair is tied back in a neat chignon, and she is wearing the bare minimum of makeup. She bows before Saenz, who bows even lower before her.
“Mrs. Iwasaki, good evening.”
“Father Saenz,” she says, her voice as gentle and restrained as her demeanor. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“I’m very happy to be here. How have you been?”
“Very well, thank you. We have been busy”—and she looks askance at all the glamorous mayhem around them—“preparing for this.”
“I’m sure you’ve had your hands full.”
Mrs. Iwasaki smiles at him, but the smile is tinged with anxiety. “Father, I am happy to tell you that the third tranche of funding for your laboratory will be released very soon. Next week, in fact.”
“Thank you.” But Saenz detects hesitation in the way she’s said it. “But—”
“I am sorry to report that we have had to reevaluate our commitments to various organizations this year.” The outside corner of her right eyelid begins to twitch—a tiny, almost invisible flutter of muscle beneath her thin skin. “And the board has decided to reallocate part of your funding to other uses.”
Saenz takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I see. How large a part, then?”
“This and subsequent tranches will be reduced by forty percent.”
Behind Mrs. Iwasaki, Jerome opens his mouth and starts to say, incredulously, “Forty per—” but Saenz silences him with a sharp look.
“I see. That’s quite a substantial amount. Did they say why?”
“I’m afraid I am not informed of all the reasons behind such reallocations at my level, other than that they believe there are more pressing needs.” Her language is formal, but her regret and embarrassment are real, almost palpable.
Saenz shakes his head and smiles gently at her. “I understand, Mrs. Iwasaki. Is there any way we can appeal the decision?” But her silence and apologetic smile are answer enough. “Ah, well. These things happen. We’ll just have to manage without that forty percent.”
“I am truly sorry, Father Saenz. We will communicate this formally next week when we issue the check for the third tranche. I just thought—well, I felt that I . . .”
Saenz realizes that she is deeply saddened by the situation, and he reaches out to pat her arm. “I understand, Mrs. Iwasaki, really. Thank you for letting me know, and I look forward to speaking with you next week. But now let’s enjoy the rest of the evening, shall we?” And he flashes her one of those signature Saenz smiles, warm, genuine, devastating. He bows again, and she reciprocates.
“Ah,” she says, catching a glimpse of someone in the crowd behind them. “Mrs. Urrutia. She is one of our honorary board members. If you will excuse me, I must assist her.”
Saenz and Jerome crane their necks in the direction she indicates. They see the prominent society matron Veronica Urrutia, dressed in a gown of heavily embroidered, magenta silk shantung with elaborate swirls of seed pearls and crystal beads on the neckline, cuffs and hem. The high neck and long cuffs hide a scrawny neck and wrists. Her hair, dyed a glossy copper, is twisted into a vertiginous bun at the top of her head. Once famously dubbed the Philippines’ Doris Duke by a fawning lifestyle columnist, the seventy-two-year-old woman is the heiress to a vast retail empire and the mother of an incumbent senator. She fancies herself a philanthropist and gets frequent mention in society columns for one high-profile charity project or another.
To the two priests’ dismay, Mrs. Urrutia is slowly walking the red carpet arm in arm with Cardinal Rafael Meneses. Saenz turns away quickly, but Mrs. Iwasaki has called out Mrs. Urrutia’s name. Before the two priests can make their escape, they find themselves in a huddle with the socialite and the cardinal.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Urrutia.” Mrs. Iwasaki also bows to the cardinal. “Cardinal Meneses, so good of you to come too.”
“I’m so glad Mrs. Urrutia invited me,” he says, beaming, first at Mrs. Urrutia, then at Mrs. Iwasaki. His expression changes only ever so slightly when he turns to Saenz. “Father Saenz. I didn’t know you had an ear for opera.”
“It depends on the opera. Enjoy your evening, Your Eminence,” Saenz says, and steps aside to allow them to pass.
“Oh, is that the famous Father Augusto Saenz?” Mrs. Urrutia trills. “Come, let’s have a look at you.”
Saenz bristles at her patronizing tone but keeps his tongue in check. “Mrs. Urrutia,” he says, bowing slightly to her. “Pleased to meet you.”
A bony finger tipped with a coral-painted nail jabs at him. “So you’re the one who’s been giving Monsignor Ramirez so much trouble.”
Saenz’s eyes widen, and even Cardinal Meneses appears taken aback.
“Excuse me?” Saenz asks.
“Come, Mrs. Urrutia. I believe seating has started,” the cardinal says, trying to usher her toward the middle of the lobby, away from the small group. But she balks at being steered away.
“I’m the chairman of the board of Kanlungan ni Kristo.”
“I’m aware of that, ma’am,” Saenz says.
“I keep hearing of the problems you’ve been causing us. Especially Monsignor Ramirez.”
Saenz straightens up to his full height and looks down at Mrs. Urrutia dispassionately. “Is that so? I wonder then if you’ve also heard of the problems Father Ramirez has been causing the very children your charity purports to help.”
The diamonds dangling from Mrs. Urrutia’s ears tremble as she shakes her head vigorously. “No, no, no. All lies. All conjecture. You’ve not been able to prove a single thing. Now if you could do even a fraction of the good that Monsignor Ramirez has been doing all these years, you might—”
Mrs. Iwasaki emits a small peep of distress and confusion at this rapid and unexpected spiral into unpleasantness. At this, the cardinal tries once more to appease Mrs. Urrutia and guide her back toward the rest of the crowd, which has already begun to stream into the theater’s entrances.
“Mrs. Urrutia, it’s time that we—”
“Let me tell you this, Father Saenz,” she says, refusing to be placated. “A man of God doesn’t try to drag his brothers down when they’re doing so much to help others.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Saenz sees Jerome, so angry that the color of his face is moving rapidly from red to purple. When he opens his mouth to speak—undoubtedly to say something scathing to Mrs. Urrutia—Saenz puts a hand on his arm to restrain him and then looks at Mrs. Urrutia.
“Mrs. Urrutia, a man of God does not help himself while pretending to help others. Good evening.” He pivots away from the woman and motions for Jerome to follow him.
But Mrs. Urrutia isn’t finished yet. “What goes around comes around, Father. And sometimes it comes around in ways you can’t foresee. For example, in the flow of funds that you need to run that amateur laboratory of yours.”
A gasp of dismay from Mrs. Iwasaki, and Jerome sees tears spring to her eyes.
Saenz stands very still. The cardinal finally manages to escort Mrs. Urrutia away, and the priest hears Mrs. Iwasaki whisper remorsefully, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Father,” before she leaves to attend to other people.
“Gus?” Jerome asks, his forehead creased with concern. “Gus, are you all right?”
“He will be, soon enough.”
It’s Director Lastimosa in a wheelchair, one of his sons standing behind him. The director has unhooked the loop of his medical face mask from one ear and is doing the same with the other one.
“How—what are you doing here, sir?” Saenz asks in astonishment. “Shouldn’t you be at home, resting?”
“And miss this low-key display of good taste, social responsibility and f
iscal prudence?” The director’s eyes twinkle as he hands the mask over to his son and clasps his hands together over a fine grey barong. “I wouldn’t even think it.”
“Personally, I don’t have the stomach for Mozart tonight,” Saenz says. He turns to Jerome. “If you want to stay for the performance, go ahead. I think I’ll catch a ride back.”
“Gus.”
“I’m good. I’ll see you in the morning.” Saenz bows to the director and begins to take his leave. “Director Lastimosa—”
The director reaches out to grasp his hand firmly. “Father Saenz. You surprise me.”
Saenz frowns. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Surely you’re no stranger to these high-society matrons, with their pet priests and pet cardinals? They underwrite their projects, they fund their charities, they bask in the reflected glory when the priests are elevated to the higher echelons of the Church.”
“You mean—you heard all that?”
“Jonathan and I were right behind you. And Mrs. Urrutia is not exactly a quiet woman.” The director grasps Saenz’s hand and shakes it vigorously, as though by doing so, he will be able to jolt him out of his black mood. “Come now, Father Saenz. The old bat may have won this round. But people like you and me—we win simply by surviving yet another day.”
He motions to his son, indicating that he wishes to be pushed toward the theater entrance. “Come, gentlemen. The Queen of the Night awaits.”
30
A tropical storm has brought heavy rains to Metro Manila and other parts of Luzon. Quezon City is a commuter’s nightmare, with floods hitting waist-high levels in certain areas, and creeks have overflowed all over the city. Many streets are impassable, and traffic is snarled nearly everywhere. The road outside the university is packed with vehicles.
Saenz and Jerome have decided to wait at the laboratory for the traffic to ease before heading off on personal errands. Saenz is scribbling notes on his examination of the salvage victim’s remains. Jerome is curled up on the lab’s hideous but comfortable brown velour couch, reading for Monday’s classes. They go about their respective tasks in companionable silence.
The peace is disturbed by a knock on the door. They exchange glances, and then Jerome unfolds himself and rises from the couch. He walks to the door, opens it a crack at first and then wider, framing a damp and disheveled Ben Arcinas in the doorway. He is carrying a folded, dripping umbrella in one hand and a blue plastic bag in the other.
“Father,” he says to Jerome. Then he looks over at Saenz. “Father.”
“Ben!” Saenz says in surprise, getting up to greet him.
Arcinas hands him the bag. Saenz looks inside and finds about a dozen small monay, chewy bread rolls with a pale brown crust and soft white insides. Saenz is touched by the gesture and waves Arcinas inside. “Come in, come in.” He waits a moment while Arcinas opens up his umbrella and sets it down near the door to dry. “Thank you for these. What brings you here in this weather?”
Saenz hands Jerome the bag, but Jerome eyes it with mild suspicion and sets it down on the couch beside him. Since the murder that came after Carding Navato’s arrest, Arcinas has been unusually subdued and cooperative. For Jerome, who deeply dislikes the lawyer, it has been like dealing with a completely different person.
“You asked me to get my people to check Rommel Salustiano’s background and to question him about his whereabouts on the night of the last killing.”
“Yes.”
Arcinas takes the seat that Jerome offers him, then looks around the laboratory for a moment.
“It’s a lot . . . smaller than I thought it would be.” He says it softly, with neither rancor nor condescension.
Saenz chuckles. “We’ve a lot less money than you might think.”
“But don’t you—I mean . . .”
“We’re good at begging for funds, if that helps,” Jerome offers.
The lawyer is silent for a while, as though weighing what to say next and how to say it.
“We don’t think Rommel is involved in the killings, Father. Aside from the fact that he doesn’t fit your profile—”
“Which we’ve conceded from the outset.”
“. . . and that his feet are too big for the imprint we found at the scene of the sixth murder, he has an alibi for that night. And pretty much every night one of our kids was killed.”
“And that is?”
“His mother. Apparently, they’re busiest on weekends, and they’ll take any job they can get. Guy wants to go and have a life, hang out with friends, maybe meet a girl. But he’s pressed into service all day, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, driving, helping load and unload, helping set up and dismantle for catering jobs. The night of the last murder, he was helping at a wedding.”
Jerome leans back on the couch, folding his arms over his chest. “That’s not just the mother covering for her son, is it?”
“We don’t think so,” Arcinas says. “My boys talked to several people at the wedding—guests, members of the family, even some of the waiters hired by the Salustianos. He was seen manning the food warmers the whole night. And I mean the whole night—there was dancing and karaoke up until the wee hours.”
Saenz frowns. “Just because he was seen doesn’t mean he was there the whole night. He could have left, killed the boy and then come back just in time for karaoke.”
“The event was in Santa Rosa, Laguna. On a rainy Saturday night. And you know what a little rain does to the traffic on the South Super Highway.”
Both priests sigh. “From Santa Rosa to Quezon City and back? In slow-moving traffic, with a murder in between?” Jerome calculates. “Easily three, four hours.” He turns to Arcinas. “What else did you find out about him?”
“He’s got a university degree but hasn’t held a paying job in the last four years. So he helps out with the mother’s business instead. Last relationship was more than six years ago. He has a few friends, and they all like to hang out and play video games.” Arcinas slides a hand in the pocket of his jeans and draws out a small notebook. He leafs through it until he finds what he’s looking for. “He’s an only child. The family used to be pretty well off, but the father left them to start a family with another woman when Rommel was in the sixth grade. So the mother had to work to make ends meet. From all accounts, she’s been very bitter about things for years.”
Jerome looks at Saenz. “I guess that explains the whole ‘good-for-nothing father of yours’ bit.”
“It also explains how a house that big could end up looking so run-down and dilapidated.”
Arcinas nods. “Rommel and the business are all she has. And she’s got her fingers closed really tight around both of them.”
“Did he say why he came here? Twice? And threatened Father Saenz the last time?”
“He says he was curious, and that he wasn’t intending to threaten him. He said he got excited that you came by to ask about Carding. And then he got even more excited when . . .” Here Arcinas pauses, clearly trying to phrase the next part correctly. “When the last boy turned up just after we’d announced Carding’s arrest.”
Jerome looks skeptical. “That’s it? He was curious? Excited?”
Arcinas lifts his hands in a gesture of helplessness: that’s all I have for you. “To be honest, the way he talked—it seemed like you were the coolest thing to happen to him in years.”
Saenz nods. “Okay. I guess that’s as far as we can go in that direction.”
“You sure?” Jerome asks.
“Until we find something more solid to connect him to the murders, there’s nothing to justify pursuing this any further.” Saenz extends his hand to Arcinas. “Thank you, Ben. I really appreciate your looking into this for us, and your coming all the way out here to tell us what you found out.”
Arcinas stands, shakes the priest’s hand. “Thank you for seein
g me.” He reaches out to shake Jerome’s hand as well. Jerome sees him to the door, but Arcinas pauses.
“Look, I don’t want you to think that I . . .” It’s not quite right, so he begins again. “I honestly thought that I . . .”
Saenz knows what he is trying to say. “Ben, I understand. Look, it’s a tough situation all around, and I know you and your boys all have so much to do—”
“No, Father,” Arcinas says, shaking his head. “When I found out about the last boy, I just . . . It’s not . . . acceptable. And I didn’t want you to think that it didn’t matter to me.” He looks at Jerome. “Both of you.” He picks up his umbrella and quickly folds it up. “Well, good night.”
Jerome closes the door behind him.
“Well, what do you think?” Saenz tosses Jerome the frayed, green tennis ball he regularly uses as a stress ball, and Jerome catches it deftly with one hand.
“I guess that’s a dead end, then? And we’re back to square one?” Jerome sits down on one of the couch’s armrests and begins bouncing the ball off the big whiteboard opposite him, with its table of facts about the murders. “What I still can’t figure out is, why one victim every month? Why not every week, every two weeks?”
Saenz slides his glasses lower along the bridge of his nose. “We’ve hypothesized that some circumstance, some aspect of his monthly routine, brings him in contact with his prospective victims during the first week of every month.”
Jerome shakes his head. “But he could go back anytime if he wanted to.”
Saenz stands and draws closer to the whiteboard, removing his glasses altogether. Absentmindedly, he cleans the lenses with the edge of his shirt. “Or maybe it’s some kind of inaugural ritual. You know. Something to start the month off right.” He folds up the glasses and slips them into his shirt pocket. “After all, you’ve already posited the idea that he’s able to function normally in society. Maybe he needs to get it done so he can—well, maintain that normalcy for the rest of the month.”
Jerome thinks about this and decides that it is plausible. For a few minutes, the donk-donk-donk of the tennis ball on the whiteboard is the only other sound in the room, save for the rain.
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