Against a Brightening Sky

by Jaime Lee Moyer

  Officer Walken guided the patrol car into a parking spot centered right in front of the church. Officer Polk and a harried-looking young priest rushed down the walk to meet the car, arriving before Gabe could gather his hat. Polk pulled the door open, but leaned in to keep Gabe or Jordan Lynch from getting out.

  Gabe gestured toward Jordan. “This is Lieutenant Lynch from the Chicago PD. He’s going to be helping out until Lieutenant Fitzgerald recovers. Where is everyone?”

  Polk stared at Lynch for a few seconds, but nodded and touched his cap before turning to Gabe. “The body’s in a changing room at the back of the church, Captain. Dr. West and most of the squad are waiting for you. Supervisor Devin ordered Dr. West to take the body to the morgue, but the coroner refused to disturb the scene before you got here.”

  He traded surprised looks with Lynch. Removing the body before the officer in charge signed off was against regulations. Polk knew that as well as Gabe, but the tall, dark-haired patrolman was choosing his words carefully. He resolved to adopt the same sense of caution until he knew what they were dealing with. “Thank you, Patrolman. Where can I find Dr. West?”

  “That drive over to the left leads to the rectory behind the church. The coroner’s van and the other squad cars are parked in the yard. Father Sakovich and Supervisor Devin ordered everyone to park out of sight.” Polk looked pointedly over his shoulder. “Father Sakovich would like you to do the same, sir. He doesn’t want to upset people arriving for a church supper.”

  Gabe wasn’t angry with Polk. The man was only delivering a message. He looked past Patrolman Polk and straight at the young priest nervously fidgeting on the walkway. “Does Father Sakovich really think holding a social event right now is a good idea?”

  Polk leaned farther into the car and lowered his voice. “I don’t know what he thinks, Captain. He’s pretty rattled after seeing the body. The supervisor and the older priest inside are giving all the orders.”

  He put on his public face, hiding his anger. “I’ll speak with both of them. Walken, leave the car right here. You’re not to move it unless I give the order.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Walken pulled a copy of The Argosy weekly out of an inside pocket. It was an old issue, one he’d seen Jack reading months before. The bright cover was relatively uncreased and showed a drawing of a cowboy on horseback, reaching for his six-shooter. “Do I have permission to read, sir? Henderson said you usually didn’t mind, but to ask permission first.”

  “Go ahead and read, but keep your eyes open.” Gabe motioned Polk to step back. “Do your job and we’ll be square.”

  He and Jordan got out of the car and started up the front walk, leaving Polk to deal with the young priest. The wind sped thin clouds across the sky, forerunners of thick evening fog that threatened to creep in from the Bay. Working murder scenes in swirling, pearl gray mist was always eerie. Gabe couldn’t help but think that the ghosts of victims moved with the fog, a thought he’d never have entertained before marrying Delia.

  Gabe had driven by the church more times than he could remember, and the bell tower always drew his eye. Five of the seven huge bells had been donated in 1888 by the Russian Emperor Alexander III. The story was that the emperor donated the bells as a show of gratitude to God for his family surviving an assassination attempt. By divine providence or sheer luck, the bells had been removed from their tower just before the 1906 quake and escaped being destroyed in the fire. When the church was rebuilt in 1909, the bells were installed in the new tower.

  On calm, foggy days, you could hear the bells being rung in all parts of the city. Other churches in the city had bells and bell towers, but none of them sounded quite the same. That distinctive sound more than anything made him remember the church on Green Street.

  A set of stairs led up to big double doors that swung open easily. He’d always been curious to know what Holy Trinity looked like on the inside. That he’d find out in the course of a murder investigation had never crossed his mind.

  They entered the vestibule a step ahead of Supervisor Devin and a tall bearded priest. Gabe caught a glimpse of a chandelier and stained glass windows before the priest pulled shut the door into the sanctuary. He swallowed his disappointment and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, working at looking relaxed and calm. The expression on Supervisor Devin’s face promised this wouldn’t be pleasant.

  Michael Devin had been elected to the board during the Great War. His age might have kept him out of the army, but his bad leg guaranteed he wasn’t called in the draft. A riding accident when he was a boy was the official story, but the leg looked withered and twisted even under his expensive suit pants. Gabe guessed he’d been born that way and for some reason didn’t want to admit to that.

  Devin was reed thin, his face thinner still, and might be considered tall if not for the way he hunched over his cane. The contrast between how Lynch carried himself and bore his injury was striking. The supervisor’s slicked-back hair was a dull, dry-leaf brown, his eyes a nondescript hazel. Michael Devin was the type of man you wouldn’t remember an instant after you saw him.

  “Are you the officer in charge?” The sneer in his voice and the curl of his lip as he glanced at Jordan ensured that Gabe at least would never forget him.

  “I’m Captain Gabriel Ryan.” Gabe smiled but didn’t offer his hand. It was a small and very real slight, the opening foray in a game he’d rather not be playing. All the rumors circulating about Devin focused on his being ruthless when opposed. He could be ruthless as well if forced to it. “You must be Supervisor Devin. I understand you’re interfering with my murder investigation.”

  The priest put a hand on Devin’s shoulder and stepped forward. “I’ll handle this, Michael. I’m Father Pashkovsky, Captain Ryan. This church and the congregation are my responsibility. We have an important church function scheduled for this evening, and many of our most important parishioners are attending.”

  Father Pashkovsky was the name the young Russian waiter had given Sam. This man appeared to be considerably older than Aleksei Nureyev, not of an age to have been a boyhood friend. His face was a maze of fine and deep lines, and liberal amounts of gray streaked the priest’s long full beard. Milky clouds filmed Pashkovsky’s black eyes, a sign of both age and failing sight.

  Gabe had a strong hunch this man was old enough to be Aleksei’s father. The itch on the back of his neck said he was right.

  Jordan cleared his throat, drawing Pashkovsky’s attention. “By important parishioners, you mean donors. Money is what makes them so important, am I right?”

  Gabe wiped a hand over his mouth, hiding a smile. He liked Jordan Lynch more each minute. “Father Pashkovsky, this is Lieutenant Lynch of the Chicago Police Department. Lieutenant Lynch is consulting with me about a series of murders here in San Francisco.”

  “I see.” Pashkovsky didn’t so much as glance at Devin seething behind him. That told Gabe who was in charge. “Our donors are important, but only because they benefit the whole congregation. Without their generosity, the church couldn’t pay off the last of our debts or find the money to fix the rectory roof. We invite important men like Supervisor Devin to speak at dinners honoring them for the good work they do.”

  Gabe kept his expressions pleasant, professional. “I understand that, Father. What I don’t understand is what you want from me.”

  “A favor. Help me find a way to hold the dinner as scheduled.” Father Pashkovsky raised a hand and let it fall, a helpless gesture from a man Gabe judged to be far from helpless. “Reaching the men I’ve invited in time to cancel is impossible. Much of the money they donate goes toward feeding new arrivals from Russia until they find their place here. Most of them fled the Bolsheviks with little more than the clothes they wore. Without that money, many of them would starve.”

  Everything came back to people fleeing a revolution half a world away. The knot between Gabe’s shoulders pulled tighter. “Wasn’t Eve Rigaux one of those new arrivals?”

 
; Pashkovsky and Devin both gave him blank, uncomprehending looks. Either both of them were very good actors, something Gabe found difficult to credit, or the woman lying dead at the rear of the church was a stranger to both the priest and the supervisor. Whatever message the killer was sending wasn’t meant for either man.

  The message was meant for Alina. Tucked safely away in Dora’s house, she’d never know—not until the killers found her.

  Fear for Delia and Sam, for Isadora and Alina, snaked up his spine and smothered the last of his patience. “I can’t help you, Father. Impossible or not, you’ll have to cancel your dinner. I need to find the men who killed Eve Rigaux before they kill anyone else.”

  The clouds in Pashkovsky’s eyes appeared to grow deeper as he stared. Gabe couldn’t even be sure the priest really saw him.

  Finally Father Pashkovsky nodded. “The dead woman is named Eve?”

  “She was.” Gabe ignored Devin and the cold ring tightening around his neck, trying to see beyond the milky fog in Pashkovsky’s eyes. “Eve and her husband fled the Bolsheviks. Now both of them are dead.”

  “God sent angels to drive the first Eve from the garden. I’ve heard some say he sent the Bolsheviks to drive the aristocracy from Russia.” Father Pashkovsky crossed himself. “Do your job, Captain. I will pray for Eve and for you.”

  Gabe and Jordan followed the hallway the priest pointed out and made their way toward the changing room. The corridor wound around the outside of the building, bypassing the sanctuary.

  Lynch was silent until Devin and Pashkovsky were out of sight. He gave Gabe a sidelong glance. “I’m glad I came along, Captain Ryan. So far, this has been very entertaining. Mr. Devin was about what I expect out of most city officials, but I can’t say I’ve ever met a priest like that before. I’d have thought Father Pashkovsky would be praying for Eve Rigaux’s soul long before we got here. And he didn’t seem at all worried about how she ended up dead in the back of the church.”

  “I had the same thought, but Jack maintains I have a suspicious mind.” Gabe slowed his steps. He didn’t want to have this conversation in front of the coroner or his men. “Do you think he killed her?”

  Jordan thought for a few seconds before shaking his head. “No, but he might think he knows who did.”

  The corridor curved to the right and dead-ended at a set of open double doors. Baker was framed in the doorway, bent over his camera and taking photographs of the dead woman on the floor. Fingerprint powder clung in soft swirls to the brass doorknobs, darkened the white painted panels that made up the door. Taylor could be seen spreading more black powder on the other side of the room.

  He and Lynch stood in the doorway, watching the bustle of activity and getting a feel for the scene. Most of the squad was inside the room, including Randy Dodd, and Jefferson West, the new deputy coroner. A few of the newer men started at Jordan Lynch a second too long, but a nudge from Baxter or Maxwell got them back to work soon enough. Randy was busy questioning an older woman sitting in a plain wooden chair, most likely the cleaning woman who’d discovered the body. West leaned against a wall, waiting for Baker to finish with his pictures.

  The muscles across the top of Gabe’s shoulders relaxed. Despite the attempt by the older priest and Supervisor Devin to shut things down, the investigation was progressing and well in hand. His men did know their jobs.

  Eve Rigaux’s body lay in the center of the room. In death she appeared older than her husband had been, but he couldn’t say that was true. According to Dora, older women taking younger husbands wasn’t unusual among European nobility. Her hair had been pinned up when he met her that morning, but now it fanned out in a pale brown halo, neatly arranged. The jacket to her traveling suit was missing and the diamond and ruby earrings he’d noticed.

  Blood soaked the scuffed oak floor in a pool around her head and matted in her hair, leaving no doubt about how and where she’d died. Her arms were stretched out straight from the shoulders, her ankles crossed and dark blue skirt smoothed over her knees. Silver coins had been placed over her eyes, giving her face an odd, blank stare. Flower petals—roses, carnations, and pansies—were scattered over the body and in a trail that led to the outside door.

  He memorized all of it, putting each detail away to think about later and describe to Jack. The coins, the flowers, the way Eve’s hands were clenched into fists—all of it meant something. Leaving her this way was part of the killer’s message. Gabe just couldn’t read the language. Not yet.

  “I’d like to hear what you think of this, Lieutenant Lynch.” Gabe clapped Jordan on the back, knowing most of the squad was watching out of the corner of their eye. The men who knew him well would interpret the gesture as meaning Jordan belonged here. Those who didn’t know him would learn soon enough. “Once we’re done here, I want to talk to the younger man, Father Sakovich. I’ll have one of my men bring him down to the station.”

  “His boss isn’t going to like that.” Lynch moved around behind Baker, positioning himself to get a good view of the body without interfering with the photographs. He gestured toward Eve Rigaux’s body with his cane. “I’d say Mrs. Rigaux was still alive when the killer brought her here. There’s too much evidence of bleeding for her to already have been dead when he laid her out.”

  “That’s a good guess, but I’m not ready to make any final conclusions yet.” Jefferson West appeared annoyed at first, but that didn’t last in the face of Gabe’s blank stare. West cleared his throat and stood up straight. “She probably was killed here, Captain. The way the blood is confined to one area near her head, I’d say he likely bashed her skull in. But I’ll let you know for sure once I can move the body.”

  “Thank you, Dr. West. And thank you for not following Supervisor Devin’s orders. I needed to see this.” Gabe went back to studying the body. Jefferson West was a good coroner, but he was young and hadn’t been to many murder scenes. “Go ahead, Lieutenant Lynch, I’m listening.”

  Jordan walked around the body again, the metal tip on his cane making dull thuds against the oak plank floor. He stopped at her feet, leaning on his cane and frowning. “Does the way she was left remind you of anything in particular, Ryan? I know what I see, but I don’t want to put ideas in your head.”

  “I’ve seen pictures of angels and saints posed like this, or martyrs who were crucified. We’re inside a church. My guess is that’s exactly what the killer meant us to see. The question is why.” Gabe moved around the body one more time, long practice allowing him to stay out of Baker’s shots and not be blinded by the flash. “One thing’s clear, he knew what he was doing. The coins on the eyes, the flowers—it’s all staged. The killer left her this way for effect.”

  “That he did, Captain.” Jordan looked up, eyes glittering. “And none of this was meant for the police. He wanted to frighten someone, maybe push them into making a mistake. I’d wager he wouldn’t risk getting caught unless the message was important.”

  “I think you’re right. This took time.” The question of who the killer was trying to intimidate nagged at him. He could be wrong in thinking it was Alina, especially after Delia’s encounter with the necromancer. A mistake on his part might get them all killed. Gabe wouldn’t let that happen. “How much longer until you’re finished, Baker?”

  “Another minute or two, Captain.” Baker moved the tripod holding his camera to a spot near Eve’s left shoulder. “Before Dr. West moves her, I want to get a close-up of her hands. She’s holding something.”

  There was room for only one of them to stand behind Baker while he took the photos. Lynch smiled and waved Gabe into place. Waiting while Baker set the aperture and the flash, focused, and snapped the first picture, then the second and third, was difficult. His mind ran through lists of what Eve Rigaux might have clenched in her fist, lists that ran the gamut of buttons from the killer’s coat to beads from one of her own necklaces.

  His palms itched by the time Baker finished and packed up his camera. West took the patrolman�
�s place, putting on heavy black rubber gloves and pulling a pair of tongs out of his bag. Rigor mortis was well advanced. Eve’s hands were frozen into coiled claws that refused to open—not until the deputy coroner forced them.

  The sound of her fingers breaking was a sharp, meaty crack that reminded him of his mother’s dog chewing open a bone to get at the marrow. He swallowed hard, refusing to be sick.

  One hand held an oval locket. Diamonds around a mother-of-pearl center caught the light as West dropped the locket into a glassine envelope. Gabe slipped the envelope into an inside pocket.

  Eve’s other hand concealed a thin tube-shaped piece of metal as long as her palm. Gabe crouched down opposite the coroner to get a better look. Pointed on one end, the thin tube was too thick to be a sewing needle. The other end was jagged, as if snapped off against a straight, hard edge.

  Rusty brown flakes clung to the shaft, crumbling to powder as soon as West prodded the metal with a gloved finger. Gabe didn’t need the coroner to tell him this was Eve’s blood. The evidence of what had been done to her was matted in her brown hair and soaked the white collar of her linen blouse.

  This close to the body, the flowery scent of Eve Rigaux’s perfume mingled with the copper aroma of blood. His stomach tried to rebel again, but he fought it back. Detective captains didn’t throw up at murder scenes. Not where their men could see.

  Dr. West picked up the thin tube with his tongs and held it out for Gabe to see. “What is that?”

  Gabe shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d guess it was broken off of something, but what that was, I couldn’t say.”

  Lynch leaned over Jefferson West’s shoulder. “Do you mind if I have a closer look, Doctor?”

  West held the tongs out, slowly twisting them to different angles. Jordan nodded and straightened up again. “Sometimes my first guess at something is the best. It’s a cobbler’s awl, or the business end of one. Cobblers and saddle makers use them to punch stitching holes in leather. That jagged end is where the handle was. The killer couldn’t hide that in her hand with a big hunk of wood attached.”