by Lisa Jackson
No one.
Not even a cat slinking through the garbage bins that lined the buildings. She was completely alone, the sounds of the city distant. Squinting upward to the steep gables and turrets of the old compound, she saw no one lurking in the umbra, no hidden set of eyes following her every move. The gravel path wedged between the buildings on the other side of the gate was empty.
And yet . . .
Her skin crawled.
The shifting shadows from a breeze sliding through the trees caused the dappling on the ground to move, as if a ghost had passed quickly by.
Goose bumps rose on her flesh, though the temperature outside was over eighty. “Come on, come on,” she said, and jabbed the button for the third time.
Within a minute, a slim African American woman in a nun’s habit hurried toward the gate. Valerie watched her through the black bars.
“Can I help you?” the nun asked. Tall and regal-looking, a patient smile pinned to her lips, she peered through the wrought-iron bars. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long. I’m Sister Zita.”
Zita. The name rang a bell. Hadn’t Cammie said she and Zita worked together, along with another nun, Sister Louise, at St. Elsinore’s parish?
“I’d like to speak with Father O’Toole, and the main entrance to the cathedral is locked,” Val said, offering up a little explanation, then added, “I’m Valerie Renard, Camille’s sister.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said, but didn’t move to open the gate. A glint of suspicion was evident in her dark eyes as she glanced behind Val, as if she thought there might be someone with her. “I’m not supposed to allow anyone inside. We’re in mourning and—”
“So am I,” Val cut in, irritated. She didn’t doubt that the convent was on their own form of lockdown, that the nuns, priests, and everyone associated with the church was wary of police and reporters. Everyone within the order was probably scared for their own safety. Everyone was probably under orders to keep her mouth shut, a new twist to the vow of silence, not only because they might compromise the investigation, but also to ensure the sanctity and privacy of the parish. If Camille was right in her assessment of the mother superior, then Sister Charity would insist the convent become a fortress to avoid someone fanning the flames of scandal. “Please. I know that Father O’Toole was . . . close to my sister.”
“I’m sorry.” Again the overly patient smile along with a hint of fear. “I really don’t know where Father O’Toole is. If you could leave your phone number, perhaps he will call you.”
“Perhaps?” Val repeated.
“I can’t speak for him.”
“What about you?” Val asked, changing tacts. “You worked with her at St. Elsinore’s, right?”
“Sometimes.” Her face was a mask of sorrow. “I wasn’t close with your sister,” she said as clouds passed in front of the sun.
She was getting nowhere fast with this woman. “Fine, then, please, let me talk with Father O’Toole.” Val wasn’t going to be put off. She heard footsteps arriving, a heavy tread crunching the gravel.
“What’s going on?” a sharp voice inquired as a large woman, dressed in a stiff habit, rounded the corner. Tall and solid, she had an imperious demeanor, with searing eyes that bored right through the lenses of her glasses. “Sister Zita?”
“I was just explaining that—”
“I’m Valerie Renard,” Val interjected. She knew in a heartbeat that the authoritarian with the harsh voice was Sister Charity, the mother superior Camille had referred to as “the warden.” Val met the older woman’s assessing glare and noticed some raw emotion skate across her eyes, an emotion quickly disguised. “Camille’s sister.”
As Zita stepped aside, the older nun’s eyes narrowed, as if seeking confirmation of bloodlines through resemblance as she stopped just inches shy of the gate. And there was something else in her assessment, too. Fear?
“I’d like to speak with Father O’Toole,” Val pressed.
“I see.” She nodded. “I’m Sister Charity, the mother superior here.” Her face softened a fraction, and Sister Zita, as if hearing unspoken orders by the older nun, quietly drifted away, leaving Valerie alone with the reverend mother. Recovering slightly, Sister Charity said, “We all feel so badly about Sister Camille. My condolences. It’s time to draw on your faith, child.”
“And that’s why I’d like to speak to Father,” Val lied easily. Mother superior or not, the woman was working her.
Again that beatific, peaceful smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Right now, Father is unavailable.”
“I’ll wait.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a police investigation.”
“Don’t you think I’m aware of that?” Val tried to hide the agitation in her voice. She was tired, grief-riddled, her nerves strung tight. The older nun was really getting under her skin, though she tried not to show it. She sensed that impatience would not win points with Sister Charity. Antagonism would only make the iron-willed nun more determined. “Would you like to see my ID?”
“That’s not the issue,” the older nun said.
“Then what is?”
You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, she reminded herself, a phrase Val’s grandmother had told her on more than one occasion. “Look, Sister Charity, I know this is a hard time for everyone here.” She reached into her purse, half expecting the older woman to stop her. When the nun didn’t object, she pushed her driver’s license through the wrought-iron bars for inspection.
Still scrutinizing Val as an intruder, the older nun snapped the ID from her fingers. Her eyebrows slammed together, and her lips pursed tightly as she studied the information, as if searching for signs of fraud. Did the reverend mother really think she would have a fake ID made just to get into a convent? Get real.
The seconds ticked by, but Val wasn’t about to be intimidated by silence. She met the older woman’s gaze without flinching or looking away.
“All right,” the mother superior finally said on a sigh. “Come in.” Reluctantly, she unlocked the gate and allowed Val inside. “We’ve been plagued by reporters and the police,” she explained as she handed Val back her license. The gate clicked shut behind Val; then Sister Charity led the way along a path that cut through a garden abundant in blooms. “Come along. You can wait in my office. I have no idea where Father O’Toole is or how long he may—Oh!” The older nun stopped short near the center fountain, and Val nearly ran into her.
Charity was staring at an archway that connected to the cloister. Within the recess, a tall man was leaning forward, listening to the smaller woman standing near him.
Val’s stomach dropped as she recognized the imposing, handsome visage of Father Frank O’Toole.
Bastard!
Her insides twisted, and it was all she could do to hold on to her composure as she stared at the fraud dressed in full regalia, a black cassock and stiff clerical collar.
Deep in conversation, he leaned even nearer to the young nun as he spoke, as if he didn’t notice Val or the guy on the far side of the garden, a man leaning down and working with a wrench on a faucet, a coil of hose at his feet.
Nor did the young novice notice anyone but the priest. Mesmerized, the sweet-looking girl gazed up at him with adoring brown eyes. Freckles were splashed across a tiny nose, and her red hair was pulled back into a single, short plait. Smiling shyly, the girl held a single white rose.
Val thought she might be sick.
“Sister Asteria?” Sister Charity whispered loud enough to be heard.
“Oh!” The girl flinched, caught sight of the reverend mother, and then jumped back as if she’d been burned. She dropped the flower, then sucked in her breath through her teeth. White petals fell onto the bricks of the cloister floor, and a pinpoint of red bloomed on Sister Asteria’s fingertip where a thorn had scratched her. “Reverend Mother, I . . . I didn’t hear you.” She sta
rted to suck her finger as the larger woman approached, Val right behind her, then thought better of it. Swallowing nervously, Asteria scooped up her wimple and veil, both of which had been left on the ground near a rosebush in the garden.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Sister Charity said. “Father O’Toole has a visitor.”
The little nun blushed a dozen shades of red. “Of course. Yes . . . uh . . . Yes.” She scurried off quickly.
Valerie watched her leave and knew deep in her gut that Sister Asteria was just another vulnerable woman caught in the allure of Father Frank—The Bastard—O’Toole.
Without comment, Sister Charity marched up to the priest, her black skirt sweeping over the fallen white rose, her shoe grinding it into the floor. “This is Valerie Renard, Sister Camille’s sister. She’d like a word with you, Father.”
Frank O’Toole straightened, but the sad expression didn’t fade from his face as he focused on Valerie. Was it her imagination, or for just a second, did she spy a flicker of hatred in his gaze? If so, it vanished in an instant as he composed himself again.
“Valerie. Yes,” he said, nodding. “I’ve been expecting you.”
CHAPTER 16
Sliding off his jacket, Montoya sat down at his desk to answer a few phone messages and his e-mail. He’d read over the handwritten list of employees, volunteers, and residents at St. Marguerite’s parish and was wishing to hell the parish had a computer. Another page listed people who had been at the convent and church the day of Camille Renard’s death, but as with the computer, there were no security cameras at the parish. It was, after all, a church and a very backward one. He made a note to ask about Sister Lea, the other nun supposedly involved with Father Frank O’Toole, and was looking up St. Marguerite’s parish on the Internet for background information when Inez Santiago, one of the crime scene investigators, strode inside.
Barely thirty and blessed with the body of a dancer, Santiago was a striking woman, the kind that made men watch as she walked past. Her eyes were sharp, her brown hair streaked a vibrant shade of red, her stride confident. Montoya suspected she was a wild woman after hours, but when she was working, she was all business.
“Got anything?” Montoya asked as Bentz, a couple of steps behind Santiago, wedged himself into the doorway.
“Only the basics. I already had the photos of the scene and victim e-mailed to both of you, but I thought you might want some stills, so I’ve printed them out.” She opened the manila envelope she was carrying. “Once I get more test results, I’ll send them, too. Preliminarily, it looks like there was only one crime scene, no blood or evidence of a struggle anywhere else within the convent that we found so far, and we know she went to her room around eleven.”
“Nothing was found in the room?” Montoya asked.
Bentz shook his head. “Nothing that shouldn’t be there, at least not that I could see. There wasn’t much there, since she had only a few possessions. A few street clothes folded in a small bureau, personal items, and her shoes placed side by side on the floor of a postage-stamped-sized closet where her habits were hung. All very precise.”
“Her pajamas?”
“Nightgown. Folded on a shelf in the closet.”
Santiago added, “I had Marsolet get some photos of her room, too.” She spread some of the snapshots out on his desk. The pictures were clear and sharp, an austere room contrasting to Camille’s elaborately adorned corpse.
Montoya stared at the bloodstains on the neckline of the wedding dress—perfect, round droplets. “He wants us to concentrate on the blood,” he said, pointing to the neckline. “It’s there for a purpose.”
“A message?” Bentz wasn’t completely convinced.
“Yeah, or a distraction.” Montoya eyed the unique pattern. Was the killer taunting them with a hidden message, teasing them with a clue, or trying to muddy the waters and make them look in the opposite direction? Montoya heard another set of footsteps before Brinkman, still reeking from his last cigarette and carrying a paper cup of coffee, poked his head into the office.
“That’s some case you caught last night.” Brinkman had been with the department for years. His houndstooth jacket was a size too small, his balding, freckled pate rimmed by hair a tad too long, but he was a smart cop. Determined. Decorated. As he himself had said often enough, he knew his shit. “You guys know your vic was knocked up, right?” His eyebrows jiggled up and down suggestively.
“We heard,” Bentz said.
“Jesus, how did that happen? She’s a nun for Christ’s sake.” His chuckle was a rasp that ended in a coughing fit. “A little nookie in the confessional? Ya think?” He took a swallow from his cup. “What’s with you guys, eh? Always with the nuns or priests.”
“Father John was not a priest,” Montoya said, referring to an earlier case where a serial killer dressed in priest’s vestments had terrorized New Orleans.
Brinkman’s leering grin showed he didn’t acknowledge that fact, but then Brinkman never agreed with anyone. Basically, he was a prick.
“Tell us something we don’t know,” Bentz said, not amused or sidetracked.
“How about blood type of the fetus?”
Brinkman had their attention now.
He clarified, “B neg.”
“Meaning?” Montoya asked.
“A lot.” Brinkman smirked. “The mother, Camille Renard, A pos. So the nun’s baby daddy gotta be negative to start with. That narrows the field.”
Santiago eyed Brinkman. “Not just negative,” she pointed out. “If the baby’s B neg, the father’s gotta be B or AB neg. Both rare types. Around two percent of the population or less, I think.”
Brinkman didn’t care that Santiago had one-upped him with her knowledge of biology. He was still proud of himself. “Oh, and the blood on the priest’s smock or whatever the hell they’re called: A positive, too.”
“A cassock.” Santiago was clearly annoyed. It was obvious Montoya’s small office forced her to get too close to Brinkman.
Montoya didn’t care. “A pos? Like the vic’s? So, maybe Frank’s not the father?”
Brinkman winked, beads of sweat visible on his high forehead. “Bingo! Looks like we have ourselves a winner!”
Montoya thought that over. “Wish we could speed up the DNA. Any news on the tox screens?”
Brinkman shook his head. “Too early.”
“How do you know anyway?” Santiago demanded.
“Checked before I came upstairs.” He grinned, loving to have the upper hand.
Montoya said, “Is that it? All you’ve got?”
“Not quite.” Brinkman’s grin widened, showing off teeth that were stained from years of coffee and cigarettes. His eyes glittered with a hint of malice. “There’s a guy downstairs who wants to talk to you. Making a helluva ruckus, too.”
“Who?” Montoya had a bad feeling about this. Something about Brinkman’s smug attitude smelled like trouble.
“Yeah, a real rabble-rouser. He’s really pissing off the receptionist. She knew you were busy but flagged me down as I started up the stairs.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Montoya said, noticing that a light on his desk phone was flashing, indicating messages. “So who is it?”
“That’s the hell of it.” Brinkman positively beamed, enjoying the moment, stretching it out. Another warning signal. He sipped from his cup again, but his gaze was trained on Montoya. “Says his name is Cruz. Cruz Montoya.”
The bad feeling that had been with Montoya all day suddenly got worse. He was already reaching for his jacket when Brinkman added, “Claims he’s your brother.”
Val got it.
Standing in the heat of the noonday sun in the convent’s garden, she understood why women, including Camille, swooned around the priest.
Frank O’Toole was the cliché of tall, dark, and Hollywood handsome. With a self-deprecating smile, humor and intelligence sparking in his brown eyes, and a clerical collar that said “off-limits,” he was the quintessential for
bidden fruit.
Sexy, but safe.
Yeah, right.
“I think we need to be alone,” he said to Sister Charity, who, lips tightening at the corners, hesitated, as if she were about to argue, then thought better of it.
“Of course, Father.” She whisked away, causing the honeysuckle to quiver as she passed. Wide double doors clicked closed behind her.
Once there was no one else in the garden, Father O’Toole indicated a short bench under the overhang of the cloister. “We can sit here,” he suggested, “or, if you’d rather have more privacy, we can go inside.”
“Here’s fine,” she said, but didn’t sit down. Instead she stood near the fountain where a sculptured angel spread her wings wide as she poured water from an urn to fill the surrounding pool. Goldfish flashed in the clear water.
Valerie and O’Toole were alone, it seemed. She gazed over the compound where her sister had lived, trying to imagine Cammie here. Though all the surrounding buildings were separate, the cathedral, smaller chapel, convent, and smaller brick buildings were connected by wide covered porches and walkways that surrounded the garden and effectively walled the parish from the city.
A few trees offered shade and privacy. Butterflies and droning bees flitted over the fragrant blooms.
It was peaceful.
Serene.
A place to meditate.
And yet, that same skin-prickling sensation that she was being silently observed stayed with her.
“So,” Father O’Toole said, “how can I help you?”
This was it. “Camille told me she was involved with you.” Father Frank’s jaw tightened slightly, and he looked away, ostensibly to follow the path of a wren as it took flight over the garden wall.
He folded his lips over his teeth for a second, then finally said, “I have a lot to answer for.”
“She told you she was pregnant?”
The priest sighed, his wide shoulders sagging as if from an invisible weight. “I . . . uh, we shouldn’t have let things get as far as they did.”
“I’ll say. And you’re the authority figure, the person she confided in, confessed to. You had no right—”