by Lisa Jackson
“I know!” he said loudly, then held up a hand to stop her from gathering steam again. “Trust me, I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t blame you. It was wrong and we . . . I knew it going in. I was the person she trusted, the man in power, the priest who had vowed celibacy.” He drew in a long, soul-wrenching breath. “It . . . it was a terrible, terrible mistake.” In that second, with the sunlight beating against his face, he looked older than he had, as if he’d aged with the admission. “But if it’s any consolation to you, I want you to know that I loved her.” His gaze returned to Val’s, and she felt a slight stirring in the air, an undercurrent of electricity she couldn’t quite name.
“And the baby?”
He closed his eyes, and pain etched his features with deep lines as he whispered, “A poor innocent.”
“They both were,” she said, not ready to be fooled by his act of contrition. “My sister and my niece or my nephew!” It was all she could do to keep her voice from cracking, to hold back the tears that threatened. This man, dressed in black robes and a pall of regret, was the reason Camille was dead.
“I’m so sorry. If you only knew how horrible I feel, how . . . guilty and sinful. I’ve prayed to the Father for guidance and help.”
“Like you did before? With Sister Lila or Lily or . . . ?”
She waited, saw him swallow nervously, his Adam’s apple wobbling in his throat.
“Sister Lea.” He closed his eyes. Sweat beaded his brow.
“What happened to her?”
He let out a shuddering sigh. “She moved away.”
“To where?”
“The West Coast. The Bay Area—San Francisco, I think.”
“Because of you?”
His eyes squeezed shut as if pained. “Yes.”
“You just don’t get it, do you? You took vows to uphold the laws of the church, and you broke them with several women.”
“I do understand,” he said quietly, his lips folding in on themselves. “And believe me, I’ve atoned for my sins. Paid for them.”
“How?” She couldn’t believe his egomania. “My sister is dead, Father. As is her unborn child. And you know what I think?” she demanded, close to him, her gaze pinning his. Before he could answer, she said, “I think she was a big inconvenience for you, and even though she was breaking up with you, you killed her.”
“What? No!” He turned ashen in his shock.
“No?”
He held up a hand. “Murder? Are you serious? And what’s this about ‘breaking up’? It’s not as if we were dating. . . .” He let out another long, pained sigh. “I am truly sorry about Sister Camille, and, yes, it’s true we were involved, but I didn’t kill her. I couldn’t . . . wouldn’t . . . No. Are you serious?” His jaw slackened in disbelief.
“Deadly.” She pushed, her grief throbbing through her. “How would it look for a priest of your stature to admit to an affair, to fathering a child?”
“Not good, but—”
“You’d lose everything. Stripped of your priesthood. Probably excommunicated, right? Tossed out on the street like so much garbage!”
Anger flashed in his pitch-dark eyes, and the warmth of the garden seemed to drop ten degrees. “I didn’t murder her,” he said again, his teeth set, his blade-thin lips barely moving. Rage flushed his skin, and to her surprise, he grabbed her arm and leaned close to whisper, “I loved her. I swear to you and to the Holy Father, I would never hurt her. Never!” His sincerity was nearly convincing. Nearly. “On my life, Valerie, I’m telling you I would never have hurt her or the child.” His gaze was intense. Fervid. The hand gripping her forearm clenching. “I loved her.”
“Like you love Sister Asteria?”
“What?” His jaw slackened. “You think that I—”
“Truthfully, I don’t know what to think, but my sister was in love with you and now she’s dead. Another woman, Sister Lea, left because of you.”
He drew in a long breath. Color began to return to his face.
“And just now I saw how that other girl was looking up at you, idolizing you, as if you couldn’t possibly do her any harm.”
“No. Sister Asteria and I . . .” He dropped her arm and closed his eyes for a second, slowly shaking his head. “I am so sorry,” he said. “So very, very sorry.”
“So am I.”
When he opened his eyes again, he touched her gently on the shoulder. “It’s not what you think, Valerie,” he said enigmatically. “Not at all.”
“You don’t know what I think.” She felt it again, that eerie sensation that she was being observed, that secretive, hidden eyes were watching her every move.
Surreptitiously, Val glanced up to the bell tower. Was someone lurking there? Or straining to see through the translucent panels in the stained glass of the chapel? Or hiding in the deep recesses of the archways opening to this private garden?
A warning breeze toyed with the hairs on the back of her neck, and for a split second, the image in her nightmares flashed before her eyes.
Dark.
Deadly.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low.
No. She would never be all right.
“I–I’m fine.”
Did she really think this man could have killed the woman he swore so fervently to love? Was he telling the truth? Or was she, like so many foolish women before her, beginning to trust this very mortal man dressed in priest’s robes?
Slowly, she pulled her shoulder from his grip, but the action only awakened more remorse from him. Again he swore to her, “Trust me, Valerie, I would never harm Camille. Never.”
“If not you, Father, then who?”
“I don’t know.”
Dear God, had she made a horrible mistake?
The creak of a gate on rusted hinges prompted Val to look up sharply. In a cloud of black robes, the reverend mother sped along a path that cut through blossoming daylilies and hyacinth.
Sister Charity’s wide face was set in a stern expression of displeasure, her rosary beads clicking with her strides as she approached again. “Ms. Renard?” she said, her voice clipped, no breath of familiarity in it.
Val turned to her.
“Excuse me for interrupting, but your husband wants to see you.”
CHAPTER 17
Cruz Montoya had never been known for his patience.
For his quick wit, maybe.
His good looks, for sure.
And his ability to slide out of trouble when he was in the middle of it—certainly.
But not patience. And right now, standing in the vestibule of the police station, a fine-looking, angry receptionist giving him the evil eye and a beefy desk sergeant with a bad buzz cut blocking entrance to the stairway and elevator leading to the second floor, Cruz was antsy. He didn’t like crowds, hated being in a crush of humanity, and couldn’t avoid it here. Officers, witnesses, suspects, newspeople, all coming and going, being herded through—that was shit he couldn’t deal with. And he’d never been a fan of the police, didn’t take kindly to authority, and felt claustrophobic in confined spaces.
“He’s comin’ down,” the big desk sergeant told him, glancing to the next person approaching the desk, an elderly man leaning heavily on a cane. “Wait here.”
Both the desk sergeant and the receptionist had mentioned Cruz’s resemblance to Diego, whom they called “the detective” or “Montoya,” but that’s as far as it had gone. His features, so like his brother’s, hadn’t been the green light that had allowed him access to Robbery/Homicide.
Cruz was about to call his mother for Diego’s private cell number when his brother came down the stairs, shoes ringing on the steps. Diego, a few years older, was a couple of inches shorter than Cruz, more compact, but tough as nails. His goatee was dark, an earring glittering in one ear. Of everyone in the family, Diego showed some features of the Native American ancestor who had left his mark way back in the very Hispanic family tree. Diego hadn’t changed too much since the l
ast time they’d seen each other, and he still wore his trademark black leather jacket, though it was the beginning of summer in New Orleans. Hot and humid outside.
“Hey!” Diego yelled at the desk sergeant as he jockeyed around an officer moving an impossibly thin guy through a group of people at the base of the stairs. “It’s okay. I’ll vouch for this son of a bitch.”
With a half-grin, the beefy desk sergeant waved Cruz past and the pissy-looking receptionist didn’t even glance up. She had her hands full dealing with a skinny woman with bad teeth and straggly hair who kept demanding to see “her man.” Probably a guy in custody. No surprise there.
“Diego!” Cruz called him by the name his brother had used in high school.
They gave each other a quick man hug, then let go.
“Diego?” the burly sergeant mouthed, his foul mood turning to amusement. “Isn’t that the real name of Zorro? So where’s the mask and cape?” He made a Z in the air with an invisible sword.
“Or the Hispanic kid in that TV show for toddlers,” another voice chirped. “Run Diego Run.”
“It’s Go Diego Go!” another woman added. “I should know. I’ve got a two-year-old. Think I’ve seen every episode at least five times.”
“You don’t know what you started,” Montoya muttered to Cruz. “I go by—”
“Yeah, Detective, I know. I heard.” Cruz walked with him up the stairs. “I practically had to sell my firstborn to get to you.”
“You don’t have a firstborn.”
“Not that I know of,” he admitted. “So what is this place? A police station or a goddamned country club? Are you here to serve the people?”
Diego snorted. “Big case goin’ on.”
“I heard.” Cruz nodded. “The nun.”
Diego slid him a glance. “You don’t recognize the name?”
“Didn’t hear a name. You know, just the company line about ‘unidentified until next of kin has been notified.’”
“Oh.” Diego hesitated.
“What?”
Frowning, he checked his watch. “How ’bout I buy you lunch?”
Lunch? What the hell? “How about you tell the yahoo of a beat cop to give me my bike back?”
“You got it towed?”
“Hell, yeah, I did. Some screwup with the title. Cops seem to think it’s stolen. I bought it from a guy in Oregon last month. Clean title. But I don’t have the papers, and the tags expired.”
“That’s pretty easy to clear up.”
“Tell that to Officer Big Ass, I mean Burgess,” Cruz said sourly, thinking of the motorcycle cop who’d pulled him over. At least two-fifty, with a dark helmet and bad attitude, he’d been in Cruz’s grill from the get-go.
“Man, you must’ve really pissed him off.”
Cruz rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Speeding?”
Cruz lifted a shoulder. “Sixty-seven in a forty-five.”
“And then you gave the cop lip. Not smart, bro.” Diego had the gall to grin. “You’re in the Big Easy now, aren’t ya? And now you need my help.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“And I thought you just missed me.”
“Yeah, right.” Cruz glared at him. “Y’know, I was gonna look you up, see that new son of yours, but—”
“You found trouble first.” Montoya shook his head, his black hair gleaming under the fluorescent lights. “Some things never change.”
Slade had followed her? To St. Marguerite’s? Seriously? Val’s heart nose-dived. “He’s here?”
“In the vestibule.”
Great. “Thanks.”
“He’s waiting.”
Let him wait. “I understand.”
Obviously the reverend mother wasn’t about to be dismissed again, especially not by someone not associated with the church.
“Ms. Renard—”
“Please, call me Val.”
“Yes, Valerie, then, I would appreciate you dealing with Mr. Houston. I asked him to wait, and he’s not very happy about it.” Again the gate scraped open. “He isn’t—” The noise caused Sister Charity to turn and press her hands to her chest. “Oh, my!”
Val followed her gaze to Slade, who stepped behind another nun as she made her way through the garden. His cowboy boots crunched on the pebbles of the path, and he seemed as out of place as a mustang in the middle of the sea.
In worn jeans and a shirt with the sleeves pushed over his forearms, he startled a mockingbird from a branch of the crepe myrtle.
Sister Charity’s mouth compressed even further, bristling at the visitor’s insubordination.
Father O’Toole stiffened, his jaw set as he, too, eyed the interloper.
However, the nun guiding Slade through the flowers and shrubs smiled beatifically. Tall, with a bit of a hitch to her stride, she wore an old-fashioned habit, including a full headdress. Her face was unlined, her eyes a deep shade of blue. Had Val met her earlier? She seemed familiar . . . but then again, no. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but Mr. Houston was very insistent.”
The reverend mother was perturbed. “I was handling this, Sister Devota.”
Devota’s lips pinched a bit at the rebuke. “I’m sorry, Reverend Mother—”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Slade said, his eyes centering on the mother superior. “I was following you, and she just caught up with me.”
“And opened the gate.” Charity shook her head. “If you’ll leave us, Sister Devota,” she said to the tall woman, who looked stricken at her tone.
“Of course,” Devota whispered, and bustled off, head down, as if she couldn’t wait to make her way through the doors of the convent.
Once the doors clanged shut, Charity turned her frosty glare to Slade. “I asked you to wait, Mr. Houston.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Slade’s bad-boy grin slid from one side of his mouth to the other. “But then waiting isn’t something I do well.”
Sister Charity wasn’t fooled, nor charmed in the least. To Val, she said, “I’m sorry for your loss. Sincerely sorry. But we, too, have suffered. We need time to sort things out and pull ourselves together. It would be most helpful, in this time of tragedy, if we all had some privacy.”
“I don’t think the police will allow that,” Val said. “My sister was murdered, Sister Charity. There’s a homicide investigation going on.”
“Understandably,” Father O’Toole interjected. “And we’re cooperating fully.”
The mother superior wasn’t budging. “Be that as it may, you are not an investigator, Ms. Renard. What we all need now is some time for spiritual healing.”
“Sister,” O’Toole admonished to the mother superior, and she stiffened slightly.
Slade said, “What we need now is the truth.”
Charity’s smile was weak. “And that comes only through the grace of our Lord.”
“The same guy who talks about ‘an eye for an eye’ and ‘thou shalt not kill’? That guy?” Slade demanded.
“There is no need for this,” Father O’Toole said, but not before the big nun bristled, rustling the fabric of her habit, the corners of her lips tightening ever so slightly. “I hardly think of the blessed Father as a ‘guy.’ ”
“And I’m not talking about ‘the truth’ in some kind of spiritual revelation,” Slade pressed as a plumber packed up loops of a hose and disappeared under an archway. The double doors from the back of the cathedral opened, and two nuns, dressed in full habits, walked through the garden.
A heavy-set nun hummed softly, while the other, thin and pale, scowled behind thick glasses.
“Sister Louise!” the mother superior snapped.
Both women stopped short near the fountain. As water splashed, the humming abruptly stopped. “Yes, Reverend Mother?” the big nun asked, her cheeks flaming in embarrassment.
“You and Sister Maura need to grant us some privacy.”
“I . . . we . . . didn’t know that anyone was here . . .” Louise
glanced at the small group of people as if seeing them for the first time. She looked positively stricken. “Oh, yes. I’m so sorry. Of course.”
“Wait!” Val sidestepped Sister Charity. “You’re Sister Louise,” she said to the woman who had been humming. “You . . . you’ve worked with my sister.”
“I’m sorry,” Louise said, casting a worried glance at the mother superior. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m Camille’s sister. Valerie.” She implored the nun with her eyes. “I’d like to talk to you.”
Again, Louise looked over Val’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”
Sister Maura seemed to retract into her wimple, as if to hide behind the reddish curls poking out of the edge.
“She spent time at St. Elsinore’s.”
“At the orphanage, yes. She liked working with children. Like me,” Sister Louise said. “We were both sad that it’s going to be closed. And Sister Camille, she was all about finding her birth parents.”
“Wait. What?” Val said, stunned. “But she knows . . . knew who our biological parents were.”
Louise caught a look from the mother superior. “I’m sorry. I must’ve been mistaken. I thought she was searching for her roots since she’d been adopted out of St. Elsinore’s.” Louise was stepping backward, toward the convent. “I was wrong.”
Val watched as they hurried through an open archway leading to the tall building on the opposite side of the garden from the cathedral, probably the nun’s quarters. As she reached the shadows, Sister Maura glanced back over her shoulder but didn’t break stride; then she disappeared behind her larger companion.
Suddenly Val wondered if she’d known her sister at all. There were so many contradictions, so many things she didn’t know or understand about her sister, who had never, as far as Val could remember, really enjoyed children. And yet she’d worked with them at an orphanage and gotten pregnant herself. And they knew who their natural parents were. There was no mystery there.
“What’s going on here?” she said, turning to the reverend mother.
“Nothing, I assure you.” Again the fragile grin. “Camille was just a very, very confused young woman.”