Devious

by Lisa Jackson

  “You’re right,” Bentz said, “but still—”

  “I’m tellin’ ya, this isn’t the work of a serial killer,” Montoya said. “This murder”—he tapped Camille Renard’s autopsy report with one finger—“it’s personal. The killer knew her.”

  Bentz tugged at his tie. From his pinched eyes and washed-out face, he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, which was probably right on. Bentz’s infant daughter was colicky, kept Bentz and his wife, Olivia, up at all hours. “Just a thought.”

  “Yeah, well, a bad one,” Montoya said. To prove his point, he opened the computer image of Camille Renard as she’d been found in the yellowed wedding dress, lying near the base of the altar. Then he put the two photos side by side, Camille beside the battered body of Cherie Bellechamps spread-eagle on the dingy sheets of a cheap motel room bed. There were other photographs as well, and he clicked through them, searching for any link to the other victims of Father John, a nutcase if ever there was one.

  “I hope he’s dead,” Bentz said fervently, then, dragging his gaze from the computer screen, added, “I’ve got one lead. Found the wireless service Camille Renard used and got the records for her BlackBerry. The cell phone company sent them over this morning.”

  That was a start. “You have a chance to go through them?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And?”

  Bentz laid the list of telephone numbers on Montoya’s desk. “Most are what we expected—calls to her sister and to O’Toole, of course. To the orphanage, where she worked, and even a call here”—he pointed to one number in the list—“to the parish.” He slid his finger lower, to another number. “The only one that is a question mark is to a prepaid cell phone. Get this, I already talked to the store where it was purchased, by cash, of course, but the person who bought it was none other than Camille Renard.”

  “So she had two cell phones?”

  “Unless someone posed as her or she bought it and gave it to someone else,” Bentz said. “They’ve got security cameras in the store and keep the tapes for several months. Later today I’m gonna review the tape for the day it was purchased, just to make sure Camille was the buyer. If someone else was impersonating her, we’ve got ourselves a lead to follow. And if it was Camille Renard, where the hell are the damned phones?”

  “Probably with her BlackBerry and diary.” Montoya scowled and shoved a hand through his hair. “For a person who’s supposed to give up worldly possessions, Sister Camille had quite a few.”

  “And then there’s the baby. I double-checked, and Brinkman’s right about the blood type. We’re looking for a man with B-neg or AB-neg blood as the father.”

  “Apparently not Frank O’Toole.”

  Bentz nodded.

  “Should narrow it down.”

  “Yep. We just have to find out who else Camille was sleeping with.” He looked back at the nun’s image on the monitor. “She had a pretty busy social life for a nun. No wonder her last e-mail to her sister said she was having second thoughts and planning to leave the convent.”

  Montoya tapped a pencil against the desk. “So who the hell got her pregnant?”

  CHAPTER 28

  “I’d just like to talk to her,” Cruz said, flashing his most winning smile as he shifted on the uncomfortable chair in Sister Charity’s office. The place gave him the creeps, reminding him of all the times he’d sat for hours in dim hallways with shiny linoleum floors that smelled of disinfectant, mold, and his own nervous sweat while waiting for the principal to mete out some form of cruel punishment on Cruz Montoya, forever the miscreant.

  Today, in this tomb of an office, the old nun wasn’t buying into Cruz’s attempts at charm.

  “This isn’t a sorority house, Mr. Montoya,” she said, tiny lines of disapproval evident around her lips. “It’s a convent. With duties and obligations. We live a simple life of devotion, and we adhere to a strict schedule. If Sister Lucia wants to contact you, I’m sure she’ll write you or call you during her free time.” Sister Charity’s face was glacial, the eyes behind her glasses as observant as a hawk’s. She folded her hands over the desktop. Blue veins were visible beneath her skin, and yet the fingers appeared strong enough to snap a ruler in half. “If you leave your telephone number, I’ll see that she gets it.”

  Cruz didn’t believe it for a second. Sister Charity was definitely old school, more of a warden than a loving mother figure.

  No way was she going to pass on his info.

  They both knew it.

  The lie simmered between them.

  She was right about one thing, though—St. Marguerite’s, with its stiff wooden chairs, crucifixes adorning the walls, and quiet, somber hallways was a far cry from any sorority house he’d ever set foot inside.

  The reverend mother finally broke the silence. “You know, I find it interesting that you have come to visit Sister Lucia now, after our recent loss of Sister Camille. Your brother is investigating the case and now, poof,” she said, her fingers lifting swiftly as if from a small explosion, “you show up.”

  “I came to visit my brother. When I saw him, he mentioned that Lucia was here. No crime there, sister.”

  Her keen eyes were sharp with intelligence, her mouth edged in cruelty. “So why do you want to see her?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Is it?” She offered him an impassive smile that didn’t touch her eyes. Growing up in a very Catholic family, Cruz had been around his share of nuns. Some had been stoic, some fun-loving, some seemed to be filled with the Holy Spirt, and some, drill sergeants like Sister Charity, were all about rules, obedience, and punishment. Cruz couldn’t help but wonder what made the woman tick, what her story was. Where’d she come from? How had she ended up here, at St. Marguerite’s, with Lucia?

  “You can confide in me, Mr. Montoya.”

  Seriously? “I said it’s personal.”

  With a long-suffering sigh, she stood, signifying the meeting was over. “Then I guess we’re finished here. I’ll be certain to let Sister Lucia know that you stopped by.”

  Another lie.

  Cruz rose just as there was a series of soft raps on the door.

  Little lines of irritation pinched the corners of Sister Charity’s mouth. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said. “I’m a busy woman. You know what they say about God’s work? That it’s never done? Well, it’s true, Mr. Montoya.”

  Another rap, then the receptionist, a laywoman with frizzy blue hair and a suit of olive polyester, poked her head inside. “I’m sorry to bother you, Reverend Mother,” she said, glancing nervously at Cruz, “but there’s a call for you. Sister Simone from St. Elsinore’s.”

  “Thank you, Eileen, I’ll take the call. Mr. Montoya was just leaving.”

  That was his cue.

  As the receptionist retreated, Sister Charity moved back to her desk and reached for the receiver of the black telephone, a behemoth that looked like something straight out of the sixties. “God be with you,” she said softly as Cruz left.

  He walked past the impossibly thin receptionist and wondered why a church and convent, a house of God, could seem so evil.

  Just your imagination.

  He started for the main doors, then paused as he heard voices lifted in song. He knew he shouldn’t intrude—as the reverend mother had reminded him, this was a place of worship and solace—but he tossed her warnings aside.

  What was the worst that could happen?

  He’d be tossed out on his ear?

  So what?

  The police would be called?

  Nah. What would he be charged with? Trespassing? No way.

  Quietly, feeling guilty of some nameless sin, he followed the sound of a hymn from his youth. Around a corner, the music was much louder.

  It came through a door that was slightly ajar.

  Accompanied by a pianist, the voices sang a rendition of “Ave Maria” that filled the small music chamber and flowed into the corridor. Women’s voices rising in faith and
song.

  He peered inside.

  A group of twenty or so nuns, all in black habits, were singing in harmony from their spots on risers. Their gazes were locked on the woman leading them, a tall nun with her back to the door.

  Lucia Costa was front and center, her voice bright and clear.

  Cruz’s chest tightened. She hadn’t changed much, still small and petite, her face without lines. Her eyes were large, with thick lashes and arched eyebrows, set above pronounced cheekbones that angled to a pointed chin.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw her trapped in the twisted metal that had been his car, blood streaming down the side of her face. Her black hair had been matted and lank, her eyes rolled upward in her head. Later she’d awoken for just a second and whispered in pain, “Danger . . .” then blacked out.

  Guilt overtook him, and the scar splitting his eyebrow pulsed.

  At that moment, Lucia’s gaze strayed from the choir leader to the door, and she missed a note, her eyes rounding at the sight of Cruz. The two nuns next to her, a tall African American and a shorter woman with big glasses, shot her a look at the sour note.

  Lucia blanched, tried to pay attention to the choir mistress who rapped her baton on the music stand in front of her. The music stopped, voices fading as the piano’s notes ended abruptly.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Sisters, please!” the leader said sharply. “Sopranos? Is something wrong? Sister Lucia?”

  “No,” Lucia answered, her voice so familiar, as if he’d been with her just yesterday. “I . . . I just lost track of where we were.”

  “Then pay attention!” Again there was a rapping. “From the refrain,” she said. A piano chord echoed through the hallways, and the female voices rose again.

  He decided to wait.

  Why not?

  Again, the worst thing that could happen was that they’d toss him out. Well, so be it. Sister Charity might be an authority figure, but she wasn’t exactly the Gestapo. She was a nun, for crying out loud.

  He folded his arms over his chest and settled in near the door, one shoulder propped against the wall.

  Some twenty minutes later, the singing stopped, giving way to the shuffling of feet. Suddenly nuns spilled into the hallway, a small parade of black habits, veils, and white wimples. Really, with them covered in those gowns and veils, Cruz could barely tell them apart.

  Several stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of him.

  “I’m Sister Irene. May I help you?” a tall woman asked, her gray eyes curious.

  “I’d like to speak to Sister Lucia,” Cruz said, his gaze traveling to Lucia, who looked as if she wanted to be swallowed up by the polished floor.

  “This is highly irregular,” a bookish nun in large glasses said.

  “Shhh! Sister Maura,” another tall one said. She was pretty, with even features and a pleasant smile. “I think Sister Lucia can handle herself. I’m Sister Devota.”

  “But no one’s supposed to be in this part of the convent!” Sister Maura insisted.

  A chubby nun with rosy cheeks giggled. “Oh, Maura, give it a rest.”

  “I will not, Sister Angela!” the bookish one said, blushing.

  Lucia, white-faced, stepped forward. “I’ll talk to him. He’s . . . . uh, an old family friend. Cruz Montoya”—she shot him a look guaranteed to cut through steel, then said through tight lips—“this is Zita,” as she motioned toward a black girl standing nearby.

  “I’m Edwina,” said an athletic woman with strong, Norse features and deep-set blue eyes that regarded him with suspicion.

  Others, some of whom he’d heard called by name, introduced themselves quickly. As she introduced herself, plump Dorothy wrung her hands, and a nervous tic appeared at the corner of her eye. Louise, who was carrying sheet music, offered him a kind, if questioning, smile.

  “Come with me,” Lucia said to Cruz. “We can talk in the garden.” She led him down the stairs, along a back hallway, and through double doors to a garden where a fountain gurgled.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Lucia whirled on him. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.”

  “After all this time?”

  “You disappeared.”

  She stared at him. “I know. On purpose.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” She rolled her eyes. “Because I didn’t want to see you again.”

  “You could have just said so.”

  “And you would have just walked away?”

  He hesitated, remembering the guilt he’d felt after the accident, remembering how much he’d loved her. If that was the right word. Back then, guilt, desire, and love were all tangled up in his mind.

  “See?” She touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Go away, Cruz. I’m taking vows to live the rest of my life as a servant of God.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was firm, and though he noticed a sliver of doubt in her eyes, she stood tall, her chin up. He felt as if a cloud had passed over the sun, though no shadow stretched across the flowering shrubs. “Go,” she added more urgently, as if she, too, had sensed the anomaly.

  “Just one question.”

  “What?”

  “Why did you decide to become a nun?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, Cruz?” she said. “I did it because of you.”

  His throat tightened, and he felt the ridiculous urge to kiss her. She tried to retreat, but he grabbed the crook of her arm, spinning her around. “And what did you mean when you said ‘danger’ the night of the accident?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  “Okay, I lied.” His fingers curled over the heavy material of her habit. “What was the danger?”

  She licked her lips nervously, making him groan inwardly. “Lucia?”

  “You and me, Cruz, we’re dangerous together, and—”

  He saw her swallow.

  “And we were flirting with danger just by dating.” Now she was lying; he could tell by her polished movements, by the high pitch of her voice. She looked at him with those dark, intelligent eyes. “Now, let me go and leave me alone. I never want to see you again! Got that, Cruz? Never.”

  He didn’t buy it for a second, and to his shock, he yanked her close and kissed her hard on the lips. Warmth invaded his blood, and she sighed into his mouth, hers opening under his.

  He closed his eyes for a second and felt her release, the gentle pressure of her lips, the flick of her tongue, and for just a second she leaned into him. Surrendering to the fire that had always been there.

  He groaned, hands splaying.

  In a heartbeat, it was over.

  She stiffened in his arms. “No!” she whispered, pulling away, staring at him in horror. “This can’t happen.” She backed up quickly as if stricken. “Oh . . . no . . .” She was shaking her head so quickly her veil trembled.

  “Wait!” He wasn’t going to lose her again. Not when he still had so many questions, so many unresolved feelings. “Lucia—”

  “I mean it.”

  He grabbed the crook of her arm. “Then call me.”

  “No.”

  He rattled off his cell number, anyway, an easy one to remember, ending with the digits of the year she was born. “You won’t forget.”

  “I will,” she said, and pulled her arm back, forcing him to release her. “Go away, Cruz, and don’t ever come back here! Never!” She nearly tripped as she scrambled away from him, running through heavy doors.

  Cruz, his blood still pounding in his ears, turned to spy Sister Charity glaring down at him from an upper balcony. Her face said it all. Chalk-white against her black veil and twisted in disapproval . . . no, something more.

  The paragon of virtue’s features were set into an expression of disgust, as if she’d just seen something so vile and repulsive she couldn’t speak.

  As her eyes held his, she made the sign of the cross over her chest, leaving Cruz to wonder why the benign action
seemed like a threat.

  CHAPTER 29

  It was late afternoon by the time Val and Slade headed to St. Elsinore’s convent. The sun, hidden partially by clouds, was hanging low in the sky, threatening rain again as Slade drove toward the parish where Valerie and Camille had been adopted.

  Most of the day had been filled with taking care of paperwork, guest registrations, and Internet reservations and helping Freya in the kitchen and with the laundry and guest rooms that the part-time maid couldn’t get to. Though they didn’t serve lunch, there were evening displays of wine, cheese, and crackers, along with something special Freya baked. This afternoon, she’d whipped up batches of her signature pralines and ginger cookies. The aromas of ginger and vanilla seeped through the airy rooms.

  Any other time, Valerie would have been tempted by the scents and tasted the warm cookies, but today she hadn’t been interested, and a part of her still couldn’t believe the world just kept on turning, people going about their lives, while Camille was now lying in a morgue, waiting for Valerie to make arrangements.

  She just couldn’t go there yet, hadn’t totally accepted that she’d never see her sister again, never hear her laugh, never catch her eye at a private joke.

  “Get over it,” she’d told herself, but the sadness was still with her, lying in wait on the fringes of her consciousness, ready to play havoc with her emotions.

  So she’d kept busy.

  Today, as she’d worked, her cell phone had been near and she’d kept checking, hoping Montoya had called to tell her that Cammie’s murderer had been caught.

  But that was more complicated than she’d originally thought.

  When she’d first heard about Camille’s murder, Val had been certain Frank O’Toole had taken her sister’s life, but the more she thought about it, the less likely she thought him capable of murder. She’d seen it in his eyes when she’d talked to him, his abject despondency at Camille’s death.