by Lynn Bohart
“Disperse the crowd,” Giorgio said tersely. “But tell Daniel to hang around. I haven’t had the pleasure yet.” Barnes nodded and moved away while Giorgio stepped in to speak with the abbot. “Any reason, Father Damian, why anyone would want to see Father O’Leary dead?”
Father Damian’s eyes had trouble focusing, but when they did, his expression became guarded. “Of course not. I don’t know what’s going on here. This is a horrible nightmare. You have no idea.”
“I have far too many ideas, Father,” Giorgio snapped, glancing over to the pond and the liquid figure of Father O’Leary. “Do you know of any reason why Father O’Leary would have called me yesterday?”
He watched the priest struggle to concentrate before saying, “No. I can’t think of any reason.”
“We’ll need to talk with every monk, again.” The abbot’s eyes seemed to glaze over at this. “Please tell each monk to go to his room and this time, stay there. I don’t want anyone to leave the premises, and I don’t want them talking to each other. Understand?”
Damian stared at Giorgio for a long moment without moving. Then he turned rigidly to leave, his shoulders squared and his eyes focused straight ahead. Giorgio’s gaze came to rest on Father Daniel who watched Giorgio cautiously. Giorgio found Barnes again.
“Call the station and get some help. I want every monk interviewed before lunch.”
Barnes rolled his eyes but left for the squad car. Giorgio pulled out his cell phone and got his brother out of bed. Rocky swore softly but agreed to come as soon as he could. Giorgio signed off as Mulhaney approached.
“The victim has a big gash in the side of his head and a hole in the top of it, so I’m guessing he didn’t drown,” he said, trying to smile. Mulhaney held his camera in front of him like a child he was protecting from the cold. He hadn’t had time to comb his hair, and it stuck out at odd angles, accenting the apprehensive look on his face. “What’s going on here, Joe? How many more murders are we going to have?”
Giorgio felt a strange sense of calm he knew others didn’t share. He’d worked a serial murder case in New York where seven prostitutes had shown up dead, one by one, over a six-month period. He’d been here before. The anxiety almost bristled in the air around him, and he could see fear reflected in the eyes of the people whose job it was to document the facts. Sierra Madre averaged less than one murder a year. Now, there had been three in a matter of a few days. He would have to find answers and find them soon.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But do me a favor and shoot the path and sight lines up to the monastery.”
“Sure. No problem.”
Getting back to business and avoiding speculation seemed to help, and Mulhaney went back to work. Giorgio turned to find Father Daniel sitting on the cement bench, his hands in his lap. Daniel was probably only five-foot ten or eleven, but had the compact build of someone who worked out with weights. His dark hair was a shade lighter than his eyes, and he had the smooth, burnished skin of an Italian. Actually, he looked like every male Giorgio had ever wanted to look like. Before Father Daniel said a word, Giorgio knew his voice would sound like an idling car engine. Giorgio walked over silently hoping Daniel would turn out to be the murderer.
“Father Daniel?”
“That’s right. I was told you wanted to speak to me.”
Giorgio was wrong. His voice sounded like a cello in perfect tune.
“What were you doing out here this morning?” Giorgio immediately regretted the question because the answer was obvious.
“I came out to jog,” Daniel replied politely, apparently unaware that Giorgio had stumbled. “I run two or three times a week, usually around the lower fields. I’m afraid I’ve almost beaten down a narrow track out there.” He smiled casually.
“Why did you come down by the pond?”
“That’s how I get to the lower fields.” He gestured to the sloping path above them. “I stop to stretch here. It was still dark, and I couldn’t see anything clearly. I use the lip of the pond to stretch out my calves. That’s when I noticed Father O’Leary.”
His manner didn’t change even though he’d just described finding a dead body. In fact, he displayed no emotion of any kind. Giorgio eyed him wondering if he was just the kind of person who didn’t relate to others misfortune, or if he was unconsciously expressing the fact he didn’t care about Father O’Leary’s fate. Perhaps he was the killer.
“It’s not every day one finds a dead body,” Giorgio offered.
The monk smiled briefly as if Giorgio had made an endearing remark.
“No, it’s certainly not,” he replied.
“What did you do when you realized it was Father O’Leary?”
The perfect features rearranged themselves into a curious expression. “Actually, it was still dark. All I saw was the outline of the robe. I wasn’t even sure it was a body – that is until I reached out to grab the material and grabbed a hand instead.”
He shuddered, but it seemed manufactured and passed almost as quickly as it appeared.
“I went immediately to find Father Damian. By then, it was starting to get light, and Father Damian identified him.”
“I received a message that Father O’Leary wanted to see me. You don’t know what that was about, do you?”
Daniel’s brown eyes popped opened like a child caught pulling his sister’s hair. “No. I can’t imagine why he’d call the police. He was a gentle soul. I can’t even imagine why anyone would kill him.”
“Do you have a theory about any of this, Father? Why so many people have been murdered here at the monastery?”
“Me? No.” For the first time, Daniel showed signs of anxiety by flicking his thumb against the back of his index finger. “I’m fairly new here. Perhaps this all has to do with something that happened before I arrived. I really couldn’t say.”
“Why did you become a monk, Father?”
The question caught him off guard, and he looked up. Giorgio noticed he continued the nervous mannerism with his thumb.
“I suppose I…uh…felt the need to serve God.”
“There are many ways to serve God. Why become a monk?”
Giorgio had a feeling this guy didn’t belong here and was merely playing a charade of some kind. Father Damian said the young initiates came for one or two-year periods to train. Giorgio had to assume that by the time they got this far they had already passed many theological and personal tests of strength. Although clearly well-educated, Giorgio couldn’t believe Father Daniel had ever passed a personal test of value in his life. He was as shallow as the pond in which Father O’Leary now floated, but Giorgio would never hear the answer to his question because Barnes interrupted him.
“Detective? We found this tossed behind the roses.”
Barnes held out a gloved hand. In it was a heavy jagged rock streaked with blood.
Giorgio spent the rest of the morning taking statements. None of the monks had seen or heard anything unusual. Father O’Leary had worked late in the library trying to catch up after his illness. He hadn’t seemed agitated lately or spoken of anything that might indicate he was having a problem with anyone.
Rocky showed up within the first hour. He hadn’t bothered to shave and looked red-eyed and disheveled. Giorgio avoided a comment, choosing instead to drive down to the gated entrance to make a brief statement to the press. At noon, they met back by the pond.
“Why do I feel old before my time?” Giorgio lamented as he slumped onto the bench. “This isn’t a puzzle anymore, it’s a test. Figure out the answers before someone else drops dead.”
Rocky stood a few feet away with his hands stuffed into his jean pockets.
“You’re taking it too personally,” he countered. “It has nothing to do with you, but everything to do with the people who were killed. I mean, think about it. If the first two murders were committed on the same night, then why would a monk be killed several days later?”
“Because he knew something.”
“Bingo! O’Leary knew something in advance or saw something he shouldn’t have. The question is what?”
“He called me, you know. Yesterday afternoon.”
“Maybe he wanted to tell you something.”
“Something else is bothering me,” Giorgio said as Rocky lit a cigarette and took a draw. “McCready made an observation about the first two murders. He said they seemed like they’d been committed by different people because of the way the bodies were left. Mallery Olsen was left where she would be found. Jeff Dorman was buried. Whoever killed him didn’t want him to be found.”
“So?” Rocky egged him on.
Giorgio squinted up at his brother. Rocky’s six-foot two-inch frame blocked the little sunlight there was. “Father O’Leary was left in the same bold way as Mallery Olsen. Almost like a statement. It reminds me of New York.”
“Mafia?” Rocky asked alarmed. “C’mon,” he waved it away.
“Don’t you think there’s a certain arrogance to both murders? It’s as if the killer was bragging. Yet, Jeff Dorman was buried so that no one would find him.”
“So, you think two of the murders have something to do with the mob? What? The Sierra Madre mob?”
“No. Of course not. It just seems all too familiar.”
Rocky rolled his eyes. “But what about the finger? O’Leary had all ten of his.”
“Yes, but something just tells me O’Leary’s death is linked to Olsen’s.”
“If the mob is involved, and I think it’s a really big if, where do you go with something like that?”
Giorgio sighed and stretched his legs out in the grass. “I don’t know, but Father Daniel is the only one from New York. And he’s a new recruit. I think we’ll do some background checking on him.”
“He’s a cocky bastard anyway.”
“And he was the one who found Father O’Leary.” Giorgio looked up at Rocky again. “Besides, when was the last time you saw a Catholic monk out jogging?”
They both laughed as Giorgio stood up and Rocky threw his cigarette to the ground. Giorgio eyed the butt and then looked at his brother.
“You want to be brought in for questioning when they pick that up as evidence?”
The younger Salvatori winced and bent to pick up the trash before the two brothers started back up the slope.
“So, one of us has to get to know Father O’Leary…posthumously,” Rocky said. “Sounds like a job for me. I’ll start asking around.”
Giorgio cocked his head. “Why you?”
“Because I can get more out of people than you. Face it, you offend people. People will tell me things they don’t even know they’re saying.”
“And why is that?” Giorgio asked cynically.
“Because they trust me.”
Giorgio scoffed. “Really?”
“Don’t you remember when I had to take that big history test in twelfth grade in order to graduate? And Little Joey Feldman next door had taken the test before everyone else because he was going out of town. Every kid in the class tried to get him to give up the questions. Jack Zelder even tried to bribe him with his BB gun. But Little Joey wouldn’t budge.”
“And you got him to tell you?”
Rocky smiled as if he’d just had the best sex of his life. “Everything. Down to the bonus question on who won the battle between the Monitor and the Merrimack.”
“The what?”
“Never mind. The point is I didn’t pay him anything. I merely charmed him into telling me everything I wanted to know.” Rocky puffed out his chest like a strutting penguin.
Giorgio grimaced. “I didn’t realize you had such a useful talent. How do you manage it?”
“It’s all in the body language. See, you’re all sort of tense all the time.”
“I am not!”
“Yes you are. Look at how you hunch your shoulders. And you raise your voice a lot.”
“That’s a crock!”
“Just like now. On the other hand, I keep my voice low and lean in to the person. Like this.” Rocky demonstrated by leaning over Giorgio who waved him away. “I make eye contact, nod my head a lot, and listen. That’s the key.”
“Listening is the key?” Giorgio asked, walking ahead of his brother. Rocky followed him undaunted.
“Haven’t you ever taken a communications class? Listening is everything. I merely got Little Joey Feldman talking about why he was going out of town, which by the way was for very personal reasons.”
Giorgio stopped, his eyes opened wide. “What personal reasons? You never told me that.”
“I made a promise to Little Joey Feldman.” Rocky struck an insincere pose.
Giorgio started for their cars. “Well, tell me about it now. You have no right to keep a secret for that long.”
“Well, it seems that little Joey was going to live with his aunt in Philadelphia.”
“Why?” Giorgio’s patience was wearing thin.
“Apparently his stepfather was becoming a little too friendly…if you know what I mean.”
Giorgio stopped in his tracks again. “You’re kidding? His step dad was such a pious bastard.”
“Yeah, well, it seems he didn’t have eyes only for Joey’s mom. Anyway, you’re missing the point.” They continued walking until they reached the parking lot. “I sympathized completely with his plight and admitted to some of my own personal difficulties.”
Giorgio stopped abruptly again. “What personal difficulties? You didn’t have any difficulties.”
“Well, dad’s death and all and living under the watchful eye of my big brother.” He winked at Giorgio. “Then, I may have said something like that’s why I had such a hard time concentrating in school.”
“You lying bastard. You duped that poor kid.”
Rocky smiled mischievously. “He thought he was helping me. And he did. I aced the test, much to Mrs. Pringle’s surprise. And I think I may have helped a poor young troubled kid in the process.”
Giorgio tilted his head. “Well, then, by all means, with such a rare gift, you should be the one to work your way into the monks’ trust and find out what Father O’Leary may have known.”
Giorgio opened the car door while Rocky smiled in the background. He’d left Grosvner in the car, and the dog wiggled all over the place at Giorgio’s return.
“Where are you going?” Rocky inquired.
“To meet Elvira Applebaum. You’d better get started with the monks. Meanwhile, I’ll do what I can with my limited talents by interviewing people on the periphery.” Rocky merely laughed good-naturedly making Giorgio add, “But before you get too close to some of those poor monks, grab some toothpaste. Your morning breath could kill a palm tree.”
Rocky’s smile faded as Giorgio slipped inside the car. A moment later, he started the car and left Rocky at the curb holding his hand up to his mouth.
Chapter Thirty
Elvira Applebaum lived in a cozy Craftsman bungalow just off Orange Grove Boulevard in Pasadena. A tall, slender woman with short gray hair and bright blue eyes greeted Giorgio and then ushered him into a comfortable living room with a wood fireplace mantel faced with cerulean blue tiles.
“May I offer you something to drink, Detective?”
She was a handsome woman in her mid sixties, standing tall and erect, her hands clasped in front of her.
“No, thank you. I just have a few questions.”
“Well, then, please sit down.” She indicated a chintz-covered chair and took a wooden rocker herself. “You said on the phone you were investigating the murders up at the monastery. I read about them in the paper. I don’t think anything like that has ever happened around here. Two murders,” she shook her head. “The priests must be devastated.”
“I’m afraid you’ll be reading about a third murder tomorrow morning. I’m sure it’s already on the news.”
Her hand went to her chest in shock. “That’s awful. What’s happening up there?”
“That’s what we’d lik
e to know.”
“How can I help?”
She was obviously a woman with a business temperament, a demeanor Giorgio liked.
“I’ve been studying the building plans for the monastery. I understand your father was the chief architect.”
“Yes. The chapel was constructed in the thirties from the old church. They built the monastery around it and asked my father to do the work. He was just out of school then and eager for the opportunity. The monks didn’t pay much and were difficult to work with, but my father was glad to have a paycheck in those days.”
“Did he tell you anything about the building itself?”
“I remember him talking with my mother. The abbot came to see him when he finished the drawings and ordered him to redo them. They wanted something changed and my father was quite angry about it.”
“He wasn’t paid for the changes?”
“No. He had offered a bid on the entire project and the abbot argued that the changes were minor. It was all quite secretive, and he wasn’t allowed to tell any of the other monks who were on the building committee.”
“You said on the phone that your father had passed away. When was that?”
“About twenty years ago.”
“And there are no other living relatives that might know more about his work at the monastery?”
Her eyes lit up. “My mother would, but I’m afraid she’s quite ill.”
“Is she in a nursing home?”
“She lives right here with me.” She stood up. “She was napping a while ago. Let me see if she’s awake. She loves having visitors, but you won’t be able to stay long.”
“I understand,” Giorgio said, thinking he may have just hit the jackpot.
Elvira Applebaum went down the hallway to the back of the house. Giorgio roamed the living room, stopping to look at a cluster of framed pictures on a wall above a sideboard. In one, he saw a tall man with brown hair cut short, an unruly lock of hair hanging over one eye. The family resemblance was unmistakable. He was looking at Joseph Applebaum holding a croquet mallet and smiling at the camera with the same broad smile as his daughter. A moment later, Elvira Applebaum reentered the room.