Bad Samaritan (9 page)

Sister Agatha fought to keep her spirits up. Maybe Tom's blood had been tested by now. If he'd been drugged, as they suspected, those positive test results would add credence to his own explanation—that of a third person at the scene. That extra footprint and confirmation of a knockout drug in his system would mean that there were at least two irrefutable facts in his favor.

One question, however, continued to gnaw at her. Would she be able to prove his innocence before it was time for her to leave New Mexico?

As if sensing her thoughts, Sister Bernarda pointed to the quote from Matthew that had been embroidered on white linen, framed, and hung on the wall.
With God all things are possible.

Drawing strength from the words of the apostle, she walked out of the scriptorium and, in silence, followed Sister Bernarda to the chapel. The moment she stepped inside, she saw all the remaining sisters there, kneeling in silent prayer. Brides of Christ, they instinctively reached out to Him in times of trouble, placing their cares in their lover's gentle hands.

Early the next morning, after Morning Prayers and Terce, Pax and Sister Agatha set out to town. Feeling strengthened by the power of prayer, she was ready to tackle the day's challenges.

Twenty minutes later Sister Agatha arrived at the station. As they went inside, Pax headed directly to the bullpen. Seconds afterward, he graciously accepted his first doughnut piece of the day.

Seeing he was in good hands, Sister Agatha smiled and continued down the hall. As she turned the corner, she saw Tom standing there, shaking hands with one of the lieutenants.

Sister Agatha smiled broadly. “You've been released!”

He gave her a weary nod. “Yes, but there's a lot of work to be done before I can put all this behind me and get back to being sheriff again.”

Millie, who'd come out of her own office, gestured for them to come inside, then closed the door behind them. Glancing at Sister Agatha, she said, “The approval for the tests came through, and the lab confirmed that the sheriff had been drugged with benzodiazepine, what they call a date-rape type of drug. It's pretty fast acting, and that explains why he passed out and why he can't remember things too clearly. It also supports the sheriff's claim that Robert never attacked him—that the blow to his head came
after
he was out cold.”

“Like we figured, I was struck on the head to explain away my unconsciousness. It was supposed to mislead the detectives long enough to reduce the chances of my being tested and having the drug detected,” Tom said.

“How was the drug administered, do they know?” Sister Agatha asked, looking at both of them.

“It was in the hot dog relish,” Millie said. “We tested the residue from a napkin the sheriff had wadded up and stuck in his pocket.”

“So it's now downhill from here?” Sister Agatha asked, looking at Tom. “You'll be in charge of the case again soon?”

“No,” Tom answered. “Some people, including the DA, are suggesting that I purposely ingested the drug
after
the crime so I'd have an alibi.”

“What about the blow to your head? That would have served
as an alibi, too,” Sister Agatha said, “and it would have made taking the drug unnecessary. How do they explain that?”

“They don't even try. My attorney plans on making an appeal, but until that happens, I'm on paid suspension. I'm also forbidden to contact anyone who might be connected to the case, including my fellow officers.” He glanced at Millie. “Thanks for everything, but I better get out of here before Captain Chavez shows up and wonders what we've been talking about.”

“Tom, didn't you say earlier that Robert had handed you the hot dog?” Sister Agatha asked as they reached the door. Seeing him nod, she glanced at Millie. “So, was Robert drugged, too?”

“They did a tox screen on him, but the victim usually has a whole battery of tests, and some of those take days to complete. Only the sheriff's results are back from the lab,” Millie answered. “Initial results on Robert's lab work may be in by the end of today.”

“Thankfully, the judge saw all the inconsistencies in the case against me. That's why I'm out now,” Tom said.

“What we have to do next is find out who added the contaminated relish to your hot dog,” Sister Agatha said, glancing at Tom. She then turned to Millie. “Have you heard if anyone else was drugged that evening? I imagine you would have known by now if anyone else at the park had passed out, right?”

“If anyone else did, nobody's reported it. To me that suggests that only the sheriff was targeted—” A knock sounded just as she placed her hand on the knob. Millie opened it and stepped back as Frank Marquez came striding in.

He took them all in at a glance, then fastened his laser-sharp gaze on Millie. “The sheriff no longer has any jurisdiction over the Garcia murder case. I'd hate to find out that you've been sharing privileged information.”

“I've just informed Sister Agatha that Sheriff Green is currently on suspension,” Millie said.

It was only a fraction of the truth, and they all knew it. Sister Agatha looked back at Frank. “I also wanted to assure Millie that I'd be passing on any information I uncover.”

“Sister Agatha can be an asset,” Tom added. “Her special talents will speed your case along.”

“Asset or not, you'd be better off staying out of this, Sister,” Frank said, meeting her gaze. “A person who commits murder has already shown what he's capable of, and your habit won't give you much protection.”

As Marquez left the room, Sister Agatha glanced at Tom. “Walk me out?”

“Sure,” he answered.

As soon as they were in the parking area, Tom bent down to pet Pax. “What's on your mind, Sister?”

“Have you remembered any more details about that evening—like maybe your conversation with Robert?” she asked.

“No, not really,” he answered, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture of weariness.

“Try to visualize him for a moment,” Sister Agatha insisted. “What do you see?”

“A few extras that probably don't mean a hill of beans,” he answered after a moment or two. “I remember his flashy silver and turquoise watch, the flag pin on his lapel—I had one, too. There was a silver pen in his front shirt pocket, along with some kind of pamphlet that stuck out. I remember it had a line of stars along the top edge—probably some campaign literature. He also had a foam cup in his hand, not that cottonwood branch I saw when I woke up later. When I started to lose my balance he jumped back, maybe afraid I was going to fall on him, and spilled some of his punch. I went out fast after that. I don't even remember hitting the ground,” he said.

“What about your earlier conversations?”

He shrugged. “A few angry exchanges, accusations, mostly.”

Sister Agatha noticed he was having a hard time maintaining eye contact. “Tom, you're not holding back on me, are you?” Even before she'd become a nun, Tom had never been able to look her in the eye for long when he was keeping something from her.

“Don't worry. I know who my friends are,” he said in a reassuring tone—but his eyes wandered again.

“Which doesn't answer the question,” she insisted, trying once again to meet his gaze. “You're deflecting, not to mention playing with your future.”

“I didn't do anything to Robert,” he said, this time looking directly at her, his eyes unwavering. “You know that's true.”

“Yes, but that wasn't my question,” she pressed.

He glanced back to the entrance, where several deputies had just stepped outside. “We'll talk again if I remember something else. Right now, I need to find a ride home.” With a nod, he walked toward the officers.

He hadn't asked her for a lift, and that told her all she needed. For whatever reason, there was something Tom wasn't ready to tell her, and that spelled trouble. Glancing down at Pax, Sister Agatha smiled at her faithful friend.

“Let go pay Chuck Moody a visit, boy,” she said, climbing on the cycle.

Recognizing Chuck's name, Pax barked happily.

“Nothing ever worries you, does it, my friend?” she said, thinking out loud. “I envy you that.”

Sister Agatha headed down the street, then turned and went up the lane that held the newspaper office. She'd find at least some of the answers she needed there.

W
HEN SISTER AGATHA STEPPED INSIDE THE
CHRONI
cle
's front office, Chuck was at his computer. His right hand was on the mouse, and his left curled around a half-full plastic soft drink bottle.

“Hey, Sister! What brings you back here so soon?” He stepped to a waist-high refrigerator, pulled out an unopened bottle of cola, and offered it to her. “Here, have one. I bet you can use this about now. The temperature is supposed to hit the high nineties today, but I was outside checking the mailbox a while ago, and it already feels like one hundred.”

“It certainly does, particularly coming off the asphalt,” she said, wishing, if only for a moment, that she'd joined an order who used modern, short habits and lighter-colored fabric.

“How about you, Pax? I have a dish of water for critters, too.” He gestured toward a metal watering dish against a wall.

“Did you all get an office pet?”

“No, not really, but sometimes we have a big gray cat who drops by to say hello. I'm not sure who he belongs to, but the guy looks well fed.”

“He's not here now, is he?” She looked around anxiously. “Pax likes to chase them off.”

“Nope, don't worry. More often than not he only comes around after dark,” Chuck said, taking a swig of his own drink. “So what can I do for you, Sister?” he asked, sitting down at his computer again and swinging around to face her.

“I need your help, but first I want us to come to an agreement similar to ones we've had in the past. I'd like your word that you won't print anything we uncover together until the time's right—my call. Do we have a deal?”

“You bet,” he said almost instantly. “Every time you and I team up we both come out ahead. I see no reason to change a winning game.”

Game . . . She never would have called it that, but this was no time to quibble. Sister Agatha brought him up to date on the results of the drug test they'd given Sheriff Green. “Detective Marquez will undoubtedly follow up that lead by looking for known drug dealers in our area. I'd like to work it from a different angle. I'm thinking that the killer isn't a pro, though he's got some knowledge of police procedure. The fact that there were so many officers at the park that day—on and off duty—makes me think that our guy's strictly a small-time dealer, or maybe user, who's a complete unknown to law enforcement.”

Chuck nodded slowly. “Makes sense to me. Did you suggest that to the police?”

“I didn't think it would do a lot of good. One theory being tossed around is that Tom purposely ingested the drug to give himself an alibi.”

“I guess that in their eyes anything's possible. Of course,
they're not nearly as sure as we are that the sheriff's innocent, so they have to find a way, no matter how convoluted, to establish his guilt.”

Sister Agatha, noting his use of the word “we,” smiled. “So here's the way I see it, Chuck. We're looking for someone who has stayed below the radar but has access to date-rape-type drugs.”

“Is there anything else you can think of that might help narrow the search a bit?” he asked.

Sister Agatha thought back to the blow on Tom's head, which was on the left temple. Judging from the angle, whoever had struck Tom with that stout branch had been right-handed and standing more or less in front of him.

“Was Robert Garcia right-handed?”

“Let me take a look at some photos on file,” Chuck said. Several moments later, he looked up from the screen. “Yeah, it looks like it.”

“The police are assuming that Robert hit Tom, but what this tells us is that Robert's killer is also right-handed.”

“That's not much of a clue, Sister,” Chuck said. “The majority of the world is right-handed.”

“Yes, but that was no tiny branch, for one, and the blow that struck Tom packed a great deal of force. The person we're looking for may have a sore arm, swollen fingers, or scratches on their right hand.”

“It's a possibility—unless the person was wearing gloves. Either way, we should take a closer look at Robert's cronies and see what we find,” Chuck said.

“The funeral—has a date been set?” she asked him.

“As a matter of fact, yes. It's tomorrow.” He checked a small notebook next to the phone. “The family wanted the funeral and burial to take place as soon as possible, and they put some
serious pressure on the ME's office. Raul Garcia, the ninety-year-old patriarch of the Garcias, insisted on leaving his assisted living facility and staying at JD's until Robert was buried. The family's very worried about Raul and wants him back at the home, where he'll get the specialized round-the-clock care he needs.”

“I'm going to do my best to attend that funeral, Chuck.”

“I'll be there, too, covering it for the paper.”

“Do me a favor,” she said. “If you see anyone with a sore finger or arm, let me know.”

“You've got it, Sister. I'll also be taking photos, so if you'd like, you can browse through those later.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Chuck focused back on the information on his computer screen. “There have been no area arrests dealing with date-rape drugs within the last ninety days, Sister. I can go back farther if you want.”

“No, let's try a different approach. Suppose I wanted to find an amateur who occasionally deals low-profile drugs—meaning not anything heavy like cocaine or meth. Who would you suggest I talk to?”