Last Breath (6 page)

“Thanks, I think. You know, in the old days, they taught priests never to look a woman in the eye. The eye contact was supposed to be too seductive. In my experience, the eye is the safest place to look.”

Chloe gave a little laugh. “Yeah.” But her humor faded as quickly as it arose. “The thing is, Father, you need to watch your back.”

He sighed and reached for a bottle of water. As he unscrewed the cap, he said, “You know, I’ve been getting a little paranoid already. I don't want to get more so.”

“Paranoid why?”

He shrugged. “There seem to have been some complaints to the chancery about me. I keep getting these sideways phone calls from downtown.”

“Well, I’m sure there are some idiots in the parish who'd prefer an old-fashioned priest who ruled the church like a dictator.”

“There's a right-wing element everywhere.They want to go back to the way it always was. Completely ignoring the fact that it wasn't always that way.” He sighed.

“What kind of complaints have you been hearing?”

“The interesting thing is that they're never really specific. Just general questions about what's going on down here. What am I doing? I feel like I’ve got somebody breathing down my neck, but I don't know why.”

“Not good.” Chloe tipped her head back and looked up at the emptiness of the artificially lighted night. “I want you to listen to me, Father. You've got to watch your back.” She lowered her head and looked at him. “That crucifixion was a message. I can't say for sure yet that it was a message to you. But it was a message. This isn't done with.”

“Dear God.” His shoulders slumped. “I hope I die before I ever see anything like this again.”

“You may. Father. Are you hearing me?”

After a bit, he looked up at her. “I hear you.”

“Be careful what you say to anyone, especially the cops. You're in their sights right now. Even an innocent comment could put you behind bars.”

“But what can I do except tell the truth?”

“Say as little as possible. Trust me, I’m going to look into this.”

“Thanks, Chloe.”

But she had already melted away into the night.

Chloe was just stepping out of the shower when the phone started ringing. By the time she'd wrapped a towel around herself and another around her wet hair, her voice mail had picked it up. But then it started ringing again.

As a criminal defense attorney, Chloe never gave out her home phone number or address. The types she dealt with were often not the kind of people she wanted to show up unannounced on her doorstep.

She padded to the phone by the second ring, and checked the caller ID.
Diel, Matthew.
She hesitated, not wanting to talk to him, but then she grabbed the receiver before the fourth ring, when the phone company's voice mail would take over the call.

“What do you want?” she asked without preamble. She could hear him sigh.

“One of your most charming features, Chloe, is your incredible talent for rudeness.”

“I’m just getting to the point fast. You called, I’m tired, what do you want?”

“I want to know if you're going to buck me on this investigation.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you hate me?”

Chloe settled onto the couch and tried not to shiver as the air-conditioning turned on, sending a draft of cold air over her wet, bare shoulders. “I don't hate you, Matt. I never have.”

“Okay. You're just supremely indifferent.”She didn't answer.

“You didn't answer my question. Are you going to mess with me on this?”

“I’m just going to make sure you don't get tunnel vision.”

He sighed again. “I get less tunnel vision than most. You of all people ought to know that.”

“Maybe.” She didn't care for references to her past. “I’m not going to mess with you unless you start to mess up.”

“How the hell are you going to know if I mess up?” The question was challenging.

Chloe lifted one foot and looked at the goose bumps that were running down her legs. “You ever heard of quid pro quo?”

“Yes. I’m not stupid because I’m just a dumb cop.”

She ignored his irritation. “I’m going to suggest a little quid pro quo. One hand washes the other. I tell you what I find, you tell me what you find.”

“You know I can't discuss an investigation.” “Sure you can. Nobody will know except me.”

He was silent for a few moments. “So you want to do a little horse trading? What have you got to trade?”

“Not on the phone.” She could tell he was on his cell phone, by the way it faded and crackled, and there was no guaranteed privacy on a cell phone.

“Kramer's Diner on Fletcher. Fifteen minutes.”

“Thirty.”

“Okay, thirty. And you better have something to share.”

Thirty minutes later, Diel watched Chloe walk into the diner. Isolation seemed to surround her, making it look as if she existed on another plane, despite the students and a couple of drunks who filled booths. He'd managed to get away from them, into a quiet corner, and a tip to the waitress had given him at least a reasonable guarantee that she'd try to shuffle any newcomers to the far end.

When she slid onto the vinyl bench across from him, he noticed her hair was damp. She'd probably just gotten out of the shower when he called. The realization made him feel things he didn't want to feel for this ice queen, but the image of drops of water sparkling on her skin made him shift uncomfortably.

The waitress came over immediately.“What'll it be?”

“Coffee, decaf,” Chloe said. “Wheat toast, dry.”

She'd always eaten like a sprite, as if her body needed little mortal sustenance. Matt was not so lucky. He needed to eat, but rarely had the opportunity to do so except in quick gulps.

“A full stack with maple syrup. Coffee, leaded.”

Then they were alone, facing each other like old antagonists. Which they were. Silent, unspoken tension rose between them.

“So,” he said, wanting to ignore the discomfort she always made him feel.

“So.” Ever so slightly the corners of her mouth tipped up. “You first.”

He shrugged. “Okay.” He figured if she didn't have anything, this would be their last meeting. He was willing to trust her. “The vie was dead before he was crucified. Shot in the back of the head. Small caliber, probably a .22. There's powder on his scalp.”

“So it was an execution?”

“Or he didn't hear the perp come up behind him. We'll know more after the full autopsy.” Matt shrugged. “Now you.”

“There's a whispering campaign against Father Brendan. There've been complaints to the chancery, vague ones. I wouldn't trust a lot of what I hear, if I were you.”

Matt looked at her, ruminating. “Why do they hate him?”

“Anybody's guess at this point. The Church is a funny place, Matt. There are people who are willing to do almost anything to return to the Middle Ages. There's still a powerful right wing that hasn't recovered from Vatican II.”

“And he's too modern?”

“For some, I’m sure. And not modern enough for others. Like most priests, he's walking a fine line all the time. We may be one body in Christ, as they say, but we have all the failings of any group of human beings.”

“But why would that involve the kid?”

“I didn't say it did. I just want you to be aware that there are agendas out there.”

He sighed. “There always are, Chloe. Tell me something I don't know. So there have been complaints about him to the chancery?”

“Apparently so.”

“About what?”

She shook her head. “Even he doesn't know. He keeps getting vague phone calls asking him what's going on down here.”

“You talked to him?”

“Of course.”

“Are you his attorney?”

She almost smiled. “If I were, I wouldn't be telling you this. Apparently there have been enough phone calls that he's been feeling a little paranoid.”

Matt mulled that over. It
could
be tied in with the kid, but he didn't say so. “I’ll keep that in mind. What else?”

“Nothing you won't find out if you get a subpoena.”

“Save me the grief. I haven't got any reason to get one yet.”

“I know.” Again that faint smile, as if she enjoyed having the upper hand. “He was a navy chaplain for twelve years. His jacket is full of commendations.”

“How'd you find that out?”

“I have connections who have connections at the chancery.”

He nodded. “Okay. What else?”

“He spent two years in a monastery before being assigned here.”

That made Matt lean forward. “Why would he do that?”

“You'll have to ask him.”

“Damn. Why should he tell me?”

“Because,” she said, as his plate of pancakes was placed in front of him, “he's an honest man.”

“Yeah, right.” Matt snorted. “Diogenes never did find one.”

“Well,” she said, a soft smile tracing her lips, “Diogenes apparently didn't look in St. Simeon's.”

The early edition of the paper started hitting the streets around four in the morning. Hardly anyone was up and about, and the delivery trucks drove through streets nearly empty of traffic. At each newsstand, they stopped and loaded a stack of fresh papers, and cleared out yesterday's edition, if any were left.

Home delivery drivers tooled around in their vans and trucks, tossing plastic-wrapped papers on driveways and lawns as the eastern sky began to brighten.

It was not the kind of Easter Sunday edition most people wanted to see. Yes, beside the masthead was the greeting
Happy Easter
in purple ink, but below it the headline screamed news that seemed to come from another world:

MAN CRUCIFIED IN CHURCH

Below it, in sharp color, was a photo of the facade of St. Simeon's Church, surrounded by police cars and crime scene tape.

Dominic had set his alarm early, and so reached the front stoop long before Brendan stirred out of his room. He pulled the paper from the plastic, read the story with a deepening sense of evil chill, then hastily bundled it into the trash can behind the rectory. If Brendan wanted to see what the news hounds had to say, then he was going to have to go out and buy a copy. Otherwise, it was Dominic's considered opinion that Brendan did not need to see that headline or story sitting beside his morning coffee cup. He offered a brief prayer asking forgiveness for his act of charitable deceit.

Then he went into the kitchen to make the pot of special blend coffee that always started their day. The Starbucks coffee was Dominic's introduction, a small self-indulgence. He was a diocesan priest, which meant he hadn't taken a vow of poverty, and hence if his family chose to send him money, he could indulge in a few things of this nature.

Brendan, however, was an ordinal priest, a Jesuit who took his vow of poverty seriously. If he laid claim to any possessions at all in the world, they were probably the clothes on his back, and the old basketball autographed by Larry Bird. The ball had, Brendan explained, belonged to his father, who had lived, bled, and died Celtic green.

Dominic had watched him on more than one occasion take money out of his pocket and give it to someone in need. Brendan wore clerical clothes that were frayed, apparently replaced only when someone in the church noticed that he needed some new ones. His shoes, according to Lucy Gallegos, had been resoled twice since he had come to the parish. Dominic suspected that he used his entire meager stipend for haircuts, gas, and gifts to the poor.

Which was admirable, and Dominic felt no resentment of Brendan's charity. But he did rather like the way his nominal superior appreciated the change in coffee brands. He'd also noticed that Brendan wasn't averse to having a biscotto with his coffee, if one happened to be there. Just one, though. Never more. A moderate man.

It was, Dominic thought as he poured himself a cup of fresh brew, probably not surprising that Monsignor Crowell disliked Brendan. In a church that coddled its priests, seeing to all their needs, an austere man like Brendan might niggle at some consciences. Especially Monsignor Crowell's, for the monsignor had a taste for the finer things in life.

Ah, well.

All he knew for sure was that he felt good about getting rid of the newspaper. Brendan's pain was clearly bad enough.

Another man awaited the early edition eagerly. The killer, restless all night and worried that he might have failed, was wide-awake and pacing the floor of his pleasant suburban home, trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb his wife. When he heard the clatter of the truck at the corner, he waited only a few minutes before darting out to go get a copy.

Inside again, his hands shook as he turned on the light and unfolded the paper.

So sure was he that the story would be a small one, he almost missed the screaming headline.

But when he saw it, his knees gave way.

The watcher, having a calmer conscience at the moment — after all, he hadn't had anything to do with the kid's death, not really — didn't get his paper until the rosy spring sun was washing away a fine mist from overnight.

In the absentminded way he usually did, he bought it at the stand in front of the convenience store without looking at it. He tucked it under his arm and went inside to buy his large cup of coffee, cream, no sugar. Then he strolled back to his motel, where he sat at a rickety table in the corner of his room. Only after he had removed the cover from the coffee and stirred it twice did he open the paper.

What he saw made his heart stop.

Then the phone started ringing.

“What the hell were you thinking of?” demanded the voice on the other end, a voice with a face he knew, but no name.

“I didn't —”

“No, obviously you
didn't
think! My God, this was supposed to be quiet, not sensational. What do you think you're doing?”

“I didn't —”

“I don't want to hear your excuses, dammit. Do you understand the meaning of
covert?
My God, man, the police are going to be all over this. The cannon won't dare do a thing for weeks if not months, and I need that fucking priest
gone’?
”

The watcher, recovering at last from his own shock, shouted into the phone, “I didn't do it!”