Devious (18 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Devious
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H
ours later, Montoya was at his desk, having reunited his brother with his bike. Cruz had brought up Lucia Costa again before starting the Harley, but Montoya hadn’t said much more, not wanting to compromise the investigation. It was dicey enough that he was investigating Camille Renard’s homicide. If the department wasn’t stretched thin, he was certain there would be talk of reassigning him.
For now, though, he was on the case.
But what were the odds, he wondered, that two of the women he and Cruz had dated in high school had ended up at St. Marguerite’s as nuns?
Long.
Very
long.
Fewer and fewer young people entered the convents, seminaries, and monasteries around the country, and yet both Lucia and Camille had joined an order of nuns that was, even by convent standards, antiquated.
All afternoon outside the doorway to his office, phones jangled, keyboards clicked, and the hum of conversation was interspersed with an occasional burst of laughter. Although the air conditioner rumbled quietly, the temperature was well into the seventies, with heat from bodies, lights, and electronics at war with the cooling system.
At one point, Lynn Zaroster, one of the smarter junior detectives, had flown by his open door, footsteps full of spring, her mop of black curls bobbing with each stride. One hand held a cell phone to her ear; in the other, a bottle of Diet Coke sloshed with each step.
“I know, I know. Look, I don’t care what that lowlife son of a bitch claims,” she’d said into the phone. “I’m telling you his ass was Mirandized. That jackass was read his rights—by me—and he said he understood them. Talk to Deputy Mott. He heard it all.” She’d hurried down the hallway, her heels clicking until she was out of earshot.
But now things had quieted, only a few day-crew detectives still logging in hours.
Montoya pulled his concentration back to his own case. He tapped his pencil on the desktop beneath the glow of his computer screen, where photographs of the Camille Renard murder scene had been posted. Scrawled on a legal pad were his notes—questions that needed answers:
Who killed her? Who had motive and opportunity?
Who was the last person to see her prior to her death?
Why was she wearing a damned bridal dress?
What was the significance of the drops of blood around the neckline of the dress?
Why did he feel that he was being stonewalled by the mother superior and everyone else at St. Marguerite’s?
He had some vague theories, half-baked ideas, but nothing concrete other than the notion that Father Frank was the number-one suspect.
Frank O’Toole.
Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine the guy he knew from his youth squeezing the life out of his lover, garroting her until she couldn’t breathe, keeping up the pressure until her heart stopped in the middle of the chapel, dropping her body near the altar where he often led prayers.
Then what? Slip outside to the driving rain to have Sister Lucia find her a few minutes later? It didn’t make sense, but then most murders were not well-planned events.
He decided to concentrate on what he did know, realizing that answers might be buried in his notes or those taken by other officers. He had statements from everyone associated with the convent and church, along with a few more from people in the neighborhood who had been out at midnight. One man, Mr. Sylvester, had been walking his dog. There was another statement from two teenagers who had been making out in a car in the driveway at a nearby house. The kids—half dressed and the windows steamed—had been freaked when confronted by the police, and they hadn’t noticed any unusual activity on the church grounds.
There were statements from all the nuns and staff, most claiming that they were asleep and had heard nothing. The few whose stories were different were Lucia Costa, who had “heard something and gone down to investigate,” and the reverend mother, Charity Varisco, who had been leaving her office when she’d heard Sister Lucia’s cries for help. Sister Louise admitted to going to the restroom about that time, and Sister Irene had been awake but in bed, worrying about her ailing father. She’d heard nothing, though her room was close to Sister Lucia’s. Father Paul had been reading, and Father O’Toole had been visiting with the ailing Mr. Wembley. A groundskeeper, Neron Lopez, the only other man who lived at the convent, was in his room over the garages. He, an energetic seventy-year-old, was watching a late-night talk show on one of only two televisions in the compound. The other TV belonged to Father Frank O’Toole.
Only three people admitted to knowing of Camille’s pregnancy: Father Frank, Valerie Renard, and Lucia Costa, all of whom mentioned the unborn child in their statements. She hadn’t confided in the mother superior, or so Sister Charity claimed.
Was the baby the reason Camille was killed? Or was there some other motive that had yet to be uncovered? Some other secret yet to be revealed?
He read Lucia’s statement one more time. She’d been the one who had found Father Frank outside in the rain when she’d gone searching for Father Paul. According to her statement, O’Toole had told her he was responsible for Camille’s death, saying something like, “It’s all my fault, God forgive me.”
Looked like a confession to Montoya.
Putting the statements side by side, Montoya realized he’d have to interview some of the nuns again, especially Lucia Costa. What was the “something” she’d heard that had awoken her? A scream? A cry for help? Someone walking in the hallway? And was she certain about Frank’s admission of guilt? It was something to take up with the priest, along with a dozen other questions. The neighbors hadn’t produced anything, but it was worth another shot with them. And he would need to go another round with Mother Superior and Father Paul. And the sister—Valerie—he’d want another word with her. She’d forwarded a batch of e-mails that Camille had sent her, then dropped by with hard copies. Pretty conscientious, but then she had good reason to be, with her sister murdered.
Reading the e-mails, he’d felt like a voyeur. The relationship between the sisters was obviously strained, for a reason that wasn’t spelled out in their words. The last communication from Camille was the most damning; the girl seemed totally depressed.
Having second thoughts. Can’t take it anymore. Am leaving St. Marg’s. You know why.
Obviously she was doubting herself and her decision to become a nun.
No surprise there.
She’d obviously felt pressured enough to want to leave the order. Was it just the affair and pregnancy, or something more? The obvious answer was the fact that she was going to have a baby, and her sexual relationship with O’Toole would be exposed, damning her in the eyes of many who believed that the vow of chastity was sacred.
However, he thought, twisting a pen between his fingers, the pregnancy might have been a smoke screen.
Thinking hard, he scratched at his goatee.
The e-mails bothered him, as there was no computer at St. Marguerite’s, which really was a throwback to another century. According to the information on the printouts, most of the e-mails from Camille had originated from a BlackBerry, another item that would have been taboo at St. Marguerite’s. A few had come from a library not far from the convent.
Montoya was checking to make certain the BlackBerry was registered and paid for by Camille Renard. He’d like to take a look at the activity and billing records for the nun who had ostensibly given up all worldly goods, which, he assumed, included computers, cell phones, BlackBerries, and the like.
So far, the BlackBerry hadn’t been located.
Another little secret.
He made a note of all the anomalies of Camille’s life, those things that didn’t mesh with the archaic institution where she lived and the daily routine that she was supposed to follow. Her pregnancy. The wedding dress in which she’d been killed. The e-mails to her sister. He figured convents weren’t known for being high-tech, but St. Marguerite’s was more antiquated than most. Yet Camille was e-mailing, maybe texting. To Valerie, he knew, but who else did she send messages to?
The phone records should be arriving soon. He double-checked his computer to see if they’d been e-mailed.
Not yet.
He was trying to piece the last few days of Sister Camille’s life together but wasn’t making much progress. She spent her hours much like the other nuns—on a strict schedule that included prayers and praises, sermons, meditation time, meal preparation, and partaking of meals. There was some light housework involved, and Sister Camille also worked in the convent herb garden. According to the mother superior, Camille also ventured outside St. Marguerite’s walls to the orphanage at St. Elsinore’s, on the other side of Lake Pontchartrain.
As far as Montoya could tell, her visits to St. Elsinore’s were about the only times she left the convent grounds.
Could she have met her killer on the outside?
Or was it someone she knew intimately, someone she saw often within the gated walls of St. Marguerite’s?
And what about the orphanage at St. Elsinore’s, the aging institution from which Camille and Valerie had been adopted? According to his notes, Camille had been there as an infant, but Valerie had been five years old. The older sister would have remembered, but for Camille, it would be a blur in her memory. Was it significant that she’d been volunteering there lately, or just a coincidence?
He glanced down to his desk where Frank O’Toole’s statement was piled on top of the others. On the surface, his alibi had checked out, but it deserved another look. Especially in light of his emotional confession to Sister Lucia.
Down the hallway, he heard some scumbag protesting his innocence while demanding the removal of his cuffs.
Some things never changed.
Montoya’s cell phone rang, and he saw his home number, as well as Abby’s face, appear on the small screen.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey back atcha.”
Just the sound of her voice was enough to calm him. He leaned back in his chair. “What’s up?”
“Only the usual: diapers, spit-up, laundry, and never enough sleep, thanks to you and Ben.”
He chuckled, then yawned. It had been a long night and day. He was starting to feel the round-the-clock hours in his neck and back.
“So,” she continued, “I was just wondering if you were coming home for dinner—you know, since it’s already getting dark?”
Was there a bit of resentment in her question?
“Oh, and by the way, your son has sprouted a full set of teeth and started walking while you’ve been gone.”
Uh-oh. Full-on sarcasm.
Montoya chuckled despite a trace of admonition in her words. “Funny lady.”
“I can be if I have to.”
He checked his watch. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Fabulous! Think you can manage to pick up a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread? French, maybe, or Italian.”
“If you twist my arm,” he said, then added with a low chuckle, “Real hard. Or any other body part you prefer.”
“Like your nose?” she quipped back.
“Tell ya what, I’ll let you decide tonight.”
“Promises, promises, just give me a call when you’re leaving the office, and I’ll adjust dinnertime accordingly.”
“You’re on.”
“I’d better be.” She hung up and he was left smiling. Yeah, he’d gotten lucky with her. Real lucky. He glanced at the small photo on his desk of Abby, her shoulders bare as she held a swaddled Benjamin close. She gazed down at the baby, her eyes full of love. In the shot, little Ben was sleeping, dark eyelashes sweeping over his chubby cheeks, black hair framing his serene face.
Montoya’s heart swelled with an emotion he’d never thought he would feel.
“Hey!” Bentz popped his head into the office. “I’m going to have another talk with Father Father. Thought you might want to come.”
“Now?” He glanced at the clock on his desk.
“He’s a busy man.”
“Aren’t we all. Is that what you’re calling O’Toole? Father Father?”
“Yeah, premature, I guess. We don’t really know yet.”
Montoya rolled his chair away from his desk and reached for his jacket. “Guess we’ll find out soon.” The blood work was being processed. No DNA results back yet, but the blood sample Frank O’Toole had reluctantly deigned to give would soon reveal whether he was a potential candidate.
And if he wasn’t, Montoya thought, checking his sidearm and sliding it into his shoulder holster, they were back to square one.
In the darkness, with candles burning, a solitary window open to allow in a breath of night, I hang my robes on a peg. I take my time, heat the oil, then slowly rub the silky liquid upon my nakedness, anointing my body, feeling my hands run over my own muscles. Solid and sinewy beneath my skin, the muscles work smoothly as I massage them.

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