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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Devious
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Neron Lopez, the usually happy-go-lucky groundskeeper, hadn’t been able to scare up a smile this past week. Lucia had caught him continually crossing himself and glancing up at the church spires, as if expecting to be struck down as he raked the gardens and pulled weeds.
Regina, the sour-faced cook, had quit yelling, keeping to herself, the cross at her neck more visible in the past few days, glinting on its chain as she’d rolled out pie crusts and ladled soup. Her barking of orders in the kitchen had become less pronounced, and there was talk, scuttlebutt, that she was considering resigning. Eileen, the receptionist with frizzy blue hair and color-coordinated pantsuits, had spent most of the past week dabbing at her eyes. Only Clifton Sharkey, the maintenance man who went about his job repairing everything from shoes to machinery, seemed mostly unaffected, though he was sweating a lot. Lucia glanced his way and saw him mopping his brow yet again.
“It’s a time for us to unite and band together. Do not let fear into your soul . . . ,” the mother superior was intoning, all eyes on her as she walked past a desk near the windows.
All of the nuns at St. Marguerite’s had been nervous and on edge, the feeling of safety within the hallowed walls of the convent shattered.
They had talked when they’d been gardening or driving to St. Elsinore’s or while doing their chores. All the time between their scheduled prayers, meditation, and services to the needy, they had whispered their own fears. Just yesterday, in the garden, just before vespers, several of the women had met. Lucia had stood in the group, felt the nervousness of all the nuns, and carefully studied the glinting streaks of gold as the fish in the pond darted beneath the water’s surface.
“Why Asteria?” Sister Dorothy had asked, worrying the beads of her rosary with her pudgy fingers. “She was so . . . good, so pure.”
“Oh, please. Really?” Sister Maura had whispered, skewering the shorter nun with a dark stare. “Do you think that’s what it’s all about, that she was killed because she was impure?” She had shuddered, as if a cold breeze had swept through her, though the heat of the day had lain heavy on the gardens, where honeybees droned and a hummingbird hovered near the fragrant blooms of a magnolia tree. “No way.”
“But she was,” Sister Angela had agreed, peering through her narrow glasses and nodding.
“You think purity will save anyone from a madman?” Maura had demanded. “Because that’s what’s happening here.”
Lucia had thought about the voice in her ear and held her tongue, but silently she agreed with Dorothy and Angela.
“But I’m just saying,” Dorothy had said nervously, “that there could have been reasons Sister Camille was killed. . . .” She let her voice trail off and sketched the sign of the cross over her chest.
“Maybe we shouldn’t discuss it,” Sister Zita, ever the voice of reason, had said calmly, then flipped a stray piece of lint from her sleeve.
“She’s right,” Devota had agreed. “We can’t begin to understand God’s punishment.”
“God’s punishment?” Maura had repeated as two crows started squawking from the roof of the chapel. “You think that’s it?”
Dorothy had said, “Well, she was . . . you know.” She blushed, probably to the roots of her hair, though her short brown locks were completely covered by her veil. “With Father O’Toole.”
“But no one’s struck him down,” Louise had said emphatically, her cheeks flushing, her hands sketching a frantic cross over her chest.
“Yet.” Angela’s voice had been hushed and worried, and the word echoed through Lucia’s brain.
“Never!” Louise had shaken her head. “He’s . . . he’s . . .”
“He was involved with Sister Camille.”
“I know, but . . .”
“But what?” Sister Maura had demanded. “It was all Camille’s fault? Really? I know we live in some kind of throwback, archaic world here, but Sister Camille was no more to blame than Father Frank. He’s a priest, Louise!”
“Shhh,” Sister Irene had said with her slight lisp. She had to crook her neck to meet Louise’s upturned gaze. “This isn’t helping.” She placed her long fingers on Louise’s shoulder.
“That’s right,” Devota had said. “It’s best we not gossip. We should take our concerns to the Holy Father in prayer. He’ll advise us and help us to see what’s right, what we should do.”
Maura had rolled her eyes and rubbed the spine of her prayer book in agitation. “Step into the twenty-first century,” she had advised.
“Remember your vows,” Devota had rebuked, her pale lips turning down. “We all chose this profession, this life. We need to honor it.”
“And atone if we have sinful thoughts,” Sister Edwina had agreed somberly. “There are ways to seek atonement.”
Sister Lucia remembered that this woman, so graceful and beautiful, was rumored to believe in self-flagellation. At least that’s what Sister Camille had admitted, and hadn’t Lucia herself witnessed Edwina walking the halls late at night, red stains on the back of her nightgown?
Sister Louise, rebuked, had let out a long sigh. It was obvious that she, like so many of the others, fancied herself in love with Frank O’Toole. Did he pursue them? Was he aware of his charm and just let it flow? Or was it subconscious and the thoughts in the heads of some of the nuns all just fantasies?
Not that it mattered now, she’d thought. It was horrid how what was happening at the convent was tearing them all apart.
For a second, Lucia had thought she should tell the others about the evil presence she felt, about how she sensed that the demon wasn’t finished with his deadly work, when she looked up and met Sister Devota’s troubled gaze.
Better not to worry them all.
Better not to let them think you’re crazy.
“I don’t think we should speculate,” Lucia had said.
Zita had said, “Sister Lucia’s right. We can’t begin to understand the Holy Father’s ways.” Her dark gaze had moved to each of the nuns gathered in the courtyard. “Maybe we should just pray.”
“And pray hard,” Dorothy had said earnestly, “because we don’t know who’ll be next.”
“Or if there will be another.” Angela had adjusted her narrow glasses under the band of her wimple, a bead of sweat running down her face.
“Let’s hope so,” Louise had agreed, and for the first time Lucia had missed her soft humming throughout the hallways of St. Marguerite’s. For the better part of a week, the corridors had been silent, quiet and as dark as tombs.
Everyone at St. Marguerite’s had been affected by the terror.
Now, Sister Angela’s cheeks were pale and wan, Sister Maura’s scowl even deeper, her fingers running over the worn edges of her prayer book. Sister Louise’s songbird of a voice was stilled; she didn’t hum in the hallways any longer. Sister Edwina, usually tall and straight as an arrow, had drawn into herself, and even Sister Devota, as pious as her name implied, seemed pensive and dark.
It was chilling, really.
St. Marguerite’s was suddenly thrust into the limelight, and it was uncomfortable. Vans from television stations were parked outside the gates as reporters stood, holding microphones, backdropped by the commanding edifice that was St. Marguerite’s, retelling the story of the two dead nuns, bringing the horrifying murders of Sister Camille and Sister Asteria to the fore, reminding the residents of Louisiana of the terror that stalked the historic hallways of St. Marguerite’s Convent.
The church had seen an influx of parishioners who actually attended Mass out of morbid curiosity, as well as a swelling in the amount of pedestrians and cars that passed by the cathedral and surrounding grounds.
The police cars that cruised by the gates at all hours weren’t much comfort, nor were the added locks on some of the doors. Because, Lucia knew, the evil was from within. She felt it as surely as if she could see dark, crouching beasts with glowing eyes, snarling lips, and long fangs dripping with blood.
Even in the sanctity of the chapel, while on her knees, her hands clasped as she prayed, the whisper of evil remained, breathing hot against the back of her neck, causing her heart to pound in terror, keeping at bay sleep and the feeling of peace that usually overcame her as she prayed.
Was she the reason the evil oozed through the hallways of the convent? Was her shaken faith the cause of two horrible deaths already?
No! Of course not! That was crazy thinking.
But hadn’t she been sought by the evil one?
Hadn’t she been the only person to hear its vile hiss? Listen to its malevolent voice? Follow its depraved instructions as it urged her to find not one, but two dying women? She’d been the chosen one, picked by Satan himself.
The only way to ensure that no one else was harmed was to leave this safe haven, the home she’d run to for all the wrong reasons.
If she needed any other proof that she was supposed to leave, something more tangible than the voice she heard in the night, it was the glaring fact that Cruz Montoya had found her here, then sought her out.
Her reaction to him had been all wrong.
So physical. So mental. So . . . sexual. Just being near him again was a vow-breaking experience. Hadn’t their one shared kiss, a meeting of the lips that had brought back a rush of memory and a torrent of desire, been evidence enough? Cruz Montoya was temptation.
Danger.
The word she’d whispered to him so long ago.
On the first night she’d heard the beast’s horrid, hissing voice and smelled his dank, nauseating breath.
“So . . . it’s imperative that we follow our hearts and our vows, our dedication,” Sister Charity was saying, and she was staring straight at Lucia as she walked back and forth in the front of the room, in front of the whiteboard, like a teacher trying to get through to a disinterested class of thickheaded students.
Lucia tried her best to appear rapt; she couldn’t allow the reverend mother to know her true intentions.
“We need to go on with our lives as usual. That’s what Sister Camille and Sister Asteria would have wanted, and it’s what the heavenly Father wants as well. That doesn’t mean that we’ll forget them or that they won’t be heavy on our minds; it just means that we keep moving forward, giving praise to God, doing his work here on earth. Sister Asteria and Camille are with the blessed Virgin Mary and Jesus now.”
At this point, Father Paul nodded. He and Father Frank stepped forward to join her at the front of the room. All eyes were upon them, and it seemed Sister Louise’s face was nearly radiant when she looked at the younger priest. They all noticed it; Sister Devota cast a glance at Lucia and shook her head.
Still, Sister Louise beamed as Father Paul said, “Sister Charity’s right. We must go on about our tasks here, for we do God’s work. Whether you teach children, work with the homeless, or hold the hands of the sick, your job is important. We need to stand together, to be unafraid. Our work here will continue and we will persevere. We will let no henchman of the dark angel drive a stake of fear into our hearts.” He looked at each and every person in the room, daring them to defy him.
Once satisfied that he had everyone’s attention, his voice softened. “We will go about our duties, and I expect all of you to attend the auction at St. Elsinore’s tomorrow night. Father Thomas is dedicating the event to the memory of Sister Camille and Sister Asteria. It’s a beautiful gesture, and we at St. Marguerite’s will support it.” His gaze brooked no argument. “Now . . . together,” he said, offering a smile that was intended to warm the coldest, most godforsaken heart. He lifted his hands as if in supplication to heaven. “Let us pray . . .” Then he clasped his hands together in front of him and bowed his head. “Heavenly Father . . .”
Lucia, too, bent her head but slid a look at Sister Edwina, who met her gaze for just an instant. And in that moment, Lucia realized that all the calming words in the world were of little help.
Edwina, like the other nuns, was scared to death.
“
I
think this message”—Valerie pointed a finger at the notes she’d scribbled on the flyer for the auction at St. Elsinore’s, the one that said C U N 7734 C V—“means ‘See you in hell, Charity Varisco.’ ” She leaned back in her desk chair so that Slade, who had been making a sandwich in her kitchen, could take another look at the note. It wasn’t the original, of course, nor even the copy, but what she’d written from memory and thought about for the past three days.
“Maybe.” He was noncommittal as he carried over a plate with a tuna sandwich complete with pickles and set it in front of her. “Here, this is for you.”
“Thanks.” She cast a smile up at him as he leaned over her, so close she smelled his aftershave, a clean, brisk scent that brought back unwanted memories of making love to him in the morning, their naked bodies entwined in the sun-dried sheets, the Texas morning sliding in through the open window. The songs of the warblers getting interrupted by the chatter of jays and underscored by the low bawl of a lonely calf.
Her throat thickened as she realized how much she missed the ranch. How much she’d missed Slade.
If he noticed her reaction, he hid it, his eyes studying her scribbled note.
She cleared her throat. “I, uh, think part of it’s in her little code, and then she just put the mother superior’s initials down because at the time she wrote it, she was really ticked at Sister Charity.”
“Then what does the other one mean?”
“I’m not as sure.” She’d written it down as well.
TO BF 2 M&M.
“But I’ve been working on it,” she admitted. And that was the truth. In the past few days, whenever she wasn’t busy working at the inn, or trying to figure out a reason why Camille had been killed, or looking over her shoulder, she’d been thinking about the puzzle, and remembering the items she’d found in the boxes in the attic, she’d mentally gone through the things that were her sister’s life. “I can’t get off the ‘best friend’ thing, and though ‘M and M’ could mean anyone, I think she was thinking about our parents—I mean our birth parents. Mike and Mary Brown.”
“Whom we’ve never found.”
“Maybe they didn’t exist. Maybe that’s what it’s all about.”
“So then who is ‘T O’?” he asked.
“I’m pretty sure it’s Thelma O’Malley,” she said.
“Not Tom, as in the priest at St. Elsinore’s.”
“Uh-uh. I can’t think of anyone else, and Thelma was the widow who brought us to the orphanage and claimed our parents had died . . . but I can’t find her. I’ve looked for Thelma O’Malley, Mrs. Stanley O’Malley, S. O’Malley, and T. O’Malley. I’ve even called people with the same last name, but so far I’ve struck out.”
“Have you told the police?”
She shook her head. “No, because I’m not really sure. All I’ve got is a gut feeling and maybe some convoluted logic. The police have Camille’s diary.” Frustrated, the start of a headache niggling behind her eyes, she leaned back in the chair, pushing her shoulders against Slade’s chest. He straightened as she said, “I just wish I had a way to find Thelma.”
“If she’s still alive.”
“Yeah.” Her gaze landed on the flyer for the auction at St. Elsinore’s. “Maybe the answer is here,” she said, thumping a finger on the glossy picture of the orphanage. The flyer contained a list of some of the donated items, including a trip to Las Vegas. Also there was mention of some local celebrities who were planning to attend, including the quarterback for the New Orleans Saints, the archbishop, and the radio psychologist Dr. Sam, to name a few.
“At the parish?”
“Uh-huh. Probably in the records the mother superior wouldn’t let me open,” she said, thinking of Sister Georgia, all warm and fuzzy on the outside but hard as granite under her friendly exterior. “I just have to find a way to get at them.”
Slade set a big hand on her shoulder. “Seriously,” he said, “this is a matter for the police.” He’d been worried since the day of the intrusion, and, really, Val didn’t blame him. She’d been more than concerned and hadn’t argued when he’d changed every lock on both the main house and her cottage, tightened all the window latches, and parked himself in her living room day and night.
Despite the tension of the investigation, the worry and fear that had been an undercurrent in their daily lives, they’d gotten along. They’d worked together at the house, then gone out so that she could show him a little of New Orleans, everything from a notorious bar on Bourbon Street to a tour of one of the expansive and genteel plantations located on the river not too far out of town.
If she let herself, Val could imagine falling in love with him all over again, but she couldn’t go there. At least not yet.
Cruz Montoya was starting to feel like a loser.
Never one to let the moss grow under his feet, he was beginning to sense the urge to move on, find greener pastures, face the rest of his life.
He threw the striped duvet that had been his blanket for the past week into some semblance of order, then headed for the shower. His excuse for staying was his family, of course. He got on with Abby, adored Reuben’s new son, and spent time with his mother and other siblings, but the real anchor holding him to New Orleans was Lucia Costa. He could tell himself all kinds of lies, make up stories, pretend that there were other stronger ties to the city, but the truth was, he was fascinated by her, just as he had been over a decade earlier.
Even though she was a damned nun. Christ, his mother would be pissed if she could read his thoughts.
Good thing she wasn’t clairvoyant.
Like Lucia?
Oh, hell, that was probably what drew him to her. It wasn’t her shiny black hair, her flashing eyes, or stubborn chin. Nor was it her tiny waist and breasts just large enough for a man to take a second glance, or her sharp wit. Nuh-huh, it was her damned ability to see into another person’s mind that really caught his attention and wouldn’t let go.
Sure.
Now who’re you kidding, Montoya?
He stepped out of the second bedroom and nearly kicked the damned cat . . . Ansel, he thought its name was. Something like that. It turned, hissed, and, gold eyes glaring, slunk away.
“I see you’ve made a friend for life,” Abby observed. She was in the living room, sorting through photographs of the baby. A professional photographer, she’d taken off a few months while Benjamin was an infant, but she’d still found the time to take what looked like hundreds of shots of the newborn.
Hershey, lying at her feet, lifted his head and thumped his thick tail. “At least the dog likes me.”
“Don’t get too excited; he’s not very discriminating. Loves everyone, from the crabby garbage man to my sister Zoey, who a lot of people can take or leave.” She glanced at him. “Me being one.”
“So I heard.” Zoey was Abby’s older sister who lived in Seattle. The sisters’ relationship was, from what Reuben had confided to Montoya, difficult and strained at times.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love her to death, would do just about anything for her, but sometimes she just rubs me the wrong way.”
“I get the picture.” Cruz got along with most of his siblings, some better than others.
“There’s coffee in the pot. You might have to warm it up, though. Been there a while. Your brother left at the crack of dawn.”
“I heard.” Cruz poured himself a mug and set it in the microwave, then played with Benjamin, lying in his infant seat, his dark eyes following Cruz’s movements. “You look too much like your daddy,” he whispered to the boy, whose skin was as gold as Reuben’s, and his hair, nearly black, curled a bit.
Abby laughed. “So I’ve been told.”
“You’ll survive,” Cruz advised his nephew, and was rewarded with a wide, toothless grin.
“The ladies will love you.”
“Geez, give it a rest, will you? He’s just a little over three months old. The ‘ladies’ will just have to wait. Like twenty, no, make that thirty years!”
The microwave dinged and he grabbed his cup, nearly burning himself on the hot handle. Gingerly, he carried it to the bathroom, where he managed to take three swallows before he stepped into the shower and let hot, sharp needles massage his skin. As the steam surrounded him, he remembered that foggy night so long ago, the one in which his vehicle had slid off the road, and Lucia, it seemed, had been lost to him forever.
Now, maybe, he had a second chance.
Then again, odds were against it.
What was it their grandmother used to say? “You make your own luck, Cruz. Don’t you forget it.”
Grabbing the bar of soap, he decided it was long past time to take his
abuela’s
advice.
The station was a madhouse. The Feds had shown up, two agents Bentz had known in L.A., but so far they weren’t taking charge, just going over the case to date. The newspeople were camped outside, hoping for more information. Tips were coming into a hotline at a phenomenal rate, and then there was Clifton Sharkey, one of the new front-runners in the suspect race.
Montoya was pumped, going over the information at his desk, talking to other detectives in the lunchroom or task force area. He barely paused for lunch as he double-checked information, read his e-mails, finished reports, and all the while hoped to hell that they could nail Clifton Sharkey as the killer and get him off the streets.
He wouldn’t lie to himself. He’d love it if somehow O’Toole was proven innocent of anything but breaking his vow of celibacy. It was just too damned hard to imagine the boy he’d known in high school, the athlete who had taken him under his wing, to be a killer.
As much as he wanted to be objective, he was hoping someone else would be proven to be the monster.
It was afternoon before he walked into Bentz’s office and saw the information on Sharkey spread upon his partner’s desk. The guy had already been hauled in, and they wanted to discuss how they were going to handle the interrogation.
“The charge is ten years old,” Bentz reminded him, as they’d spoken briefly earlier on the phone. “Assault charge. But dropped. A domestic violence case. The wife.” Seated at his desk, his eyebrows slammed together, his shirt already unbuttoned at the neck, tie askew, reading glasses on the end of his nose, Bentz was looking through copies of old reports. “Looks like he broke her wrist. She went to the hospital, but when it came time to press charges, she refused to testify against him.”
“Typical.” Montoya had seen it over and over again, the cycle of abuse that kept rolling through the generations.
Bentz looked up over the tops of his reading glasses. “So he and the wife have six kids, a couple of grandkids, and they’re still married but separated. Have been since this.” He pointed to the report on Henrietta Sharkey’s injuries. “They’ve had separate residences.”
“No divorce?”
“Catholic to the bone.” Bentz scratched the side of his face as he thought. “No other incidents. And ever since, he’s been sending her the lion’s share of his paychecks.”
“Atonement,” Montoya said.
“Could be.” But Bentz didn’t seem convinced. “Hard to say.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, his alibi didn’t hold up. For the night of Camille Renard’s murder. He claimed he was with son number two, watching the game, but when I called the son this morning, pressed him a little, he admitted that old Cliffie Boy was at home that night, watching the Astros getting their clock cleaned.”
“Let’s bring him in.”
“Brinkman’s already giving him the good news.”
“But you don’t like it.” Bentz shook his head. “The other alibis, for the night of Asteria McClellan’s murder and Grace Blanc’s, stand.” Again he met Montoya’s stare. “That doesn’t make sense, does it? Unless we’ve got another killer running around, drugging nuns and forcing them into bridal gowns before killing them with what seems to be a rosary and painting their necklines in the same pattern as the rosary beads.” He was shaking his head. “I can buy that we might have a second killer for the prostitute. But the nuns?” His eyebrows elevated to his hairline. “No effin’ way.”
“Effin’?” Montoya repeated, and Bentz threw him a sheepish smile, then nodded to the recent picture of his baby, framed in silver and positioned on the credenza behind him.
“Yeah, Livvie said the swearing’s gotta stop, that Ginny will pick up the bad language.” He nodded. “Can’t argue with that.”
Page three?
The story about the murdered prostitute was buried on page three?
“Idiots!”
I can’t believe the ineptitude as I read the evening paper, the kerosene lantern giving off an uneasy glow, the wind blowing hot over the bayou. The story of that whore Grace Blanc’s death should be splashed all over the front page.
What kind of imbeciles decide where to place an article?
Ridiculous!
My blood is on fire at the disgrace, and I toss the paper aside, will burn it later.
Crickets and bullfrogs are again making their evening racket, and somewhere far away, a train chugs along, its whistle lonely and sharp, rolling through the forest of spindly, white-barked cypress.

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