Last Breath (22 page)

Lucy looked disgusted. “Don't even try that with me. If you want to fire me, go ahead. But you're not going out there.”

Brendan had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“You ought to be. I know this is hard on you, Father, but it's nowhere near as hard as it will be if you get killed. So park your hard head at your desk and take care of the paperwork.”

Brendan suddenly smiled. “I would never guess you've raised six children.”

“Eleven, if you count my priests. And that's what all of you are, Father. You're children.”

“Children?”

“Most definitely. The Church spoils you all rotten. Your job is to keep your head in the spiritual clouds. My job is to take care of the practicalities. Now go do your job and let me do mine.”

Suitably chastened, Brendan returned to his office, where he was working on a pastoral letter.

But it wasn't the pastoral letter he thought about. It had been a long while since he'd really thought about the suicide of that young man Tom just before he resigned from the navy. But for the past few days, ever since Crowell had leveled that accusation at him, he'd been thinking about the young man more and more often.

He still couldn't remember his last name. That sorely troubled him, because for some time he had felt that he'd failed in his counseling of Tom. The young man was wrestling with his homosexuality, wrestling with the fear that he might have been discovered by some of his fellow sailors, fearing he was about to be thrown out of the navy. Fearing that his father and mother would disown him if they found out.

But there had been something else, too. Something else that had been referred to upon occasion. The main thing he remembered was the genuine fear that would come into Tom's eyes when he alluded to something he'd stumbled into.

At the time, the bits and pieces had seemed jumbled and paranoid, and Brendan had thought the young man was mixing his fears in his mind, viewing some classified operation in light of his other fears.

Now he wasn't so sure.

“The weather's beautiful up here in Norfolk,” Dianna told Chloe over the phone. “Springtime in Virginia. Wonderful,” the part-time investigator added.

“I’m glad you're having such a great time,” Chloe said drily.

“Fabulous. I’ve looked at enough microfiche to blind me. But I found your guy.”

Chloe's heart quickened. “And?”

“You ready to write?”

Chloe was already pulling a pad and pen from her purse. “Go ahead.”

“Petty Officer First Class Thomas Wayne Humboldt. Died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound on November 5, two and a half years ago. Body discovered early morning November 6 in his off-base apartment by a roommate who'd been out late. Roommate had an unimpeachable alibi, and the wound was consistent with insertion of the barrel of a pistol in the mouth by the victim. The weapon was a twenty-two caliber pistol owned by the victim.”

“Twenty-two?”

“Yup. Seems like an odd gun for a sailor to have, but that's what it was.”

Chloe felt her heart skip a beat. Steve King had been killed by a twenty-two also. A connection? “Can you get the ballistic analysis for me?”

“Why? It's an open-and-shut case.”

“Get me the ballistics, Dianna. Okay?”

She sighed. “So much for my nice drive through the country. Okay. Will do. Now, do you want me to interview the roommate? Assuming I can find him?”

“Yes. And I want you to talk to the family.”

“Oh, man, you know how I
love
to do that.”

“It's been a while. They'll be calmer now.”

“Sure. Right. And just what is it you expect me to find out from these people?”

“Anything they think they know about their son's state of mind. And what happened to that pistol.”

“You got it.”

“Thanks, Dianna. How soon can you get me the ballistics?”

“How do you want them? By fax?”

“For a start. My home fax. I may need you to have the M.E. send copies to the Tampa PD.”

“Why don't I just do that at the same time? I’ll see if I can get them to express a copy. Detective Diel, right?”

“Right.”

When she hung up the phone, Chloe realized her heart was racing like a trip-hammer. Two deaths, linked by an anonymous caller. Two cases of young men meeting their deaths by a shot from a twenty-two. Such pistols weren't uncommon, but they were rarely a weapon of choice except for women and children. The coincidence was just too great.

Reaching for the phone again, she called Matt.

Chapter 18

Stuart Wheelwright, the head of the Burglary-Homicide squad, looked over his glasses at Matt. “Run that by me again. You
think
there's a connection between a two-year-old suicide and the crucifixion at St. Simeon's?”

“There's a connection of some sort. Start with the phone calls the diocese has been receiving, claiming that the two cases are linked. Add the threat against the pastor at St. Simeon's. And finally, account for the fact that both the suicide and the murder were committed with a twenty-two caliber pistol.”

“Fine. You still don't need to go to Virginia.”

“I want to interview the family of the suicide. Find out what they know.”

“About what, for God's sake? The guy killed himself. He was despondent. The case here was a murder. How do you think the parents of the suicide are going to know anything? And if you think it's the same weapon, then use the telephone, call the family, and find out what the hell happened to the gun. That's all you need to know.”

“I think they might know something more.”

“About what?” Wheelwright's impatience was palpable. “Look, we've got our hands full right now. I can't afford to have you chasing a wild goose. You use the telephone if you need to talk to those people, and you keep your eye on the main ball, which is finding out who's threatening that priest. At this point, I don't care how long it takes to catch whoever crucified that victim as long as we keep it from happening to the priest. My God, the headlines! It's already bad enough. You can't do the job in Virginia.”

“I
will
be doing the job.”

Wheelwright shook his head. “Nothing you can't do from here by phone. We need the ballistics anyway. Without the ballistics, it doesn't matter what happened to the suicide's gun.”

“I’m working on that.”

“So fine. You give me a match on ballistics, and we'll talk about going to Virginia. But not before.”

Frustrated, Matt left Wheelwright's office. He knew his boss was right, but that didn't make him any less frustrated. For the love of mike, working this case was like trying to swim through spaghetti. Too many strands, and all of them seemed to loop around in crazy directions, never quite bringing him to a terminus.

Back at his desk, he pulled out a stack of index cards on which he'd written every fact and every suspicion he had in this case. He spread them out, and began to try to order them in some way that made sense without having to invoke some faceless, nameless government conspiracy, because if he so much as breathed a word of such a thing around here, they were going to call the men in the white coats.

And just as important as what he knew was what he didn't know. Sighing, he took out another stack of cards, blank ones, and began to write questions on them.

How were Humboldt and King linked? Through Brendan, of course. Dumb question. But
why
were they being linked?

Someone was working very hard to establish that connection. Possibly for no reason other than to frighten Brendan. Or possibly it was …

REVENGE.

He wrote the word in large capital letters on one of the cards and stared at it. Of course. He'd suspected that for some time. But it didn't answer the questions about the crucifixion and the body being moved. Or the blood in the trunk of that rental car, assuming it proved to be King's.

Something else was going on here. Chloe was right. They had two sets of perps, and the perps had different motives. The two sets came together at the crucifixion of Steve King. That had been the nexus.

But why. Dammit, why?

He picked up his phone and called Chloe. “You busy?”

“Other than beating my head on a wall, not at the moment. I’m heading over to the rectory to make sure Father Brendan is tucked in for the evening. I want to check before Lucy leaves. If you ask me, the horse is getting ready to bolt the barn.”

“Yeah. I can't say I blame him. I just wish he'd be a little more frightened.”

“Me too. But you have to remember, for him death is merely the promise of something a whole hell of a lot better.”

“I’ll meet you afterward then. We need to have a brainstorming session.”

“Sure. Come about six. Bring your own refreshments. All I have is rabbit food.”

“You're on.”

When he arrived at Chloe's at six, he was carrying a pizza and a six-pack of cola, and his pockets were full of index cards.

“Oh, God,” said Chloe when she opened the door, “you didn't!”

“Didn't what?”

“Bring a pizza. I can't resist pizza.”

“No reason you should. And there's plenty here.” He found himself distracted from his purpose, as he took in her tousled blond hair and her barely there gray T-shirt and shorts. If she was wearing a bra, it was invisible to him. He gave himself a stern mental shake and marched into her house, bearing the pizza. “Got any paper plates?”

“No, but I have regular plates. Sorry, you'll just have to suffer.” Turning, she headed for her kitchen.

“Napkins?” he called after her.

“Sure.”

He plopped the pizza on the coffee table, next to the icy six-pack, and told himself that it wasn't healthy to have spent all these years wondering what one woman's breasts looked like. There were plenty of great breasts in the world, and he'd eyeballed his share. He didn't need to be wondering about the set adorning the ice queen.

She returned with plates, napkins, and two glasses filled with ice on a tray. That touch of organization and homeyness reminded him they were miles apart. At his place, he'd have eaten out of the box and drunk out of the cans.

Why was it women didn't do those things? Or was it only some women? And how did men and women ever live together when they were so different?

Stupid question. He supposed the men gave in and started using glasses and plates. After all, he knew the steel most women called a backbone.

Chloe's phone began ringing just as she was about to join him on the couch. She turned at once and answered it.

“Hi, Agnes,” he heard her say. “Did you get something? Yes? I want the whole list. Unless you can scan it quickly for me. Okay, will do. Thanks a bunch. I owe you.”

She hung up and faced Matt. “That was my expert. She got news out of the lab. The blood sample was in bad condition, as she warned us.”

“Shit.”

“The markers that are still identifiable brought up about two thousand matches. She asked for a printout and should be bringing it by in an hour or so.”

Matt nodded, feeling a ray of hope. Or possibly fear. If the two cases were related … “I just wish linking these two murders would actually get us somewhere.”

“Yeah.” She sat beside him on the couch. “I’m not really hungry, Matt. You go ahead and eat.”

But his own appetite had waned. He didn't even open the pizza box. “The slashing victim used government travel orders to rent his car.”

Chloe stiffened. “No.”

“Oh, yes.” He leaned back on the couch and rubbed his eyes briefly. “The car rental company saw them. However, no person by the name of Lance Brucon exists. No such name, social security, etc. Credit cards are new, only a couple of months old.”

“You're giving me chills.”

“Yeah, it didn't make me feel too good either.”

Chloe suddenly popped up off the couch and picked up the phone.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Calling Father Brendan.”

“Why?”

“Because this is just too damn much of a coincidence. My instincts are shrieking.”

“Go for it. Maybe a good jogging of his memory will shake something out. Except that we don't yet know these two cases are linked.”

“True.” She put the receiver back. “Okay, let's wait until Agnes drops off the list.”

“That woman must have lit a fire under somebody's butt at the lab.”

“She used to be somebody over there, I’ll tell you. Considering how nervous it makes them when she shows up to testify against them, I’m kind of surprised she could shake anything out of that tree.”

“I’m just grateful. All I want is an acorn I can actually gnaw on.”

“Try gnawing on your pizza.” She settled onto the couch beside him again and twined her fingers restlessly. “If these two cases are linked, we've got something bigger than a couple of murders on our hands.”

“You don't have to tell me that. The ‘c’ word could actually become part of my vocabulary. Except … Damn it, Chloe, what would a chaplain have to do with anything like this?”

“Maybe it wasn't the chaplain who was involved.”

“You mean the kid who killed himself?” Matt shook his head as if trying to dislodge an insect. “This is crazy. Absolutely crazy.”

“It would be, if someone weren't so hell-bent on linking the two deaths with Father Brendan.”

“Maybe it's just some weirdo who hates him for some reason.”

“Sure. And he transported Steve King's body not once, but twice. And managed to nail it to a cross single-handedly.”

He was rebelling, and he knew it. The vaguely formed suspicions that kept creeping into his brain were driving him nuts. He didn't have a single solid peg to hang any of them on; but at the same time, nothing else added up unless he mixed in this disquieting notion of some conspiracy. Why else had he been so ready to assume that the bloodstain in the trunk of a murder victim's car had anything at all to do with the murder of Steve King?

“Relax, Matt. If we're crazy, we'll know soon enough.”

“Yeah? How?”

“The list Agnes is bringing over won't have Steve King's name on it.”

“Yeah. And we'll be no closer to solving this case.”

“We may not be anyway, since the slasher victim doesn't exist.”