Last Breath (3 page)

“Adoration?”

Brendan wondered how much he was going to need to explain to this man, then decided to go with the bare facts. Let the man ask what he wanted to know.

“We place the consecrated host out where it can be seen by everyone. So they can pray in its presence. So we can keep a vigil with our Lord.” He added, “It's in remembrance of Jesus's suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane. We keep a vigil the way the apostles did.”

“Who was here?”

“Father Dominic Montague and I, and any number of other people. They came and went as time allowed. Dominic and I stayed until midnight, when we locked the host away.”

“Did anyone stay after that?”

“No. In fact, I locked the church up myself.”

Diel scribbled for a minute. “What about last night?”

“We had the Stations of the Cross last night at seven-thirty. We locked up about ten.”

“So the church is always locked overnight?”

“Always.”

“Who has the keys?”

He rattled off the list: himself; Father Dominic; the facilities manager, Merv Haskell; the liturgist, Amelia Morgan; the parish secretary, Lucy Gallegos; Sally Tutweiler, the Director of Religious Education; and the sacristan, Mona Rivera. “I think that's it. You might check with Merv Haskell, though. He'd know if anyone else has a key. He's in charge of them.”

“And if someone lost a key?”

“If they reported it, he'd know.”

“What's Mr. Haskell's number?”

“I’ll have to check my Rolodex. Listen, would it help if I called Lucy to come in? Like most good secretaries, she knows everything.” He gave a wry, humorless smile. “I’m just the pastor.”

Something in Diel's gaze flickered, and a faint smile came to his lips. At last, a human response. “That would help,” Diel said.

Brendan started to rise. “I want to be here when you take the body down.”

Diel's eyes snapped to his face. “Why?”

“Because I want to … take care of it. That person deserves some spiritual care, however late it may be.”

“You can't —”

“Of course he can, Matt,” said an edgy female voice from behind them.

Startled, Brendan turned to see Chloe Ryder standing in the aisle behind them. Stunning in white shorts and a dark blue polo shirt, Chloe looked like the original ice queen. He was a man, like any other man, and he noticed attractive women. But Chloe … There was something about her that was so hands-off he often wondered what her story was. Not that she would tell him. He wondered if Sister Philomena even knew, and Sister Phil and Chloe were apparently best friends.

All he knew about Chloe Ryder was that she'd been a cop once, and now was a lawyer. He'd heard whispers that she had something awful in her past, but no one seemed willing to let him in on the gossip. Which, he reminded himself, was a good thing. He shouldn't even be curious.

Her blue eyes were sometimes as cold as chips of ice, but right now they showed an amazing heat. Rage. This was such a completely new side of her to Brendan that he almost failed to greet her.

“Well, well, well,” said Matt Diel, rising and facing her. “Chloe. It's been a while.”

“Not long enough,” Chloe said flatly.

Brendan looked from one to the other and wondered at the electricity he felt between them, not unlike the tingle in the air before a lightning strike. Antagonism?

“You know we can't let him touch the body,” the detective said.

“Sure you can.”

“And it's none of your business.”

Chloe stepped forward, her face mere inches from Matt's. “Oh, it's my business all right. It's my parish, my church. My priest wants to bless the victim. That's the victim's right.”

“If he's Catholic.”

Chloe made an impatient sound. “He is. Why else would he be nailed to that cross?”

“The murderer …”

“Oh, the murderer may be Catholic, too. But so is the victim. You mark my words.”

“I can't have anybody messing with the DB. Forensics —”

“Forensics is going to mess with the DB. And you know damn well that if they make a note of Father Brendan's viewing the body and blessing it, it isn't going to mess up a thing, Matt.”

“Oh, hell.” Diel sighed. “How did you hear about this?”

Chloe almost smiled, just a little lift of one corner of her mouth. “I have a scanner.”

“I should have known. Okay, okay, I’ll talk to the criminologists.”

“Do more than talk.”

“Don't turn this into a religious issue.”

“It
is
a religious issue.”

To Brendan's surprise, Matt Diel actually grinned. “You're still tough as nails.”

Her answering smile was chilling. “It's how I get by.”

Chapter 2

As Matt walked back to the altar, Brendan looked at Chloe. “Thank you.”

She shrugged. “I’ll hang around, Father. I know how to deal with these guys. I used to be one of them.”

Which was the most forthcoming thing she'd ever said to him. He wondered if he would ever know her.

“I need to make some calls,” he said. “The bishop.” Oh, God, the bishop! “And Lucy.”

“Sure. Go ahead. I won't let them take him away before you get back.”

“Thank you,” he said again, suddenly very grateful that this woman was made of steel. Right now he needed someone like her to depend on. “Do you think they can be done in time for Vigil?”

“I’ll ask Diel. I think so. If they hustle.”

He wondered if it mattered. If he would even be able to make himself hold the Vigil in this church, after this. “It might be better to use the parish hall.”

“Maybe. Up to you, Father. But you better decide soon, because the people who were going to help decorate the altar are starting to arrive, and the cops are sending them away.”

“How'd you get in?”

“I have my methods.”

He imagined she did. And for the first time in his life, he was grateful to escape a church.

The relief followed him across the small courtyard to the rectory, where he sat at Lucy's desk and used her Rolodex to call her and Merv, and tell them to come in immediately. They were both home, thank heaven, and upon hearing what had happened, they promised to be right over.

The bishop, well, he had to deal with the bishop's gatekeeper, a priest he had never really liked. A man who would undoubtedly hold it against him personally that something so revolting had happened at St. Simeon's.

He did take some small satisfaction, however, in the way the monsignor's breath sucked in when he heard what had happened. This unhappy crucifixion might have happened at St. Simeon's, but the diocese would have to deal with it. That meant Monsignor Crowell, the alligator at the gate, would have to deal with the public relations nightmare. Sometimes there
was
justice.

“What the hell is going on over there, Quinlan?” Crowell barked.

“I told you, Monsignor.”

“What you
didn't
tell me is why things like this are happening in
your
parish.”

It sounded like the navy all over again, Brendan thought. Having spent twelve years as a navy chaplain, he'd discovered that anything remotely related to his faith, the chapel, or his congregation was always his fault. He didn't bother to argue. However, having spent half of those twelve years on a ship, seasick every one of them, he figured he was better off right now. Just on that front alone. Which gave him some patience.

“Monsignor,” he said as gently as he could, “my parish can hardly be responsible because some sick, evil person decided to commit an act of such enormity.”

“No? Well, I might point out that nothing like this has happened anywhere else. And nothing like this ever happened before you arrived here.”

“I should hope not,” Brendan said. Thinking of the poor soul in the church reminded him that there were worse things than Monsignor Crowell. “I would hate to think this is a diocesan practice.”

“Quinlan!”

“Sorry.”

“Your levity will be your undoing.”

Brendan suspected that it already had been, with Crowell at least. Could he help it if he dealt with stress through humor and music? Or that he loved a good joke? Well, of course he could help it. He just refused to allow himself to be turned into a dour, judgmental, bitter man. The Catholic Church already had enough of them.

“I wasn't being humorous, Monsignor. I was being honest.” There, let the old boy chew on that one. “Of course nothing like this has happened before. And, God willing, it will never happen again. But unfortunately, it
did
happen. I presume you want me to make every effort to help the police?”

The answer should have been a prompt “yes.” This was, however, the church hierarchy he was dealing with, and in his experience if the hierarchy could find a way to be secretive, it would do so on principle. He was sure they didn't want a loose cannon like him shooting off his mouth without supervision. Or maybe up there they thought of him as a loose “canon.” The pun brought a grim smile to his mouth.

“Let me talk to the bishop, Quinlan.”

The bishop, the Most Reverend Arthur A. Rourke, was a kind and gentle man who probably had no idea that he was surrounded by a moat of politically motivated alligators. Then Brendan sighed inwardly. He was being unfair and he knew it. Most of the people in the chancery weren't like Crowell, who, he would bet, had his eye firmly fixed on cardinatial red.

“Of course, Monsignor. But I will point out that the police are here
now,
and they want to talk to some of the parish employees.”

“Well, of course they must cooperate,” Crowell said, as if realizing he was walking perilously close to a cliff edge. “I imagine no one knows anything anyway.”

“Except for the murderer or murderers, I’m sure you're right.”

“Just see to it that no one talks to the press. Any information will have to come through the diocese.”

“I assumed so. I’ll warn everyone.”

Without saying good-bye, Crowell hung up. He always ended conversations abruptly, at least when dealing with Brendan.

Sitting at Lucy's desk, in an all-too-rare moment of solitude, Brendan closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel the gravity of this day, of the event that had unfolded in his church. Allowed himself to feel some of the grief and shock that any mind could be so twisted, that any human being had been killed such a way.

He hoped to God he'd never seen the victim before in his life.

Unfortunately, he was not to be so lucky.

As he was coming out of the side door of the rectory into the courtyard, Brendan ran into Father Dominic Montague, who was coming in through the back gate, ostensibly on his way back from the parish hall.

A tall man with graying hair and eyes the color of gunmetal, he was an imposing figure. The kind of figure Brendan had often wished he were. Everything about Dominic suggested that he was destined for the hierarchy. Monsignor at the very least. So what was he doing as parochial vicar under a much younger man? Brendan couldn't figure it out, and his network of friends didn't have a clue. And if Dominic knew, he wasn't saying either.

“What's going on, Brendan?” he asked bluntly.

“There's been a crucifixion in the church,” Brendan answered with equal bluntness. As soon as he spoke, he wanted to call the words back. They showed nothing of his usual tact or consideration. In fact, they sounded almost like a joke.

That was Dominic's initial reaction. He could see the flicker of impatience in the older man's gaze, then saw realization dawn. “You're not kidding, are you.”

“I wish to God I was. Is the rehearsal over?”

“All except the cops trying to get everyone's names, addresses, and phone numbers. It's making them all very uncomfortable. And people are demanding to know what's going on.”

“Oh, man.” Torn, Brendan hesitated. On the one hand, there was the victim in the church. On the other, his newest flock members were being needlessly upset. What would any of them know about this? They'd all arrived in the church this morning
after
Sally and her teachers. “Let me see what I can do. Is there a detective over there named Matt Diel?”

“No detectives, just uniforms.”

“All right, hang on a minute.”

From the courtyard, the entrance to the church led directly into the sacristy, where priests robed for Mass. From there, he walked directly onto the altar. Detective Diel was still there, he saw, making notes and talking to one of the criminologists. Chloe was still there, too, sitting in the front pew, her arms folded, her gaze watchful, looking, he thought, like a Valkyrie ready to spring into action.

“Detective Diel,” Brendan called out.

At once the detective turned. He said something to the criminologist and came over to Brendan. The body, thank heaven, was still shrouded, though men were now on ladders poring over the huge wooden cross.

“Yes, Father?” Diel seemed amiable enough, but Brendan didn't trust the friendliness.

“I want to know why your men are upsetting all the people in the parish hall.”

“We need to know who they are. We might need to question them later.”

“The church can provide that information. But you need to stop upsetting them. They're supposed to come back into this church tonight for their Rites of Initiation. I don't like you scaring my flock away.”

“I don't like people being murdered either,” Matt said flatly. “But it happens anyway.”

“Can you give me one good reason why you need to treat these people like criminals?”

“There's been a murder.”

Point non plus. Brendan felt irritation rising in him. “You have no reason to think any of them are involved.”

“Father, they were here when the body was found. One of them might have been here for … another reason.”

Brendan's face set against the anger he was feeling. “Do you really think a new convert would want to do something like this? Why would they be here if they felt that way? This was a thrust at the heart of the church.”

Matt nodded. “It could also be directed at
you,
Father.”

That set Brendan back on his heels. He didn't know what to say.

“This is a bizarre way to murder someone,” Matt continued almost conversationally. “It screams
message.
”