MASS MURDER (13 page)

“Just around the corner from here.”
She gestured and then drew her fingers across the soft fibers of the sweater just above he
r
bosom.

“Where do you park your car?”

The question caught her off guard and the fingers froze somewhere around her cleavage.

“In the west lot.”

“Did you see anyone outside when you left?”

She hesitated again.

“Just what are you implying?” The game was over
,
and Ms. Peters didn’t like losing.
Giorgio rose.

“I just need to know if anyone can verify what time you left.”

She got up, the alluring green eyes now ablaze.

“I’m not sure what you’re up to, D
etective, but I don’t like it.”

“I hope you’re not going out of town soon.
We may need to talk with you again.”

She brushed past him and left the room, leaving a vapor trail of animosity behind.
The moment the door closed, Giorgio turned to the settee
and ran
his hand around the seat
cushion. When his
fingers hit something sharp
, he withdrew
a large, pearl stud earring.

Chapter Nine

By two-thirty that morning, Giorgio had to blink several times to read the hands on his watch.
It was normal to be tired on the last night of a production.
After all, six long weeks of rehearsals and three weeks of perf
orman
ces were exhausting.
Add to that the long workdays, a wife and two kids, and now a murder investigation
,
and he was running on empty.

Swan was in the lobby talking with McCready, who was putting information into his Blackberry.
McCready would begin a background check on everyone first thing in the morning.
Swan acknowledged Giorgio as he approached.

“I just got a call from Samson.
He’s over at Tomlinson’s apartment.
She’s not there.
The neighbors said her father died
,
and she flew home to Atlanta.
Apparently that’s why Mallery Olsen stood in for her.
We’re working on a phone number in Atlanta.”

Giorgio rubbed his eyes making them tear up.
“Where’s Rocky?”

“He’s interviewing one of the monks.
We’re trying to get as many done tonight as possible.
By the way, there’s a helluva storm brewing.”

“Okay,” Giorgio replied, wiping away the moisture, “we’ll get out of here soon.”
He checked his notes.
“See if you can find Fathers Frances, Julio
,
and Daniel. They’re the newest recruits.
I want to talk with them tonight, but not together.”

“I think I just met Father Daniel.
He was in the chapel, praying.
I’ll send him out and then find the others.”

Giorgio stopped Swan as he turned to leave.
“Where do I get more coffee?”

“I’ll get it,” McCready offered.
He replaced the stylus on the Blackberry and turned towards the kitchen.

Swan retreated down the corridor towards the chapel.
Giorgio decided he needed more air and stepped
outside
. A
burly wind now whipped the graceful neck of a Bird of Paradise along the walkway, making it look like a hen pecking for crumbs.
He wandered down the brick path, past a clump of billowing Pampas grass
,
to the drive.
The valley lights, which had burned so brightly only hours before,
had been
replaced by pregnant clouds threatening to deliver their load at any moment.
Even the palm trees that lined the drive had become a row of dancing men
swaying in rhythm to the wind.

Giorgio stuffed his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath, hoping the cool air would revive him.
He stopped on the far side of the marble foun
tain
.
All three fluted tiers of the basin’s edges were lit by underwater spotlights.
A single water jet erupted from the top tier like a flower opening to the sun.
The floor of the lower basin was inlaid with
colorful
tile depicting richly plumed birds perched in the midst of a garden of bold flowers.
The clear water splashed and gurgled above them, reminding Giorgio of a time when he was twelve and his father had taken his sons to the zoo.
While his dad stood in line for hotdogs, the boys ran to a nearby fountain with the intention of getting each other wet.
Floating in the leaf-strewn water was a dead Blue Jay; its eyes glazed milky white.
Rocky tried to grab it, but Giorgio just stood there, trapped in the gaze of its dead eyes.
It wasn’t until his father appeared with the food that he
reluctantly turned away.

Giorgio’s eyes were fixated now on the small, beaked face of a ceramic bird at the bottom of the fountain
. It wasn’t
until a clanging noise
engaged his brain that he with
drew his attention
and turned back toward the building
.
Fatigue worked on his body like a drug forcing him
to gaze at the massive structure
through half blurry eyes
.
The wind rattled a large, knotted oak tree that stood against the front of the building,
manipulating its
strong branches into
a kind of
mechanical stage apparatus.
Along the pale stucco exterior of the front façade, bushy shadow puppets danced a Mambo
energized by the wind, while three statues bobbed in and out of a row of palmettos along the colonnade as if playing hide a
nd seek at a carnival sideshow.

Giorgio turned his head to look up at the bell tower.
Perhaps the clanging was coming from one of the bells.
T
hree arched windows stretched across the front of the tower, staring
silently
at the valley below.
Only the shadow of a dangling rope was visible to one side, swinging from a second floor window to the left of the tower.
It appeared to be weighted by a large sack.
Scaffolding was erected against the west side of the tower
,
and Giorgio remembered reading that the bell tower was under repair after being damaged in a recent earthquake.

He stepped around to the other side of the fountain
hoping to see how thing
s
looked earlier that evening, b
ut the clanging noise was giving him a headache
. With a groan
,
he glanced over t
o the large metal statue of a monk standing just under the corner of the bell tower.
A
crucifix hanging from
a chain around
the priest’s waist was being slapped against the cast iron robe by the wind.
The monk
was a formidable figure in the dark
with a raised sword
point
ed
to the heavens.
The priestly
robes had been cast as if blowing in an unearthly wind, while the real wind seemed
about
to bring the
commanding
figure to life.
Giorgio shuddered, partially from the cold
,
and partially from the feeling the priest was about to step off
the huge platform into reality.

He
turned his attention
back
to the rope,
wondering why it was there and what had been tied to it
. B
ut the rope was gone.
There was no rope and no sack to weight it, making him doubt he’d eve
r
seen it.
After all, the entire building seemed to be wrestling with the approaching storm.
When a fountain spray blanketed the back of his head, he
cursed and
de
cided it was time to go inside.

Leaving the ghostly statue, the rope, and the belfry behind, he ret
urned inside, shutting the
fairytale door behind him with a dull thud.
The inside warmth was a welcoming change
. O
utside
,
the wind dragged bushes across the exterior of the building with the same spine-tingling sensation fingers create crossing a blackboard.
Behind the wind, the echo of the crucifix continued to punish the iron priest. When he turned away from the door and saw the boy at the top of the stairs, he stopped so short his feet cou
ld have been planted in cement.

The boy was nine or ten years old, with round eyes rimmed in shadow.
He stared at Giorgio like a barn owl in the dark and was dressed in a long-sleeved
,
white shirt and dark knickers, with thick suspenders pulling at his narrow shoulders.
A pale
,
vaporous mist illuminated him in a halo of light.

No one had mentioned anything about children on the premises and Giorgio stared back, dumbfounded.
It was several moments before he noticed the boy was clutching something in his left hand.
Before Giorgio could make out what it was, the heavy wooden door behind him blew open again, bringing with it a cold draft of air.
He turned and shoved the door closed making sure it latched this time.
When he swung back around the boy was gone.

Giorgio leapt into action.
He took the stairs two at a time, skidding to a stop at the landing.
The hallway on both sides was empty.
There was no sign of the boy anywhere.
He dared not start knocking on doors for fear of disturbing guests, but when a cold pair of fingers brushed against his cheek, he flinched backwards down the stairs, his eyes focused on where he’d seen the boy.
When he reached the foyer he paused, almost willing the boy to return
. B
ut nothing moved at the top of the stairs.

He waited until a soft noise made him spin around, his hand automatically reaching for his weapon.
The chandeliers had been extinguished, leaving only the wall sconces to provide light in the large, vacuous room.
When something by the far window moved, h
e pulled the
gun
halfway from its holster
.
The shadow shifted again
,
and he realized it was a woman sitting on a window seat staring out the window.
He moved in cautiously to stand above her, his hand still resting on his weapon.
She leaned on her inside hand
,
while she stared into the brewing storm outside, either ignoring hi
m or oblivious to his presence.