Pious Deception (21 page)

Wiggins smiled. “Well, we can see which group you’d fall into. You’re spouting the liberal line, Kerry.”

“So which group was Vanderhooven’s?”

“Neither one. Vanderhooven was troubled by some of the teachings, but his answer to that was to dig deeper in the Church books, to pray more, to fast, that kind of thing. He wasn’t a guy to be out on the picket line. No liberal.”

“But he let the women’s center use Hohokam Lodge.”

“Exactly. The conservatives couldn’t stomach something like that. With any other parish priest they would have been raising Cain. But Vanderhooven had too much money and too many family connections in the Church hierarchy back East to be vulnerable on an issue like that.”

Kiernan ran her tongue around the edge of the hamburger bun scooping up the overflow of guacamole. “You know, that doesn’t altogether surprise me. Beth Landau said he pulled strings to get himself out here where she was. She said she had the feeling that he was using her to test himself.”

“A female hair shirt? You believe that?”

“I had the sense that she was being pretty straight. And I do believe that Vanderhooven was still attracted to her. He contacted her about the women’s center, he offered her Hohokam Lodge.”

“Kerry—”

“Stu, the guy was trying to have his cake and eat it, with her. He didn’t try to find an interpretation of the rules that said it was okay for him to be involved with her, nor did he give any indication he was deciding between his woman and his Church. He was just playing the edges of Rome’s rules. ‘Icy tower’ was Landau’s description of his mind, ‘like a monk in an icy tower.’ ”

“A monk who got himself killed.”

She stuffed the last of the burger into her mouth and nodded. “What could Vanderhooven have been up to that made someone go to all the trouble and take the chances he did to kill him?”

Wiggins sighed. “My first guess would have been the race for advancement. There’s been a fair amount of jockeying for position to grab the archbishop’s miter once he dies. To an outsider that doesn’t sound like something you’d kill for, but hell, guys kill for half a dollar. But like I told you, our man Dowd hasn’t been bothering to politic on this. And Austin Vanderhooven wasn’t backing anyone. The only thing Vanderhooven was involved with was planning the retreat center.”

“The retreat center for the rich and influential. Bud Warren told me about that. Sort of a Taj Mahal in the desert. With enough money and influence to make killing a small price to pay. How is it a little church like Mission San Leo came to be in charge of this?”

“Seems one of faithful gave them some land in the mountains thirty, forty, years ago.”

“They don’t rush into these retreats, eh?”

“This is mosey country. But I don’t think the land’s all that much. It’s out in the desert—dry. Not right on a river, which means it’s not likely to get washed out in a flash flood, but it’s also not likely to have much water—”

Kiernan held up a hand. “Not true. According to Bud Warren, the retreat planners—he said Sylvia Necri—control the rights to something like half an acre-foot a day.”

Wiggins whistled. Conversation at the counter stopped momentarily, then resumed. “Well now, with that it could be quite a place. You know the whole Colorado River allotment to nine states is only sixteen million acre-feet per year. And that, Kerry, is based on a wet period in history. There are so many cities and farms pulling from the river that by the time it gets to the Mexican border it’s so salty the Mexicans won’t take the water without our desalinating it. The city of Phoenix, the city of Los Angeles, and any others with the money to do it, are buying up rural land just for the water rights. You look at the Owens Valley. Used to be a green fertile place. Los Angeles bought it and sucked the water right out from under it. Now it’s desert.”

“How come?”

“The rule is the first user gets the rights. And they can sell those rights and ship the water to L.A. so the Angelenos can wash their cars and water their lawns.”

Kiernan nodded, recalling that Stu had represented a couple of losers in water battles recently. “Stu, I know water’s a big problem here in the desert. But the retreat builders already have use of the water they need. They’re promised it in perpetuity. So that’s not an issue. They’ve got the land. They’ve had it for years. What is it that’s changed?”

“What’s changed, Kerry, is that all those years no one had much financial know-how or connections. Then Vanderhooven came along.”

“Okay, so the land had been sitting around and Dowd had been pondering maybe someday building a retreat out there. Then Vanderhooven came along and took charge. Did he form a committee?”

Wiggins shook his head. “Vanderhooven wasn’t the committee type. What he did do was contact some of the money men and lay the groundwork.”

“Which money men?”

Wiggins shook his head. “Now, that I don’t know. Could be legit. Could be his father’s associates. Could be a mix.”

A middle-aged man in Bermuda shorts settled at the counter. Kiernan said, “What about Vanderhooven’s friend Joe Zekk? Where does he fit in? Elias Necri said Vanderhooven labeled Zekk a deadbeat. Elias thinks Zekk was getting money from Philip Vanderhooven and he’s pretty pissed that he’s not. As for Philip, he denies even hearing Zekk out.”

“You believe that?”

“I’m withholding judgment. Which is more than Bud Warren was doing last night. To hear him—”

“Now, Kerry, Bud Warren is not as pure as the driven snow.”

Kiernan tensed. She could hear the defensive tone in her voice as she asked, “How-many-days-old snow is he?”

Wiggins leaned back in his chair. “Not like a gutter pile back there in New York City, if that’s what you’re thinking. Bud’s an okay guy. But he is a speculator. He’s always got something going. So far nothing’s worked out, but Bud’s always managed to come out smelling okay. He’s always gotten backing. Money men don’t veer off when they lay eyes on him. But he’s not one of them, and he’s learned to watch what he says.”

“What he said was that Dowd stood to gain power over a retreat that would attract Catholic money and influence nationwide. And what Elias Necri said was that Zekk got Austin to contact his father for him. Austin himself was paying Zekk two hundred dollars a month, and he’d set him up in a house in the mountains.”

“Ah hah! Well, then let me give you a spot of news.”

Kiernan raised an eyebrow.

“That house is above a hamlet called Rattlesnake, on the Rattlesnake River. It’s not all that far from the retreat site and Hohokam Lodge. And Kerry, it’s right on the way to Sylvia Necri’s construction site. If Sylvia knows where it is, you can bet Elias does. And that there’s something up there he doesn’t want you to uncover.”

K
IERNAN’S FIRST THOUGHT AFTER
Wiggins dropped her at her motel was to launch into a series of
Viparita Chakrasana
: backbend to handstand to forward bend, one after another. But she was already too wired, and backbends would only make her more so. Forward bends would calm her down, but they could sap what energy she had. She compromised on a long, easy headstand, letting the blood flow gently downward, feeling her scattered thoughts come into focus.

But the headstand didn’t dislodge the cold ache of loneliness, the angry twelve-year-old’s stab of abandonment she always felt when she’d talked about Moira.

Despite the time she’d spent at breakfast, it was not yet eight o’clock. Really too early to call home. Grinning, she lowered her legs to the floor, stood up, and dialed. The phone rang eight times before Brad Tchernak’s thick voice said, “Yeah?”

“Hard night?” Kiernan asked.

“Huh? Oh, Kiernan. It’s barely dawn, you know.”

“Be glad Arizona doesn’t have Daylight Savings Time or I might have called an hour earlier.”

“I’m glad we didn’t have an earthquake, too. But I wasn’t planning to get up with the sun to celebrate it.” The rustle of cloth rubbing over the phone, followed by a groan, suggested Brad was getting up. “I suppose you want to speak to
him
.”

Kiernan nodded. She always felt ridiculous doing this. It was like childhood prayer, when she’d mouthed words to a Being she pretended was listening. “Put him on.” Now she pretended big, brown eyes were widening in anticipation.

“Okay, go,” Brad said.

Feeling even more ridiculous, Kiernan glanced around, half expecting to see faces at the window peering in on her foolishness. “Ezra,” she crooned into the receiver. “Ezzzzraaa. How’s the guy? Have you been a good dog?” She pictured his long feathered tail wagging wildly. Was that panting she heard? “Good boy, Ezra.”

Ezra gave a high-pitched yelp.

Kiernan laughed, picturing the big Labrador/wolfhound wriggling like a beagle. “Ah, Ezra.”

Ezra gave the phone an unmistakable slurp.

“Gees!” Brad said. “If I had known this was going to be such a sappy job—”

“Come on, where else could you get a flat by the beach and still be in the sack at eight
A.M.
? Would you like to guess where I’ve spent the night?”

“Is this going to be something I’d be happier not knowing?”

Ignoring that, she said, “Jail.”

Tchernak groaned. In his “servant” voice, he intoned, “So humiliating! How am I going to face the other guys below stairs. Their employers are sunning in Tahiti or gambling in Monte Carlo; mine’s in jail!” He laughed.

“I suppose you’re wringing your hands in despair—on an apron. No, of course not. You can’t reach one. You’re still in bed.” She could almost see his dark brown eyes squinting against the intrusion of morning, his wiry hair poking out above his ears, the pelt on his tanned chest peeking above the unzipped extra-long sleeping bag he used for a blanket.

“Kiernan, I always wear an apron to bed, just in case. I aim to please, at any hour.”

“And you do.”

“So,” he said, his voice softening, “when are you coming home?”

“The sheriff, the bishop, and the father of the deceased would like me to leave now.”

“So that means you won’t, right?”

“Not yet. I can’t abandon a case midway. I have a dog and a housekeeper to support.”

“Well, give me fair warning so I can shovel the beer cans out of your flat.” He paused. “Seriously, call me tonight, huh?”

She smiled. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. But Ezra misses you. When we go for our runs on the beach, he’s so anxious to turn around and start home he can barely keep up with me. When we get near the house he races to your door, with his ears perked up and his tail wagging so hard it almost knocks him over. He searches through your flat inch by inch; then, finally, he gives one long moan and drops down to the floor.”

“He’s not off his food, is he?” Kiernan asked, worried.

Brad laughed. “Well, no. There are limits to mourning. But he does miss you. And, frankly, so do I. So call me, huh?”

“Okay,” she said softly.

At nine
A.M.
it was already too hot to climb into the high desert. It was too hot to climb into the Jeep. Kiernan put the plastic water bottle behind the seat and steeled herself against the searing heat that would penetrate her jeans as soon as she touched the seat. Jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt were too warm, but the unknown desert was no place to go bare-limbed.

By the time she’d come to the first stoplight, between the Aqua Fria Shopping Center (salmon and teal) and the Lost Dutchman Mall (ragged mountain facade), the backs of her shirt and jeans were soaked. A mile later, when she pulled onto the Superstition Freeway, they were icy. The freeway ended a few miles on and she detoured onto Apache Boulevard. No longer were there shopping centers. Rather, dust-worn clusters of auto-parts shops, plumbing suppliers, and gun stores stood between grassless fields and brown dry land that looked as if it should hold bleached bones but instead sported a spindly ironwood tree here, a group of squat cholla there.

The road began to ascend. The sun burned through the windshield onto her jeans. Beside the road there was some foliage now—pale green thin-leaved trees and insubstantial shrubs.

She wished she knew the names of the plants, how they were related, how the Pimas and before them the Hohokam, who were said to have lived here centuries before the Spanish invasion, made use of the plants.

She laughed. Years ago botany had fascinated her briefly, as had astronomy and mathematics. Those interests had always led back to medicine, to forensic pathology. The lure of the stars had never measured up to her passion to know about the body, to find out what made it live and what specifically caused it to cease living. To learn enough to find out what really killed Moira.

Her shoulders tightened and she was aware of the pressure above her eyes. She shook her head sharply, surprised that she could still feel the dismay she had felt when she finally accepted the fact that forensic pathology was no absolute. Forensic pathology would not reveal the truth. She had been with the coroner’s office three years before she was forced to accept that. During those years she had seen court cases where experts staked their reputations on opposing theses. Doctors can be mistaken, she had told herself. Doctors can even be bought. The truth lay in the body, in the vials, in the tests. The truth was there, but some of those “experts” simply had not seen it. Some weren’t sharp enough to spot it, some were too lazy to keep up with the research, some had preconceived notions to which they tried to fit their findings, some … She had built walls of excuses, desperately refusing to face the fallibility of the dream that had sustained her, the dream of explaining why Moira had died. As the ground beneath become more unstable, she’d patched and plastered those walls thicker and thicker, putting her faith in each new test, in every increasingly sophisticated machine, till the dream became like a solid adobe house sitting atop an earthquake fault. That house might have held forever if the killer quake hadn’t hit.

That call—the quake—had come six years ago, at shortly after two in the morning: a high-speed head-on collision between two pickup trucks. Three dead.

The driver of the Datsun pickup was a thirty-seven-year-old man from San Francisco. In the Plymouth were two teenagers from town, a boy and a girl, who had been driving. The boy was in his first year at junior college. The girl had gone off to a New Age boarding school for two years and been back in town the last two years. In September she would have started college. Kiernan had seen them in town, had met their families, knew some of their friends, knew of their “wild” reputations. When she’d looked at their bodies she’d felt almost relief to find their faces unrecognizable.