The FBI Thrillers Collection (32 page)

“Yeah, and they’re also pretty esoteric. Neither of them is made anymore, but they’re not hard to find, and they’re not valuable. They’re cheap, in fact.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Also Zopp told us it was weird because it’s like the same gun the Zodiac killer used back in the late sixties and early seventies. Ain’t that something? You remember, the guy was never caught.”

“You’re thinking there could be some sort of connection?”

Delion shook his head. “Nope. We’re wondering if maybe our perp is an admirer of the Zodiac killer. Hey, it’s a real long shot, but we’ll see. Since we got the bullet, when we find the gun, we’ll be able to match it for the DA.”

Dane sat back in his chair and looked down at his wing tips. He hated this, hated it to his soul, but he had to ask. “Angle of entry?”

“The
killer was sitting right opposite your brother. They were looking at each other. The killer raised the gun and fired through the screen.”

Jesus, Dane thought, seeing Michael, his head cocked just slightly to one side, listening so carefully to the penitent, trying to feel what the person confessing was feeling, trying to understand, wanting to forgive. But not with this guy, Dane was sure of that. His brother had been worried about this guy. The guy just raised the damned gun and shot him right through his forehead? For a moment, Dane couldn’t even think, the horror of what had happened to Michael deadening his brain. He wished it would deaden the rest of him, but of course it didn’t. He felt hollow with pain.

Delion gave Dane Carver some time to get himself together, then said, “We’ve already started checking local gun shops to see if they still carry either of these models or
have carried them in the past, and if so, who’s bought one in the last few years. Our local gun shop folk keep very thorough records.”

Dane couldn’t imagine using such a gun to murder someone, particularly if he’d bought the gun here in San Francisco. He’d get caught in no time at all if he bought it here, but it was an obvious place to begin.

“How was he discovered?”

“An anonymous call to nine-one-one, made only minutes after the murder.”

“A witness,” Dane said. “There’s a witness.”

“Very possibly. It was a woman. She claims she saw the man who shot your brother come out of the confessional, the proverbial smoking gun still in his hand. She says he didn’t see her. She started crying—and then she hung up. Nine-one-one calls are taped, so if you’d like to listen to the call, we can do that. We haven’t got a clue who the woman is.”

“The woman hasn’t called again?”

Delion shook his head.

“She didn’t say whether or not she could recognize him?”

“Said she couldn’t, said she’d call if she thought of anything helpful.”

Great, okay, Dane thought. At least there was someone. Maybe she would call back. He said, “Have you spoken yet to the other priests at the rectory?”

For the first time Vincent Delion smiled beneath his thick mustache, the ends actually waxed, Dane realized when he saw him smile. “Guess what? I figured you’d be ready to climb up my ass if I didn’t let you in on that. So, Special Agent Carver, are you ready to move out?”

Dane nodded. “Thank you. I really appreciate this. I’m officially on leave from the FBI, so I’ve got time. Father Binney’s got to be first. When we exchanged e-mails last week, Michael mentioned Father Binney.”

“Oh? In what way? Something pertinent to this?”

“I’m not sure,” Dane said, shrugged. “He just wrote of problems with Father Binney. There’s something else,” Dane added, raising his head, looking straight at Delion’s mustache. “My brother said something to me on the phone the other night—something about how he felt helpless and he hated that. I’m hoping that Father Binney will have some ideas.”

They passed the small kitchen area with microwave, coffeepot, and three different bowls of peanuts.

“Hey, you hungry? Want some peanuts, a cup of coffee?”

“Peanuts, not donuts?”

“Cops living on donuts, all sporting a big gut—that’s a myth, that’s just television,” Delion said. “We’re not big on donuts here, all of us are into fitness. We like peanuts in the shell from Virginia. Sometimes even the spicy ones.”

“What’s that then?”

“Well, that’s just one jelly donut, probably the cleaning guy brought it in.”

It was hanging off a paper plate, ready to make its final leap to the floor. Dane thought it more likely that the cleaning guy wouldn’t touch it. He smiled, shook his head. “I ate on the plane. Thank you, Inspector.”

The
god-awful reality of it hit Dane when he saw his brother through the glass window in the very small viewing room at the morgue. Dr. Boyd, a tall, white-haired, commanding man, with a voice to make a sinner confess, had taken them through the security door, down the short hall into the room, and drew back the curtains. There was Michael, a sheet pulled up to his neck, only his head visible. Dane felt a lurch of pain so deep he almost gasped. He felt Delion’s hand on his shoulder. Then he saw the red dot on Michael’s forehead; it looked so fantastical, like it had just been painted on, nothing more, just a dab of makeup, some sort of fashion statement or affectation. He wanted to ask Dr. Boyd why they hadn’t cleaned it off, but he didn’t.

Dr. Boyd said very gently, “He died instantly, Agent Carver. There was just the slap of the bullet, then he was gone. No pain. I’m very sure of that.”

Dane nodded.

“You know that we’ve done the autopsy, taken fingerprints and DNA samples.”

“Yes, I know.”

Delion stepped back, his arms folded across his chest, and watched Special Agent Dane Carver. He knew what shock was, what anguish was, and he saw both in this man. When Dane finally nodded and stepped back, Delion said, “Chief Kreider wants to see us now.”

Chief
Dexter Kreider’s secretary walked them into the chief’s office. The room wasn’t all that big, but the view was spectacular. The entire side wall was windows, looking out toward the Bay Bridge, a huge Yahoo! sign and a neon-lit diet Coke sign the other landmarks in view. There was a large desk, and two large cabinets filled with kitsch, something that made Dane smile, for a moment. Just about every higher-up’s office he’d been into had had at least one display case. And here, there was also a touch of whimsy—in a corner stood a colorful wooden carousel horse. Utilitarian and whimsical, a nice combination.

Dane knew that Chief Kreider could never sit on that carousel horse. He was a huge man, at least six-foot-four-inches, a good two hundred sixty pounds, not much of it excess, even around his belly. He had military-short hair, steel gray, and lots of it, wore aviator glasses, and looked to be in his mid-fifties.

He wasn’t smiling. “Carver? Dane Carver? Special Agent?”

Dane nodded, shook the chief’s hand.

“It’s good to meet you. Come, sit down. Tina, bring us some coffee.”

Delion and Dane sat at the small circular table in the
center of the room. The chief still didn’t sit, he stood towering over them, his arms crossed over his chest. Then he began to pace until Tina, an older woman, with the same military precision as the chief, poured coffee, nodded to the chief, and marched out. Finally he said, “I got an e-mail from Dillon Savich, your boss back at Disneyland East.”

“That’s a good one,” Delion said.

Kreider said, “Yeah, fitting. Savich writes that you’re smarter than you’ve a right to be and you’ve got great gut instincts. He asks that we keep you in the loop. Delion, what do you think? You want to cooperate with the Feds?”

“No,” Delion said. “This is my case. But I’ll accept Carver in on the case with me, as long as I’m the boss and what I say goes.”

“I don’t want to take over the case,” Dane said, “not at all. I just want to help find my brother’s murderer.”

Kreider said, “All right then. Delion’s partner, Marty Loomis, is out with shingles, of all things, laid up for another couple of weeks. Inspector Marino has been in on this since Sunday night with Delion. I’ve given this some thought.” He paused a moment, smiled. “I knew Dillon Savich’s father, Buck Savich. He was a wild man, smart enough to scare a crook off to Latvia. I hear his son isn’t wild—not like his father was—but he’s got his father’s brains, lots of imagination, and is a professional to his toenails. I respected the father and I respect the son. You, Carver, I don’t know a bloody thing about you, but for the moment I’ll take Savich’s word that you’re pretty good.”

“Like I said,” Delion said, “I don’t mind him tagging along, sir. Hey, maybe he’ll even say something bright every now and again.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Kreider said. He paced a couple more times, then pulled up right in front of Dane. “Or would you rather go off on your own?”

Dane looked over at Delion. The man wasn’t giving anything away at all. He just stared back. Dane wasn’t a
fool. He slowly shook his head. “No, I’d like to work with Delion.”

“Good.” Chief Kreider raised his coffee cup, took one sip, and set it down. “I’ll have the lieutenant reassign Marino. Delion, I expect twice-daily updates.”

After they were dismissed, Delion said as they walked to the garage, “Lots of the guys wonder how Kreider makes love since the guy is always pacing, back and forth, never stopping. Tough to get much done when you can’t hold still.”

“Didn’t you see that old movie with Jack Nicholson—
Five Easy Pieces
?”

Delion rolled his eyes and laughed as he pulled the 1998 Ford Crown Victoria, white with dark blue interior, out into traffic on Bryant Street. Delion headed north, crossed Market Street, and weaved his way in and out of traffic to Nob Hill. They found a parking slot on Clay.

Delion said, “Dispatch sent a field patrol officer from the Tenth District. He notified Operations, and they called me and the paramedics. Here, our paramedics are the ones who notify the medical examiner. Because it’s very high profile, Dr. Boyd himself came to the church. I don’t know how well you know San Francisco, but we’re near one of the gay districts. Polk Street is known for lots of action. It’s just a couple of streets over.”

“Yes, I know,” Dane said. “Just in case you’re wondering, my brother wasn’t gay.”

“That’s what your sister told me,” Delion said. He paused a moment, looking up at the church. “Saint Bartholomew’s was built in 1910, just four years after the earthquake. The other church burned down. They made this one of redbrick and concrete. See that bell tower—one of the big civic leaders at the time, Mortimer Grist, paid for it. It’s a good thirty feet above the roof.”

“Everything seems well tended.”

“Let’s go inside the church first,” Delion said. “You need to see where everything is.”

He needed to see where his brother’s life was ended. Dane nodded, but as he walked down the wide central aisle, closer and closer to where Michael had been shot, in the third confessional, Delion had told him, the one that stood nearest to the far wall, each step felt like a major hurdle. His breathing was hard and fast. As difficult as it had been to see his brother lying dead on that gurney, this was harder. He suddenly felt a vivid splash of color hit his face and stopped. He looked up at a brilliant stained-glass window that spewed a spray of intense colors right where Dane was standing. He didn’t move, he just stood, looking up and then beyond the colors, to the scene of Mary and Joseph in the stable, the baby Jesus in the manger in front of them. And angels, so many of them, all singing. He could practically hear the full, brilliant chorus of voices. He drew in a deep breath. The air began to feel warmer, and the crushing pain eased just a bit. He couldn’t see the confessional. Rather than a yellow crime-scene strip, they’d rigged up a tall black curtain that cut off the confessional from prying eyes and curious hands. Delion moved the black curtain aside to reveal the confessional—all old, dark wood, tall and narrow, a bit battered, with two narrow doors, the first for the penitent and the far door for the priest. The dazzling colors from the windows were shining down on it now, making it look incandescent.

Slowly, he opened the door and sat down on the hard bench. He looked through the torn mesh netting. His brother had been just there, speaking, listening intently. He doubted the man had used the kneeler, not with the angle of the bullet. Did Michael know the man would kill him?

Dane rose and walked to the other side. He opened the door and eased down on the cushioned seat where his brother had sat. He didn’t know what he expected to feel sitting there where his brother had died, but the fact was, he didn’t feel any fear, nothing cold or black, just a sort of peace that he let flow deeply into him. He drew a deep breath and bowed his head. “Michael,” he said.

Delion stood back, watching Special Agent Dane Carver walk out of the confessional. He saw the sheen of tears in his eyes, said nothing.

“Let’s go talk to the rectory people,” Dane said, and Delion just nodded.

They walked around to the back of the church to the rectory, which was set off by eucalyptus trees, a high fence, and more well-tended grounds. It was quieter than Dane thought it would be, the sounds of traffic distant. The rectory was a charming two-story building, with ivy trailing over the red brick walls, the tinkling of a small fountain in the background. Everything smelled fresh.

Michael was dead and everything smelled fresh.