by Aimée Thurlo
“I know I’m partly to blame. I get that,” he snapped, “but this is larger than Gloria and me. I don’t want our kids to see those photos—and I have no idea where they are now.”
He gazed at some indeterminate spot across the room. “A dad is larger than life in his own kids’ eyes. That look they give you at times can make you feel like you can conquer the world. I don’t think I could stand to lose that,” he said. “A part of me would die if all I could see in their eyes when they looked at Gloria and me was disgust.”
The fact that he was also worried about what their sons would think of Gloria spoke volumes. “You still love Gloria.”
“Yeah, I still love her, and despite everything, I’m sure Gloria still loves me. We share too much . . . history.”
“Then fight to save your marriage. Everyone makes mistakes. You made yours and she made hers. Don’t allow the past to stand between you.”
“I want her back, and I intend to fight to fix things with my family—but first I’ve got to get out of this mess,” he said, then took a deep breath.
“What do you think happened to those photos? They weren’t around when the deputy showed up, right?”
“No, or my attorney would have heard about it from Marquez by now. I’ve given this a lot of thought. Either the killer took them or they were grabbed up by the first person on the scene—Al Russo, as far as I know. Of course, someone else could have come by after the killer left and before Russo showed up.”
“Al Russo didn’t turn in an envelope or even mention the existence of one to the police,” Sister Agatha said. “He was Robert’s campaign manager—do you think he knew about the photos?”
Tom considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe so, but he wouldn’t have wanted people to see Robert as a blackmailer. If he found them, I’m sure they’ve been destroyed by now.”
“If the killer found the envelope, of course, that opens up other possibilities.”
“Like what? I haven’t been contacted, so, unlike it was with Robert, it doesn’t look like blackmail’s going to be his angle. As of right now, I have no idea what, if anything, he intends to do with those photos.”
“Maybe he looked them over and threw them out, knowing they would have linked him to the scene,” Sister Agatha suggested.
“That’s one possible answer. That individual would have probably surmised that I’d be unlikely to mention them to Marquez or anyone else. Those photos would only have established an even stronger motive for me to have killed Robert,” he said. “Not knowing what happened to the photos really worries me. If they show up somewhere along the way, they’ll end up doing the kind of damage I’ll never be able to set right. I’ll still be able to prove I’m innocent of killing Robert—I truly believe that—but the harm they’ll do to our boys . . .”
Sister Agatha thought about Tom’s kids and how they’d react if those photos were made public. The damage that would do wouldn’t be easily erased. As often happened, the innocent would pay the highest price of all.
16
AFTER MORNING PRAYERS THE FOLLOWING DAY, SISTER Agatha was summoned into Reverend Mother’s office. The starkness of the once cozy room hit her hard. A cardboard box was on the floor beneath the window, and Mother’s familiar desk had been replaced with a small vinyl-topped card table. The only other items were two folding metal chairs, a telephone, and the wooden cross on the otherwise bare white walls.
“I wanted you to know that Sister Maria Victoria and Sister Ignatius will be leaving for Colorado this morning,” Mother said. “That’ll leave only four of us here. Sister Eugenia, who refuses to go until I do, Sister Bernarda, and you.”
“Mother,” she managed, but no more words came.
Reverend Mother looked at the spot where the small statue of the Blessed Mother had been. “Our own time to leave is fast approaching, too. Have you made any progress helping the sheriff?”
Sister Agatha gave her a quick update. “I’m working as fast as I can, Mother.”
“If our time to go arrives before you’re finished with the case, you’ll have to remain behind. You can meet the rest of us up at Agnus Dei once the case is closed.”
Sister Agatha felt torn between relief that she’d be able to complete what she’d started and undeniable sadness at the prospect of remaining alone at the monastery. These halls she’d shared with the sisters would feel unspeakably empty without them.
As she left Mother’s office, Sister Agatha silently prayed for guidance. Although she’d been given the gift of time, she still had no idea what the next step in the investigation should be.
“Can you give me a hint, Lord? What should I do next?”
Though no answer came, she knew one thing. The answers weren’t to be found here at the monastery.
Sister Agatha headed into town with Pax a short time later, formulating a plan along the way. She’d start by trying to get more information about Sherry Haines, the woman who’d accused Robert Garcia of abandoning her along the side of the road. Sherry Haines hadn’t killed Robert—there’d been no wheelchair marks anywhere around the body—but it was possible she’d been in communication with others besides Tom and Robert. That could have started a chain of events that had led to Robert’s death.
Monty Allen, for example, wouldn’t have wanted her story to appear in the papers or on television. Maybe he’d murdered Robert to save the firm from the kind of publicity that would have threatened his livelihood. It was a stretch, but then again, stranger things had happened.
As she parked outside the newspaper office, Chuck rushed outside to meet her. “You heard what happened, right?”
The wild excitement on Chuck’s face made her stomach tighten. “No, I guess not. What’s going on?”
“Hang on to your hat . . . or veil. Something with a really bad odor hit the fan this morning.” He took her to his desk and picked up a copy of the Voice, an Albuquerque tabloid-inspired weekly. “Front page, no less,” he said, handing it to her.
Sister Agatha glanced at the cover. The photo was grainy, with Coach Brady’s face deliberately blacked out, but even if she hadn’t been able to make out the subject, the headline and caption removed all doubt.
GREEN—WITH JEALOUSY?
NEW MOTIVE?
“Gloria Green just blew it for her husband,” Chuck said. “This’ll cinch the DA.’s case.”
“This looks bad for Tom’s wife, but how’s this going to hurt Tom? Coach Brady’s not dead—Robert is,” she said, wondering if he’d somehow made the connection between the envelope Robert had carried and Tom.
“Sister, don’t you know who owns the Voice?” Seeing her blank expression, he added, “TFC Corp. Recognize the initials? Garcia’s campaign logo was the same as that of his corporation. The Garcias own the Voice. A case will be made against Sheriff Green saying he’d known Robert was going to print the photos to embarrass him publicly, and the two had argued. Then, in a rage, Tom killed him. You get it, don’t you? I mean, it won’t be long before people link those photos to the envelope Robert carried with him that day.”
Sister Agatha sat down and studied the photos. She had no doubt that these were the ones Robert had shown Tom. “Why would the killer, or whoever removed that envelope from the scene, release the photos now?”
“There’s a woman claiming that she was a victim of Robert’s drunk driving—Sherry Haines. She went to the press with her story, and things have been buzzing ever since. That story hasn’t reached the newsstand yet, but it will in a matter of hours. Maybe the Garcias, or someone sympathetic to them, decided they needed something to counter it with the public,” Chuck speculated. “The edition with those photos just came out.”
She nodded. “That would serve to protect the Garcias by turning the scrutiny and suspicion back onto Tom. It would also help discredit the evidence that supports Tom’s version of the story—like the fact that both of the men were drugged.”
She carefully considered everything she’d learn
ed, but something about the timing still bothered her. It was more important than ever that she find and speak to Sherry Haines. “Do you know where Partners in Assisted Living is located?”
His eyes narrowed as he gazed at her. “Sister, you’ve got a lead, and I want in.”
“I’ll tell you all about it, I promise, but first I need to confirm a few things. Will you give me twenty-four hours?”
“In newspaper terms, that’s a lifetime, but okay,” Chuck said, looking up the address for her.
“Thanks, Chuck. Oh, about Coach Brady—please forget I mentioned his name, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. In this town he could lose his job over the gossip if people found out that he was the guy in the photos,” Chuck answered. “Mum’s the word.”
The drive into Albuquerque took longer than she’d expected, traveling down the old highway and off the main streets. Forty minutes later, Sister Agatha and Pax arrived at the rehabilitation center. Pax was wearing his orange service dog vest as they walked up to the front desk. There, a stately, silver-haired woman greeted them with a warm smile.
“Hello, Sister. I’m Mrs. Goldman. What brings you here this morning?”
“I’m Sister Agatha, and I’d like to speak to Sherry Haines about Robert Garcia,” she said.
“She’s in therapy right now,” the woman replied after checking her computer screen. “Would you like to wait?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Then have a seat and make yourself at home. I’ll let her know you’re here. Ms. Haines has had a lot of company already this morning, so she may be too tired. If she is, you may have to come back later.”
“All right,” Sister Agatha agreed. “Does she normally have a lot of visitors?”
“No, but I understand that after she gave her story to one reporter, all the others somehow found out about it, too. They haven’t stopped coming by since.” After answering another phone call, Mrs. Goldman looked at Sister Agatha and smiled. “Sorry for the delay. I’ll let Sherry know you’re here.”
Mrs. Goldman walked down the hall, then returned a few moments later. “Sherry said that she’ll meet you when she’s finished, Sister. Would you like some coffee while you wait?” she asked, pouring herself a cup.
“No, thanks.” Sister Agatha watched doctors and nurses hurrying to and fro in the long hallway. After a gurney with a young patient was wheeled past, she glanced back at Mrs. Goldman. “This has got to be a very demanding job. I imagine you see a lot of tragedy.”
“Yes, but I also get to see the best in people. That’s why I volunteer here. I see it as a mitzvah.”
“I’m sorry. A what?”
“It means fulfilling the commandment through an act of kindness. It’s at the center of Jewish beliefs.”
“Our doctrines aren’t so different, are they? We’re told from the beginning to love one another, and it wasn’t a request,” Sister Agatha said.
“Exactly. We try to honor God by doing His work, and that’s what a mitzvah is all about. It’s a way of pleasing God.”
Sister Agatha watched as the woman stood, then went down the hall to help one of the nurses guide a patient with prosthetic lower limbs.
Mrs. Goldman’s simple words had touched her deeply. Under the pressure of recent events, she’d forgotten that honoring God didn’t mean achieving grand results. The little kindnesses that made the world a better place glorified God in the best way of all.
Sister Agatha heard a door open, then watched as a familiar-looking woman in a wheelchair came down the hall toward her.
“Here’s Sherry, Sister,” Mrs. Goldman said, introducing them.
When Pax placed his giant paw on the woman’s lap, Sister Agatha started to correct him, but Sherry shook her head.
“It’s fine. I love dogs,” she said, petting him with her uninjured hand. “So tell me, Sister, what can I do for you?”
Looking for a better place to talk, Sister Agatha suggested they go into the courtyard. At Sherry’s invitation, she pushed the wheelchair outside. They found a secluded, shady spot under a patio roof, and Pax, as if sensing he was needed, placed his massive head on Sherry’s lap.
Sherry smiled. “Once I’m able to get my own place again, I’m going to see about sharing my life with a service dog.”
“They make wonderful companions,” Sister Agatha agreed.
“But you didn’t come here to talk about service dogs,” Sherry said, an unmistakable weariness in her voice. “Did Sheriff Green send you? I’ve kept up with the news, and I understand he’s facing some serious trouble.”
“Yes, he is,” Sister Agatha said.
“That was part of the reason I decided to release my story to the press now. I want people to know that Robert Garcia deserved no one’s sympathy. If Sheriff Green killed him, he did the world a service.”
“Sheriff Green is innocent. He didn’t kill anyone.”
“Then maybe my story will help him. I gave out several interviews this morning, and by this evening people will know that Robert Garcia wasn’t worthy of running for dogcatcher, let alone sheriff.”
“When did you first talk to a reporter, and who was it?” Sister Agatha asked, trying to determine if she’d unknowingly gone to someone associated with the Garcias. That would explain the speed of the preemptive attack.
“I sent an e-mail to the Albuquerque paper two days ago. Last night, I had several reporters call me—none associated with that paper. I guess they spy on each other.”
Sister Agatha nodded, remembering all too well how that game was played. If someone sympathetic to the Garcias had discovered that e-mail or heard about the lead, it was highly likely that he or she had called Al Russo, Robert’s front man.
Al had been loyal to Robert. He’d also done his best to ameliorate some of the harm Robert had done, particularly to his own wife, Victoria, and his son, RJ. Yet, despite knowing that his client was abusive, Russo had still worked hard to get him elected. Money, it seemed, could buy a lot of loyalty, particularly in a tight economy—but just how far did that loyalty extend?
“I can’t hurt Robert Garcia now except to destroy his memory, and that’s what I want to do,” Sherry said.
“You may end up destroying someone else—an innocent—in the process. That’s the problem with revenge.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Garcias will put a spin on your interview using their own print sources. By the time they’re through, Sheriff Green will be seen as someone so desperate to save himself he was willing to bury his deceased opponent’s family under a mountain of innuendo.”
“I’ll make sure people know that it was my decision to come forward. I want Robert Garcia’s memory to be as ruined as my hand—and livelihood,” she said, gesturing with a glance at her right hand, which was clubbed and stiff. “The reason I chose to come forward now is because the last operation didn’t do as promised—allow me to grip things. No matter how hard I try, my fingers still don’t cooperate. I used to make my living as an artist, a painter. I’d do portraits in oil. Those days are over now. I’ve got nothing—not even a way to support myself.”
Sister Agatha’s heart went out to her. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, all you have to do is ask.”
Sherry shook her head. “I always believed that if I could unmask the man responsible for what happened to me, I’d find peace. But you know what? That didn’t happen. I can’t hurt a dead man—but he’s still hurting me.”
“No, he can’t touch you anymore,” Sister Agatha argued, compassion washing over her in giant waves.
“Painting was my life, and a part of my heart. I needed it as much as I needed air to breathe. Now I can’t even hold a brush.”
Sister Agatha watched her cover her injured hand with her other one. She could feel her sadness and despair as keenly as if they were her own. She prayed to find the right words to comfort her, but, instead, she remembered Cruzer.
“There’s som
eone I’d like you to meet,” Sister Agatha said, then, leaving Pax with Sherry, went to use the phone.
Sister Agatha called Chuck, got Cruzer’s cell phone number, then dialed it. Cruzer answered on the first ring.
“I’m still working on things, Sister Agatha,” he said, anticipating her question. “Ya gotta go slowly sometimes.”
“I’m calling on another matter. I’d like to ask a favor of you,” she said, then explained.
“I’m free this morning, so how about if I head over there now?” he said without hesitation.
She hadn’t been sure what kind of response she’d get from him. Cruzer’s reaction had exceeded all her hopes.
She returned to where Sherry waited and saw Pax’s gentleness slowly bringing her out of her shell. The dog had such a special touch. With that long sigh of his, and that massive paw, he’d given her something positive to focus on.
They moved to the recreation room, which contained craft areas, a TV, and table games. As they waited, Sister Agatha told Sherry a little about Arnie Cruz. “Cruzer’s used to working around handicaps and shares your passion for art. Maybe there’s something you can teach each other.”
“Sister, are you matchmaking?” she asked, laughing.
Sister Agatha just smiled.
It took him thirty minutes, but Cruzer arrived carrying an oversized bag filled with various art supplies. Sister Agatha introduced them, then stepped back and prayed.
Cruzer’s enthusiasm was contagious, and the two soon began discussing pigments and Southwest art. As Sister Agatha watched, he showed Sherry several brush holds designed for people with grip problems or missing digits. Refusing to take no for an answer, and strengthening her grip with his own, Cruzer placed the brush in her hand.
Sister Agatha smiled, then, moving as silently as only a nun could, left unnoticed with Pax.
“That’s what I call a mitzvah, Sister Agatha,” Mrs. Goldman said as they passed her desk on the way out. “You helped God by making things better for someone else.”
