Bad Samaritan

by Aimée Thurlo

  “Thank you, Mrs. Goldman,” Sister Agatha whispered. “Every once in a while I do get things right.”

  17

  AFTER LEAVING THE REHAB CENTER, SISTER AGATHA drove to the offices of the Voice. She wanted to get all the information she could about those photos of Gloria and the coach. Hopefully she’d uncover something that would point her to whomever had taken them. If they’d been e-mailed, the address might lead her to the person who’d stolen the envelope from the crime scene.

  As she walked into the cramped offices of the Voice, a remodeled former auto shop on a side street in western Bernalillo, the room beyond the empty front desk became completely quiet. She glanced around, but people quickly averted their gazes or turned their backs. Although she asked, everyone pretended not to hear her and no one offered to help.

  After a moment, Sister Agatha took a seat in one of the chairs inside the reception area and, with Pax beside her, prepared to wait them out for as long as necessary.

  About ten minutes later a short, dark-haired young woman hurried inside and, with scarcely a glance at anyone in the rooms beyond, took a seat behind the desk and shoved her purse into a drawer.

  “You’re late, Sutherland. I’m docking you a half hour,” came a voice from the room beyond.

  “Whatever,” the woman muttered.

  Accessing her desktop computer, Miss Sutherland—Sister Agatha noticed that she wore no wedding ring—lifted her mouse pad and glanced at a piece of paper glued there. She then typed in what Sister Agatha surmised was her password. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Sister,” she said without glancing up.

  “No, I’ll handle this,” a curt voice interrupted. A man in his midthirties wearing a bolo tie, a Western shirt, and jeans walked out from behind the counter and past the front desk.

  “I’m Travis Holbrook, Sister, the editor. Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

  “I must be, or you wouldn’t have pretended I wasn’t here for the past twenty minutes. Fortunately, Mr. Holbrook, you’re just the person I wanted to talk to. I need to see the original photos taken of Sheriff Green’s wife,” she said firmly, hoping her tone would preempt any argument.

  “The originals? Why? We have plenty of newsstand copies. Take one.”

  She shook her head. “I need to see the originals you received from your informant, and I’d also like to know how you got hold of them—e-mail or otherwise.”

  “Our sources are our own, Sister. I understand you were a reporter once, so you should know better than to ask.”

  “The story’s already out, and all I want is to see the original photos and find out how they were sent. It’s not like I’m asking for the name of your source.”

  “It’s close, but I’ll save you some grief. The photos were e-mailed anonymously from a proxy server, so they’re impossible to trace. Our contacts usually prefer to protect their identities, especially when a public figure is involved.”

  “When did you receive them?”

  “We haven’t been sitting on them, if that’s your real question, but I’m not going to get any more specific than that. I know too much about you, Sister, and I don’t trust you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. You’re working to free the sheriff, and I have no intention of lifting even one finger to help him. Tom Green arrested my boy for vandalism last year. It was only a high school prank, but Green made a big deal out of it, and now my kid’s got a record. It’ll be erased when he’s eighteen, but no thanks to Green. If you’re looking for someone to help you save that lousy bum’s neck, you came to the wrong place. He’s a self-righteous jerk who deserves whatever he gets.”

  It was obvious that Holbrook had a personal score to settle. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen journalistic “ethics” twisted to accommodate personal concerns, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  Still, she couldn’t let it go without a fight. “He’s innocent. Shouldn’t that matter to a person with your responsibility to the community?” she demanded.

  “He may not be guilty of this particular crime, Sister, but that man’s far from innocent. He’s got plenty of baggage behind him. Count on it.” He paused, then, in a softer voice, added, “Take my advice, Sister. Cut your losses. Your interference in what should have been an open-and-shut case is going to cost both you and the sheriff dearly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Check the editorial page tomorrow. Then run for cover, ’cause a lot of nasty stuff is going to rain down for sure.”

  Sister Agatha kept Pax at heel close beside her as she left the building. As usual, Pax had sensed her tension and had responded by going into guard dog mode.

  “Relax, boy. You’re no longer a police dog. You’re our peace-loving companion.”

  Pax’s soulful brown eyes gazed questioningly at her, and she bent down to pet him. He could be the most loving companion in the world or a ferocious protector. The way things were shaping up, she had a feeling she’d be needing both.

  Sister Agatha drove north, toward the monastery, needing time to think. Everything was coming at her at once, and too much information could be as confusing as not enough.

  Hearing her cell phone ring, she pulled to the side, removed her helmet, and answered the call.

  “Sister, it’s me, Chuck. Can you come by my office? I’ve just received something from the Voice that I think you’ll want to see. A buddy of mine works there, and he overheard some of your face-to-face with Holbrook. Considering he hates Holbrook, he decided to do you a favor. He sent me an advance copy of the editorial that’s scheduled to come out tomorrow.”

  “I’m on my way.” Judging from the warning Holbrook had given her, she knew to expect the worst.

  When they arrived at Chuck’s office, Pax immediately lay down on the cool tile floor.

  “Sister, this is nasty stuff, so brace yourself,” Chuck said, turning his computer screen around.

  As she read the editorial, she understood why Chuck had been disturbed. The header read, SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE. The article below that filled her with anger. “This is an outrageous lie,” she said. “The monastery is not closing because of some supposed impropriety between Tom and me. Yes, it’s true that Tom and I have a history—but it’s ancient history. Whenever we’ve attended church and city government functions together, we’ve gone there officially. We were not using excuses to meet. This is pure garbage.”

  “You could sue, but it’ll be tied up in the courts for years, and if you notice the wording, it’s mostly vague innuendo, not outright claims. In my opinion, you won’t have much of a case.”

  “I’m more worried about the damage it’s going to do to Tom,” she said.

  “Half-truths are always more dangerous than outright lies, which are easy to disprove. You’ll have to weather the fallout. The Garcia camp wants to put that final nail in Sheriff Green’s coffin because it will deflect attention away from the unflattering truths that are now surfacing about Robert Garcia.”

  “This is going to make things even tougher for Reverend Mother.” Sister Agatha thought of how much weight Mother had lost in the past few months. Under the unrelenting pressure, her health had suffered badly. “I have to warn her. I may not be able to stop this article, but I can make sure our defenses are in place.”

  “I have an idea that may help you. I’ll print an article that reminds people of all the cases you’ve solved and the good you’ve done for our community. It’ll counter that trash, at least somewhat.”

  “I appreciate it, Chuck. That’ll help. There’s another way to head this off at the pass, too,” she added in a low, thoughtful voice. Seeing Chuck looking expectantly at her, she shook her head. “I need to think some things through first before I do or say anything else.” She’d also have to decide whether or not to keep Reverend Mother in the dark for now. Forgiveness would be easier to get than permission.

  “Do you have a laptop I could borrow for a few hours, Chuck?”


  Chuck gave her a puzzled look but nodded. “Sure. Take mine,” he said, giving her a state-of-the-art laptop about as thick as a slice of bread. It was far superior to the larger ones they had at the monastery. “You’ll need my password to start it up. It’s 8W1D44AMinus.”

  “I’ll never remember that. Can I write it down?”

  “Yes, but you’ll have to memorize it as soon as possible, then swallow the paper.”

  “Seriously?” she asked, giving him a cockeyed look.

  “No, just kidding.”

  Sister Agatha wrote it down, then showed Chuck the paper. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, except it’s the word ‘minus,’ not the math symbol,” he said, smiling. “I mixed nonsense with sense.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate this, and I’ll take good care of your computer. See you later,” she said, then hurried out with Pax.

  Instead of driving to the monastery, Sister Agatha drove to Judy’s Place, near the casino, and parked in the back directly beside the loading dock.

  A head appeared in front of the round window; then, seconds later, Judy stepped out. “Just in time, Sister. I need an excuse to get away from the mountain of paperwork on my desk.”

  Sister Agatha smiled as Judy bent down to pet Pax. Her easygoing personality was exactly what Sister Agatha was counting on now.

  “I’ve come to ask you a favor—a big favor,” Sister Agatha said.

  “You’re hungry and would like one of everything on the menu?”

  Sister Agatha laughed. “That’s going to seem like a picnic in comparison,” she answered, following Judy inside.

  Judy gestured for her to take a seat in the cozy office. “You’ve got me curious. What’s on your mind?”

  “First, let me fill you in on what’s been happening.”

  As Sister Agatha told her about the photos of Gloria that had appeared in the Voice, Judy nodded.

  “I’ve seen them. One of my customers left a copy of that rag behind. It’s crap and slander in equal parts,” Judy said. “Gloria Green should sue them for invasion of privacy or something.”

  “Judy, it’s absolutely imperative that I find out who took those photos, or if not that, then who supplied them to the Voice. Problem is, they won’t cooperate with me.” She told Judy about her visit to the Voice and the hostility she’d experienced, but she didn’t mention tomorrow’s editorial.

  “I wish I could help you, Sister, but I don’t know anyone who works there.”

  “A newspaper’s need for advertisers hasn’t changed since my days as a reporter. If anything, it’s more important now with circulation down and paper costs going up,” Sister Agatha said.

  “So you want me to go in as an advertiser and see what I can get?” Judy sat back and smiled. “The problem is that advertising is a totally different department, and I’m not sure I could get anything you could use.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. You go in playing the part of the eager but long-winded client while I tackle things from a different direction. Can I borrow one of your staff uniforms?”

  “Sure. I always keep a few on hand in various sizes in case we need to change tops or bottoms during a shift. Spills happen. What do you plan to do with it?” Judy asked, pointing to four sets of tops and bottoms hung on hooks behind the door.

  “Wear it, of course,” Sister Agatha said with a smile. “Then you and I can go over there together. I’ll be your assistant. How’s that?”

  Judy laughed. “So you’re going to leave your habit here and go secular?” Seeing Sister Agatha nod, she added, “But, Sister, what if they recognize you?”

  “What color is my hair? Is it long or short?”

  “Uh. Dirty blond? Light brown? Your eyebrows are brown. But I have no idea about the length,” she said, then smiled. “I’m starting to get your point.”

  “People generally don’t look past the habit, and with a bit of makeup, I’m willing to bet that even the people who know me won’t notice.”

  “Okay, let’s assume we’re there and your disguise works out. What happens next?”

  “I saw where the receptionist keeps her password. I’ll drop a mountain of paperwork on the floor right by her desk, and while she’s helping me gather up the mess, I’ll sneak a look. Later, after you’re shown into the advertising exec’s office, I’ll excuse myself and hack into their computers using Wi-Fi,” she said, pointing to the laptop she had with her.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been part of a sting.” Judy smiled slowly. “I’m in.”

  “Great. One last thing. Well, two. We’ll need to take your car, and secondly, Pax is a dead giveaway. May I leave him here?”

  “Sure. I’ll have some water brought in for him—and a large beef bone, if you’re okay with that.”

  Hearing the word “bone,” Pax sat up and barked. Sister Agatha laughed. “I’m okay with it, and Pax is thrilled,” she said, taking the simple uniform Judy handed her.

  “This looks about your size,” Judy said.

  Sister Agatha went into the staff bathroom adjacent to Judy’s office, slipped out of her habit and cotton slip, then folded them neatly. It felt decidedly odd trying on street clothes. She pulled up the dark slacks, then buttoned up the crisp white blouse. At least the colors were familiar, and the fit generous enough to be comfortable.

  There were no mirrors at the monastery. That was considered vanity. As she studied her image she swallowed back a wild surge of panic. Without her familiar habit to define her, she felt vulnerable . . . and alone.

  Dropping to her knees, she whispered a heartfelt prayer for help. Courage was called for now, but all she felt was fear—of making a mistake, of the unknown.

  “Sister, you okay?” Judy asked, knocking on the bathroom door.

  “I’m fine,” Sister Agatha answered. Standing, she took one last look in the mirror.

  It had been a long time since she’d given her own short hair more than a passing thought. Cropped with Maria Victoria’s scissors, the cut was practical but completely uneven. Fluffing it out with one hand, then giving up, she stepped out of the bathroom and into Judy’s office.

  “You’re right. No one will know you,” Judy said with a surprised look on her face. “It’s a new you.”

  “No, it’s the same old me in a different wrapping,” Sister Agatha corrected with a wry smile.

  “Your hair . . . Let me even it out a bit.” Judy held out a chair. “Sit.”

  “Bark, bark!” Sister Agatha answered, then laughed.

  Trusting Judy, Sister Agatha sat back while she snipped and styled. Judy then reached into her purse, brought out some powder and lipstick, and applied them to Sister Agatha carefully. “Okay. Now you’re ready,” she said, then quickly added, “No, wait. One more thing will make it perfect.”

  Judy hurried out of the office, then returned with a name tag, which she promptly pinned on Sister Agatha’s left breast pocket. “Okay. Now let’s go to the full-length mirror in the employees’ restroom, and you can take a look at yourself.”

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, Sister Agatha walked up to the mirror and stared in wonder at the reflection before her. “It’s like looking at . . . the distant past—with a few more wrinkles,” she said, then, pulling up the name tag so she could read it, burst out laughing. It read MARY. “How did you know?”

  “Know what? That’s a sample sent by our uniform vendor.”

  “Mary was my former name.”

  “We’ll take that as a sign, then,” Judy said with a smile. “You ready to go?”

  “One more thing. I’ll need to carry some business papers—a stack large enough to make a real mess when I drop them.”

  “How about the last three months’ worth of suggestions from the suggestion box, all in one file folder? You drop those, and the memo-sized papers will fly everywhere.”

  “Sounds perfect!”

  Leaving Pax chewing on a knuckle bone in Judy’s office, they set out. “You have a very nice car,” Sist
er Agatha said, silently noting the differences between this small luxury sedan and the Antichrysler.

  “It took me three years to save up the money I needed to buy it outright,” Judy said. “It’s not as fancy as some, but the back folds down and I can carry almost anything I need. Most important of all, it’s not a truck,” she added. “I hate pickups. They remind me too much of my ex.”

  Thinking of Tom and Gloria, Sister Agatha felt a touch of sorrow for this world she’d left behind. “Marriages these days . . . every other couple seems to be breaking up, even the Catholics.”

  “In my old profession—law enforcement—marriages were all too often a casualty of war. It wasn’t just the long hours, late nights, and the risks we all took. It was what the work took out of us. To keep what we saw daily from destroying us completely, most of us became hardened. Optimism isn’t for the battle-scarred.”

  Sister Agatha didn’t argue. All she could do now was pray that Tom and Gloria would find their way back to each other. Where love existed, hope wasn’t a cheat. “Sometimes, things are worth saving even if it means going that extra mile, and more.” She hadn’t meant to speak the thought out loud, but life didn’t come with a delete key, and she couldn’t take it back now.

  “You’re thinking of Tom Green and his wife, aren’t you?” Judy observed, then, without waiting for an answer, continued. “Even if they put things back together again, that crack will always be there, you know.”

  “I disagree. Remember what St. Paul said about forgetting the things left behind. Looking to the future together is the key. It can be done, but you have to really want it. When people go after a goal with all their hearts, they generally find a way to achieve it.”

  “That kind of optimism belongs to the young. When you get older, you realize that chasing a dream comes with consequences. The more you put your heart into something, the more vulnerable you become—and the harder it’ll be to put yourself back together if things don’t go the way you’d hoped. The young can mend a broken heart by telling themselves that it’ll never happen to them again. The older you get, the more you realize that the only way to avoid that is to stop taking risks.”