by Aimée Thurlo
Judy burst out laughing. “I’ll tell you what. We have some day-old tortillas . . .”
Pax barked once, and Sister Agatha sighed. “Go ahead.”
Moments later, Judy returned with a plate of leftovers. “I have a soft spot for former officers,” she said, looking at Pax, then back at Sister Agatha.
Sister Agatha took a few more sips of her coffee, which had the faint taste of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. “I know you pack huge crowds in here for lunch, and you probably don’t remember one from the other, but I need to ask you a question. I’ve been told that Victoria Garcia comes by around noon sometimes and picks up a couple of takeout lunches—”
Judy raised one hand. “Her, I remember. Victoria acts like Queen Victoria herself. She’s really difficult to deal with, Sister. She always orders three lunches and is incredibly picky about one of them. No mayo, nothing with pork, no added salt. One time the waitress made a mistake and put a small container of potato salad in the bag. Victoria had a fit. She said that to someone like her friend who has a severe allergy to eggs, anything with mayo was nothing short of a death sentence.” She rolled her eyes. “For Pete’s sake, all she would have had to do was eat it herself or toss it out, but she made the most incredible ruckus.” Judy shook her head and smirked. “Now, I always have two people check her orders.”
After thanking Judy for the information, Sister Agatha went back outside with Pax. The possibility that Victoria and Al had worked together to eliminate Robert was looking more plausible by the minute. It was still all circumstantial, but the picture was certainly coming together.
There was one problem, however. Al Russo’s time had been accounted for the day of the murder. He’d been campaigning and had also hung out with the kids from the local youth program.
Sister Agatha considered her next step. If those kids were local and had records, the Chronicle would have their stories. Maybe Al had found a way to exploit them, using the kids to establish an alibi for at least part of the time. It was also possible that one of them had pointed Al to a source for the date-rape drug that Tom and Robert had ingested.
Sister Agatha called Chuck and asked him to check his files. As she waited, she prayed they’d find a connection. At long last Chuck came back to the phone.
“According to a story I did on the group last year, two of the kids in the program dealt drugs at one time,” he said. “One of them, Brent Corda, was eighteen, so his name was released. He was supposedly selling that date-rape drug when he got busted. He got into trouble again several months ago and got kicked out of the Second Chance Program Russo takes part in. Brent’s got new charges pending, though he’s currently out on bail.”
“Was he at the park on the Fourth?”
“If he was, he wasn’t with Al—at least officially. Russo’s on record saying that he won’t deal with repeat offenders.”
She’d have to pay Brent Corda a visit. “What’s Brent’s address?”
He hesitated before answering. “Sister, I know Brent. If you’re thinking of paying him a visit, you shouldn’t go alone. He’s bad news. Besides dealing, his track record now includes assault and battery.”
“I’ll stay outside in plain view, and Pax will be with me. We’ll be okay.”
“Maybe, but without leverage, you’ll get nowhere,” Chuck said. “The dude’s a bit of a loose cannon, Sister. If you’re lucky, all he’ll do is slam the door in your face.” He thought about it for a second. “If you let me ride along with you, I may be able to help.”
“How?”
“Brent owes me one. I testified on his behalf, and that’s how he avoided jail the first time.”
“Okay. Get ready. I’ll swing by and pick you up.”
Twenty minutes later, they drove into an area on the south end of town. Single mobile homes stood on quarter-acre lots across the railroad tracks from pueblo-style residences that dated back to the forties. The struggles of the residents who lived in this part of town were told mostly through the crumbling stucco walls, litter, and old junked cars in the backyards. These were tough times, but tougher on some than on others.
Even before she parked the Harley in front of the old house with the sagging porch and trash-filled yard, she knew what she’d be facing. Anger and hostility all too often followed long-term poverty.
As she reached for Pax’s leash, a young man wearing baggy jeans and a loose shirt came to the front door, a bottle of beer in his hand. He glanced at her, then at Chuck.
“Hey, Chuck. You guys lost?”
“Nah, we’re not lost. We came hoping to talk to you, Brent,” Chuck answered. “Got a minute?”
“Depends. What’s on your mind?” The underage boy took a sip from the bottle.
Something in his tone made Sister Agatha tense up. People who lived on the edge, slipping from one side of the law to the other, knew how to play the game. Getting information from them was often as easy as getting answers from a rock.
As she approached Brent, Pax suddenly growled. Sister Agatha stopped in midstride. Something wasn’t right.
Chuck glanced down at Pax, then back up at Brent. “You packing?”
Brent patted a bulge in his waistband beneath his unbuttoned shirt. “Yeah, I’m expecting some people. Just being careful.”
“If the dog sees your handgun, he’s likely to react according to his training,” Sister Agatha warned.
“I’ve heard about him—former police dog, right?”
She nodded. “We’re not here to hurt anyone. Could you put that away, at least for now?”
He looked up and down the graveled lane, then nodded. “Let’s go inside. I don’t like making a target of myself.”
Sister Agatha wondered how someone so young could stand living the way he did, always looking over his shoulder. If nothing else, it had to be exhausting. Remembering that Christ was in everyone, she tried hard not to judge him.
Moments later, they were sitting at a metal kitchen table. From where he sat, Brent had a clear view out a window at the road leading into the neighborhood.
“I can give you about fifteen minutes. Make them count,” he said, looking toward the drawer where he’d placed the small semiauto pistol.
“You owe me one,” Chuck said.
“Yeah. That’s why you’re getting fifteen minutes.”
Chuck glanced at Sister Agatha and nodded.
“Brent, at one time you were dealing date-rape drugs. Then, while on parole, you joined a community youth program for offenders under twenty-one. I understand Al Russo was your sponsor,” she said.
“Yeah, and that man really walks his talk.” He met her gaze and held it. “I owe him big-time.”
“Why is that?” Sister Agatha prodded.
“He helped me when he didn’t have to, and as Chuck already knows, I respect that.”
“We’re not looking to nail you,” Chuck said. “We’re looking for a killer.”
“So I’ve heard, but I wasn’t even in town the day Garcia got capped. Ask the cops. They’ve already been by.”
“Was it because of your connection to benzodiazepine?” Sister Agatha confronted him.
“Yeah.” He glanced away, avoiding her gaze.
“You didn’t tell them everything, did you?” Sister Agatha said, playing a hunch.
He laughed. “Sister, in my business you never tell the cops everything. That helps keep you alive out on the streets.”
“We’re not cops, so why don’t you tell us?” Sister Agatha insisted.
“What’s in it for me?” he countered.
“For starters, you’d be squaring the debt you owe me,” Chuck shot back. “If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have served time—no parole—three years, maybe more. Remember?”
“Yeah. That judge wanted to make me an example,” he said, then walked to the side of the window, looking out but not exposing himself to view. “If I talk to you, that’ll square us once and for all.”
Chuck nodded once. “Deal.”
“What kind of drugs did you have on hand?” Sister Agatha asked.
“Painkillers, a little grass, and some Rohypnol.”
“Did Al ever tell you what he did with the stuff he took with him?” Chuck asked.
“No, he carted it off in a milk carton, and my guess is it ended up at the dump.” He looked at Chuck, then at Sister Agatha. “I know what you’re thinking. Word’s out that both the sheriff and Garcia were drugged, but I can tell you right now that Al wasn’t involved in that. He’s a straight arrow. The only way he would have ever killed anyone is if his own life had been threatened, or maybe if he’d been trying to protect someone else.”
Sister Agatha thought about Al’s relationship with RJ and of the times Victoria had been physically beaten. Slowly a new picture—a sad one, to be sure—began to emerge.
Sister Agatha stood, getting ready to leave. “You were given a chance to get your life together, Brent, but you’re still as lost as you’ve ever been. If you turn to God, and ask Him to help you, He’ll show you a way out.”
“God doesn’t visit my neighborhood anymore, Sister.”
“You’re looking for Him in the wrong place, Brent. He’s not out there someplace,” she said with a sweep of her arm. “He’s within you.” She tapped over her heart. “Unless you can find a way to connect, you’ll never feel safe, no matter how much money or firepower you have.”
19
SISTER AGATHA DROPPED CHUCK OFF AT THE PAPER’S OFfice a short time later.
“You’re going to talk to Detective Marquez, aren’t you?” he said. “Brent’ll just deny what he told us, you know.”
“Undoubtedly, but the link between Al and that drug is serious. Maybe Frank can think of another way to follow this up, or maybe he can offer Brent a deal.”
“Do you think Al killed Robert on his own, or do you think Victoria was involved?”
“I don’t know. I’m not getting a clear enough picture yet. There are too many possibilities. It could even have been someone else, like Mike Herrera. Mike’s criminal record speaks for itself. He’s attracted to Victoria, taught her how to shoot, and supplied her with a gun of the right caliber. A gun, I might add, that’s still out there somewhere.”
“Victoria and Mike were my number one and two suspects until now, so I agree—but we need more evidence. Call me the second you have answers I can print,” he said, climbing out of the sidecar and giving Pax one last pat on the head.
Sister Agatha drove directly to the station. As she went down the long hall toward Tom’s office, now being used by Frank, Millie came out of the break room.
“Hi, Sister,” Millie greeted her. “Are you on your way to talk to Detective Marquez?”
“I sure am.”
“He’s been in a lousy mood lately—just a heads-up,” she said in a whisper.
“What’s happened?”
“Although he’s come down hard on anyone connected with the Garcias, he’s still having trouble getting straight answers. Al Russo, in particular, is giving him the runaround.”
Though their methods had been different, Sister Agatha suspected that Frank had come to the same conclusions she had.
As she neared his office, Frank came to the open door. “I thought I heard your voice out here. Let’s talk,” he said, inviting her inside with a wave of his hand. “My bad mood is lightening a little,” he added, letting her know his hearing was still top-notch.
“That’s good to know,” she said, weaving more than one meaning into his words.
He waved her to a chair. “I’ve got some photos of a badly bruised Victoria taken after one particularly nasty knock-down, drag-out fight between her and Robert. Turns out that the meter reader got busy using his cell phone camera a few of the times he was there. It’s amazing what people fork over when you press them.”
“I have some new information, too,” she said.
Marquez closed the door and listened while Sister Agatha filled him in on what she’d recently learned about Al.
“What I’d like to do next is something that’ll work best if both of us are on the same page,” Sister Agatha said. “Let me go talk to Victoria—I’ll wear a wire, and you can hear everything. I think she’ll cooperate once I point out that we know she was having an affair with Russo and we can put her at the scene of the crime. If she stonewalls, I’ll try a bluff. I’ll say that we have her son’s DNA from a hair sample, and we intend to find out who Robert Jr.’s father really is.”
“That’s a good plan,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Considering we’re hard-pressed for any actual physical evidence at the moment, we need to rattle the cage.”
“If we can persuade her to help us, evidence will be a lot easier to find. The district attorney could also use her testimony.”
“Yeah, but this sting will only work if we can prevent her from getting in touch with Russo.” He paused, then added, “I can have him hauled in here for questioning. That should do it.”
“There’s one piece of evidence that’ll prove who the killer was—if we could track it back,” she said slowly, thinking as she spoke. “I’m almost sure that Al took the signed baseball roster Robert had in his pocket when he died, then gave it back to RJ the day of the funeral. That roster will undoubtedly have trace evidence that may not readily appear to the naked eye but could be enough to convict Al of the shooting. We have a witness that saw the killer take it from Robert’s pocket. That should be enough to convict Russo.”
“If we can pull all this off. Play it by ear, and stay sharp.”
Frank arranged to have a listening device placed on her. “You’re a good detective, Sister Agatha. If you ever decide to leave the monastery, give police work a try. You’re a natural.”
Sister Agatha smiled. “Thanks, but I’m exactly where I belong.”
. . .
Sister Agatha set out with Pax in the Harley a short time later. A passing squad car had already confirmed that Victoria and her son were at home. All she needed to do now was keep her cool and get the job done.
Sister Agatha pulled up the driveway and parked beside Victoria’s car. As she removed her helmet, she was surprised to see Victoria and her son coming out the turquoise courtyard gate. Victoria was carrying a suitcase and an overnight case, and RJ had an Isotopes gym bag.
“Are you leaving?” Sister Agatha asked.
“Yes, but I’m not going far. I’ll be putting this house up for sale, so we’re moving to a new place a little at a time, beginning with tonight. I’ve decided to start fresh, Sister Agatha.”
“I hope you aren’t planning to leave town.”
“No, not at all. I’m moving into a rental property about a mile and a half from here. Robert Jr. and I need a place of our own—a new home where we can relax and feel free to be ourselves. A team of Realtors is scheduled to come in later today.” She smiled at RJ, then glanced back at Sister Agatha. “Is there something I can help you with? As you see, I was on my way out . . .”
“You and I need to talk. It won’t take long.”
Victoria glanced at RJ. “You can leave your gym bag on the front porch if you want, son, but let’s go back inside. It’s cooler there.” She then gave Sister Agatha a hard look. “Please keep in mind that I don’t have all day, Sister.”
“Mom, can I stay outside an
d play with the dog?” RJ asked.
Victoria looked over at Sister Agatha, who nodded, then handed him the leash. “Don’t go out of the courtyard.”
“How about if we go through the house to the back and play ball on the lawn. That okay?”
“Sure, go ahead,” Sister Agatha answered.
Victoria and Sister Agatha stepped aside to let Pax and the boy go ahead of them, then walked on into the great room and sat down side by side on the sofa.
Once RJ and Pax had gone out the patio door, Victoria glanced over. “So what can I do for you, Sister?”
“I know about you and Al,” she said without preamble.
Alarm flashed over Victoria’s features. Then, before Sister Agatha could offer any reassuring words, the fear in her eyes faded and was replaced by an unnatural calm.
That told Sister Agatha clearly what she needed to do next. “Hair samples taken from your son will prove that Robert isn’t RJ’s biological father, am I right?”
“Do something like that and I’ll sue,” Victoria said, leaning forward and holding her gaze. “I’ll win, too, and the sisters will lose everything.”
“Law enforcement agencies would be the ones with the authority to order any tests, not me or the monastery. So I have nothing to fear from you. Even if you choose to sue the county or the state police, the damage would still be done. How important is it for you to hide the truth?”
“It’s not a matter of hiding anything. My son stands to inherit a fortune from the only dad he’s ever known, and I won’t allow anyone to cheat him out of that. The Garcias owe him a future. RJ’s gone through more than any child ever should. Do you know how difficult it is for a kid to see his mother getting beat up by his father? It would break my heart every time he’d try to stick up for me.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Save it. The test stuff? That’s all your doing. Marquez isn’t that devious,” Victoria interrupted. “Here’s the way it is,” she added, venom in her gaze. “If you ruin RJ’s chances to get what’s rightfully his from the Garcias, I’ll find a way to take it from your hide, the monastery, and the archdiocese. The stink I’ll make about your snooping will impact on the Church and everything else you hold dear. Think about that for a while.”
