by Aimée Thurlo
Sister Agatha was about to speak when Tom’s phone rang. He listened for a bit, then said, “I’m going to put you on the speakerphone, Chuck.”
“I wanted you to know that a private citizen visiting the Chronicle’s office had her car vandalized by Mrs. Gloria Martinez. She said it was payback from Del Martinez, her husband. I’m calling because I wondered if Martinez’s parole officer should be notified about this.”
“Who was the citizen?” Tom’s gaze fastened on Sister Agatha; he already suspected the answer.
“Is that necessary?” Chuck asked.
“Yes,” Tom said firmly.
“It was Sister Agatha from Our Lady of Hope, and the vehicle involved was the monastery station wagon.”
Tom glared at Sister Agatha, and the temperature in the room suddenly seemed to drop fifty degrees. “Okay. I’ll handle it from here. Thanks for letting me know, Chuck.” He switched off the speaker and took a deep, slow breath. “Want to tell me what that was all about, Sister?”
“It was no big deal,” Sister Agatha said. She quickly filled him in. “The woman’s in pain, Tom, and going a little crazy, that’s all.”
“I’ll have a deputy go talk to Del. His family situation shouldn’t spill over onto the nuns. He’s got to stop passing blame and learn to handle his own messes.”
As she stood up to go, he placed a hand on her arm. “Do yourself a favor and stay away from Sergeant McKay, Sister. Like I said, there’s a lot going on with him right now. Let me handle that myself.”
“Okay,” she agreed. “Actually, I think that we’ve been going around this the wrong way. From now on I’m going to focus on finding out who the other man was, the guy who handed the deputy the envelope.”
“That could be just about anyone. How do you plan to narrow down the suspect list?”
“Judging solely from Sister Jo’s description, I think it’s the same man who’s been targeting me.”
“You didn’t have much of a description for me right after the incidents occurred, but now that you’re calmer, do you want to go through some mug shots?”
She nodded. “It may not help, but it can’t hurt, as they say. I have to go pick up Sister Jo at St. Charles. Okay if I bring her back here and we both look? She saw the two men on Calle de Elena.”
“Excellent idea.”
A half hour later, both nuns were seated at one of the desks in the station, leafing through books filled with photos. They examined every face carefully, but after a while, the sea of men became one giant blur.
Sister Jo gave Sister Agatha a look filled with desperation. “This is hopeless.”
Sister Agatha leaned back in her seat, feeling dejected. “I was hoping a face would jump out at us—that a part of our memory had retained something we weren’t even aware of. It doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.”
Tom came in and knew at a glance that their efforts had been fruitless. “You’ve been trying hard to force it. Let it go for now.”
“Maybe the man we’re looking for doesn’t have a record—at least not yet,” Sister Jo said.
Sister Agatha glanced up at Tom quickly. “We could be looking in the wrong direction. Maybe we should be concentrating on a regular member of the community—one who has a lot to lose. What Sister Jo saw may have been a blackmail payoff, not a bribe.”
“The problem with that theory is that instead of narrowing down the field, it widens it to every white male in the county.”
“I know,” Sister Agatha answered softly.
They left the station a short time later. As they reached the station wagon, Sister Agatha looked at her watch. “If we go back right now, we’ll make Vespers. I need the quiet of the chapel and time to pray, so let’s head home.”
Sister Jo nodded and smiled. “Do you think Tzuriel will come see us again? Sister Ignatius has told me all about him.”
Sister Agatha gave her a surprised look. “Do you really believe in our angel?” she asked, curious to know how the newcomer perceived the story.
“I know what I saw after Compline that night in chapel,” she said, nodding. “People these days are taught that it’s only real if you can feel it or touch it, but Our Lord taught us differently.”
Sister Agatha looked at her and nodded, lost in thought. Pondering Sister Jo’s words, they headed home to the monastery.
Though it was the middle of the night, Sister Agatha remained in chapel, deep in prayer. She wasn’t sure what to do next and desperately needed guidance.
As she looked up toward the altar, she saw the flicker of a shadow on the wall to her right. Trying, and hoping, to see the form of an angel, she stared at it hard, but nothing happened. It was only the play of light from the candles.
Frustration bit into her. Giving up, at least for tonight, she rose to her feet. She’d tried so hard to make things happen!
Her own words replayed themselves in her mind, and, horrified, she realized what she’d been trying to do. She had no power to force anything. What on earth had she been thinking? Servants obeyed, they didn’t issue orders or make demands, and she was a servant of God. As the knowledge of what she’d done cut through her weariness, she prayed for forgiveness.
Minutes passed, and slowly she began to see things from a new perspective. All this time she’d been trying to get answers through sheer willpower, just as she’d tried to make the play of light and shadow coalesce into angel form—but mysteries weren’t solved by following preconceived notions.
As she let go of her old opinions, a new idea formed at the back of her mind. Everything she’d learned so far indicated that the suspect was hiding in the community. If she was going to find him, that’s exactly where she’d have to look.
Thanking the Lord, she walked out of chapel noiselessly and went to her room. It was time to rest.
19
AFTER MORNING PRAYERS, SISTER AGATHA SET OUT with Sister Jo and Pax in the Antichrysler. Sister de Lourdes and Sister Bernarda would be helping get the lunch meals ready today. A parishioner from St. Augustine’s would come by to help them make the deliveries if the station wagon wasn’t back in time.
“You and I are going to do something completely different this morning. We’ll start by walking around the town hall and looking at the faces of people there—men, actually. Let’s see if we can find anyone of interest,” Sister Agatha said. “If we do, be careful to avoid looking surprised.”
“I get you. I’ll just smile at everyone. You think we’re dealing with political corruption of some kind?”
“People of influence usually have many secrets.”
Sister Jo nodded thoughtfully. “Like Peter Aragon, the council member who lost some of his support when the church got the Good News Meal Program. But he’s not our man. I remember seeing his photo and the former program director’s in the St. Augustine Church bulletin.”
A half hour later, they were inside the two-story city hall, walking down corridors and glancing in doorways. Many people said a quick hello. Others offered to help them find whatever office they were looking for. After about twenty minutes, and two passes around the pink adobe territorial-style building, they walked back outside.
“I’m sorry, Sister Agatha, but I didn’t see anyone I recognized. All those people were strangers to me, but then again, I’m still new to the area.”
“Don’t feel bad. Most of them were strangers to me, too,” Sister Agatha admitted. “I have very few friends in high places—well, except for the Highest Place,” she said, pointing up.
As they sat together in one of the bancos on the front patio, Sister Agatha struggled not to let her discouragement show. She’d been so sure that they were on the right track.
Sister Jo reached down to pet Pax, her gaze wandering around aimlessly. “Now, he looks familiar, but I’ve never met him before—not that I remember, anyway,” she said.
Sister Agatha, immediately alert, glanced around. “Who are you talking about?”
Sister Jo pointed at a
billboard across the street. It showed real estate developer and state senator Dwight Holman. The billboard was preelection, at least five months old, and was starting to peel around the edges, but the man’s face was clear.
“It’s possible you saw him at our monastery,” Sister Agatha said and reminded her of his visit. Then, after a beat, she added, “Let’s go to the Chronicle.”
Sister Jo followed, smiling and nodding to everyone who passed them on the grounds and in the parking lot.
“You’re always so happy,” Sister Agatha said with a smile of her own.
“What’s not to be happy about? I’m doing the work I love, and today I even get to hang out with you and Pax.”
“You like hanging out with Pax and me?” Sister Agatha asked, surprised.
“Sure! Exciting things always happen around you two, Sister Agatha.”
Sister Agatha had to admit she enjoyed being with Sister Jo, too. It was a blessing to be with someone who made the most out of every moment. She had no doubt that Sister Jo was very close to the Lord’s heart.
“Are we going to look at more photos?” Sister Jo asked.
“Yes, but only of Senator Holman. Maybe there’s a photo on file that’ll show him wearing a cap, like the man you saw with the deputy.”
Sister Jo’s usual smile turned to a worried frown. “What if I still can’t confirm that he was the one with the deputy?”
“No matter what happens, the problem’s in God’s hands, and we’ll trust Him to handle everything in the right way.”
“Then let’s go for it, Sister Agatha!”
As they drove into a parking slot outside the Chronicle’s only building, she remembered that she’d promised Chuck some of Sister Clothilde’s cookies. “Rats! I totally forgot,” she said, then explained. “Remind me to bring him some next time, Sister Jo.”
“I have two cookies inside my pocket. They’re still wrapped up in a napkin,” Sister Jo confessed, pulling them out.
Sister Agatha looked at her, surprised. “How did you get those? They look a bit like Sister Clothilde’s new recipe.”
“They are, but this version of Miraculous Munchies has piñons and less powdered sugar,” she answered. “I work a lot in the kitchen helping prepare the lunch meals. Since I’m already there, Sister Clothilde has designated me as her official taster.”
Sister Agatha smiled, knowing that was just like Sister Clothilde—rewarding any of them who went that extra mile. “Would you mind giving those to Chuck?”
“Not at all,” Sister Jo answered. “I’m sure they’re wonderful. Sister’s cookies always are.”
A moment later, Chuck greeted them as they came through the door. “Hey, Sisters. What brings you here so early in the morning?”
“Early?” Sister Agatha checked her watch. “It’s a little after nine.”
He took a sip of his coffee and gave them a bleary-eyed look. “Sister, I’m usually here well past midnight every day. Anything before 11:00 A.M. is early.” He offered them coffee. Then, as he took the cookies from them, his eyes brightened considerably. “Thanks!”
Seeing that he was in a far better mood now, Sister Agatha continued. “Chuck, we need to do a computer search on Dwight Holman. Can you help us?”
“Ah, Holman. I recall our most recent article on the freshman senator,” he said. “It was a delicate issue. About a month ago, Holman rear-ended another vehicle, and there was a fatality. We had to be real careful not to print anything that couldn’t be verified outright. Holman’s a close friend of the mayor and could have brought some serious pressure down on us—more than a small press like ours could take.”
“I don’t remember hearing about that accident,” Sister Agatha said, “but then again, we don’t subscribe to any of the local papers, and we don’t have a television.”
“We were the only news outlet that carried the story. That’s what made it even more interesting to me.” They all huddled around Chuck’s new computer as he called up the information. “Here’s the story,” he said, pointing to the screen. “Holman’s sedan rear-ended another car that had slowed down because of poor visibility. At the time it had been raining hard. The other driver, Beatriz Griego, a Mexican national and legal resident of the United States, died.”
They stared at the photo of the damaged cars, plus one of the victim and another of Holman. “That could be him,” Sister Jo said at last, “but I’d need to see him in person wearing a cap to be sure.”
Sister Agatha looked over Chuck’s shoulder, reading the article. “I see Holman was cited for following too close.”
“That’s all he got, too. The passenger in Griego’s car wasn’t injured and gave the police a statement releasing Holman from any culpability. She claimed that Griego had nearly come to a stop in the lane because she’d been distracted talking on her cell phone, and that’s why Holman’s vehicle had struck them.”
“You don’t buy it?” Sister Agatha asked, reading him accurately.
“I really dug deep on this story, and there were things that didn’t fit. For one, according to other drivers I’ve spoken to, the rain in the area wasn’t that bad. And it was only four in the afternoon, not after dark, so visibility couldn’t have been that low. The whole thing has a stink to it, but I’ve never been able to prove anything.”
“Sounds like someone worked hard to hush things up quickly,” Sister Agatha said.
“I searched the Web sites of the area newspapers and the local television stations, too, but they barely mentioned the accident,” Chuck said.
“Do you have the name of the officer who responded to the call?” Sister Agatha asked.
He opened another screen on his computer, then answered her. “Sergeant Michael McKay.”
Sister Agatha considered everything she’d just learned. Holman…and McKay? She remembered the sheriff telling her that during the time of Jane Sanchez’s murder, McKay had supposedly been playing golf with Holman. Maybe she’d just found the connection.
“He didn’t show up for court, so the case was thrown out,” Chuck added.
“I’m assuming they did a Breathalyzer test at the accident scene, particularly since it resulted in a death, is that right?” Sister Agatha asked.
“No. A field sobriety test was conducted, but there was no Breathalyzer on record. Sheriff Green was really upset about that, but by the time he found out, it was too late. McKay was suspended for a week without pay for not following protocol, and Holman got ticketed for following too close. That was it.”
“There was no lawsuit?” Sister Jo asked. “Everybody sues nowadays, and after all, Holman did get a ticket for a traffic violation.”
Chuck shook his head. “Lawsuits are public record, and I haven’t seen a thing. The victim didn’t have any close relatives in the area, apparently, or maybe they were paid off under the table.”
It didn’t surprise her that Tom hadn’t mentioned any of it. He prided himself on his department. Things like this rarely happened, but when they did, he usually clamped down on everything and everyone.
What had come as a shock was hearing that McKay had gotten off with only a brief suspension. That just didn’t sound like something Tom would do. Maybe he was still following up on it, and that was the reason he’d wanted her to back off.
“I’d like to talk to the passenger in the victim’s car. Do you have her name?” Sister Agatha asked.
“Carmen Morales. I tracked her down, but to be honest I didn’t have much luck questioning her. Her English is pretty spotty.”
“I can help. I was born Angela Montoya and raised in a Las Cruces household that spoke Spanish nearly as much as English,” Sister Jo said.
“Tell me where I can find Carmen,” Sister Agatha added, glancing at Chuck.
“I don’t know where she lives, but I do know she works for Katherine Brown.”
“The architect?”
“Yes. Katherine has an office adjacent to her home, so once you look up her office in the phone book
, you’ll have both addresses.”
Thanking Chuck, Sister Agatha got ready to leave, and Sister Jo followed. Soon they arrived at a large pueblo-style home. From what she could see, there was a detached smaller studio at the back of the driveway. The sign over the door announced it as Brown Architectural.
“Do we talk to the owner first,” Sister Jo asked, “or go to the house and try to find Carmen?”
“Judging by the three high-end cars parked by the studio, my guess is that Katherine’s with clients. Let’s go to the main house and see if Carmen answers the door.”
Sister Agatha parked by the side, well away from the studio, and then led the way up to the front door. The doorbell had a pretty tone, like distant church bells.
A moment later, a young Hispanic woman opened the door. Before Sister Agatha could say a word, she gasped, dropped a feather duster, and ran toward the back of the house.
“Go around! Stop her at the back door,” Sister Agatha called out to Sister Jo.
As Sister Agatha hurried inside after Carmen, she held on tightly to Pax, who at the moment wasn’t sure if this was a game or not. The race was short, and Sister Agatha managed to corner Carmen in the kitchen. Beyond, she could see Sister Jo standing outside the door.
“Why on earth are you running? I mean you no harm,” Sister Agatha said gently.
“Déjame!” She said, recoiling from her and Pax. “No sé nada.”
Sister Agatha’s Spanish was rusty, but she caught that much. Déjame was “leave me alone,” and no sé nada meant “I don’t know anything.” The fact that Carmen had run and felt compelled to say that told her a much different story.
Ordering Pax to sit and stay, she softened her voice even more and continued. “Estás en este país legalmente?” Sister Agatha said, asking if Carmen was in the country legally.
