The Prodigal Nun

by Aimée Thurlo

Carmen’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.

  “Relax,” Sister Agatha said quietly. “I’m not Immigration. Soy monja, una hermana. No inmigra,” she added, telling Carmen that she wasn’t part of the border patrol, that she was simply a nun—she hoped. Sadly, her accent and command of the language were so bad, she wasn’t one hundred percent sure whether she’d said she was a nun or all wet. She never could remember the difference between monja and mojada.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed with distrust. “He say that inmigra come dressed like nun,” she said, pointing. “Like you.”

  “No, I really am a nun,” Sister Agatha said calmly. “No tengas miercoles,” she said and saw the woman’s puzzled face.

  “You just told her not to have Wednesdays,” Sister Jo said, stepping inside the room. “No tengas miedo,” she said, “that means don’t be afraid.”

  “He said you would come dressed like nun to fool me—and send me back,” Carmen said.

  “I’m not part of Immigration,” Sister Agatha repeated firmly. “Who told you that crazy story?”

  “The policía. He say if I talk to anyone I go to jail—then back to Mexico.”

  “Which deputy told you that?” Sister Agatha asked.

  Seeing her hesitate, Sister Agatha lowered her voice and met her gaze. “Won’t you help me? If you do, I promise to pray for you—that you might receive a blessing, too.”

  “And if I say no?” she asked.

  “I can’t force you to do anything. If you won’t help, then we’ll leave.”

  She nodded slowly, fear slowly melting away from her features. “I help. The deputy was Mac Cai,” she said, pronouncing it carefully.

  Sister Agatha wasn’t surprised. “Tell me what happened the day of the accident.”

  The woman took a deep, shuddering breath. “Beatriz gave me ride because it rain, but wipers not work so good in her car. Then bam! I use seat belt, but Beatriz…” She shook her head, and a silent tear ran down her face. “I no can help. The steering wheel…her face. Then policeman come.”

  “McKay was the officer who arrived first?” Sister Agatha pressed.

  “No. First officer más joven…young, and not tall. He help me to his car and put me in backseat. Then Mac Cai come. He talked to Señor Holman. Very soft. I couldn’t hear. Then Mac Cai helped Señor Holman into the front seat of his police car.”

  “You mean the backseat,” Sister Agatha corrected. The rear seat of a police cruiser had no door handles and no way for a suspect to get out.

  “No. Front,” she insisted.

  “Before putting him in the car, did the deputy make him walk a straight line, or touch the tip of his nose?” Sister Agatha asked, demonstrating.

  Carmen shook her head. “No. He just put him in car…and they shake hands.”

  Like friends, Sister Agatha mused silently.

  “Mr. Holman no walk very good. Had too many cervezas that day,” Carmen added quietly.

  “Beers,” Sister Jo translated.

  “That one, I got,” Sister Agatha said, then looked at Carmen. “And you signed a statement, right?”

  “Sí, but my English not so good. Mac Cai wrote and said to me just sign. He said keep my mouth shut.”

  Sister Jo glanced at Sister Agatha. “I don’t get any of this. Why would Sergeant McKay tell her that Immigration would come for her masquerading as a nun?”

  “McKay must have known that I’d become a threat to him if I found out about this. And he was right. Now that I have, I’m not letting this go.” Sister Agatha turned to Carmen once more. “When did McKay tell you to be careful about speaking to nuns?”

  “He come to my apartment. Yesterday at night.”

  Sister Agatha nodded pensively. At long last they were on the right track.

  20

  BEFORE SISTER AGATHA COULD SAY ANYTHING ELSE, A woman came through the back door. Sister Agatha recognized Katherine Brown from her photo in the yellow pages.

  “Hello, Sisters,” she said with a smile. “I saw your monastery’s famous wheels outside. If you wanted a donation, you should have gone straight to my office.”

  “You were with clients, and actually I wanted to talk to your housekeeper,” Sister Agatha said, shaking her hand.

  Katherine glanced over at Carmen, then reached into her pants pocket and brought out several bills. “Here you go, Carmen,” she said. “Thanks.”

  The young woman muttered a quick “Gracias,” then hurried out the front door, where a sedan was waiting for her. Within seconds, the car disappeared from view.

  “Something must have upset Carmen. She forgot to schedule a time to come next week. What did you say to her?” she demanded, glaring at Sister Agatha.

  “Did you know she’s in this country illegally?”

  “How would I know something like that?” Katherine countered smoothly.

  “Do you always pay your employees in cash?” Sister Agatha countered.

  “She prefers it that way.” Katherine stood at the window, looking out at her driveway. “I wonder if I’ve just lost my housekeeper,” she added with a sigh.

  “Do you know about the accident she had?”

  “It couldn’t have been her fault. She was just a passenger,” Katherine answered flatly.

  “Would you give me Carmen’s phone number in case I need to talk to her again later?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “I don’t have it, and no address either. Beatriz, God rest her soul, recommended Carmen to me and handled all the arrangements—until the accident. All I know about Carmen is that she’s reliable and incredibly honest. She even returns quarters she finds between the sofa cushions.”

  Sister Agatha held her gaze. She had a feeling Katherine was telling her the truth. “If you see Carmen again, will you let me know?”

  Katherine exhaled softly. “She won’t be back. People like Carmen survive by staying under the radar. If somebody shows too much interest in them, they disappear like puffs of smoke and reinvent themselves elsewhere.”

  “Thanks,” Sister Agatha said.

  They were back inside the Antichrysler when Sister Jo’s stomach suddenly growled loudly. Sister Agatha laughed. “Thanks for the reminder. It’s time for us to head home and get something to eat. Afterward, you and Sister Bernarda can use this vehicle to make the lunch deliveries.”

  A short time later, driving the Harley, Sister Agatha was back on the road, knowing there was still a lot of work to be done. Pax, as usual, was in the sidecar.

  Sister Agatha went directly to the sheriff’s station and walked inside with Pax at heel beside her. The mayor’s aide was seated at a desk in the bullpen, but he was engrossed in a conversation with a deputy and didn’t see her come in.

  Sister Agatha continued to Tom’s office and knocked on his open door.

  He glanced up from his computer keyboard, a look of pure relief spreading over his features.

  Sister Agatha gave him a bemused smile. “That must be some report you’re working on if you’re this eager for an interruption.”

  He laughed. “You have no idea. I’ve spent the better part of the morning nitpicking details and sorting through bureaucratic jargon. This is, no doubt, the mayor’s revenge for my latest act of defiance.” Tom leaned back and studied her. “What have you got for me?”

  She closed his office door and took a seat. As she told him what she’d uncovered concerning Holman’s car accident, his expression grew somber. “So what do you think?” she asked at last.

  “Our chances of finding Carmen now are slim to none. My guess is she’s already left town. But I’ve been working on something else that may pay off.” He met her gaze and held it. “What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this office, clear? The mayor is tight with Holman, and I don’t want this coming back at me or you.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’ve had an internal investigation under way for several weeks now—long before the murder. I have reason to believe that we have a dirty cop in the depart
ment, one with a strong political ally. That’s why I’ve been moving slow. If this department makes enemies among the powers that be, our budget will be one of the first things to go south. So we’ve been watching our step at the same time we’ve been gathering evidence. Gerry Bennett was working on this with me, doing a lot of the field interviews.”

  “Does your investigation involve State Senator Holman?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Holman must have heard my footsteps coming up behind him. Word is, he’s hired himself an attorney—Mike Langley.”

  Sister Agatha’s eyebrows rose. Langley was a top defense attorney known for skillfully manipulating juries.

  “Langley’s been around since your journalism days, so I know you’ve heard of him,” he said. “As for Holman, he’s built a solid power base by handing out favors whenever he can. When the county tried to condemn a strip of land at the south end of town to build a new bridge, he immediately went to bat for the residents. The project was dropped, and Holman made a lot of friends in the process, including a few really big developers. In my opinion, plays like that keep him in power.

  “On the other hand, a negligent homicide charge, especially with a DWI conviction, would destroy his political career. It would also cost him the backing of powerful people like Mayor Garcia, who’s very sensitive to public opinion.” In a hard voice, he added, “If my officers at the scene hadn’t dropped the ball, Holman would have been hung up to dry.”

  Silence stretched out between them. At long last, Sister Agatha spoke. “We’ve known each other too long for secrets. There’s something else bugging you. I can see it on your face.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “McKay saved Holman’s butt by taking over Bennett’s field investigation of the accident—then making sure any additional charges were dropped by not showing up in court. That led me to suspect McKay was dirty. Since Gerry already knew some of what went on that day between his sergeant and Senator Holman, I recruited him to help gather evidence to make an internal affairs case against McKay. Then, as you know, not long afterward we started finding indications—but no proof—that Bennett’s responsible for Jane Sanchez’s death. It looks like McKay found out what we were doing and went on the offensive to discredit our IA investigation by placing a cloud over Bennett. The problem is that I can’t prove any of this, and meanwhile the circumstantial evidence against Gerry keeps piling up.”

  “Could Bennett explain how unit 73 turned up on Calle de Elena at a time he claims he was elsewhere?”

  “He says Sister Jo was either tricked or mistaken. Gerry also swears he’s never owned a .22 pistol, though he does have a single-shot rifle of that caliber.” Tom paused, then added, “One more interesting thing. McKay was assigned to our K-9 unit when he first joined the department. Though he never worked with Pax, he knows how to deal with an attacking dog. If he was the one who threatened Sister Jo that night, he would have known to wear padding or protection on his arm.”

  Sister Agatha left the station deep in thought. The suspect list wasn’t long—Bennett, McKay, and Holman. Yet instinct told her that she was still missing something—and what she didn’t know could end up ruining careers, or maybe costing someone’s life.

  As she and Pax walked to the Harley, Chuck jogged out of the department doors and hurried to meet them.

  “Hey, Sister Agatha. Hey, Pax.” Without waiting for an invitation, he scrambled into the sidecar beside Pax. “Sister Agatha, let me ride along with you today. I know you’re on the trail of a story. Don’t worry, I won’t print anything until you give me the go-ahead.”

  “You’re going to be disappointed, Chuck. All I’m doing next is stopping by Smitty’s to pick up some things for the monastery. You may have to hold the groceries.”

  “Just let me tag along. Things happen around you.”

  She laughed. “Okay, but put on the spare helmet.” As a former reporter, she understood that it was always better to be in on a story than to just repeat the news secondhand later. “Maybe we’ll do more than shop for groceries,” she added, thinking she owed him.

  Chuck grinned widely. “So what have you got?”

  His enthusiasm was unbounded, and Sister Agatha smiled at him. “Okay, off the record?” Once he nodded, she continued. “What I’ve got is mostly speculation, nothing solid. That’s the problem. I believe Sergeant McKay has been creating and manipulating the existing evidence from the start, hoping to help himself and a politician friend of his. Bribery and payoffs probably figure into this as well. If I’m right about McKay, he’s the one who took a photo of me inside Smitty’s and used it to threaten the monastery. There’s no video available of that day, but I thought I’d ask Smitty which officers stop by regularly and see if McKay’s name comes up.”

  “Smitty’s new coffee bar is really popular these days, so he might not be able to be that specific. I’ll talk to the clerks, and then we can compare lists.”

  When they arrived at Smitty’s, they found that Chuck’s prediction had been right on target. Too many officers, including McKay, frequented the coffee bar. Even Tom himself came by once or twice a day.

  As they left the supermarket, Chuck’s pager went off. He dialed a number on his cell phone quickly, then spoke in a hurried voice.

  Sister Agatha waited, her gaze meandering around the parking lot as she tried to figure out her next step. That’s when she spotted a truck parked two slots away with a large magnetic sign attached to the driver’s side door. What surprised her most was how snugly the sign fit—like a second skin. There was barely an outline, and she was almost sure that from a distance no one would have ever realized it wasn’t painted on. As she studied the business telephone number listed on it, another idea occurred to her.

  Sister Jo had been sure that she’d seen the number 73 on the deputy’s car that day on Calle de Elena—but what if the entire incident had been engineered to mislead them? The deputy could have stuck a magnetic sign with the number 73 over the painted number, hoping to pass it off as Bennett’s cruiser. Then he made the fake call asking for a Good News lunch delivery. He’d known that the phony address would guarantee that the nun making the delivery would pass right by the car.

  Excitement began pounding through her. At that instant, her own cell phone rang. It was Sister Jo.

  “I was called to substitute at St. Charles this afternoon and got a ride into town with Father Rick. Now I need a ride back, and Sister Bernarda said I should call you.”

  “I’m not far from St. Charles. I’ll come by and get you.”

  Chuck joined her again. “Sister, that call I just got was from a source of mine. Deputies have arrested a couple of kids for tagging the gym at St. Charles with gang symbols. I’ll need to take photos.”

  “I have to go over there and pick up Sister Jo. Do you want a ride?”

  “You bet! Pedal to the metal, Sister Agatha.”

  “Chuck, you just love riding in this Harley, even at highway speeds, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, actually. My parents refused to let me have a cycle when I was growing up, and later on it seemed impractical, but it’s a lot of fun.”

  At the school, they saw that the gym had become an advertising poster for an area youth gang. Sister Agatha saw two sheriff’s department units parked next to the main building, and there was a prisoner in the backseat of each squad car. The boys were high school age, judging from their size, but she didn’t recognize either one.

  “See you,” Chuck said, taking off his helmet. Getting out quickly, digital camera in hand, he jogged in the direction of the tagged wall.

  Sister Agatha didn’t give the teens in the vehicles more than a passing glance. She was more interested in the squad cars themselves. She took time to study the height and style of the painted numbers and to confirm their shade of brown, approximately the color of a dead cottonwood leaf, and the white color of the vehicle itself, only a shade darker than the white on her habit. Her thoughts still on the magnetic sign she’d
seen outside Smitty’s, she hurried inside and found Sister Jo near the main office.

  “I need to ask you something,” Sister Agatha said without preamble. She told Sister Jo about the magnetic sign and how simple it would have been to apply and remove. “Is it possible that the number 73 you saw wasn’t part of the squad car, but rather a magnetic sign overlaid on it?”

  Sister Jo considered it for a long time before answering. “I suppose it is. I just took a quick glance, really. At the time, I was looking for a nonexistent house number and not thinking much about anything else.”

  Sister Agatha nodded. “I suspected as much,” she said, leading the way to St. Charles’s main office. “We aren’t going back to the monastery just yet. There’s something else we need to do first.”

  Borrowing a telephone book from the secretary, Sister Agatha looked in the yellow pages for places that specialized in magnetic signs. Ruling out companies that specialized in billboards or custom-carved signs, she focused on the smaller shops that offered one-day service.

  At long last, she found a store in Albuquerque’s North Valley that made vehicle magnetic signs exclusively. They assured her they could make numbers as large or small as the client demanded, with hundreds of styles to choose from. Sister Agatha got directions to the shop and hung up.

  “The shop I want is in Albuquerque,” Sister Agatha told Sister Jo, “maybe thirty minutes from here. We’ll go there right after we stop by the Chronicle and pick up some newspaper photos of McKay and Bennett.”

  “You’re after the man who tried to drown me, aren’t you?” Sister Jo asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Do you think he was the same deputy I saw with Holman?”

  “I think so, but don’t worry,” Sister Agatha said gently. “Our goal is only to find out who he is, not to confront him.”

  “I’ll help you as much as I can,” Sister Jo said, taking a deep breath. “That man may have also killed Mrs. Sanchez and shouldn’t be walking around free.”

  “Experience tells me one thing,” Sister Agatha answered. “Although the face of evil can disguise itself—and often does—that blackness of the soul always comes to the surface and gives itself away.”