by Aimée Thurlo
21
ONCE OUTSIDE, SISTER AGATHA LOOKED AROUND, FOUND Chuck, then went to join him.
“Hey, Sister! I need a ride back to the Chronicle. Can you drop me off?”
“Funny thing—I was planning to go there next. I need your help finding some photos.”
“Get me back there so I can write up this story in time for tomorrow’s edition, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“You’ll have to get on behind me,” she said. “Sister Jo will ride in the sidecar with Pax because of her habit. It’ll avoid complications.”
Twenty minutes after dropping off Chuck and gathering the photos, they arrived at Sign by Design. The business was in a residential area that had been rezoned during the sixties or seventies and ran alongside a major street. The shop itself was a work area inside a single-car detached garage.
As Sister Agatha stepped in with Pax, Sister Jo right behind her, a bell above the door rang.
“How may I help you, Sisters?” the man asked.
Sister Agatha kept Pax close beside her, but the man didn’t seem bothered by him. “We were hoping you could talk to us about magnetic signs—small ones listing only two-digit numbers,” she added tentatively to see how he would react.
“Like a car designation for a business fleet? I did one of those for a private business recently.”
“For whom? Do you mind if I ask? I’d like to see a sample of your work.”
“I didn’t get a name, or even his company name. He came in, paid cash, and left.”
“And you said it was a two-digit number?” Sister Agatha verified.
He nodded. “Seventy-three, if I remember right. Is that the type of sign you’re interested in?”
“If it was medium brown lettering on white, I really need to find the person you made the sign for. Will you help us? I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t very important,” she added, looking directly at him.
He considered it briefly. “I’ll help you. Fact is, I didn’t much like him—and I’m partial to nuns. My sister and I both attended St. Pius,” he added with a twinkle in his eye. “Like I said, though, I didn’t get his name.”
“Would you recognize his photo?” Sister Agatha asked.
“He was wearing sunglasses and a cap, but maybe I could.”
She brought out photos of Gerry Bennett and Michael McKay. “Do either of these men look familiar?” Chuck had cropped the photos so only their faces showed. She hadn’t wanted the shop owner to see that they were sheriff’s deputies.
“Both do, since they look so much alike, but I think he’s the one,” he said, pointing to one of the photos.
Realizing she was now looking at the probable killer, she didn’t know whether to be sad or happy. “You sure? Was he short or tall?”
“More toward the tall side. My memory’s pretty good when it comes to faces. If I saw him in person again, I’d recognize him for sure.”
“And the number he wanted was 73, brown on a small white background, the letters being about five inches high?” Sister Agatha asked.
“That’s it, except the letters were five and a half inches tall, to be precise. I was hoping he’d come back for other numbers, maybe 1 to 72, but I never saw him again.”
“Thanks very much,” Sister Agatha said.
“Where to now?” Sister Jo asked as they walked back to the motorcycle and sidecar.
“Back home to the monastery,” Sister Agatha answered. “I need some peace and quiet so I can think things through.”
Sister Jo leaned forward in the sidecar to pet Pax, who was sitting on the floor, his head around the side of the small windscreen so he could watch where they were going. It was a cozy fit.
“If the sign maker’s right, that means the killer’s a law enforcement officer. He probably knows exactly how to cover his tracks.” Sister Jo shouted to be heard through their helmets and the rush of the wind. “Maybe he’ll keep coming after you or me until he finishes the job.”
Sister Agatha’s heart went out to the young nun. Stopping by the side of the road, she removed her helmet. “Remember that story in the Bible when Elisha’s servant was scared that they’d be defeated? Too many stood against them. Elisha assured him that they weren’t in danger despite the way things seemed to be. Then Elisha prayed, and his servant suddenly saw chariots of fire all around them,” she said. “God never abandons His own.”
“I wish my faith was like yours—unshakable.”
Sister Agatha blinked in surprise. “You’re giving me way too much credit,” she said softly. “We all have what St. John of the Cross called ‘dark nights of the soul.’ During those times we can practically feel ourselves slipping away from God.” She was remembering her struggle with guilt and her feelings of inadequacy. “But He always calls us back. That’s when we realize that although we left Him, He never left us.”
“Sometimes God doesn’t answer prayers, though.”
“You mean requests. He always answers prayers, but sometimes we’re so intent on the answer we want, we miss the other possibilities He brings our way.”
Soon they were on their way again. At the lumber store, Sister Agatha pulled in and parked. “We could really use a donation of lumber and materials to build our well house. I’m going to see if I can talk to the owner. We have the new pump, but we need to enclose it before bad weather arrives.”
Emilio Rodriguez was behind the counter talking to a yard worker in a hard hat when he saw them come in. “Sisters,” he greeted them, waving.
Sister Agatha knew Emilio well. He’d come from Cuba and had worked hard to build his own business here in Bernalillo.
“What can I do for you today, Sisters?”
“Mr. Rodriguez, we could use some lumber to construct a small well house,” Sister Agatha said. “Do you have any you could spare? We’d be happy to keep you in our prayers in return for your generosity.”
“I’d be happy to help you, Sister,” he said with a nod. “You’ll need two-by-sixes for framing. You don’t want low-grade lumber for something like that. You’ll need to make sure you protect that well.” He added, “You’ll also be needing flooring and roofing, Sisters. I can’t afford to give those away, but I’d be happy to let you make small payments if you’d like.”
An elderly woman who’d been sitting at a desk at the back of the room came up to join them. “Que quieren, mijo?”
Sister Jo smiled. “Just some wood—madera,” she added.
Emilio looked at her. “You speak Spanish?”
She nodded. “Since I was a kid. That’s why the Church had me working at Catholic Charities in Santa Fe, teaching English to new immigrants.”
Emilio’s eyes lit up. “Sisters, I’ve got a proposition for you. If Sister Jo helps my mother with English, I’ll give you everything you need for your well house free of charge, including the roofing and flooring. Just bring me your construction plans and we’ll go from there.”
“I’d enjoy teaching her English,” Sister Jo said, nodding eagerly, looking at Sister Agatha. “I can help the monastery build the well house, too. I took shop and architectural drawing back in high school. I’m a very good carpenter.”
Sister Agatha looked back at Emilio. “It’s up to Reverend Mother, of course, but I think she’ll be pleased with this arrangement.”
“Great!” Emilio said.
“I can whip up a design for the well house in a couple of hours using one of the programs we already have in the scriptorium,” Sister Jo added.
“Fax me the design, and I’ll deliver everything to the monastery tomorrow,” Emilio said, shaking both their hands. He then introduced Sister Jo to Marisol, his mother.
Sister Jo’s friendliness immediately put Marisol at ease, and they began chatting in Spanish.
Sister Agatha waited, Pax at her side, then signaled Sister Jo when it was time to leave.
The next day, shortly after Morning Prayers, Sister Agatha went to the parlor. Since Sister Bernarda hadn’t arrived, Si
ster Agatha unlocked the doors, then went to the desk to call the sheriff.
Sister Agatha told Tom what she’d done yesterday afternoon at the sign shop. “The sign maker was pretty sure of his ID. McKay is now your best suspect.”
“Suspect, yes, but what you’ve got doesn’t prove murder—or establish a motive. All it proves is that he had a sign made up, if the proprietor picked the right man.”
“When you’re ready, you can have him make the ID in person. I’m sure McKay will try to cook up an excuse for the sign, but it’s going to be tough. Why would he want a squad-car-sized sign with the number 73 on it, using the colors and configuration of a department vehicle?”
“I’m sure he’ll come up with a plausible reason. For instance, he could say he was planning on playing a practical joke on Bennett.”
She swallowed her frustration and forced herself to stay on track. “Have you found out anything new about the pistol?”
“That points more in McKay’s direction, but it isn’t enough to stand on its own. The lab managed to lift several numbers, and those they did get are consistent with a pistol McKay bought years ago. The problem is that the last three digits couldn’t be identified, so McKay’s pistol is only one of a thousand possibilities.”
“How about those memo pads recovered from the trash bin? Any impressions recovered?” she asked.
“Not a one.”
“Jane’s the key,” she said in a soft, thoughtful tone. “We know that she was more or less stalking Gerry during her lunch hour.”
“Yeah, but how does that tie in with McKay?” he asked.
Sister Agatha said nothing for a few seconds, her thoughts racing. “What if she saw another deputy she initially thought was Gerry, caught him doing something that may have been incriminating, then realized she had the wrong man? She wouldn’t have necessarily known what to do then. That could explain why she wanted to talk to me.”
“That doesn’t get us anywhere. We still don’t know what she saw. It could have been Holman paying McKay off for falsifying evidence related to a fatal car crash—or not. The problem is, we can’t prove a thing now that Jane’s dead and the only surviving witness, Carmen Morales, has dropped out of sight. But the theory does make sense and fits in with some facts our internal affairs investigation has turned up. McKay’s spending habits don’t fit his pay scale.”
“So what you’re saying is, although McKay was probably responsible for Jane’s murder, you still can’t take this to court.”
“Not with what I’ve got so far, no.”
“Any chance that you could identify the pistol recovered as McKay’s weapon by ruling out the other nine hundred and ninety-nine? They should all be registered, right?”
“Thinking outside the box, huh? It’s a stretch, but we’ll only be able to narrow the list. Some will have been stolen, lost, or sold during gun shows, which makes them nearly impossible to trace.”
“What about the actual murder, then? McKay’s alibi is that he was playing golf with State Senator Holman, right?” she asked. “Considering what we now suspect, that’s awfully convenient.”
“Yeah, but two of the senator’s aides were part of that foursome. They vouched for him as well.”
“Which may just mean they’re afraid of losing their jobs. Let me see if I can poke some holes into his alibi,” she said.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Tom said slowly. “What are you going to do?” Before Sister Agatha could answer, he quickly added. “No, stop! Don’t tell me. Sometimes it’s better if I don’t know.”
Hanging up, Sister Agatha began formulating a plan.
Sister Bernarda walked into the parlor. “Will you be off to town again, Your Charity?”
She nodded. “Pray that I’m finally seeing things in the right light and that we’ll have a resolution soon.”
Sister Agatha stepped outside and whistled for Pax. Seconds passed, but to her surprise, the dog didn’t come racing around the corner of the building. Worried, she whistled again as she walked toward the parking area. That’s when she spotted him, his tail wagging, standing by the Antichrysler. His panting grin was almost saying, “Where have you been?”
“Okay, furball, have your laugh. I was a little slow this morning.” She looked down at her hands. They were more swollen than usual, and her knees ached. She’d taken her medication, but it hadn’t kicked in yet.
As a counter to the pain, she began praying. She wouldn’t give in to this. She had too much to do. Today, she’d have to find a way to destroy McKay’s alibi and an idea about how to do that had come to her.
Twenty minutes later, she parked in front of Louis Sanchez’s home. His car was in the driveway, and she could smell the delicious scent of barbecue sauce coming from the backyard. Putting Pax on a leash, she walked around the side of the house and found Louis at the grill.
“Sister Agatha, welcome. I bet you caught a whiff of these ribs all the way out at the monastery!” Louis said, waving a long-handled spatula.
She glanced down at the grill, then, puzzled, stepped closer. “Those are salmon fillets, Louis. But they do smell delicious.”
He took another look. “Did I say ribs? I meant salmon. I think I’ve been inhaling too much smoke.”
Sensing his confusion was part of the grieving process, Sister Agatha said softly, “We all miss her, Louis.”
He nodded and wiped an errant tear from his eye. “So what brings you here, Sister?”
“I’ve come for your help on something related to Jane. Can you spare a moment?”
“Sure, but for the next three minutes or so I can’t leave the salmon unattended. Can we talk out here?”
“Actually, Louis, I wanted to take a look at Jane’s prayer book. It was returned to you, along with her purse and other personal items, if I recall.”
He nodded. “It’s still on her desk in the living room. Why don’t you go on in and get it?”
“Okay. Pax, stay.” Sister Agatha went through the kitchen door, noting the fresh vegetables and fruits on the counter. There were probably a dozen memos, all pink, still stuck to the refrigerator. Sister Agatha stopped to read one. SUNDAY. PICK UP KALE AND FRESH TOMATOES AT FARMER’S MARKET, it said in Jane’s distinctive script.
Jane’s handbag was sitting on top of the desk. When Sister Agatha picked it up, she saw the layer of dust beneath it. The desk, however, was spotless. Clearly the purse had been placed on a dusty desk, and later, when the desk’s surface had been cleaned, the purse hadn’t been touched. She wondered how long Louis would leave Jane’s purse exactly where it was.
Sister Agatha found the prayer book with Jane’s name written neatly on the front. For a second she wondered if she should pick it up by the edges, but, seeing traces of powder left over from when the police had dusted it for fingerprints, she realized it didn’t matter anymore.
Holding it at an angle to the light and close to her eyes, she went through it, page by page. After a moment, she found what she was looking for, the place where Jane had stuck the memo while writing. Hands shaking with excitement, she checked once more to be certain. There were faint impressions there—letters, and words. Thank goodness Jane had used a ballpoint pen instead of a felt-tip marker.
Sister Agatha adjusted the angle several times and finally was able to make out the message. It didn’t come as a surprise.
“I’ve got you now,” she whispered aloud, slipping the prayer book into her pocket.
“Got what, Sister?” Louis was standing in the entryway to the kitchen.
“I’ll let you know just as soon as I can, Louis. In the meantime, you don’t mind if I borrow Jane’s prayer book for a bit, do you?”
“Not at all. Do you and Pax want to share my early lunch?”
“No thanks. We’ve got to get going. But isn’t it a bit early for lunch?”
“Jane always told me that several small meals a day are better than a few big ones, so I’m trying it out.”
Sister Agatha rushe
d past him toward the kitchen door. “I’ll bring the prayer book back just as soon as I’m done with it, okay?”
“Sure. ’Bye for now, Sister,” she heard him say from somewhere behind her.
“Come on, Pax,” she called. “We’ve got business.”
Armed with this evidence, and working on the possibility that Holman and McKay had a reason to protect each other’s alibis, she decided to go talk to Holman’s aides. As a nun, she could get farther with some informal questions than Tom could with his badge. Of course, first she needed their names.
She considered calling Tom and asking, but, all things considered, it would be safer to get the information from Chuck Moody. If she called Tom, she’d have to explain about the prayer book, go by the station, and maybe lose her only chance to follow up without the restraints of police procedures. Her way would guarantee Tom information as well as the prayer book later today.
After a quick visit to the Chronicle, she got the two names she needed—John Andrews and Kevin Johnson—and their contact numbers.
“I’d like to come along, Sister,” Chuck said, walking her to the door.
“Not this time, Chuck. I’ve only got one shot with each man, and my only advantage is that they’re both Catholics and have been raised to know that they can trust a nun. John Andrews is active in the parish, and I’ve known his family a long time. I’m hoping he’ll find it easy to talk to me in person. If not, I’ll try Kevin Johnson.”
Sister Agatha went to John Andrews’s office, but only his administrative assistant was there.
“I’m sorry, Sister, he’s taking the day off. He’s been putting in long hours projecting the local impact of regulations and laws passed in the recent legislative session.”
“I understand. So I suppose he’s over at Las Palomas Golf Course?” It was only a guess, but according to what she’d heard from Chuck in the past, the pueblo’s eighteen-hole course was well known and popular with local politicians and business leaders. Lots of deals were cut on the links.
“Yes, that’s where he goes to unwind. He’ll be there all morning.”
