She shook her head.
“I would imagine his paintings will bring far more now.”
She frowned as she nodded.
I waited, but she didn’t say anything.
From out of the kitchen, an elegant all-white Turkish Angora cat strolled into the living room and over to Paula’s chair. The white fur coat covering the animal’s thick body was so shiny and silky it didn’t look real. As the cat approached, Paula put her feet back on the floor, and with one graceful motion, the cat leapt into her lap.
“You suspect me of having something to do with his death, don’t you?” she asked, her gaze leveled at me, her green eyes narrowed and intense.
I shrugged. “Haven’t ruled anyone out.”
She smiled. “I appreciate honesty, but I was nowhere near the institution when it happened. And it didn’t happen in the visiting park, but in the PM unit where I’ve never been nor could ever go.”
She didn’t seem too upset, didn’t seem like she was capable of getting too upset over anything, so I decided to press her a bit.
“Doesn’t mean you didn’t have something to do with it.”
“And I’m the one with the money motive.”
“Are you?”
“His half of this house, his half of the gallery, his place in Pine County, and all his art.”
“People’ve killed for less,” I said.
“A lot less. A conservative estimate would be over two million, and if his paintings take off like I think they will, it could be ten.”
“That’s a lot of cat food,” I said.
She smiled, and seemed to purr contentedly, though I was pretty sure I was just imagining that.
“You haven’t even told me how it happened.”
I rectified that.
She listened to me intently, resting the full weight of her attention on me. She had a sultry, sleepy quality about her, a seeming unapologetic languidness that heightened her beauty and allure.
“So you don’t even know how it happened. Not really.”
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“Well, I didn’t have anything to do with it. Would you find out who did? For me.”
“Why would you ask me?”
“Justin told me all about you. Said you used to be a cop and if I ever needed anything or if anything ever happened to him you were the one to call. He trusted you.”
I felt a pang of guilt for not doing more for Justin—and not just last night.
“Why didn’t you mention that when we spoke last night?”
She pulled back from me, body tensing, eyes wide, looking like a child in trouble. “I wish I had. I guess I just thought . . . well, Justin always had a little of the drama queen in him, you know? I just didn’t take it as seriously as I should. I did ask you to check on him.”
I nodded. She had and I had not—at least not soon enough.
“Will you find his killer for me?” she repeated, absently stroking the cat.
“I’ll try to help . . . where I can.”
“Thanks. I feel better already.”
“Talk to me about him. I’d like to hear about him, his case, anything from your perspective.”
“He was gay. I say that first because he would. It was often the first thing out of his mouth. He was very comfortable with it—with himself. Please don’t hold that against him.”
“I don’t.”
She studied me for a long moment, her eyes narrowing as her head came forward slightly.
“You don’t, do you? I thought . . . I mean as a preacher I’d expect you to . . .”
“I’m not that kind of preacher.”
“But—”
“I wish a minister was the last person you’d associate with judgment and condemnation.”
“He was like that, too. Full of love for everyone. That was part of his downfall. He was too trusting. Thought everyone was basically good. But they’re not, are they?”
“No,” I said. “They’re not.”
“He was caged up with some real animals. At first, I was glad to hear he was in that protective unit thingy. At least until . . . . It didn’t protect him, did it?”
She lifted the cat, shifting her weight in the chair in order to reposition her legs, and as she did, I was reminded again that all her movements had a distinctive feline quality. Sitting there together, animal and owner, the two favored in ways that could only be the result of spending an enormous amount of time together.
“He said that he was about to get out. Was gonna testify, get a reduction in his sentence. He was nervous about it—no, that’s not it. Well it is, but there’s more to it. He was nervous about testifying. But he was scared, too. He said if anything happened to him to tell you that it would be related to him testifying. I could tell he didn’t want to do it. But someone he loved was getting out soon and he wanted to be with him.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“Chris.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded.
“Last night you said he didn’t seem like your brother. Is it possible that he wasn’t?”
Her face lit up. “You mean Justin may not be dead?”
“Sorry. I meant during your visit.”
“I didn’t mean it literally. He was just so different.” She paused for a moment, then locked her eyes onto mine. “Is there any chance that Justin’s still alive?”
I shook my head slowly. “I would’ve never come here and told you he was dead if I wasn’t sure. I even had FDLE compare his prints with his file after what you said about him being so different.”
She nodded and looked away.
“If you still have any doubts or think it would help, I can arrange a viewing for you.”
Without any warning, the cat leapt out of her lap and onto the floor next to me. Then, in one fluid motion, she stretched out and rolled over on her back. When she looked up at me, I took it as a signal that I was supposed to rub her, which I promptly did.
“That won’t be necessary. It was him.”
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“Well, maybe I better. I don’t want to, but it’ll be the best way to get it out of my head.”
“I’ll set it up.”
“Thanks.”
“You know what he was testifying about?”
“No. He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Is there anything else you can think of?” I asked.
“Rest of the time we spent catching up on personal stuff.”
Every time my hand neared the cat’s head, she lowered her nose and nuzzled it, pressing her head hard against it. Anytime I stopped rubbing, she would tenderly drape her paws across my hand for a few moments, then nudge her head against my hand until I started caressing her again.
“What can you tell me about his case?”
“He was innocent. Set up by the sheriff of Pine County. Howard Hawkins—corrupt son of a bitch.”
Something in the way she hissed the words made me think of a cat.
“It’s why I wasn’t happy about him being in the protective unit. He was in on a sex offense. But he was set up. Hawkins’s own grand kids were the victims. I think it was somebody in the family, and Hawkins, homophobe that he is, set up Justin to take the fall because he wanted him out of Pine County. Justin was getting quite renowned—he couldn’t just run him out or kill him without attracting a lot of attention.”
“I’ve hear rumors about Pine County over the years. Why would Justin live there if it’s so—”
“My mom’s dad left him some land and a small house there. I told him to sell it and put the money toward a place somewhere else, but it was a beautiful place to paint—and he had been so happy there as a kid. It was my grandfather’s place. Been in the family a long time.”
“You really think he was innocent?”
“I’ve spent a lot of time checking things out. Even hired a PI who found out a good bit before taking off with my retainer. I know it in my heart, but
I couldn’t prove it. Not in court. It’s Howard’s brother. He’s lost several jobs and now his family over it. But Howard protects him. Protection. I can’t believe they put Justin in there with . . .”
“With who?” I asked, expecting to hear the name Juan Martinez.
She gave me a strange look. “I hear they keep all ex-law enforcement in there.”
“Most. Yeah.”
“Mike was a deputy.”
I tried to recall an inmate named Mike in the PM unit, but was unable.
“Howard’s son,” she said. “Mike Hawkins.”
At first, I couldn’t respond. The whole reason for protective management was to keep inmates like Mike Hawkins and Justin Menge away from each other.
“You sure?”
She nodded.
We sat in silence a moment as I wondered how something like this could’ve happened.
Eventually, the cat got up and slowly sauntered out of the room and into the kitchen.
After a while, she said, “You don’t do Catholic funerals, do you?”
I shook my head. “Pope won’t let me. He’s got this whole rule about having to be Catholic. I figured Father James would do it.”
She shook her head, her jaw clenching, anger burning in her eyes. “He actually told Justin the Catholic Church would be better off if he were dead. I know it sounds crazy, but I keep thinking if Hawkins didn’t kill Justin then that evil old priest did.”
Chapter Nine
“Will you hear my confession, Father?” I asked.
“Why?” Father James asked, the medicinal smell of mouthwash on his breath. “You thinkin’ about converting?”
There was movement in the other side of the dark wooden box confessional and with it the smell of cheap cologne.
“Call it professional courtesy. Besides, confession’s not just good for the Catholic soul—and I’m part Catholic.”
The morning sun was a soft pink glow illuminating the stained-glass depiction of the crucifixion above the choir loft, but the sanctuary was cold and dim except for the small flickering light of a few votive candles near the altar.
“Which part?” he asked.
“I can tell you which part it’s not. It’s not the celibate one.”
He let out a small, forced laugh. “Okay,” he said wearily. “Let me have it.”
I did.
Afterwards, he said, “Say five Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys.”
As the sunlight grew, the pink glow was replaced by orange beams that pierced through the windows, driving the darkness from the sanctuary and breathing life into the now seemingly animated glass images. The confessional was less like a coffin now, though Father James was still a disembodied voice in the darkness.
“That it?” I asked.
“You’re not exactly the last of the big-time sinners,” he said. “I mean really, John, your life’s pretty dull.”
Often abrupt and off-putting, Father James lacked the social grace to be a parish priest anywhere much larger than Pottersville, and whether it was the result of too many years in the military, too many years of living alone, or just too many years was a source of speculation among both members of his church and the community.
Like me, he was rumored to have a drinking problem, but, unlike me, he didn’t have much of one—or one at all—and I’d always guessed the rumor was more small southern town Protestant prejudice than anything else.
In the momentary silence, the loud creaks of the massive oak beams supporting the roof reverberated through the empty church.
I looked up at it.
“The roof’s not going to fall in,” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t often darken the doors of . . .”
“A Catholic Church?”
“Any church.”
“Why’s that?”
“I work in an institution, but I’m not fond of them.”
“The institutional church has much to dislike, but it’s not all bad.”
“Wasn’t saying it was.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s not just one thing—and it’s me, it’s not—”
“Just give me a few.”
“Individuality, creativity, free thinking’s not always encouraged.”
“True. What else?”
“Answers. Too many answers. An answer for everything. Not enough questions. I prefer questions.”
“Well then, go ahead and ask me yours. You’re here to question me about the murder last night, right? Come on, let’s get out of this box.”
We stepped out of the confessional and took a seat on a pew near the back. The morning light filtering into the sanctuary was bright enough to reveal several coarse dog hairs on his old ill-fitting black suit. He wore a black clergy shirt that was a noticeably different shade from his suit, but without the white tab that made it a Roman collar. Whether the missing tab was intentional or not, it contributed to his unkempt appearance.
“Can you think out here?” I asked with a big smile.
A look of confusion on his red, puffy face was quickly replaced by widening eyes and a smile. “No wonder you don’t fit. Too much of a smartass.”
From the side door near the front, an elderly woman with a curved back hobbled in, genuflected as best she could, lit a candle, and knelt down to pray.
“So,” he said softly, “whatta you want to know?”
“What can you tell me?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said. “Cooperation.”
“I was concentrating on Mass. I didn’t leave the altar during that time.”
“See anybody around Menge’s cell?”
“Chris Sobel went by a couple of times. I think maybe he stopped one time, but I’m not sure. I saw him in front of it, looked away . . . a moment later when I looked back he was still there, but maybe he’d been to his cell and he was passing by again.”
“Or in Menge’s,” I said.
“He was acting so strange—coming so late, not wearing his shoes.”
“What about Menge? Were you surprised he wasn’t at Mass?”
“Yeah, but I was relieved, too. He’s such a little pain . . . He hated the church, but wouldn’t leave it—and he hated it for all the wrong reasons. He was always interrupting me. I always dreaded goin’ in there.”
“Why do you?” I asked.
“Because,” he said. “The little busybody wrote the bishop and demanded it. I don’t have time for it. I’m serving three parishes as it is. None of ‘em’re very big, but they’re spread out in three different counties. I spend most of my time in the car.”
“Will you stop doing it now that he’s dead?”
He nodded. “It’s why I killed him. Nah, if I were willing to kill to get out of doing Mass, I’d be a mass murderer.”
“Cute,” I said.
“Better than your lame ‘think outside the box’ thing.”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
The flickering candles backlit the elderly woman as she prayed, making her movements clipped and jerky, highlighting her deformities, and she looked like a minor character in an old, under-cranked horror film.
“Did you go around to the cells prior to the service?”
He nodded. “Always do. Walk by each one so that everyone can see me. Let the regulars know I’m there. They’re usually open.”
He was right. Though the quad door always remained locked—or was supposed to—the cell doors for PM usually stayed open. In theory PM inmates weren’t a threat to each other or the staff as much as they were threatened by the rest of the population. The only reason one of G-dorm’s quads was used for PM inmates was because of how easy it was to isolate them from the rest of the population.
“They were closed and locked last night because of the threat I received,” I said.
“Didn’t do any good, did it?”
“You see anything strange when you walked by Menge’s cell?”
He shook his head. Didn’t see anything. It was dark.”
“Darker than the other cells?”
He thought about it. “Yeah, I guess it was. I really didn’t think about it at the time.”
“But you looked in?”
He nodded. “It was empty.”
“Did you look at the floor?”
He shook his head. “I never walk right next to the doors. So I can only see from about the waist up. Plus the windowpane is so narrow.”
I looked back at the elderly woman in the front. Even at this distance and in candlelight I could see that the fingers fondling the rosary were disfigured and arthritic.
“Anybody else outside the cells?”
“The man with you. Officer, the white one, and—”
“Potter?”
“Yeah. He was all over the place. Seemed hyper or upset about something. And a woman.”
“A woman?”
The elderly woman looked back at us for the first time.
“Yeah,” he whispered.
“Sorry,” I said. “This is the first I’ve heard of a woman being down there. Was she an officer? In uniform? What?”
“No. She had on pants and a blouse.”
“Was she staff? Wearing a DC name badge?”
“Not that I saw, but I only saw her from a distance.”
“What’d she look like?”
His face contorted into a questioning frown. “Not sure exactly. I try not to look at attractive women too closely.”
“So she was attractive?”
“Yeah. Kind of exotic. Cuban maybe. Do they grow this far north?”
“And this was all prior to Inspector Daniels and myself coming in?”
“Just before.”
“What about the flyer? How long you been using it?”
“Couple of weeks.”
“Who printed it?” I asked.
“I did. On my computer. Why?”
“One announcing the murder looked identical to it.”
“How could an inmate do that?”
“Not sure,” I said with a shrug. “Maybe one of the inmates in the PRIDE printing program did it for him. Even so, don’t know how he’d get it into PM. Don’t know how any of it was done at the moment.”
“Then you’re wasting a lot of valuable time.”
“Oh yeah?”
“How can you hope to figure out who did it if you don’t even know how it was done?”
The Body and the Blood Page 6
