by Lynn Bohart
“Have any new monks arrived recently?”
“Many young priests come as postulants for one or two-year programs. They live here on a temporary commitment. Some remain, while others conclude this isn’t the life for them.”
“Did anyone come recently?”
Father Damian paused, his hands crossed at his abdomen like the bodice of a period dress. “Three came to us within the last few months,” he exhaled the words.
“May I have their names?”
He sat forward, bristling. “They are referred to us by their seminaries and come with the highest recommendations.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but this is a murder investigation and we have to consider all possibilities.
The monk blinked once or twice and then licked his lips, leaving a layer of moisture behind. To Giorgio, his lips looked like two large glazed doughnuts, and he dropped his gaze to his notepad. He was hungry.
“Brother Frances arrived from San Francisco in August,” Father Damian explained, “and Brother Julio in early September. He came from Chicago.”
Giorgio recorded the names and paused, waiting for the third. When he looked up, Father Damian was staring at him, the bushy eyebrows twitching like restless caterpillars. Finally, he relented.
“Brother Daniel arrived some six weeks ago from New York.”
Giorgio stood to leave. “Thank you, Father. We’ll also need to know where each monk was at the approximate time of the murder.”
Father Damian’s long fingers grasped the edge of the table. “I can tell you where we all were. We had a nine o’clock prayer.”
“I’m sorry, Father, but the body was merely found at nine o’clock. We don’t know when the murder took place. Our job is to interview the guests tonight and as many of the monks as possible. It would help to have all of them stay in their rooms, and I’d prefer they didn’t speak to each other.”
Father Damian seemed to hold his breath in an effort to control his temper. When he exhaled, he relaxed only slightly.
“I’m sure you believe these precautions are necessary. We’ll help in any way we can. However, I must tell you that this investigation must be wrapped up within a few days.”
“Why is that?” Giorgio couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
“The Bishop is scheduled to arrive next weekend. Everything is on a fast track, including repairing the cracks in the tower caused by last month’s earthquake. I daresay a murder investigation would not be to the Bishop’s liking.”
Giorgio was speechless. Under other circumstances, he would have assumed Father Damian was joking, but the man’s face lacked any hint of humor.
“Father, we don’t conduct murder investigations on a timetable.”
“I don’t think you understand, Detective. The Bishop is coming for a regional forum. He will be joined by about twenty abbots from all over Southern California. Once the forum has begun, it cannot be interrupted. So, I encourage you to complete your investigation as quickly as possible.”
“I make no promises, Father,” Giorgio stated flatly.
He left Father Damian and met Swan at the foot of the stairs.
“Joe, we’ve found something interesting. One of the guests says she saw the victim arguing with someone earlier this afternoon. She didn’t know the man, but we have a description and will stay on it. And several people have already left the conference. I guess the dinner was optional.”
“Do we have a list of everyone who left, or perhaps isn’t staying here?”
“Yes. And the times they left.”
“Leaving the facility could just be a diversion. Who’s the conference chairperson?”
“A man named John Marsh. He’s still in the banquet room. You can’t miss him. Tall, with a mustache and a beard.”
“Okay. Keep at it, and Swan,” Giorgio stopped him, “where can I get that coffee?”
Swan’s normally placid face broke into a grin. “I’ll find someone. I recognize a star personality when I see one.”
Giorgio went back into the banquet room and spotted John Marsh sitting with a glass of wine. A short, bald man was bent next to him talking earnestly into one ear. Marsh had thinning gray hair and a sparse gray moustache and beard clipped close to a protruding chin. His head was much too small for his body, looking like the period at the end of a sentence. When Giorgio approached, the bald man moved a few feet away but leaned in their direction, listening intently.
“Mr. Marsh, I need to ask some questions.”
“I’ve already talked with one of the uniformed policemen,” he replied, rubbing life back into his dull brown eyes.
“I’m a detective and need to hear the information for myself.” Giorgio glanced at the bald man who couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d held a small glass up to his ear. “Perhaps we could step into the lobby?”
Marsh rose reluctantly and they went into the lobby leaving the bald man to retreat to a corner alone with a look of abject disappointment on his face. A long, dark-stained wooden bench offered them a seat against the wall.
“You’re in charge of the conference?”
“I have a committee working with me, but I’m the chairman…was the chairman,” he corrected himself.
Marsh slouched forward with his elbows across his knees. His dated tuxedo was too small and when he stretched his hands forward, the sleeves pulled up to expose black and white cufflinks fashioned in the form of dice. Giorgio had the feeling he was still on stage and had merely changed plays.
“We’ve been planning the conference for over a year,” he said. “We announced the date and location at the closing dinner last year. It’s sort of a tradition.”
“Tradition?”
“To build up excitement for the coming year. We usually include some gimmick. That’s why we’re all in costume. We scheduled a mystery game this year to promote next year’s conference in Burbank.”
Giorgio just stared at Marsh until he filled in the blank look on his face.
“The movie studios,” he prompted. “We’re called the San Gabriel Writers’ Association, so we look for locations in the area conducive to an intensive two-day writing conference.”
“Are all of your guests writers?”
“Most of them. But out of the sixty or so who registered, we had six agents this year. We also have some fans who attend.”
“Fans?”
“Sometimes we have well-known authors who come and speak.”
“Ms. Olsen was an agent, not a writer or a fan?”
“That’s right,” he replied, stiffening at the mention of the dead woman’s name. “She came in the place of someone else.”
“Is it the usual practice that an agent would be replaced without telling you first?”
“No. We’re usually notified in advance. Sometimes that person will find a replacement, but often we’re faced with the task.”
“Did anyone know Ms. Olsen would be attending?”
“We were only told when she arrived. Of course, we were grateful Ms. Tomlinsen asked her to step in. Otherwise, a cancellation at this late date would have caused a problem. You see, we recruit agents who represent all sorts of works. Fiction, non-fiction, children’s books, mysteries, things like that. People sign up in advance to meet with the agents. Seven people had signed up to meet with Ms. Tomlinson.”
“Then Mallery Olsen and Beth Tomlinson handled the same kind of books?”
Marsh seemed to hesitate before answering. “Ms. Tomlinson handled a broad list. I assume Ms. Olsen did as well.”
“Do you have the names of all the people who interviewed with her?”
“I’m sure we can provide that. I’ll ask the Program Chair, Ms. Levinsky.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me that might be of help?”
“I didn’t know her myself.”
His dark eyes darted away, and he rubbed his large hands together as if he were wiping something sticky off his fingers. Giorgio thought he was lying.
“You never met her?”
“I introduced myself at the opening reception. She seemed pleasant enough. As chair of the event, I don’t have time to pay attention to anything but the details of running the conference. I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much.” He said this rapidly, his face devoid of all emotion.
“Do you know of anyone who came late to the dinner tonight?”
He raised one hand to his chin, bringing attention to his nicotine-stained fingers and long fingernails.
“I’m not quite sure, but I can find out. I’ll ask the woman who was in charge of the table arrangements.”
“Did you see anyone leave any time before nine o’clock?”
Marsh gave a throaty laugh. “Detective, many people left the room all through the night. The bathrooms are down that hallway.” He pointed behind the main staircase. “And the bar was set up out here.”
Giorgio rose, and Marsh took the cue he was free to go and stood up as well. “I’ll probably want to talk with you again.”
“I don’t check out until tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be sure you have my contact information.”
Although Marsh was a good five inches taller than Giorgio, he seemed ill at ease. Giorgio thought it was either the costume, or there was something Marsh wasn’t telling.
“Thanks for your help. I know this is very hard.”
“You have no idea. I just fear it will damage our reputation. We want this wrapped up as quickly as possible, Detective.”
As Marsh walked away, Giorgio was left thinking about the work that lay ahead. He would have to concentrate on searching through pages of useless information from hundreds of potential witnesses in order to find one needle in a haystack. It was a familiar process. As a boy, he’d excelled at putting together complicated puzzles. No surprise, he’d grow up to do it again.
Inside his coat pocket, his fingers found the strange button from the parking lot. He took it out and studied the outline of the ornate Latin cross stamped into the tarnished brass. Giorgio didn’t believe in coincidences. This button had come out of nowhere, and it meant something. He just didn’t know what.
He glanced up to where a round plaque hung on the wall above the head of the stairs. Etched into the wood was an exact duplicate of the cross imprinted on the button in his hand.
Chapter Six
He lay on the small, uncomfortable bed with his arms folded behind his head. The interview had gone well. A young cop with red hair had asked cursory, simple questions meant to establish the basics. He’d applied just the right inflection of sadness in his answers. After all, a young woman had just died. He would be expected to feel badly about that.
In return, he’d gleaned important information of his own. The police had no suspects and couldn’t figure out how someone had gotten the victim into the closet without being seen. The girl’s name was Mallery Olsen, and she’d been strangled. So far, no one had reported seeing anything suspicious. But something else, something more sinister had happened the young cop wouldn’t reveal. Of course, that sinister “thing” was sitting safely tucked away in an envelope inside the closet. The officer had also divulged there was only one detective on the force trained in homicide investigations, but he wouldn’t be available to take the case tonight. That was a fucking stroke of luck.
He rolled onto his side thinking about the girl. Mallery. He’d dated her for a short time in college when her name had been Mallery Young. They’d met in the theater; she’d played Guinevere to his Lancelot. Like most stage romances it had lasted only until closing night. She briefly dated his best friend as well, saying the only way she could tell them apart was by the color of their hair and how well they performed in bed. He just assumed he was the better lover.
Perhaps he should have indulged himself tonight. They hadn’t seen each other in over five years and yet, clearly, she’d been interested. She’d appeared out of nowhere to join him on the bench in the garden as he sat enjoying the fading sun. She’d been all chatty and curious about his appearance. Although he’d tried to engage himself in their conversation, his mind had raced ahead in an effort to resolve the situation. She could blow his cover, now, or when the conference was over. Fortunately, she’d suggested the rendezvous in her room before the banquet. All he’d had to do was suggest keeping it private. She’d gone back to the conference while he’d returned to his own room to figure out what to do.
His initial panic quickly morphed into a concentrated planning mode. The “what” (what to do) was answered immediately. He had to get rid of her. The “how” (how to do it) was a little more difficult. Fortunately, the location of his room came to his rescue. In the end, it had all been incredibly easy, and he remembered the odd sense of detachment when he wrapped the green silk scarf around her neck. She’d struggled and squirmed, but when the small bone in her neck snapped, her legs had gone limp, and he’d dropped her to the floor.
He’d stood over her for a moment, wondering at the perverse sense of power he felt at having killed another human being. When he’d shot Mangano, the man who had killed his father, the power had been contained in the gun, dissipating quickly once the gun was eliminated. With the girl, the power had been in his bare hands. But that feeling hadn’t lasted long. A mist had formed above her body breaking the spell and making him step back. The memory gave him a chill even now. He thought perhaps it was her soul leaving her body. That hadn’t happened with Mangano, but then, maybe Mangano didn’t have a soul.
Getting Mallery down to the closet had been the biggest challenge. She hadn’t weighed much. Even rolled in a blanket, she’d been easy to balance on one shoulder. The real risk had been running into someone. But even the caterers had been too busy to notice him as he’d entered the rear hallway. Once he was in the closet, he’d been relatively safe. Hanging her on the utility rack and then removing her little finger was meant to achieve maximum attention. That was important. He wanted news of this to reach across the country. After he placed her on the hook, he’d had time to indulge himself with a feel beneath the fabric of her dress for old time’s sake. Her perfume lingered yet on his finger tips, and he dragged the back of his hand across his upper lip, inhaling the full aroma of her scent.
Shit! The perfume!
He sat up, flinging his feet to the floor in one fluid movement.
Had the young cop smelled it?
He jumped up and ran to the bathroom with a curdled feeling filling his stomach. Grabbing the hand soap, he lathered up.
Stupid mistake. Stupid, stupid mistake! He had to get rid of the smell and hope the officer hadn’t noticed it. Thank God he’d been fortunate enough to draw the biggest novice in the bunch. A mistake like this could have given him away. He scrubbed until his fingers were almost raw, even lathering up the back of his hand and putting the wings of the eagle tattoo into motion. He kept this up until only the crisp smell of the soap filled the small bathroom. Then he dried his hands and leaned on the sink, staring at himself in the mirror.
He’d killed a girl he’d once had feelings for, and yet he didn’t really care. It was just something that had to be done. Survival. There had been no hesitation, no moment of question, and no guilt. Was that how his uncle felt when he took care of business? When he’d ordered his only nephew to disappear because he’d made a mistake?
He turned off the water and watched the soap disappear down the drain. This was no time for sentimentality. His uncle would expect more. Hadn’t he always said, “Never underestimate your adversary?” Even dim-witted police could identify mistakes, so there couldn’t be any mistakes. Not if he wanted back in the family. The girl was dead, and the disguise had been hidden away. He was invisible again. He was safe. Tomorrow, he would use the disguise to mail the envelope, sending this small-town police department into a tail spin. After all, deception wasn’t so hard. All you had to do was help them focus on all the wrong places. Like any good magician, it was only a matter of misdirection. And that was something he was very, very goo
d at.
Chapter Seven
Giorgio dropped the coin back into his pocket. Marsh wasn’t telling all he knew. That was clear. But what did the deception mean? As Marsh disappeared around the top of the stairs, a red-haired officer appeared from the opposite direction.
“McCready!” Giorgio called up to the young man. “Where’s Swan?”
The officer lifted his eyes from the Blackberry in his hands. At twenty-four, McCready was the youngest member of the Sierra Madre department and the tech whiz.
“Joe, I didn’t think you’d be here tonight. Swan’s interviewing two women up here,” McCready said, jerking his head back and to the right. “Do you want me to get him?”
“No. Thanks.” Giorgio grabbed the carved finial at the foot of the stairs and took them two at a time, stopping to look over McCready’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’re not playing solitaire on that thing?”
McCready was never far from a keyboard and was already lost again in the small display window. He looked up, his blue eyes lost in a curious expression.
“I’m putting in my notes, Sir.”
Giorgio smiled and continued around the head of the stairs. He found himself in a dreary, narrow hallway. Voices drew him into the first room to his right where Swan was finishing up with two older women. The room was sparsely furnished with twin beds covered by eyelet bedspreads and green chenille blankets. Giorgio gave Swan a nod, encouraging him to continue with his interview. He decided to look around while he waited.
The hallway extended forwards for about seventy-five feet with rooms on both sides. Giorgio’s footsteps were muffled by a series of threadbare, Middle Eastern carpet runners laid end-to-end. Two amber wall sconces splashed soft arcs of light across the faded, floral wallpaper. The hallway ended at a window that looked out onto a small roof. Giorgio glanced out the window and then tried the window. It was securely locked. Retracing his steps, he passed the brunette from the driveway, the one wearing the slim, white suit with the split skirt. She glanced his way, her eyes lost in shadow as she disappeared into her room.
