He'd always apologized, and she'd always made excuses for him, and anyway, when you were a devoted Catholic, divorce wasn't an option.
But since his murder, she'd emerged from that strange netherworld he'd gradually driven her into, that place where she didn't seem able to defend herself or even find the gumption to leave. That place where he had somehow convinced her that she deserved every bit of the abuse he heaped on her.
And she'd vowed never to let anyone hurt her again. She'd also vowed she'd never again do anything of which she had to be ashamed, and she was ashamed of her entire relationship with Jules. It stood in her mind like a flashing neon sign, reminding her always of her weakness and folly.
No, the Bible wouldn't offer her any comfort. It would just remind her that she had locked herself up so tightly that she felt almost nothing, and any way she looked at it, that was a sin. It was a sin not to care about your neighbor. It was a sin to perform acts of charity only at a safe distance. It was a sin to avoid involvement.
And maybe her greatest sin of all was despair. She talked the talk, but she didn't walk the walk. She had told Matt he needed some exposure to good people, like those in the church who had stood by her during that difficult time, but she didn't believe it in her heart of hearts. No, in her heart of hearts she no longer trusted any human being on the face of the earth.
There, in the dark of the night, in the privacy of her own bed, she finally admitted she didn't like the person she'd become.
Across town, the watcher was staring blearily at the TV in his seedy motel room, watching one of the three local channels it offered. In his hand was a glass of scotch, and beside him on the rickety table was a half-empty bottle of the same.
His conscience was killing him. From the minute he'd had to take care of Steve King's body, he'd begun to have doubts about what he was doing. At first he'd been able to pretend they weren't there, but tonight they reared up in all their ugly glory.
Innocent people were going to die. Somehow, taking care of King's body, the body of a young man who hadn't done a damn thing to deserve a bullet in the back of the head, had rattled him out of his comfortable detachment with the
reality
of what they were about to do. In his mind, tonight, King's body multiplied by the dozens. By the hundreds.
And he wasn't at all sure that what he was doing was justified by love of his country and a desire for all people to live free of fear of terrorism.
Tonight had been the night when he'd sent the coded go-ahead message to the point man, giving him the date and the tail number of the plane that the watcher had rented. And somewhere out there, a misled man was making his final preparations to kill.
It didn't ease the watcher's conscience any that they were striking at a military target. It didn't ease his conscience that he was just a cog in a convoluted machine. He might as well have been the trigger man.
Finally, sodden with scotch, he staggered over to his laptop and re-sent the coded e-mail, a fudged photograph, this time to the cannon. He knew what the cannon would do with it. The man, for the most part, was pathetically predictable.
And the watcher would have deniability if it ever came out. Would be able to claim he'd only been pushing the cannon.
Then, feeling his conscience ease a bit, he let the scotch take him down. He dozed fitfully on his bed, propped against pillows, the TV still running. He'd been having trouble sleeping for a long time, and finally the mixture of scotch and fatigue caught up with him.
Beneath the sound of the TV — some World War II documentary — he didn't hear the sound of someone picking the lock. He wouldn't have heard it even if he had been awake, and the scotch had taken him to deeper realms of unconsciousness than mere sleep.
A few seconds later, something disturbed him. He opened his eyes and started to sit up. And looked into the last human face he would ever see.
“The maid discovered the body at around two-thirty this afternoon,” Mort Phelan told Matt.
The two detectives stood at the doorway of the motel room, looking in. The criminologists were already busy, dusting, photographing, vacuuming, checking every surface and drawer. The victim lay on the bed, covered by a white sheet.
A large section of the exterior passageway was cordoned off, and down at one end some guests were complaining loudly that they wanted to get to their rooms and their belongings. A manager was assuring them that he'd move them and their possessions to other rooms just as soon as the police allowed it, but not one minute before.
This was a cheap motel in a bad part of town, the kind of place that catered to a combination of transients and skinflint tourists. The kind of place where it wasn't exactly astonishing to find a murder victim. Although to hear the manager tell it, he had never had any trouble.
Matt Diel knew better. He remembered having to roust drug dealers and prostitutes from the place during his days in uniform. Things probably hadn't improved all that much.
“The lock was picked,” Phelan went on. He was a stubby, heavy man with a comb-over that did little to conceal his baldness and a fondness for brown linen suits that always looked as if they'd been slept in. “The chain and dead bolt weren't set. The vic's throat was cut, probably while he was sleeping. No sign of struggle. No wallet, no ID, no watch.”
“So it was a robbery.”
“It looks that way.”
Matt nodded, debating whether to follow the carefully taped path, laid out by the criminologists, over for a look at the corpse. Probably not. The blood spray all over the room and floor opposite the corpse said all that needed to be said about the fatal injury. From where he stood, he could see a half-empty bottle of premium scotch on the night table.
He pointed it out to Phelan. “That's expensive stuff.”
“Well, the anomalies don't end there, I’m afraid.”
Matt looked at him. “No?”
“No. The clothes are decent. Better quality.”
“How much better?”
“Well, he shopped at Penney's and men's stores. It's all casual stuff, but definitely middle class.”
“Maybe he was down on his luck.”
“Maybe. All of it's in good condition, not worn or stained. Even his underwear looks relatively new. The suitcase is a middle-quality wheeled carry-on, looks like it's done a lot of flying. The manager says this guy checked in about two weeks ago.”
“From where?”
“Baltimore.”
“Hmm.”
“Anyway, we've got his name, address, and credit card number.”
“But no perp.”
“Hell,” said Phelan, “we're never going to find the perp unless he was kind enough to leave a batch of prints that are already on file. Or unless somebody squeals.”
“Somebody will squeal.”
“I hope.” Phelan pointed across the parking lot. “That's his car.”
“Keys?”
“Yeah,” said Phelan, holding up a key ring. “Rental car. Budget.”
“Well, he must have been on an interesting budget himself. Rental car, decent clothes, and staying in a fleabag motel.” Matt sighed and edged into the room, realizing he was going to have to make his own assessment. Mort was okay as a detective, but he tended to see only the obvious. And nothing about this case was obvious.
Slashing a throat was a stupid way to kill someone. It was a bloodbath that usually left a trail of evidence from footprints to … aha! There on the wall beside the closet was a partial silhouette outlined in dry blood. The perp. The guy had left the crime scene covered in blood.
And footprints on the blood on the carpet near the door. Ridged soles. It appeared the perp had wiped his feet repeatedly just inside the door, not wanting to leave a blood trail outside.
So he hadn't been hurrying away in terror. Whoever had committed this robbery hadn't been in a panic, at least not after he'd killed the victim.
Stepping carefully to one side, Matt peered into the bathroom. Bloody towels. Cripes, the guy had stopped to wash up. Okay, so the perp hadn't been insanely stoned. Didn't mean much. The guy could simply have felt safe once the vie was dead.
“Did the maid come into the room?” he asked, looking at the footprints by the door.
“No,” Phelan answered from outside. “She unlocked the door, pushed it open, then ran.”
“Okay. Can we look at the car yet?” Since Phelan was lead on this case, he needed to be careful not to tread on his touchy toes.
“I dunno. Max?” he called to one of the techs.
A tall woman with short black hair straightened and looked around.
“Car?” Phelan asked.
“We haven't done that yet,” she answered. “Why? You need to look?”
Phelan shrugged. “I doubt it's involved. Not from the way the scene looks.” He looked at Matt. “You got a reason for wanting to look?”
“Just that I like to scan everything, and I’ve got an appointment to get to another case.”
Max shrugged. “No problem. Use your gloves and be careful. You don't want to ruin prints. Lew, log it, will you? Phelan and Diel are going to open the car.”
The car, like most rentals, was in fairly pristine condition. The vie, whoever he was, apparently didn't stash papers and notes in the car. The only giveaway that the car had ever been used was a bag from a fast-food restaurant, indicating the guy had eaten a burger, fries, and large drink recently. The glove box held only an owner's manual. Matt found the rental agreement tucked behind one of the visors.
He opened it carefully, hating the way the latex gloves felt on hands. The victim was apparently named Lance Brucon, he'd paid by credit card, had skipped the deductible waiver and …
Matt's head snapped up, and he looked across the top of the car at Phelan, who appeared to feel they were wasting their time.
“The vie got a government discount on this car.”
Phelan's eyebrows mounted his forehead. “Which government?”
“Federal.”
“Oh, holy shit.”
Matt looked at the papers again. “That's what it says.”
“So what's a federal employee doing in a fleabag like this?”
“Maybe saving on his per diem,” Matt suggested. “I hear they get a cash advance for travel. If they don't use it all, some of them keep it.”
“Yeah. Makes sense. Okay, let's look at the trunk. Maybe there's something useful in there.”
But there wasn't. It was empty.
But it wasn't spotless. A rusty stain, about four centimeters square, marked one side of it. Maybe nothing. Matt leaned in and sniffed it. The odor was faint, very faint, but he knew what it was. “Blood,” he said. His scalp began to prickle.
“Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Phelan said. Then he turned. “Max!” he yelled.
“I’ve got to go,” Matt said abruptly. “Listen, I want this blood run against the DNA database. It might be tied into a case of mine. And I want carpet samples from the trunk.”
Phelan looked at him. “Talk about grasping at straws.”
But Matt was already leaning into the trunk again, peering around very carefully. No oily gravel. Shit. But his scalp wouldn't stop prickling. “Just do it, Phelan. Do it for me, okay?”
Phelan shrugged. “You should only be so lucky. But yeah, I’ll ask ‘em to run it.”
“ASAP,” Matt said. “I need it ASAP. Priority. As fast as they can frigging do it, okay?”
Phelan just shook his head. “You know the FDLE lab. They're in their own world. They hate to be pressured. Makes ‘em dig in their heels. They're
scientists?
”
“Just do what you can.” Then Matt left, headed for his meeting with Chloe.
“We've got to stop meeting like this,” Chloe said as she faced Matt across another table in another diner, with chipped mugs of coffee.
“You want I should find someplace with tablecloths?”
“How about the zoo? We could walk while we talk.”
“Hell, I need to sit down sometimes. This is a good excuse.”
She almost laughed. He loved it when those icy eyes of hers actually held humor.
“I got a problem,” he said. “You know anybody at the FDLE lab?”
“Are you kidding? Those people refuse to hang out with cops and lawyers. It might affect their impartiality.”
He hadn't really expected to hear anything else. And he told himself it didn't really make any difference. If the bloodstain was linked with the murder of Steve King, then King's killer was probably dead, and Father Brendan should be safe.
But he wasn't buying it.
“Matt, what's going on?”
He sighed, stirred some creamer into his coffee. “You know you might be right. At a better restaurant, at least I could get Half & Half.”
“Matt?”
She wasn't going to let it go. And for some reason he didn't want to tell her, because he didn't want her to say, “Matt, you're crazy.” He didn't want to hear that from
her.
“Matt?”
He sighed again. “Oh, what the hell. Tell me I’m nuts. I was out on a case earlier this afternoon. Fleabag motel. The guy's throat was slashed.”
“Ugly.”
“Messy. Anyway, we were checking out his car, and in his trunk we found a bloodstain. Just a small one, but …”
Her eyes once again looked like glaciers. He hated when she hid like this.
“Who was the victim?”
“Apparently he was a federal employee.”
Her gaze drifted away toward the window at her elbow. He let her be, because he'd known her long enough to recognize when she was thinking. He would let her think as long as she needed, because regardless of whatever other problems he might have with her, he respected her instincts.
Finally, she spoke. “You know what a reach that is.”
“I know.”
Her eyes came back to his. “However, when you said federal employee, I thought of Father Brendan being in the navy.”
“So maybe I’m not nuts.”
“Or maybe we both are.”
“Maybe.” She rolled her head as if trying to ease tension. “Well, okay. We know there had to be a couple of people involved, or Steve never could have been put on that cross. So if the victim in your other case was one of the killers, there are still others out there.”
“True.”
“Which means maybe Father Brendan isn't safe.” She shook her head. “Matt, just don't say the ‘c’ word.”