“The ‘c’ word?”
“Conspiracy.”
Which finally brought into clear light the ugly little thing that had been running up and down his back since he'd seen the car trunk. “I didn't say that,” he pointed out. But now he was sure as hell thinking it.
“Do you know how insane that sounds? We don't want to go off the deep end.”
“Trust me, I have no desire to do a Mel Gibson.” And truly he didn't, but that ugly little word kept looking him right in the eye.
“However,” Chloe said, “we have this little problem.”
“To say the least.”
She fell into thought again, this time for a minute or two. “I know an expert witness. She used to be with the FDLE crime lab.”
His interest perked. “Really?”
“Yeah. Five years is about all any of them can take of the job. Burnout comes fast. Anyway, she works for me and other defense attorneys as a forensics expert. Paid witness. I’ll talk to her. Maybe she still has a friend or two at the lab.”
“Thanks, Chloe.”
“Give me the case info in case she agrees to help.”
He scrawled it all down for her, tore the page from his memo book, and passed it across to her. “Now, what about the zoo?”
She looked at him, a smile lurking in her eyes. “The zoo closed hours ago, Matt.”
“Hell, in this town, the
real
zoo never closes.” She laughed, and he allowed himself to enjoy the moment. “Why'd you mention the zoo if you knew it was closed already?”
“I just wanted to see how you'd react.”
That was interesting, he thought. Very interesting. However … “We've got a headache here, Chloe. A big headache.”
She rested her elbows on the table and folded her hands together beneath her chin. “I know,” she said. “But let's not jump our fences before we come to them. I’m going to go call Agnes.”
“Agnes?”
“The expert witness.”
An hour later, they were sitting in Agnes Lucci's living room. Matt guessed that expert witnesses made a lot more money than crime lab grunts. Either that, or Agnes had married money.
Agnes herself was a quiet-looking woman, pretty enough, but no standout. Maybe thirtysomething, on the early side of the decade. She wore a tasteful beige linen dress and a strand of pearls. Rather dressy for an evening at home.
“Okay,” Agnes said, after she'd offered them refreshment, which they had declined. “What is it you need?” She looked at Chloe as she spoke, apparently considering the cop in the room to be a mere appendage.
“I need your influence,” Chloe said bluntly. “There was a murder today that might be tied in with a murder a week ago. What I’d like to know is if you think you can get someone to do a match with the blood of last week's victim and the blood found in the car trunk today.”
“That can be requested through channels.”
“We don't have time,” Chloe said. “Whoever killed the guy last week is making threats against someone else. We need to know as soon as possible if these two crimes are linked in any way.”
“It takes about a week to process blood for the database.”
“I know that. But if you knew someone who could prioritize this, so it could be run against the last vic's blood, it would be a great help.”
Agnes sighed. “Chloe, you know how they are about interference over there. They don't want their objectivity to be compromised, and I can't say I blame them. I feel the same way.”
“I know you do, and that's admirable, and I’m not asking anyone to compromise anything. What I need is speed. I don't want them to hear my theory of the case or anything else. I just want some speed. Lots of speed. Before someone else gets killed.”
Agnes pursed her lips a moment before speaking. “Let me tell you something else. If that blood was in that trunk for a week, in this climate, then the likelihood they can get a specific match is about nil.”
Matt felt his stomach sink. “Why?”
Finally, she favored him with a look. “Because DNA deteriorates rapidly in the heat. I seriously doubt you could get a specific match at this late date.”
“Oh, hell.”
Chloe leaned forward. “But they could get
something?
”
“Well, they might come up with a phone book. Maybe. Dozens, if not hundreds or thousands of names.”
“Then I want the phone book,” Chloe said firmly. “Because if the right name even pops up in it, we might be on to something.”
Agnes was silent for a few moments. Then she said, “All right. I still have a friend over there. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m gonna kiss your feet,” Matt said, as they stood outside beside their cars.
“You never would have said that to a man,” Chloe remarked.
“No,” he said, “I probably wouldn't have. But what does that have to do with the price of peas in Polatka? Cripes, Chloe, do you always have to be such a ball-buster? Where the hell did that come from?”
She turned to face him, and her expression was almost sad. “I don't know,” she said.
“Well, maybe it's time you stood down from high alert status. I’m not trying to start World War III with you.”
On that grouchy, irritable note, he turned on his heel, climbed into his car, and drove away.
And Chloe stood there alone, staring at his departing taillights.
Victor bought the clock because it ticked. He'd been using a digital clock in his room because digital clocks seemed to be the only kind cheap enough to be affordable. But then he came across an old-fashioned-looking windup clock that actually ticked. He bought it and put it right beside his bed, close to his head.
Lying down, he closed his eyes and listened to the tick-tick-tick. He'd always loved the sound of a ticking clock. The sound of time's passage soothed him with its promise. He knew most people were afraid of time, afraid of its gradual erosion of life. Victor loved it, and it wasn't only because he was so young.
All his life he'd loved the sound of time marching audibly past,
tick, tick, tick.
It reassured him with its steady progression no matter what else might be happening, no matter how horrible or unendurable it might seem. He even enjoyed it in happy moments, enjoyed its measure.
He listened to it now and tried to curb the excitement that fluttered in the pit of his stomach. He had his date and his plane was waiting for him. He'd fabricated the smudge pot that would burn the tire mulch, and the canister that would feed the chemical payload into the smoke, and the nozzle and control mechanisms to dispense the deadly gaseous cocktail.
Tick, tick, tick.
It was the most beautiful sound in the world.
Brendan had a headache. It was pounding and throbbing in his temples, and he knew it was tension, pure and simple. Being watched all the time by off-duty cops, at considerable expense to the church, and being limited in his duties was making him about as happy as a caged tiger.
He eyed the bottle of bourbon on the cart in the rectory parlor. It was Dominic's bottle, used only occasionally in the evening, just a sip or two of whiskey. Brendan never joined him.
But that bottle was looking awfully good right now, and he had to tear his gaze from it. Booze had become his crutch toward the end of his navy days. Never interfering with his duties, but becoming too important eventually to be denied. He'd managed to shake it during his time in the monastery, and hadn't touched the stuff again.
But Jack Daniel's was looking like an old friend right now, and that wasn't good. He couldn't afford to fall into that pit again. He'd managed to catch himself before the stuff had taken over his life, and he wasn't going to give it another run at him.
But oh, God, his head hurt. And his heart hurt. And his soul hurt. He needed to get moving, but he had this awful gap in his afternoon, a gap caused by the limitations Matt and Chloe had put on him. Dominic was out dealing with things Brendan should have been dealing with.
He hated this.
Just then a cry reached him. It sounded like Lucy, the secretary, and he was out of his chair in an instant, headed toward the front office.
When he stepped through the doorway, he saw her. She glanced toward him, her face almost white, then swiveled back to her computer, clicking her mouse.
“Lucy? What's wrong?”
She shook her head, her attention fixed on her screen. “Nothing, Father. Nothing. You know how we sometimes get that obscene junk e-mail from those porn websites.”
“Sure.” But he didn't believe her. They'd gotten those messages before, and she hadn't cried out. “It must have been a bad one.”
“It was. I can't believe the filth of some minds.”
She was shaking, he realized. Shaking and looking ready to shatter. He stepped farther into the room. “Lucy?”
She looked at him finally. “Yes, Father?” Her eyes were pinched.
“Lucy, it was more than that.”
“No, it wasn't, Father. It was just worse than usual. Don't you worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
But he still wasn't buying it. “Show it to me, Lucy.”
“No!” Then she looked a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry, but there's really no need for you to see it.”
“You don't need to protect me. But I
do
want to know what upset you. Maybe I can do something about it.”
“You know you can't do anything about the mailing lists we get on to. There's no way to stop this stuff.”
He stood beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. “Don't lie to me, Lucy.”
She gasped quietly.
“It was worse than that, and I want to see it.”
“Father …”
“Lucy.”
After a moment, she reached a trembling hand toward her mouse and clicked it a couple of times.
Then, filling Brendan with horror and numbing shock, he saw a photo of himself. A photo of him standing over a body sprawled in the grass.
Matt was ready to beat his head against a brick wall, but one wasn't handy. He absolutely hated it when all his cases were stuck and every single one of them, from the murder of Steve King, to the throat-cutting, to the attempted murder of a prostitute, was mired. No leads, and going nowhere.
Nobody was putting a priority on the prostitute case, except him. He gave all his cases top priority, and there was little that frustrated him as much as having no solid leads to pursue.
So he sat at his desk and worked his way through the files, trying to find something, anything, that he might have overlooked. Something that when viewed from a different angle, might give him the break he needed.
Most murderers knew their victims. Those cases could usually be solved in a few days, or a few weeks. But when there was no link between victim and slayer, and nothing but inconsistent or nonexistent physical evidence left by the perp, it was like heading down a blind alley.
So back to Steve King. Why would a stranger kill the kid? Unless the stranger wanted to scare the priest, which was where this case pointed. Still …
Chloe was right. He didn't even want to think that “c” word, at least until they had some reason to link the two murders.
So far they'd worked on interviewing parishioners and parish employees, but nobody had an unkind word to say about Brendan. Which didn't mean a damn thing. But as far as he was concerned, any possibility that the Father had committed the murder had gone out the window after the call from the diocese, linking the King case to something that had happened in Brendan's past. That was just too damn convenient.
Which reminded him. He needed to call Chloe and find out if she'd learned anything about the suicide at Brendan's last naval station. His own request for information still hadn't yielded anything — which was hardly surprising. Cops digging into suicides from several years ago were hardly going to be top priority at a distant M.E.’s office. Chloe's investigator was apt to get a faster response.
He reached for his phone to call her, just as it rang. “Detective Diel,” he said automatically, his mind still roaming the St. Simeon's case.
“Detective, this is Father Abernathy with the Diocese of Tampa. I believe you're working on the murder of one of our parishioners, a Steve King?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well.” The priest's voice seemed to quaver. “I think you should come to the chancery office as soon as you possibly can. We've received … something. It might shed light on the case for you.”
Matt's interest revved to top speed. “I’m on my way.” He glanced at his watch. “Allowing for traffic, I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be awaiting you. Just ask for me, Father Abernathy.”
A minute later, Matt was out the door. Behind him on his desk, his phone started ringing, but he ignored it. His voice mail could pick it up.
“I’m calling Chloe, Father,” Lucy said, her voice still shaking. “I’m calling her right now.”
Brendan had sunk onto one of the reception chairs, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. “Call the police,” he said, his voice muffled.
“No!”
He lifted his head. It was still throbbing, but now it felt as if every muscle in his face were trying to drop to the floor. “They need to see this, Lucy.”
“No. No. They'll jump to conclusions. I’m not going to see you arrested, Father.”
He managed a faint, wan smile. “You don't believe the evidence of your eyes?”
“Absolutely not.” She was still shaking, but her voice was growing stronger.
“That's a lot of faith.” Faith that he wasn't exactly feeling himself right now. What if he'd had some kind of psychotic break? What if that really
was
him, and he hadn't been safely in his bed as he believed. What if — ?
“Father,” Lucy said sternly, “it's not faith. I know you. Besides … people can fool around with photos on computers these days. Nearly anyone can do it. What's more, are you going to try to convince me that someone was out there taking pictures of you committing a murder? Oh, please!” Then she rattled off a string of Spanish words so rapidly that he couldn't follow it. Nor did she particularly seem to want him to. He was fairly certain she used a few words that he had never before heard pass Lucy's lips, in either Spanish or English.
She reached for the phone, making her own decision, and punched in numbers. Moments later she was telling Chloe to come to the rectory immediately.