Until Judgment Day (8 page)

S
ATURDAY
, D
ECEMBER
28
O
UTSKIRTS OF
E
SPAÑOLA

A
LULL IN THE STORMS
presented an opportunity for the Reverend Jacques Duvoir to tend his flower garden, in which his justifiable pride was exceeded only by the satisfaction of seeing his article on rose care published in yesterday's
Española Sentinel
's Garden Section.

Bending over the hybrid tea roses that flanked the sidewalk, Duvoir lovingly clipped dormant canes with a bypass pruner that he hand-sharpened and oiled in his private workshop behind the reliquary.

Holy Spirit Catholic Church had originally been built on land that was useless, except to demarcate Española from the vineyards, apple orchards, and row crops that supported the then-sleepy village and gave it a rural character.

A hundred fifty years later, when Española emerged as a major agra-industrial hub, the value of Holy Spirit's twenty landscaped acres skyrocketed, but the Diocese wasn't interested in selling.

Wedged in among noisy cold-storage and food-processing plants, the spacious parking lot of the sprawling U-shaped church grounds fronted Beach Road across from a gigantic truck terminal that, on weekdays, drew hoards of 18-wheelers that swallowed up local produce and hauled it away like a swarm of hungry ants at a summer picnic.

While Duvoir liked the big rigs' deep-throated rumble, he hated the smelly diesel exhaust. He glanced at the idle terminal and smiled in gratitude, then crossed himself and thanked God for the peace and tranquility of a beautiful, unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon.

Duvoir wiped the sweat off his forehead with a shirt sleeve, pulled a quart bottle of Arrowhead water from a Styrofoam cooler and lifted the frosty bottle to his lips. He drank deeply and replaced the bottle.

 

The laser rangefinder told him the Leopold Vari-XIII 3.5-10x tactical scope required a slight elevation adjustment, which he dialed in with a quiet click. In the calm air, the windage knob was set perfectly.

Watching the priest chug-a-lug the water, he removed his cell phone, dialed a number and got a busy signal, and replaced his phone in its leather case that hung on his belt.

When Duvoir put the bottle away and stood upright, he twisted the focus ring to sharpen the target in the reticle, and centered the crosshairs two inches above the bridge of the priest's nose.

Then he changed his mind. “No, that's too easy.”

He steadied the rifle on its bipod, then lowered the barrel of the .308-caliber Remington Model 700P-TWS rifle slowly so the crosshairs intersected on the priest's left kneecap.

He drew in a breath, held it, pressed his cheek against the matte-black, semi-beaver-tail composite stock, and squeezed the trigger.

 

At first, Duvoir thought he'd torn a ligament—until his left knee flopped backward into an inside-out ninety-degree angle and disintegrated. He toppled sideways and came to rest sitting upright, legs splayed out before him, against a pillar that supported the reliquary's terra-cotta roof overhang, staring at the pool of blood that seeped through his pants leg.

 

A wisp of powder residue leaked out of the barrel tip through the quick-detach TPR-S sound suppressor. He pulled the bolt back to eject the spent cartridge, slid it forward to load a fresh copper-jacketed bullet into the breach, drew a bead on Father Duvoir's right kneecap, and fired again. He watched Reverend Duvoir stare in dumb disbelief as his right leg separated.

“Now,” he whispered.

He centered the crosshairs on Father Duvoir's sternum. The third bullet blasted into the chest, exploded the heart, exited through the spine, and lodged in the thick wooden column behind him.

Satisfied, he unslung the rifle, unscrewed the bipod, flipped down the scope end caps, and replaced everything in the Pelican hard case.

Finally, he retrieved the two empty brass casings and dropped them in his pants pocket along with his latex gloves.

He stole a final look at his victim's mutilated, lifeless body, then checked to be sure he'd left no evidence behind. Satisfied that he hadn't, he hustled across the flat tar-and-gravel roof, swung over the edge, and climbed down the fire escape at the back of the California Produce Express truck terminal.

L
IEUTENANT
M
ILLER TURNED
his VW Passat into the driveway of Holy Spirit Catholic Church and flipped his Camel butt out the open driver's window. Inspector Escalante fanned leftover smoke out the passenger window but didn't complain, figuring it wouldn't do any good.

“What's up?” Miller asked the deputy guarding the crime scene.

“I caught the call from County Comm,” Deputy Jensen told them, leaning into the driver's window. “Soon as I saw what I had, I called it in. Backup got here, we checked for a perp, came up empty and secured the scene.”

Miller pointed to CSI Investigator Yamamoto, who stood talking to an obese man in black Adidas sweats. The man looked like a ex-NFL lineman who forgot to reduce his 10,000-calorie-a-day intake after retirement.

“What's going on there?” Miller asked.

“Damn if I know,” Jensen answered, raising the yellow tape to let Miller's car pass through. “CSI went to work, then a few minutes ago Yamamoto started jawing at that porker. I think he's a priest.”

“We'll check it out.”

Miller parked by a coroner wagon that was backed up to the reliquary's portico, double doors hanging open. An empty gurney with a folded black body bag stood idly by the body.

A pretty, blond female CSI Investigator wearing jeans and a
REMEMBER
9-11 T-shirt leaned against the van, arms crossed over her ample chest as she watched Yamamoto. Two male deputy coroners watched the front of her shirt and Yamamoto with equal interest.

Reverend Jacques Duvoir's corpse sat with its back against a thick wooden column, head drooped onto its chest, shattered legs bent at the knees in grotesque angles, buttocks in a pool of blood.

“Need consent to search inside,” Yamamoto told Miller, spittle bubbling from the corners of his mouth.

“No.” The fat priest shook his head. “Sorry.”

Miller set his hand on Yamamoto's shoulder, and led him several feet away.

“What's wrong, Charlie?”

“I take photos, examine parking lot and every place outside, now need to get in rectory. Priest say we need search warrant.”

“He's right unless he consents to the search.”

“Maybe exigent circumstances.”

Miller shook his head. “Never fly. Jensen checked for the perp half an hour ago. If we go in without consent or a warrant and turn up evidence, we could lose it in court.” He looked around, then asked, “Any idea where the shots were fired from, Charlie?”

Yamamoto nodded. “Bullet lodged in post behind body on steep downward angle—” he pointed across the street toward the truck terminal “came from that direction, probably truck terminal roof—only place high enough.”

“Escalante and I'll take over here, Charlie,” Miller said. “Get a search team up on that roof right away, see if the shooter left anything behind.”

“Okay.” Yamamoto started packing his camera. When he finished, he picked it up and glared once more at the priest, then told Miller, “Lotsa priests killed lately, Lieutenant, and there'll be more if we don't catch perp fast.” He pointed at the priest and added, “If that dumb shit don't cooperate with investigators, his fault, not mine.” Yamamoto mumbled something else under his breath, shook his head and walked away.

“That's as pissed off as Yamamoto gets and sometimes he's not too diplomatic,” Miller told Escalante. “Let's see if we can schmooze this priest.”

Miller approached and flashed his badge. “What's your name, sir?”

“Father Hector Ramos.” His neck folds hung over the sweatshirt collar and the matching pants were stretched to their breaking point. “I'm Associate Pastor here at Holy Spirit Parish. Thanks for taking over, Mr. Yamamoto wouldn't take ‘no' for an answer. Who's she?” he asked, jerking his chin toward Escalante.

Escalante showed her ID and introduced herself. “You found the body?” she asked.

“Yes.” He crossed himself. “Reverend Duvoir and I share a house in the rear. He likes—liked—me to cook something special on Saturdays nights, so I went grocery shopping at about eleven
A
.
M
.”

“Where?”

“The Española Safeway.”

“Where was Reverend Duvoir when you left?”

“Tending his roses here in front of the reliquary. They're Jack's pride and joy.”

“Jack?”

“His name was Jacques Duvoir. Jacques is French for Jack. When I got back and turned off Beach Road into the parking lot, he was leaning against the post exactly as you see him now.”

“What time was that?”

“About twelve-thirty. At first, I thought he got tired, sat down and fell asleep. He—” Ramos stuck the knuckles of his chubby hands into his eyes and rubbed. “He did that on warm days. Jack wasn't in good health and was older than I. The Diocese recently relieved him of his Pastor duties.”

“He was retired?” Escalante asked.

The corners of Ramos' mouth tugged upward in a rueful smile. “Priests don't retire, the Diocese assigns them easier or less stressful duties. I've been de facto Pastor for the past few months.”

“By ‘de facto,' you mean you do the work without the pay or the title?” Miller said.

“We don't get a salary, and Jack earned the title.”

“Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt Reverend Duvoir?”

“No.”

“How did you and he get along?”

“Excuse me?”

“You did Pastor work but he kept the title. That musta sucked.”

“Priests don't kill each other, Lieutenant. I've told you where I was when he was killed. Check it out.”

“Count on it,” Miller assured him.

“Did you touch or move his body?” Escalante asked.

“No. I was going to check his pulse, but when I saw all that blood—” Ramos pointed with a square, stubby finger. Even his cuticle was fat. “It didn't seem necessary.” He crossed himself again.

“Sergeant Yamamoto says you won't give him consent to search the rectory.”

“That's right, Bishop Davidson ordered me not to.”

“Your call,” Miller said and walked to the Passat.

“Ramos is pretty cool for someone who just found his colleague and house mate slaughtered in the church parking lot,” Escalante said.

“Ain't that the truth, Chiquita. I'll freeze the scene, then call the Sheriff, let him know what's happening. Get hold of Mackay, ask her to roust the on-call judge and get a search warrant.”

S
ATURDAY
N
IGHT
, D
ECEMBER
28
S
ANTA
R
ITA'S
B
EACH
F
LATS

“
J
UST OUR LUCK,”
Granz complained to Mackay as he crept slowly down the Beach Flats street in the unmarked police car.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“We need a warrant and who's on call—the biggest prick on the Bench.”

Granz pulled his car into the driveway and punched a button on the weatherproof, electronic guard station's keypad marked
PLEASE ANNOUNCE YOURSELF.

“Keefe's not that bad,” Mackay told him.

“Your memory's shorter'n a gnat's antenna. Keefe tried to send you to death row and almost succeeded.”

Judge Reginald Keefe once presided over a trial at which Mackay was wrongly accused of murder, and every ruling came down for the prosecution.

She flipped her hand. “Water under the bridge.”

“Very philosophical. You're more forgiving than I am—I still hate the son of a bitch.”

“Can't hate everyone who's ever tried to shaft me.”

Keefe and his wife, Bonnie, lived in his family's old, passed-down estate, protected from the seedy drug dealers, hookers, pimps, thieves, and thugs who prowled Beach Flats by a tall chain-link fence topped by razor wire.

The squawk box answered: “Identify yourself.”

Granz stuck his head out the window. “Sheriff Granz and District Attorney Mackay, Judge.”

“What do you want?”

Granz rolled his eyes.
Asshole,
he mouthed to Mackay. Into the speaker, he said, “A search warrant.”

“Shit.” The gate creaked open. “Park in front of the house. And the driveway's narrow, so be careful of the flowers.”

Granz flipped on the high beams. When the headlights lit up the flower bed, he intentionally steered into it and shut off the engine. “Whoops.”

The sprawling, single-story, wood-shingled house sat on a half-acre of native shrubs and redwood trees between a detached garage and a swimming pool with two connected tennis courts. They walked up on the porch, but before they could ring the bell, a buzzer sounded and the front door swung open.

“I'm in the living room,” a man's voice called out from inside.

Keefe sat on a sofa with his bare feet propped up on a coffee table, a bottle of Corona Light in his right hand. He wore Levi's and a denim shirt, and Mackay wondered how a man who looked so good could be so ornery.

“We'll make this quick, Judge,” she said.

“Suits me.”

A sixty-inch Mitsubishi HDTV was tuned to San Diego State—Stanford NCAA hoops. Keefe muted the sound without shifting his eyes from the screen. “Get on with it.”

“Like Sheriff Granz said, we need a search warrant.” She handed him several papers, which he ignored.

“Summarize your probable cause, Sheriff,” Keefe said, eyes still on the basketball game.

When Granz didn't answer, Keefe looked up. Granz' eyes had glazed over and he was staring into space.

“Sheriff?”

Granz didn't move.

“Sheriff Granz?”

Granz jumped, startled. “What?”

“You okay?” Keefe asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Never mind, get on with it. Run your facts and probable cause by me.”

When Granz had outlined the situation, Keefe set his beer on the coffee table, dropped his feet to the floor, and sat up.

“You've passed on it?” he asked Mackay.

“I've signed off, Judge. There's enough PC to search the rectory.”

“Three murdered priests in six days.” He turned to Mackay. “What happened to the motion the Diocese filed seeking to toss out your subpoenas in Woods' court yesterday?”

“Woods took it under submission,” Mackay told him.

Keefe stood and walked quickly to a desk that occupied a prominent corner of the room, opened a drawer, rifled through its contents, pulled out a sheet of paper, and wrote for a couple of minutes. When he finished, he nodded in satisfaction and slammed the desk drawer shut.

Granz whispered to Mackay, “What's he up to?”

She whispered back, “Who knows.”

Keefe sat back down on the sofa and scrutinized what he'd just written.

“You gonna sign the search warrant?” Granz asked.

“Absolutely.” Keefe picked up a pen, signed the warrant, and handed it to Granz.

“And that's not all I'm going to do.” He signed the paper he had drafted with a flourish and passed it to Mackay.

She scanned it and looked up. “A court order dismissing the Monterey Diocese motion to quash my subpoenas?”

“That's right, and I expanded the order to include this most recent priest's personnel records as well. You got a problem with that?”

Mackay placed the order in her handbag. “Definitely not, Judge.”

“If Woods had the balls to uphold your subpoenas, this priest—what's his name?”

“Reverend Jacques Duvoir,” Granz said.

“Right—Duvoir—he'd still be alive. I'll show everybody who's tough on crime. When one judge fails to protect the public, another judge with guts must step up and make things right.”

 

“Is a handwritten court order drafted in Keefe's living room legal?” Granz asked when he and Mackay slid into his car.

“It's unusual, but not unheard of, and it's perfectly legal.”

Granz backed his car into the flower bed on the opposite side of the driveway. “Whoops again,” he said. “Just can't seem to keep from running over Keefe's flowers.” He waited for the gate to open, then spun the wheels and pulled into the street.

“What motivated Keefe to cooperate?” he asked.

“He's lobbying for an Appellate Court appointment,” Mackay told him.

“Say what!” Granz' head jerked toward Mackay.

“His name and Woods' just came down from the Governor's office to fill the Sixth District's vacancy created by Justice Stein's retirement. The governor's a Republican, so's Woods—Keefe's a Democrat—if Woods looks soft on crime, especially since September Eleventh, the Governor might appoint a Democrat.”

Granz snorted. “God help us if that jerk-off gets appointed to the Appellate Bench.”

“I hope he does.”

“You're kidding,” Granz said incredulously. “Why?”

“We'd be rid of him,” Mackay explained.

“That couldn't be all bad.”

“That's for sure. I think I'll write a letter of recommendation to the Governor's Appointment Secretary.”

Granz laughed and so did she.

“What did your investigators find on the roof of the truck terminal across from Holy Spirit Church?”

He glanced at her. “The gravel was disturbed at the edge with a direct line of sight to where Duvoir was working on his flowers, so we know that's where the shots came from. But he didn't leave anything useful behind.”

“Do you think it was the same shooter that murdered Thompson and Benedetti?”

“I'd say it's a possibility we can't afford to overlook. You wanta help toss Holy Spirit's rectory?”

“No, I'm going to start rounding up the grand jurors to convene at eight o'clock Monday morning, then have Escalante serve the subpoenas before Woods gets wind of this and rescinds Keefe's order.”

“You mean before they start a judicial pissing contest.”

“You could say that.”

He grinned. “I
did
say that.”