Authors: Erica Spindler
They called it a sucking chest wound. With every inhale, the victim sucked more blood into her lungs, with every exhale released a foamy mixture of it mixed with air. And each breath put her one step closer to drowning in her own blood.
“You think I take comfort in that?”
“Maybe you don’t. But Stacy does and she deserves that medal. She probably saved that girl’s life. If he had managed to get her into his vehicle, well, we both know the stats on getting her back alive.”
He did know. And he was proud beyond words of Stacy’s quick thinking and courage. But he didn’t know what he would have done if he had lost her.
He cleared his throat. “I believe in Bayle. I’m standing by my offer.”
“First sign she’s losing it, your loyalty is to me, this department and your own safety. Is that understood?”
“Absolutely, Captain.”
“Good. It’s settled.” She leaned forward. “Father Girod was a beloved member of the Sisters of Mercy parish and of the entire community. He was a fixture there for fifty years. The media frenzy has already begun and the pressure to close this case will be intense.”
Malone agreed. He’d seen evidence of both. Before he left the Sisters of Mercy campus, reporters from every local news outlet had been on scene. They’d also been outside headquarters, and Superintendent Serpas had given a statement.
Captain O’Shay continued. “I have a personal interest in this case. I knew Father Girod.” She paused. “I grew up in the Sisters of Mercy parish, attended school there through the eighth grade. Father Girod baptized me. He performed my wedding ceremony and he counseled me after Sammy’s death.
“I want the son of a bitch who killed him caught,” she went on. “And I want it done fast.”
“We’ll get him, Aunt Patti. I promise you that.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Wednesday, August 10
7:30
A.M.
Mira had called all her Sisters of Mercy and archdiocese contacts and had learned little more than what had appeared in the media: Father Girod had interrupted a vandal and been killed. She had been refused access to the windows and thus unable to discover the extent of the damage. The church was a crime scene, she’d been told, and until the police released it, no one would be allowed in.
Mira had tried to explain that the sooner she attended to the windows, the better. But no one had seemed to care.
Father Girod would have cared. He had loved those windows—perhaps he had even died for them—and she wasn’t about to sit back and do nothing.
Mira had done her best to focus on other things: the rescheduled PBS interview, a new restoration in Hammond, ordering stock for the studio.
Patience may be a virtue, but it wasn’t one of hers. So here she was, NOPD headquarters.
She had been referred to Detective Spencer Malone in ISD, the Investigative Support Division.
“I have to see him,” she said to the officer at the information desk. “It’s about the Father Girod case.”
The woman studied her a moment, then nodded. “Sign in.”
She picked up a phone and dialed. “A Mira Gallier to see Detective Malone. Says it’s about the Girod homicide.”
A moment later, Mira was through security and heading up to the third floor. A dark-haired man met her at the elevator. He was extremely handsome, saved from pretty by a nose that looked like it had been broken one too many times.
He smiled and held out a hand. “Detective Spencer Malone.”
She took it, realizing she knew him from somewhere. “Mira Gallier,” she said, struggling without luck to remember where. The past six years had been such a blur.
They shook hands. He motioned to their right. “My office is this way. Can I get you a coffee or—”
“Nothing. Thanks.”
His office consisted of a cubicle with a cluttered desk, a file cabinet and two chairs.
“Have a seat,” he said, then took the one behind the desk. He cocked his head, studying her. “I think we’ve met.”
“I was thinking the same thing. But I can’t place it.”
“You had many run-ins with the law?”
She knew he meant it as a joke. Problem was, she had. “Storm related.” She folded her hands in her lap. “My husband went missing during Katrina.”
“I trust you found him.”
“In St. Gabriel,” she said, referring to the massive temporary morgue that had been set up to process Katrina’s dead.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
He sent her a quizzical glance, then flipped open a notebook. “You said you have information regarding Father Girod’s murder.”
“Not exactly. What I told the desk officer was that I needed to talk to you about it.”
He laid down his pen, obviously annoyed. “Okay. How can I help you?”
“I understand the church is a crime scene. But I need to get into it.”
“May I ask why?”
“The stained-glass windows. I restored them after Katrina. I know they’ve been vandalized and I need to assess the damage.”
He nodded, then swiveled to a stack of folders on the right side of his desk. He selected one, opened it and pulled out several photos. He laid them in front of her.
She caught her breath. It was worse than she had feared. On some of the panels, the graffiti covered at least thirty percent of the window. The smiley face affected her like a final kick to the gut.
Her eyes flooded with helpless tears.
She looked up to find him studying her. “You really care about those windows.”
“It’s hard to explain.” She sniffed and he handed her a box of tissues. She took one and wiped her nose. “After the storm, the destruction … all over the city … It wasn’t just buildings and windows in ruin, it was people’s lives. It was my life. In a weird way, each window I restored was like putting a piece of me back together. My blood, sweat and tears went into each one.” She plucked another tissue from the box and dabbed at her eyes. “For someone to do this, to desecrate them this way, is obscene.”
“Do you have any idea who could have done this?”
She blinked against tears. “No.”
“‘He will come again to judge the living and the dead.’ That mean anything to you?”
“It’s from the Creed,” she said without hesitation. “A statement of belief.”
“Look carefully at the photos. At the graffiti. Do you see it?”
Mira was about to ask what she was looking for, when it emerged. “Oh, my God.”
“Any idea why our guy might have left us that message?”
She shook her head. “None.”
“Where were you last night, Ms. Gallier?”
“I’m sorry. Last night? Why do you ask?”
“This is a murder investigation. And frankly, I find it interesting that you’re so moved by spray paint on glass, yet seemingly not at all by the loss of human life.”
Angry heat flooded her cheeks. “That’s not true! You don’t understand at all.”
He leaned casually back in his chair. “So make me understand.”
“I’m devastated by Father Girod’s murder. He was a beautiful person. But I can’t help him.” She leaned forward, fists clenched in her lap. “But I can save the windows. Which he loved. Their restoration, the restoration of his church, was important to him.”
She struggled to control her emotions. “With spray paint on glass, the sooner we get to it, the better. The heat bakes it on, and if you haven’t noticed, it’s August.”
She stood. “I was home, by the way. Alone. Absolutely no alibi.”
“One last question,” Malone said. “Anybody hate you enough to do this to hurt you?”
Jeff’s dad, she thought. But that would be crazy, even for him. “No.”
“I’m opening the scene in a few hours. You’ll be able to get in then.”
“Thank you, Detective.” Mira turned. A woman stood in the doorway. She was tall and blond, her chin-length hair pulled away from her face. She was gazing at Mira with an expression that made her feel like an insect or science class specimen.
“Hello,” the blonde said.
“Ms. Gallier, my partner, Detective Karin Bayle.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mira said.
“Same to you.” The woman smiled.
Mira glanced back at Detective Malone. “Thank you for your help.”
“Take one of my cards.” He stood and came around the desk. “If anything else occurs to you, call me.”
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday, August 10
8:00
A.M.
“Morning, partner,” Spencer said, waving Bayle in. “Perfect timing.”
“I would have been here earlier,” she said, “but Captain O’Shay wanted to meet with me first thing. She’s not convinced I’m a hundred percent.”
“Are you?”
She met his gaze evenly. “Absolutely.”
“Good. We’ve got work to do.”
“Before we … Look, Spencer, thank you. For taking me on.”
He waved off her thanks. “I’m happy to do it. Besides, I need a partner.”
She lowered her gaze, expression twisting with regret. “I’m really sorry about everything that’s happened.”
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“I want to. It’s the elephant in the middle of the room. I lost it. Broke my partner’s trust, checked out.” She met his eyes. “I’m lucky the department took me back.”
“You’re back because you’re a good cop,” he said softly. “But you’re also a human being.”
“Thanks.” She laughed without humor. “Tell that to all the folks out there. I was not a welcome sight this morning. I’m sure you’ll hear about it.”
“I can take it.”
“Good thing.” She jerked her thumb toward the now empty doorway. “What was that all about?”
“Name’s Mira Gallier. She came in to talk to me about the Sisters of Mercy case. About the windows, really. She’d restored them after the storm and was worried about them.”
“Not about finding Father Girod’s killer? Curious.”
“That’s what I thought. She told me I didn’t understand.”
“Do you think she’s connected in any way?”
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I’m not ruling anything out.”
“Fill me in.”
She took the seat across from him and he handed her the case file. While he talked, she flipped through his and Tony’s notes. When he stopped, she looked up at him. “I’m thinking this wasn’t random.”
“I’m thinking the same thing. We’ve already interviewed the primary players. I’m thinking we should widen the net.”
She inclined her head in agreement. “An angry parent. Maybe a parishioner with an axe to grind. Or even a student. Sisters of Mercy goes through high school, maybe somebody didn’t graduate. Kid could’ve been harboring a major hard-on toward the school. Planned to lay down some serious payback via spray paint on their prized windows—”
“But did not expect Father Girod to catch him in the act.”
“And worse, since the priest recognizes him, he can’t just run away.”
“He panics and bashes the old man’s head in.”
“My thoughts exactly.” She smiled. “This partnership just might work.”
Returning her smile, he stood. “I never doubted it. We both can put up with Stacy, surely we can put up with each other?”
“Sure that’s not backward?” She stood, too. “As in Stacy can put up with both of us?”
He made a face. “Then God help us both.”
The squad room quieted as they passed through. Small-minded, Malone thought. As if each of them hadn’t fucked up big.
“What?” He stopped, looking around. “Is there a problem?”
Not expecting an answer, he turned back around and headed out of the squad room.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
“No wonder Stacy’s so happy,” she said lightly. “How is she? I stopped by your place yesterday. Your mom said she was sleeping, so we didn’t get a chance to talk.”
He felt himself tensing, felt the familiar knot form in his chest. “Steadily improving. If she wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Any idea when she’ll be back on the job?”
“The doctors aren’t certain. Probably the end of the month. If it’s up to her, it’ll be sooner than that.”
Bayle smiled. “That’s the Stacy I know and love.”
The one he did, too. As annoying as her stubborn streak could be, he loved her for it.
“I can tell it’s been tough,” she murmured. “Sorry for bringing it up.”
“Don’t be. Scared the living shit out of me is all.” He paused. “If I’d lost her, I might have gone out of my mind.”
They stepped onto the empty elevator. As the doors slid shut, she met his eyes. “I get that,” she said. “Totally.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thursday, August 11
9:05
A.M.
They started with the church secretary. Malone had seen time and again that the person who manned the front desk was the most informed person in a company. Not with the inner corporate protocols or the financial ins and outs, but with the people, personalities, conflicts and drama.
Churches, ironically enough, were often hotbeds of the last two. Malone supposed that was because being a part of a church community was like being part of a family—and nobody pissed you off more than your brothers and sisters.
Vicky Gravier sat on Sisters of Mercy Church’s front line. Everything that happened, at some point, went through her. At the moment, her office was quiet.
She looked up as they entered. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying.
“Ms. Gravier? I’m Detective Malone. And this is my partner, Detective Bayle.”
She nodded. “I remember you from yesterday.” Her eyes flooded with tears and she grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk. “I haven’t been able to stop crying.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss.”
“It’s everyone’s loss.” She blew her nose loudly. “He was practically a saint. Everyone loved him.”
“Ms. Gravier—”
“Vicky, please. That’s what everyone calls me. Except the children. They’re to call me Ms. Vicky.”
“Okay, Vicky.” He smiled. “As you know, we’re trying to catch whoever did this and bring them to justice. We’re hoping you can help us.”
“I’ll try.” She dabbed her eyes. “What can I do?”
“Yesterday you told me you worked as the Sisters of Mercy parish secretary for six years.”