Bad Samaritan (24 page)

“Yes, I would.”

“Then have a seat and make yourself at home. I'll let her know you're here. Ms. Haines has had a lot of company already this morning, so she may be too tired. If she is, you may have to come back later.”

“All right,” Sister Agatha agreed. “Does she normally have a lot of visitors?”

“No, but I understand that after she gave her story to one reporter, all the others somehow found out about it, too. They haven't stopped coming by since.” After answering another phone call, Mrs. Goldman looked at Sister Agatha and smiled. “Sorry for the delay. I'll let Sherry know you're here.”

Mrs. Goldman walked down the hall, then returned a few moments later. “Sherry said that she'll meet you when she's finished, Sister. Would you like some coffee while you wait?” she asked, pouring herself a cup.

“No, thanks.” Sister Agatha watched doctors and nurses hurrying to and fro in the long hallway. After a gurney with a young patient was wheeled past, she glanced back at Mrs. Goldman. “This has got to be a very demanding job. I imagine you see a lot of tragedy.”

“Yes, but I also get to see the best in people. That's why I volunteer here. I see it as a mitzvah.”

“I'm sorry. A what?”

“It means fulfilling the commandment through an act of kindness. It's at the center of Jewish beliefs.”

“Our doctrines aren't so different, are they? We're told from the beginning to love one another, and it wasn't a request,” Sister Agatha said.

“Exactly. We try to honor God by doing His work, and that's what a mitzvah is all about. It's a way of pleasing God.”

Sister Agatha watched as the woman stood, then went down the hall to help one of the nurses guide a patient with prosthetic lower limbs.

Mrs. Goldman's simple words had touched her deeply. Under the pressure of recent events, she'd forgotten that honoring God didn't mean achieving grand results. The little kindnesses that made the world a better place glorified God in the best way of all.

Sister Agatha heard a door open, then watched as a familiar-looking woman in a wheelchair came down the hall toward her.

“Here's Sherry, Sister,” Mrs. Goldman said, introducing them.

When Pax placed his giant paw on the woman's lap, Sister Agatha started to correct him, but Sherry shook her head.

“It's fine. I love dogs,” she said, petting him with her uninjured hand. “So tell me, Sister, what can I do for you?”

Looking for a better place to talk, Sister Agatha suggested they go into the courtyard. At Sherry's invitation, she pushed the wheelchair outside. They found a secluded, shady spot under a patio roof, and Pax, as if sensing he was needed, placed his massive head on Sherry's lap.

Sherry smiled. “Once I'm able to get my own place again, I'm going to see about sharing my life with a service dog.”

“They make wonderful companions,” Sister Agatha agreed.

“But you didn't come here to talk about service dogs,” Sherry
said, an unmistakable weariness in her voice. “Did Sheriff Green send you? I've kept up with the news, and I understand he's facing some serious trouble.”

“Yes, he is,” Sister Agatha said.

“That was part of the reason I decided to release my story to the press now. I want people to know that Robert Garcia deserved no one's sympathy. If Sheriff Green killed him, he did the world a service.”

“Sheriff Green is innocent. He didn't kill anyone.”

“Then maybe my story will help him. I gave out several interviews this morning, and by this evening people will know that Robert Garcia wasn't worthy of running for dogcatcher, let alone sheriff.”

“When did you first talk to a reporter, and who was it?” Sister Agatha asked, trying to determine if she'd unknowingly gone to someone associated with the Garcias. That would explain the speed of the preemptive attack.

“I sent an e-mail to the Albuquerque paper two days ago. Last night, I had several reporters call me—none associated with that paper. I guess they spy on each other.”

Sister Agatha nodded, remembering all too well how that game was played. If someone sympathetic to the Garcias had discovered that e-mail or heard about the lead, it was highly likely that he or she had called Al Russo, Robert's front man.

Al had been loyal to Robert. He'd also done his best to ameliorate some of the harm Robert had done, particularly to his own wife, Victoria, and his son, RJ. Yet, despite knowing that his client was abusive, Russo had still worked hard to get him elected. Money, it seemed, could buy a lot of loyalty, particularly in a tight economy—but just how far did that loyalty extend?

“I can't hurt Robert Garcia now except to destroy his memory, and that's what I want to do,” Sherry said.

“You may end up destroying someone else—an innocent—in the process. That's the problem with revenge.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Garcias will put a spin on your interview using their own print sources. By the time they're through, Sheriff Green will be seen as someone so desperate to save himself he was willing to bury his deceased opponent's family under a mountain of innuendo.”

“I'll make sure people know that it was
my
decision to come forward. I want Robert Garcia's memory to be as ruined as my hand—and livelihood,” she said, gesturing with a glance at her right hand, which was clubbed and stiff. “The reason I chose to come forward now is because the last operation didn't do as promised—allow me to grip things. No matter how hard I try, my fingers still don't cooperate. I used to make my living as an artist, a painter. I'd do portraits in oil. Those days are over now. I've got nothing—not even a way to support myself.”

Sister Agatha's heart went out to her. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “If there's anything I can do to help, all you have to do is ask.”

Sherry shook her head. “I always believed that if I could unmask the man responsible for what happened to me, I'd find peace. But you know what? That didn't happen. I can't hurt a dead man—but he's still hurting me.”

“No, he can't touch you anymore,” Sister Agatha argued, compassion washing over her in giant waves.

“Painting was my life, and a part of my heart. I needed it as much as I needed air to breathe. Now I can't even hold a brush.”

Sister Agatha watched her cover her injured hand with her other one. She could feel her sadness and despair as keenly as if they were her own. She prayed to find the right words to comfort her, but, instead, she remembered Cruzer.

“There's someone I'd like you to meet,” Sister Agatha said, then, leaving Pax with Sherry, went to use the phone.

Sister Agatha called Chuck, got Cruzer's cell phone number, then dialed it. Cruzer answered on the first ring.

“I'm still working on things, Sister Agatha,” he said, anticipating her question. “Ya gotta go slowly sometimes.”

“I'm calling on another matter. I'd like to ask a favor of you,” she said, then explained.

“I'm free this morning, so how about if I head over there now?” he said without hesitation.

She hadn't been sure what kind of response she'd get from him. Cruzer's reaction had exceeded all her hopes.

She returned to where Sherry waited and saw Pax's gentleness slowly bringing her out of her shell. The dog had such a special touch. With that long sigh of his, and that massive paw, he'd given her something positive to focus on.

They moved to the recreation room, which contained craft areas, a TV, and table games. As they waited, Sister Agatha told Sherry a little about Arnie Cruz. “Cruzer's used to working around handicaps and shares your passion for art. Maybe there's something you can teach each other.”

“Sister, are you matchmaking?” she asked, laughing.

Sister Agatha just smiled.

It took him thirty minutes, but Cruzer arrived carrying an oversized bag filled with various art supplies. Sister Agatha introduced them, then stepped back and prayed.

Cruzer's enthusiasm was contagious, and the two soon began discussing pigments and Southwest art. As Sister Agatha watched, he showed Sherry several brush holds designed for people with grip problems or missing digits. Refusing to take no for an answer,
and strengthening her grip with his own, Cruzer placed the brush in her hand.

Sister Agatha smiled, then, moving as silently as only a nun could, left unnoticed with Pax.

“That's what I call a mitzvah, Sister Agatha,” Mrs. Goldman said as they passed her desk on the way out. “You helped God by making things better for someone else.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Goldman,” Sister Agatha whispered. “Every once in a while I do get things right.”

A
FTER LEAVING THE REHAB CENTER, SISTER AGATHA
drove to the offices of the
Voice
. She wanted to get all the information she could about those photos of Gloria and the coach. Hopefully she'd uncover something that would point her to whomever had taken them. If they'd been e-mailed, the address might lead her to the person who'd stolen the envelope from the crime scene.

As she walked into the cramped offices of the
Voice,
a remodeled former auto shop on a side street in western Bernalillo, the room beyond the empty front desk became completely quiet. She glanced around, but people quickly averted their gazes or turned their backs. Although she asked, everyone pretended not to hear her and no one offered to help.

After a moment, Sister Agatha took a seat in one of the chairs inside the reception area and, with Pax beside her, prepared to wait them out for as long as necessary.

About ten minutes later a short, dark-haired young woman hurried inside and, with scarcely a glance at anyone in the rooms beyond, took a seat behind the desk and shoved her purse into a drawer.

“You're late, Sutherland. I'm docking you a half hour,” came a voice from the room beyond.

“Whatever,” the woman muttered.

Accessing her desktop computer, Miss Sutherland—Sister Agatha noticed that she wore no wedding ring—lifted her mouse pad and glanced at a piece of paper glued there. She then typed in what Sister Agatha surmised was her password. “I'll be with you in a minute, Sister,” she said without glancing up.

“No, I'll handle this,” a curt voice interrupted. A man in his midthirties wearing a bolo tie, a Western shirt, and jeans walked out from behind the counter and past the front desk.

“I'm Travis Holbrook, Sister, the editor. Are you sure you're in the right place?”

“I must be, or you wouldn't have pretended I wasn't here for the past twenty minutes. Fortunately, Mr. Holbrook, you're just the person I wanted to talk to. I need to see the original photos taken of Sheriff Green's wife,” she said firmly, hoping her tone would preempt any argument.

“The originals? Why? We have plenty of newsstand copies. Take one.”

She shook her head. “I need to see the originals you received from your informant, and I'd also like to know how you got hold of them—e-mail or otherwise.”

“Our sources are our own, Sister. I understand you were a reporter once, so you should know better than to ask.”

“The story's already out, and all I want is to see the original photos and find out how they were sent. It's not like I'm asking for the name of your source.”

“It's close, but I'll save you some grief. The photos were e-mailed anonymously from a proxy server, so they're impossible to trace. Our contacts usually prefer to protect their identities, especially when a public figure is involved.”

“When did you receive them?”

“We haven't been sitting on them, if that's your real question, but I'm not going to get any more specific than that. I know too much about you, Sister, and I don't trust you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You're working to free the sheriff, and I have no intention of lifting even one finger to help him. Tom Green arrested my boy for vandalism last year. It was only a high school prank, but Green made a big deal out of it, and now my kid's got a record. It'll be erased when he's eighteen, but no thanks to Green. If you're looking for someone to help you save that lousy bum's neck, you came to the wrong place. He's a self-righteous jerk who deserves whatever he gets.”

It was obvious that Holbrook had a personal score to settle. It wasn't the first time she'd seen journalistic “ethics” twisted to accommodate personal concerns, and it wouldn't be the last.

Still, she couldn't let it go without a fight. “He's innocent. Shouldn't that matter to a person with your responsibility to the community?” she demanded.

“He may not be guilty of this particular crime, Sister, but that man's far from innocent. He's got plenty of baggage behind him. Count on it.” He paused, then, in a softer voice, added, “Take my advice, Sister. Cut your losses. Your interference in what should have been an open-and-shut case is going to cost both you and the sheriff dearly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Check the editorial page tomorrow. Then run for cover, 'cause a lot of nasty stuff is going to rain down for sure.”

Sister Agatha kept Pax at heel close beside her as she left the building. As usual, Pax had sensed her tension and had responded by going into guard dog mode.

“Relax, boy. You're no longer a police dog. You're our peace-loving companion.”

Pax's soulful brown eyes gazed questioningly at her, and she bent down to pet him. He could be the most loving companion in the world or a ferocious protector. The way things were shaping up, she had a feeling she'd be needing both.

Sister Agatha drove north, toward the monastery, needing time to think. Everything was coming at her at once, and too much information could be as confusing as not enough.

Hearing her cell phone ring, she pulled to the side, removed her helmet, and answered the call.