The Prodigal Nun (15 page)

“Something else is bothering you, isn’t it?” he asked after a moment. “And that would be the second reason you wanted to talk to me this morning?”

She nodded, then recounted what Sister Jo had seen the day she’d tried to make the phony Good News lunch delivery on Calle de Elena. “We don’t know what the meeting between the deputy and that man was about, but I’m wondering if maybe Sister Jo saw something that was meant to stay secret. That would explain why that man tried to run me off the road with a stolen plumber’s van. Maybe one of those two decided to permanently silence the nun on the cycle and make it look accidental.”

“The two men on that side street—it was the deputy who took the envelope from the guy in the cap?” he repeated, verifying it.

“That’s what Sister Jo said. Was there a special operation going down at the time, a snitch providing information, maybe?”

“Not that I know about—and I would have known if we’d had something major going down. But give me a chance to look into it some more. Any contact an officer makes with a source has to be logged into a report, though the identities of the informants are usually disguised using pseudonyms or code names.”

“There’s another possibility we need to take into account, too, though it’s not directly related to what we’ve been talking
about. Have any of the people I’ve testified against in the past been released from jail recently?”

“Give me a sec,” he said, bringing out his cell phone. He called the station, asked the duty officer to access a database, then waited. A minute later, Tom heard and repeated an address, thanked the officer, then ended the call. “She got one hit—Del Martinez. Remember him?”

She nodded. Del had owned a roofing company in town and had been as crooked as they came. Worst of all, he’d clearly blamed her for his arrest and subsequent imprisonment.

“He swore he’d get even someday,” she said slowly.

“I remember. He dove right across the table at you, and one of the bailiffs had to subdue him.”

She nodded. “He managed to grab my arm, and when they Tasered him, I got some of that jolt myself. But, Tom, that incident happened three years ago. He has a family and a life to salvage. Wouldn’t he have more important things to worry about now that he’s out of prison?”

Before he could answer, Tom’s cell phone started to buzz. He spoke for a moment, then ended the call and stood, placing a few bills on the table for the coffee and a tip. “I’ve got a situation—an armed robbery. I’ll give you a call when I’m free, and we’ll go pay Del Martinez a visit together.”

“You could be busy for hours. I’ve got his address now, so let me try a different approach—something more low-key,” she said.

He gave her an incredulous look. “Low-key, you?”

“Have a little faith,” she called to him as he hurried toward the door.

W
ITH DEL MARTINEZ’S ADDRESS IN HAND, SISTER
Agatha drove away in the Harley with Pax and headed to the man’s home. It was located in a residential area west of the station and close to the river. As in so many older neighborhoods here, one house could be a McMansion of brick and stone while the one next door was a crumbling adobe house built during the Great Depression.

Sister Agatha drove down the narrow, winding street, searching for house numbers on the mailboxes. Finally she found Del’s address, a small stucco home badly in need of paint. An old Chevy Impala was in the driveway and an early seventies Dodge pickup with a missing hood was parked in the front yard astride a crumbling sidewalk.

From the fresh tire tracks, Sister Agatha knew the Chevy was still running, though half of the body was now gray primer paint, and the rear bumper was missing. The pickup was ready
for the salvage yard. The rear tires were flat and the engine was missing.

She parked the Harley and removed her helmet, looking around. She could hear music coming from farther down the driveway, which ended at a detached garage, but nobody was in sight.

Placing her helmet on the saddle, Sister Agatha, with Pax at her side, made her way toward the music, which seemed to be coming from the garage. A radio blaring Spanish music was drowned out in bursts by the machine-gun rattle of an impact wrench. Pax’s ears stood erect, alert to the noise, but he remained calm, having heard it all before during his police training.

As Sister Agatha approached the open garage, she heard the clang of a tool hitting the concrete floor. A man was at the front of the garage, bending over the engine compartment of a white Toyota sedan. About that time, he turned his head and noticed her and Pax.

It wasn’t Del, but there was a family resemblance. The man was tall and thin and had long black hair that brushed his shoulders. She was about to introduce herself when he suddenly turned, picked up a large wrench, and came toward her.

Pax bared his teeth and immediately stepped in front of her. Although she had Pax on a leash—she always did when they were away from familiar territory—the dog was straining and pulling at his collar, his low growl making it clear he meant business.

“If you put that wrench down, the dog will relax. We’re no threat to you,” she said in a quiet, calm voice.

“Tell that to Del, Sister Agnes, or whatever you call yourself.
You’re
the one who put him in prison.”

She heard another oath, and a man rolled out from under the car and stood. She recognized Del Martinez right away,
though his head was shaved and the scar along his cheek was new. “Sister Agatha—as if I wasn’t having a bad enough day already.”

Del placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Ease up, bro. Can’t afford bail this time.”

“But—”

Del took the wrench from the other man’s hand and slid it into the pocket of his gray overalls. Pax quit snarling immediately, but his hackles were still raised.

Sister Agatha pulled him closer to her. “Del, how are you?” she asked softly.

“As free as they’ll let me be, Sister,” he said coldly. “What are you doing coming around here? Haven’t you messed up my life enough already?”

“I’ll show them the street,” the other man spat out, pushing up the sleeves of his gray sweatshirt.

Del put his arm out, blocking his brother’s path as the dog growled again. “Excuse my brother Martin, Sister Agatha. He’s been working three jobs to pay the bills since our company went belly up.”

“Yeah, thanks to your lies,” Martin muttered.

“Del,” Sister Agatha said, focusing exclusively on him, “I know you want to live a normal life again—to be with your family, to be free, as you said a moment ago. You’ve served your time, so if there’s any way I can help you now, all you have to do is let me know. If you need a job, I’d be happy to talk to any of the business owners in town on your behalf.”

“Save it. You’ve done enough already,” Del said, glaring at her. “No insurance, no money for gas, no nothing, but me and my family get by. Before, we were doing okay. Now, thanks to you, we’re busting our butts fixing up junkers for a few dollars here and there.”

“That’s good, honest work. You should be proud of your skills and ingenuity. If I hear of anyone who’s in the market for inexpensive transportation, I’ll tell them about you.”

“
Vete
,” Del answered in a taut voice. “Get out,” he repeated in English. “Now! I want nothing from you, and neither does my family.”

“Tell her, bro,” Martin said.

Sister Agatha heard a door slam, turned her head, and saw two women striding purposefully toward them from the rear of the house, their fists clenched. One of them she recognized as Del’s wife, Gloria. Pax began to growl at them, his tone low and menacing.

The sudden realization that she was trapped between the two groups sent a chill up Sister Agatha’s spine. She tightened up on the leash, determined to curb Pax’s reaction as much as possible. She didn’t want to turn this into a full-blown confrontation.

“Hey, old crow. You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here.”

The words came from the short, stocky, dark-haired woman on the left. She stopped about ten feet away and crossed her arms over her chest.

“My Martin’s a roofer, and he was working for Del. We would have been just fine if you hadn’t stuck your nose into our business. I miscarried, Sister, and I blame
you
for that. If our lives hadn’t been turned upside down that wouldn’t have happened.”

“I’m so very sorry that you lost your baby,” Sister Agatha said gently, feeling her pain. The loss of an unborn child was enough to cast a permanent cloud over any woman’s heart. “But you can try again, can’t you?”

“And bring a baby into this—barrio?” she said, waving her arm around the garage. She looked over at Del’s wife, who nodded. Both took a step forward.

In an instant, Pax’s hackles rose and he snarled, lowering himself and cocking his body in preparation for a lunge. His body language made his intentions crystal clear.

The two women froze in their tracks.

Sister Agatha looked back at Del. “If you have a change of heart and decide that I can be of help, just call me,” Sister Agatha said, pulling Pax in closer to her. “The dog and I will leave now.”

Never taking her eyes off them, she walked around the women, keeping Pax between her and potential danger, and headed down the driveway toward the Harley. After she could no longer see the others, Sister Agatha kept an eye on Pax, who continued to look back even as they walked.

It seemed to take a heart-pounding eternity to reach the motorcycle. She’d never felt such hatred in her life. Unnerved, Sister Agatha got under way as soon as possible, thankfully without incident.

Sister Agatha arrived at the monastery well after one, which meant that she’d missed the main meal of the day.

As she walked into the parlor, Sister de Lourdes stood up and smiled. “Sister Clothilde saved you a sandwich and some vegetables from lunch,” she said and pointed to the edge of the desk. A small tray and a thermos had been set there.

“That’s welcome news! I’m very hungry.”

Sister de Lourdes invited her to sit and eat at the parlor’s desk. “Enjoy your lunch, Your Charity,” she said. As Sister Bernarda, her replacement, came in, she added, “It’s time for me to get back to the scriptorium.”

“How’s Sister Jo working out in there?” Sister Agatha asked before Sister de Lourdes could leave.

“She’s already replaced our Good News meals list with a
spreadsheet that includes names, addresses, and a delivery schedule. There’s also a separate file for the people St. Augustine serves. She doesn’t want to get tricked again by a crank caller like the one we had the other day.”

After finishing her lunch, Sister Agatha went to talk to Reverend Mother. Sister Eugenia’s herbal tea remedy had worked wonders, and the abbess looked alert and much refreshed.

As Sister Agatha told her about the incident with Del Martinez and his relatives, she saw the abbess frown. “We’ll have to go back to the way things were,” Reverend Mother said. “You’ll travel only in the station wagon, accompanied by another extern as well as Pax.”

“Mother, we just don’t have enough externs to go around, not with Sister de Lourdes working in the scriptorium most of the day and the Good News Meals Progam well under way,” Sister Agatha said gently.

“My mind’s made up, child.”

Sister Agatha bowed her head. “I’ll tell the others, Mother.”

Sister Agatha left Mother’s office and went down the hall. They would no longer be able to divide monastery duties like delivering the noontime meals, dropping Sister Jo off at school, or picking up prescriptions and groceries. Yet a part of her was undeniably relieved.

When Sister Agatha walked back into the parlor, Sister Bernarda, taking her turn as portress, handed her an envelope. “This came for you,” she said.

Sister Agatha opened the small envelope, and as she caught her first glimpse of what was inside, her heart froze.

“What is it?” Sister Bernarda asked immediately.

Not trusting her voice, Sister Agatha pulled out the two photos and held them out to her. One showed her and Pax riding the Harley down a residential street. The other showed her
inside Smitty’s grocery, where the extern nuns were frequent shoppers. In each photo, a large X had been drawn over her head with a black marker.

“Both those photos came from a computer printer,” Sister de Lourdes said, looking over as she stepped into the parlor. “That first photo of you at Smitty’s was taken up close, but it’s blurry and low quality, like you’d get from a cell phone camera. The one of you riding the Harley came from a higher-quality camera, one with a high shutter speed. Notice that it’s a lot sharper than the other one, though you’re moving,” Sister de Lourdes added. “The sheriff might be able to figure out what brand of toner was used and, from there, the brand of printer.”

Sister Agatha took a deep breath and pushed back her fears. “The problem is that the crime lab will take weeks and weeks to give him an answer—and that’s assuming they have the budget for the tests. Maybe he can go low-tech and lift some fingerprints from the photos or the envelope itself.” She prayed that she hadn’t inadvertently smudged whatever might have been there. “Two of us need to go see the sheriff right away. Which one of you would like to go with me?”

“I’ll take over as portress and keep the parlor open,” Sister de Lourdes said.

Moments later, Sister Bernarda and Sister Agatha were in the Antichrysler, on the way to town. Pax had stayed behind this time. He’d proven that he had an incredible gift for helping Sister Gertrude relax, and the elderly nun was having blood pressure problems again. Pax was not only a great watchdog, but he also doubled as an excellent therapy dog whenever the need arose.

“I know the photos frightened you, but you need to push that fear aside now,” Sister Bernarda said softly.

“After all that’s happened, that’s easier said than done. Whoever sent these photos has some serious business in mind.
For a while there, I was convinced that the killer just wanted to distract us because he didn’t want us focusing on the murder. But these photos took planning and show clear intent.”

“It also means someone has been watching you closely when you’re in town—close enough to take the pictures, anyway,” Sister Bernarda said. “Taking that a step further, you must have seen him at one point or another, too. The big difference is that you never realized who, or what, he was.”