Last Breath Read online

  “Smooth sailing?”

  “Most everybody seems to like him. But you know how that goes.”

  “What about the other priest …” He flipped through the pages of his book. “Dominic Montague.”

  “He got here about ten days ago.”

  That brought Matt's head up. “Where from?”

  “The chancery. He was on the marriage tribunal.”

  “What's the marriage tribunal?”

  “They decide whether to annul a Catholic marriage.”

  “What if they say no?”

  “Theoretically, the Catholic never marries again. Or commits adultery and can never receive the sacraments again.”

  “I’m surprised he wasn't the victim.”

  At that Chloe astonished him with a small smile. “Does make you wonder, doesn't it?”

  Lucy Gallegos, the parish secretary, had cried freely, but was now sitting with reddened eyes, staring blindly at nothing at all. Sister Phil patted her back and wished there was some magic word of comfort she could offer. Everyone liked Steve. She'd liked Steve. She'd never taught him, but he'd graduated from St. Simeon's high school, and she'd gotten to know him when he was still a student, during those rough years before he was able to leave home and make it on his own. During the rough years when he'd wrestled with his sexual preference.

  The phone rang and Lucy answered. “St. Simeon's … yes, it's true.” She paused for a moment, listening to a question, and let out a silent sigh. “Yes, tonight at seven-thirty. And all the masses for tomorrow are still as scheduled in the parish bulletin.” Another pause. “Yes, we're all shocked. Thank you, I’ll tell him.”

  She hung up the phone and turned to Phil. “I guess I’m going to be answering the same questions over and over today.”

  There was, Phil thought, at least the merest trace of the feisty Lucy she'd come to know and love over the years. Lucy was never quite so happy as when standing her own in a staff meeting or, lately, against the few malcontents who came to her with gossip about Father Brendan. If a celibate priest and a married grandmother could be the proverbial match made in heaven, Lucy and Brendan were that match.

  “How's he holding up?” Phil asked with a nod toward Brendan's office.

  “About like you'd expect, Sister. He's trying to be brave and get through the weekend. But I’d hate to be his pillowcase come Sunday night.”

  “Should I pop in to say hi?” Phil asked.

  One of the benefits of a close working relationship between pastor and parish secretary was that Lucy not only knew Brendan's schedule, but his heart and needs as well.

  Lucy shook her head. “He's probably rewriting his Easter homily right now. He can't ignore what happened, or he'll seem cold.”

  “And leave too many unanswered questions to gossip,” Phil said.

  “Exactly. So he'll have to find a way to work it into the Easter readings, without turning his Easter homilies into a eulogy. I’m guessing he'll be at it most of the day. You know how he agonizes over homilies anyway.”

  “I sure wouldn't want to have to write this one,” Phil agreed.

  A movement outside caught her eye, and she looked out the window to see Chloe exchanging words with the detective. Judging by the set of Chloe's jaw, they weren't pleasant words, and they seemed to be growing more heated.

  “I’ll let you get back to your work,” Phil said, with a gentle squeeze of Lucy's shoulder.

  “Blessed are the peacemakers?” Lucy asked, following Phil's gaze out the window.

  Phil was already turning to the door. “Blessed are they who keep their friends from saying something they'll regret later.”

  “If you want me out of here by five o'clock, then stop interfering and let me get back to my job,” Matt said, his voice echoing around the courtyard as Phil emerged from the rectory.

  Chloe's eyes flicked over to Phil before returning to Matt. “Do your job. Just don't listen to rumors, okay? If you want the straight scoop, talk to those of us who spend time with him.”

  “Rumors are part of a cop's business, Chloe. You know that. It's my investigation to run. And I’m going to run it my way.”

  With that he brushed past Chloe, barely acknowledging Phil with a nod, and stormed back into the church. Chloe muttered a curse and turned to her friend.

  “What a troll.”

  Phil knew better than to ask for elaboration. If Chloe wanted to talk, she would. If she didn't, nothing short of torture would get another word out of her. Instead, she chose an open-ended line of approach. “How are you holding up?”

  “This is going to be a nightmare,” Chloe replied. “Now some busybody got hold of one of his men and said Father Brendan and Steve were lovers.”

  Unwelcome anger surged in Phil. “Some people have no shame.”

  “I don't know who I’m more angry with. The … thing who did that to Steve, or the one who seems to want to nail Father to the cross with him.”

  Phil nodded. Few people alive knew Chloe well enough to gauge her moods. Phil thought she was one of them. And while her friend's anger was readily apparent, there was more beneath the anger in those glinting blue eyes. This was personal, beyond simply having happened in Chloe's parish. Ancient history between Chloe and the detective, perhaps? That was Phil's guess, but she knew how likely it was that Chloe would come out and explain. It wasn't going to happen.

  “Those rumors float around all the time about the clergy and religious,” Phil said. “As far as most people are concerned, half the priests and nuns are gay, and the other half are sleeping with each other. I’m sure this guy is smart enough to recognize that.”

  “Don't bet on it. And if it gets out that the cops are even suspicious enough to check it out, you know what that's going to do to Father Brendan. You of all people should know.”

  The remark cut, but Phil bit back her reply, reminding herself that Chloe had never said an unkind word to her. She could be terse, and often opaque, but she'd never been unkind. Phil applied the doctrine of charity, taking it as a given that Chloe hadn't meant to hurt her, and thus had another agenda in mind.

  “What do you want, Chloe?” she asked simply.

  Chloe's eyes had shifted to the rectory. “Someone's going to have to do damage control. Father hasn't been in the diocese long enough that the people downtown will swarm to his defense. You've been through this before.”

  “In my case it was true,” Phil said. “And I had to move halfway across the country to leave the rumors behind. I’m not sure I’d be much help.”

  There was another concern, one that Phil didn't voice. If she got too deeply involved in the investigation, would her own past come out? As a nun, she was celibate, so her sexual orientation was irrelevant. Still, she knew how some people thought. Especially parents. As a teacher, she knew what that could mean.

  “I don't blame you for being reluctant,” Chloe said, as if reading her mind. For someone who was such a sphinx herself, her insight into others constantly amazed Phil.

  “Look, Phil,” Chloe continued. “I’d hate to see you hurt again. You know that. But I don't trust Matt Diel to get this right, and Father Brendan doesn't have the contacts to cover his own ass.”

  “He wouldn't think to call them in if he had them,” Phil said. “He's not the political type.”

  Chloe nodded. “So we have to do it for him. And I’m going to be … busy on another angle.”

  Phil's eyes narrowed. “You're going to investigate it on your own, aren't you?”

  “Somebody has to do it correctly. Matt's got one thing right — this is a message crime. But he's looking for all the wrong messages. The kind of person who'd do … that… isn't going to stop there. That was only the beginning.”

  Phil felt a chill creep down her spine and let out an involuntary shudder. Almost without thinking of it, she crossed herself. “And deliver us from evil.”

  “Sometimes,” Chloe said, “we have to help deliver ourselves.”

  Dominic Montag
ue picked up the phone in his personal office and dialed the private number he'd been given for Monsignor Crowell, a line only the monsignor answered. “Dominic,” he said cryptically when Crowell answered the private line. “You heard?”

  “Damn straight I heard,” Crowell answered. “And I’ve heard more. Quinlan and that youth were lovers.”

  Dominic closed his eyes, disgust and anger filling him. “Why the hell wasn't I told this before I came down here?”

  “Because you were supposed to get the proof without appearing to have any bias. Quietly. Now we've got a public mess on our hands, and the Church gets another black eye.”

  Dominic understood the Church's methods of operation. A great effort was made to avoid public scandal and keep private the failings and foibles of the priesthood. In cases where a priest was alcoholic, such secrecy made sense. Send the guy away to rehab and bring him back, saying nothing except that he'd been ill. But there were some cover-ups that stuck in his craw, and this was a type that made him want to choke.

  “Do you know it for a fact?”

  Crowell snorted. “If I knew it for a fact, what would I need you for? But now the cops are asking if Quinlan has any history of homosexuality. How would I know? He's been in the diocese less than a year.”

  Such, thought Dominic with irony, were the problems of institutional secrecy. He found himself wishing for his relatively quiet job with the tribunal. He'd never been cut out to be a parish priest. He was a man who preferred the company of books and others like himself, not the world at large, with all its messy problems. Although some of the stories he'd read in connection with annulment proceedings had been pretty sordid.

  But even less than being a parish priest did he like being a spy. And he'd been sent to St. Simeon's to spy on Brendan Quinlan because the complaints against him were attracting attention at the chancery. Naturally, he hadn't been told the source or type of complaint. He'd just been told to “get down there and find out what the devil is going on.”

  After ten days here, he didn't know “what was going on,” but he had a fair idea of what he did know. And as much as he hated to annoy Monsignor Crowell, who could be a formidable enemy, he was bound to speak the truth. “I haven't seen one thing out of line down here. Brendan works his tail off, Monsignor. If he has a lover, I couldn't begin to imagine where he fits it in.”

  “Maybe he's behaving because you're there, and he doesn't know you yet.”

  Dominic felt his jaw tighten. “You know, if the cops are asking if Brendan's gay, then they're suggesting that the young victim was his lover. And they're playing with the idea that Brendan might have killed him.”

  “Ta-da!” Crowell said sarcastically.

  “I’ll tell you something, Monsignor. Getting a body up on that cross dead would have required more than one person. Or a supernatural act. Getting it up there alive would have been impossible.”

  “Our Lord was crucified —”

  “Our Lord,” Dominic said firmly, “was crucified by a group of armed Roman soldiers. Not by one single man.”

  Crowell harrumphed.

  “It occurs to me, Monsignor,” Dominic said quietly, “that you may be barking up the wrong tree.” Then, without waiting for the blast that was sure to come in response, Dominic hung up the phone.

  And felt better than he had in the entire two weeks since he'd heard he was being sent here and why. Even if it did mean he'd never see his cozy office at the chancery again.

  The killer bought both of the major local newspapers that day. And he couldn't believe that the murder wasn't getting even a mention anywhere. It had been two days. It should have turned up somewhere today, even if only as a small mention. They had to have found the body Friday morning.

  The news should certainly have been on the TV last night. Standing in front of a Catholic church and talking about a body found in the parking lot was a sure bet for a good visual.

  But nothing.

  Uneasiness began to prickle at the nape of his neck. What if the kid wasn't dead? But no, he'd made sure of that. Very sure. So … what if someone had seen him do it? What if they'd taken the body away?

  But why would anybody do that? Why?

  His hands were shaking as he put the newspaper down. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. But he had to be sure to get that effing priest before it was too late.

  Chapter 4

  Chloe found Brendan shooting hoops at ten o'clock that night behind the school. She stood just outside the pool of light and watched him run, dribble, shoot, run, dribble, shoot. She could hear his labored breathing, and when he swung around quickly, she could see the sweat fly from him.

  Around and around he went, missing more shots than he made, which told her a lot. Brendan played a mean game of basketball. Three-pointers were his meat and drink. Right now he looked like a man trying to drive himself to the brink of exhaustion and beyond.

  The church kept the outdoor basketball court lighted all night long for the benefit of kids who had nothing else to do. Usually, any night of the week, this court would be busy until well after midnight. Tonight, except for Brendan, it was empty. Word had spread. Nobody wanted their kids playing late at night in a place where someone had been killed.

  Finally, she stepped into the light and gave him a chance to notice her. At first he seemed inclined to ignore her, but finally he stopped, caught the ball and tucked it under his arm, and faced her. He wiped the sweat from his face with the hem of his sodden T-shirt.

  Chloe spoke. “You're a fool. Father.”

  His answer was unexpected. “So it seems.”

  “You shouldn't be out here alone.”

  “It'll be as God wills.”

  “Really?” She stepped closer. “I seem to remember Christ saying that we shouldn't tempt God.”

  “Ah. A Catholic who reads the Bible.”

  “Smart-ass.”

  The comment seemed to get through to him. He tossed the ball over to a corner of the fenced-in court, to lie with a couple of other balls that waited for the neighborhood kids. “I deserve that.”

  “Maybe. You need to stop hiding from this.”

  He swung around to glare at her. “I’m not hiding. I’m surviving.”

  “Maybe. But I don't think you know what's going on.”

  He dashed away some more sweat and came closer. “What do you mean?”

  “Someone's out to get you.”

  He stood for a few seconds, looking at her, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and pain too great to bear. “I don't see the connection.”

  “You would, if you knew that one of the first things someone told the cops was that Steve was gay. And that the cops are asking about your orientation now.”

  “I have no orientation. I’m a celibate priest, remember.”

  “Smart-ass,” she said again.

  For an instant, she thought he was going to swear at her. Instead, he headed for the bench and grabbed a towel, using it to scrub his face. “They can say all they want. Steve was gay. Everyone knew that. Maybe they think that's why he was killed. Like that kid in Wyoming, God rest his soul.”

  “Father, stop thinking like a priest. Stop thinking like a good person. Don't you get it? If Steve was killed because he was gay, who'd have the best motive? Someone who needed to hide the fact that he was Steve's lover. Someone with an urgent need to hide that fact.”

  Brendan stilled for a moment. Then he asked simply, “What do you think, Chloe?”

  “I think you could be framed. There are elements in this world who'd love nothing more than to nail another Catholic priest for sexual misconduct. And I know cops. They have a tendency to build the most obvious case once they think they know what happened.”

  “How do you know I didn't do it?”

  “Because I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes.”

  The night was suddenly so silent that even the traffic sounds seemed to fade away. Brendan was clearly rendered speechless, and he just gaped at her.


  “Oh, it's not obvious,” Chloe said. “Don't worry about it. You're not like most men, who talk to my chest. But you're a heterosexual male. I’d bet my life on it.”

  “Damn,” Brendan said, and flopped onto the bench. “You've just succeeded in making me extremely uncomfortable.”

  “Good. You need to stay that way.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  “Don't be. We Catholics understand our priests are human. It doesn't bother me. You're not predatory. Which is another thing those cops probably can't distinguish. I know you wouldn't hurt a fly. They'll probably never believe that.”

  “Thanks, I think. You know, in the old days, they taught priests never to look a woman in the eye. The eye contact was supposed to be too seductive. In my experience, the eye is the safest place to look.”

  Chloe gave a little laugh. “Yeah.” But her humor faded as quickly as it arose. “The thing is, Father, you need to watch your back.”

  He sighed and reached for a bottle of water. As he unscrewed the cap, he said, “You know, I’ve been getting a little paranoid already. I don't want to get more so.”

  “Paranoid why?”

  He shrugged. “There seem to have been some complaints to the chancery about me. I keep getting these sideways phone calls from downtown.”

  “Well, I’m sure there are some idiots in the parish who'd prefer an old-fashioned priest who ruled the church like a dictator.”

  “There's a right-wing element everywhere.They want to go back to the way it always was. Completely ignoring the fact that it wasn't always that way.” He sighed.

  “What kind of complaints have you been hearing?”

  “The interesting thing is that they're never really specific. Just general questions about what's going on down here. What am I doing? I feel like I’ve got somebody breathing down my neck, but I don't know why.”

  “Not good.” Chloe tipped her head back and looked up at the emptiness of the artificially lighted night. “I want you to listen to me, Father. You've got to watch your back.” She lowered her head and looked at him. “That crucifixion was a message. I can't say for sure yet that it was a message to you. But it was a message. This isn't done with.”