Devious - Lisa Jackson [112]
“Detective with a county in Texas.”
“Detective? Yeah, that’s what I thought. I don’t know how they train ’em in Texas, but she should have known better!” Montoya was striding down the short hallway. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. “Son of a goddamned bitch!”
Val knew she’d be hung up by her hamstrings for taking the diary, and she wasn’t disappointed. Detective Montoya was rabid in his anger as he stood in the interrogation room, the plastic bag and Camille’s diary on the table in front of her. “This is a police matter; there are rules that we have to abide by so that our case isn’t compromised, so that all parties are protected.”
“We found it and brought it in,” she said, her hackles already raised as she sat in the stiff, uncomfortable chair next to Slade. So far they hadn’t split them up; that was probably coming, but who cared. Their stories would match. They were only telling the truth. “Someone else was killed last night, another nun from St. Marguerite’s,” she said. “It was on the news this morning.”
Montoya hesitated for a second, slightly derailed. “Sister Asteria McClellan.”
“Oh, God,” Val whispered, her hand flying to her mouth as she remembered the fresh-faced girl with the red hair and freckles, the one who, in the garden, had gazed up at Father Frank O’Toole with such open adoration as she’d held out a single white rose to the priest.
Val felt sick to her stomach. “Oh, no.” She shook her head.
“You knew her?”
“No, but I met her.” She told Bentz and Montoya about running across Asteria in the garden with Father Frank.
“I couldn’t judge his reaction,” she admitted, though just the thought turned her stomach. “But it was obvious she was in love with him. She handed him the flower and seemed to bathe in just being around him.” Hearing herself, she shuddered. “Sorry. I maybe way off, but that’s the way it appeared to me.”
“You were the only one there?”
“The mother superior, Sister Charity, she’d let me into the garden where they were meeting. And probably Sister Zita; she was the first one I talked to.”
“She’s the African American nun.”
“One of them—maybe the only one,” Val said, nodding.
Montoya didn’t appear to like the connection to O’Toole again. Val read the disbelief in his dark eyes. Frowning, he asked, “Was Asteria close to your sister?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
Montoya persisted, “Did she ever mention her?”
“Maybe . . . but just in passing.” She shook her head, honestly perplexed.
“They weren’t close?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, then glanced at the bag in his hands. “But then there are a lot of things I didn’t know about Cammie.”
“You should have left this where you found it,” he said, indicating the ziplock and diary. “Take anything else?”
“That’s all there was,” Slade said.
“Have you looked through the diary, Detective?” Val asked. “You might be interested in the fact that it pretty much lists all of her lovers, starting with her first. Not hard to figure out.”
To her surprise, Montoya flinched a bit, almost imperceptibly, but it was there just the same.
“Does it list O’Toole?”
“Camille was discreet—didn’t name names.”
She noticed Montoya’s tense shoulders sag a bit at the news. For that, she didn’t blame him. They all hoped that the book would be key, that it would point out the person who had killed Camille.
“I didn’t recognize him, if that’s what you’re getting at, but I’m sure he’s there along with a list of others.”
“So you went through this page by page?” Montoya accused.
Slade said, “We used gloves.”
Montoya’s lips were white as they flattened over his teeth. He was trying and failing to rein in his anger.
Bentz, from his spot near the door of the small room, asked, “Did you recognize anyone in the pages?”
“Not really. Just put two and two together.” She swung her gaze back to Montoya and saw a tired, angry man. “You know, you’re pretty good at pointing fingers and telling me what I shouldn’t