Devious - Lisa Jackson [18]
Erwin said, “And I’ll need more information on the victim.”
“We’re a very private order.” Sister Charity frowned. A roadblock.
“With one of your own dead? Murdered. I’d say that overrules privacy.” Barely thirty, Randi Erwin was tough, a small, wiry woman who wore little makeup and kept her brown hair cut short and feathery. Once a gymnast in college, she was now a martial arts expert and took no guff, not from older guys in the department who tended to tease her and not from this imperious nun. “I’ll need a list of the victim’s friends. Can you think of anyone who held a grudge against her?”
“There are no enemies here.” The older nun threaded her fingers in resignation, finally getting it that the police weren’t just going away.
Bentz snorted. “Surely you don’t believe that. People are people; they make others angry, hold grudges, seek revenge, whatever. A lot of wars have been waged in the name of religion.”
She bristled. “Not here.”
“Why is she dressed in that dress?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where did she get it?”
The reverend mother’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t know,” she said, just as Officer Chris Conway approached.
“The press is here,” the officer said. “A reporter from WKAM.”
“Tell them to wait for a statement from Sinclaire,” Bentz said. Tina Sinclaire was the public information officer. “And that’s not going to happen until we notify the next of kin. They know it’s a homicide if they’ve listened to the police band, so don’t try to stonewall the reporter—just ask him to wait.”
“Got it.” The officer strode across the chapel toward the exit.
Montoya turned to the mother superior. “What about Camille Renard’s next of kin?” he asked, barely remembering the dead woman’s parents. Wasn’t the dad older, a guy who worked with the railroad, the mother a part-time teacher?
“Her parents are gone. She has one sister, who lives somewhere in East Texas, I believe. A small town, I think. I can’t recall now, off the top of my head.”
That was right. Camille did have a sister, a year or two younger than Montoya. “Do you know her name?”
“I should, but . . . Veronica? Something like that. I’ll check.”
Veronica didn’t sound right, but Montoya could picture her. Around five-seven, if he remembered correctly. Taller than Camille, with big eyes and a stare that cut right through you. Where Camille had always been outgoing and a flirt, her older sister was studious but outspoken, someone who didn’t suffer fools or the stupid teenage antics of her peers. The sister was a girl Montoya avoided, but he remembered her.
“Was it Valerie?” he asked, and the nun looked at him sharply, the corners of her mouth tugging downward.
“Yes.” She nodded, her wimple not moving a bit. “Valerie. That’s it.”
“We need her address.”
“Of course.” She glanced to the doors leading to the chapel and seemed suddenly saddened by the events of the night. More people had arrived. Despite Sister Charity’s objections about outsiders trespassing on holy grounds, the crime scene techs went about the business of collecting evidence. Photographs and measurements were taken; the area dusted for prints; Luminol sprayed; and the floor, walls, and pews analyzed for footprints or scuff marks. The crime scene investigators worked with relentless precision.
“This is such sacrilege,” Sister Charity murmured, her eyes imploring. “Really, it has to stop. The chapel is a holy place, not meant for . . .” She lifted a hand, palm out, almost in supplication toward the chapel where the medical examiner was examining Sister Camille’s body. “We follow rules and a strict schedule of devotion, and we cannot have . . .” Her voice cracked, and Montoya didn’t know if the emotion was grief for the death of Sister Camille, concern about the black mark a murder would make upon St. Marguerite’s reputation, or simply an act. “This disruption is unacceptable,” she said, but the conviction in her words was fading. “You’re upsetting everyone here, making a mockery of our chapel, yellow tape and people meandering so close to the holy tabernacle.”
“One of your