Devious - Lisa Jackson [67]
“Did she pressure Father O’Toole?”
“I . . . I don’t know. She talked to him, but she didn’t really say anything other than that she told him she was going to have a baby. If you’re talking about asking him to leave the priesthood and marry her, I don’t know about anything like that.”
“How did he take the news of her pregnancy?” Montoya asked.
“She said he was upset.”
“How upset?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. You . . . you should probably ask him.”
“We will.”
“Look, he didn’t kill her,” she insisted. “He swore to me that he didn’t!”
“You asked him?”
“No, of course not. He just told me later.” She explained her conversation with the priest, but as she did, she seemed to shrink away, as if she knew she shouldn’t have blurted out anything, that somehow she was betraying both Camille and Father Frank.
Montoya realized he’d made a mistake by questioning her himself. Sister Lucia was intimidated. Nervous. Maybe because he was a man, probably because he looked so much like Cruz. There was a chance Lucia might have opened up more to a female officer.
He asked about a BlackBerry or cell phone.
“I don’t know about anything like that, but she did have a diary, I think, or maybe it was just a notebook,” Lucia admitted reluctantly.
A diary. Could be revealing . . . though Bentz hadn’t come across it when he searched Camille’s room.
Montoya asked Sister Lucia what she knew about the diary, but she had never read it; she knew only that it existed.
Another dead end, Montoya thought, ending the interview with more questions than he had answers. “Thank you,” he finally said.
Lucia’s shoulders seemed to sink in relief; she was obviously glad that the interview was over.
Outside the small room, they found Sister Charity pacing the hallway, her fingers running over the beads of her rosary, her lips and jaw tight.
“Are you finished?” she demanded. The penetrating eyes magnified by her glasses were trained on Montoya.
“Not yet.”
She shook her head, the hem of her wimple brushing the back of her habit. “This is the Lord God’s house,” she said softly, “not an interrogation chamber. I realize you are doing your job, but we really cannot stand for these disruptions.” For a moment her spine of iron seemed to melt a bit, her eyes pleading with him. “Of course, we want you to locate Sister Camille’s killer. He needs to be brought to justice. But at what price? All my sisters are on edge. Suspicion slithers down our hallways. Gossip, speculation, and fear have replaced hope, love, and faith.” She let out a long, world-weary sigh. “I trust in Our Almighty Father, as well as the Son and Holy Spirit, to carry us through this crisis. But as you do your job, please grant the house of God the respect it is due.”
“We’re just trying to conduct an investigation.”
“I realize that, Detective, but at what cost?” The lines in her face seemed more severe today, her usually fierce spirit defeated.
Montoya felt a twinge of compassion for the sister, but he stood his ground. He couldn’t back down . . . not even for Jesus Christ himself. “These things take time, Sister. I know you want us to do a thorough job.”
“Thorough?” Her lips pulled into a knot of annoyance. “Come with me,” she said, and with clipped, determined steps, her skirts billowing, she led him to the chapel and swung open the door. “Is this what you call thorough?” She lifted one disbelieving eyebrow and then grandly gestured to the interior of the little nave.
Fingerprint dust covered most of the surfaces, coating the wood of the pews and the upholstery of the kneelers. Hymnals and prayer books were scattered. The entire place was in disarray.
“We have to spend our time with the investigation.