Devious - Lisa Jackson [86]
“So she had two cell phones?”
“Unless someone posed as her or she bought it and gave it to someone else,” Bentz said. “They’ve got security cameras in the store and keep the tapes for several months. Later today I’m gonna review the tape for the day it was purchased, just to make sure Camille was the buyer. If someone else was impersonating her, we’ve got ourselves a lead to follow. And if it was Camille Renard, where the hell are the damned phones?”
“Probably with her BlackBerry and diary.” Montoya scowled and shoved a hand through his hair. “For a person who’s supposed to give up worldly possessions, Sister Camille had quite a few.”
“And then there’s the baby. I double-checked, and Brinkman’s right about the blood type. We’re looking for a man with B-neg or AB-neg blood as the father.”
“Apparently not Frank O’Toole.”
Bentz nodded.
“Should narrow it down.”
“Yep. We just have to find out who else Camille was sleeping with.” He looked back at the nun’s image on the monitor. “She had a pretty busy social life for a nun. No wonder her last e-mail to her sister said she was having second thoughts and planning to leave the convent.”
Montoya tapped a pencil against the desk. “So who the hell got her pregnant?”
CHAPTER 28
“I’d just like to talk to her,” Cruz said, flashing his most winning smile as he shifted on the uncomfortable chair in Sister Charity’s office. The place gave him the creeps, reminding him of all the times he’d sat for hours in dim hallways with shiny linoleum floors that smelled of disinfectant, mold, and his own nervous sweat while waiting for the principal to mete out some form of cruel punishment on Cruz Montoya, forever the miscreant.
Today, in this tomb of an office, the old nun wasn’t buying into Cruz’s attempts at charm.
“This isn’t a sorority house, Mr. Montoya,” she said, tiny lines of disapproval evident around her lips. “It’s a convent. With duties and obligations. We live a simple life of devotion, and we adhere to a strict schedule. If Sister Lucia wants to contact you, I’m sure she’ll write you or call you during her free time.” Sister Charity’s face was glacial, the eyes behind her glasses as observant as a hawk’s. She folded her hands over the desktop. Blue veins were visible beneath her skin, and yet the fingers appeared strong enough to snap a ruler in half. “If you leave your telephone number, I’ll see that she gets it.”
Cruz didn’t believe it for a second. Sister Charity was definitely old school, more of a warden than a loving mother figure.
No way was she going to pass on his info.
They both knew it.
The lie simmered between them.
She was right about one thing, though—St. Marguerite’s, with its stiff wooden chairs, crucifixes adorning the walls, and quiet, somber hallways was a far cry from any sorority house he’d ever set foot inside.
The reverend mother finally broke the silence. “You know, I find it interesting that you have come to visit Sister Lucia now, after our recent loss of Sister Camille. Your brother is investigating the case and now, poof,” she said, her fingers lifting swiftly as if from a small explosion, “you show up.”
“I came to visit my brother. When I saw him, he mentioned that Lucia was here. No crime there, sister.”
Her keen eyes were sharp with intelligence, her mouth edged in cruelty. “So why do you want to see her?”
“It’s personal.”
“Is it?” She offered him an impassive smile that didn’t touch her eyes. Growing up in a very Catholic family, Cruz had been around his share of nuns. Some had been stoic, some fun-loving, some seemed to be filled with the Holy Spirt, and some, drill sergeants like Sister Charity, were all about rules, obedience, and punishment. Cruz couldn’t help but wonder what made the woman tick, what her story was. Where’d she come from? How had she ended up here, at St. Marguerite’s, with