Devious - Lisa Jackson [87]
“You can confide in me, Mr. Montoya.”
Seriously? “I said it’s personal.”
With a long-suffering sigh, she stood, signifying the meeting was over. “Then I guess we’re finished here. I’ll be certain to let Sister Lucia know that you stopped by.”
Another lie.
Cruz rose just as there was a series of soft raps on the door.
Little lines of irritation pinched the corners of Sister Charity’s mouth. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said. “I’m a busy woman. You know what they say about God’s work? That it’s never done? Well, it’s true, Mr. Montoya.”
Another rap, then the receptionist, a laywoman with frizzy blue hair and a suit of olive polyester, poked her head inside. “I’m sorry to bother you, Reverend Mother,” she said, glancing nervously at Cruz, “but there’s a call for you. Sister Simone from St. Elsinore’s.”
“Thank you, Eileen, I’ll take the call. Mr. Montoya was just leaving.”
That was his cue.
As the receptionist retreated, Sister Charity moved back to her desk and reached for the receiver of the black telephone, a behemoth that looked like something straight out of the sixties. “God be with you,” she said softly as Cruz left.
He walked past the impossibly thin receptionist and wondered why a church and convent, a house of God, could seem so evil.
Just your imagination.
He started for the main doors, then paused as he heard voices lifted in song. He knew he shouldn’t intrude—as the reverend mother had reminded him, this was a place of worship and solace—but he tossed her warnings aside.
What was the worst that could happen?
He’d be tossed out on his ear?
So what?
The police would be called?
Nah. What would he be charged with? Trespassing? No way.
Quietly, feeling guilty of some nameless sin, he followed the sound of a hymn from his youth. Around a corner, the music was much louder.
It came through a door that was slightly ajar.
Accompanied by a pianist, the voices sang a rendition of “Ave Maria” that filled the small music chamber and flowed into the corridor. Women’s voices rising in faith and song.
He peered inside.
A group of twenty or so nuns, all in black habits, were singing in harmony from their spots on risers. Their gazes were locked on the woman leading them, a tall nun with her back to the door.
Lucia Costa was front and center, her voice bright and clear.
Cruz’s chest tightened. She hadn’t changed much, still small and petite, her face without lines. Her eyes were large, with thick lashes and arched eyebrows, set above pronounced cheekbones that angled to a pointed chin.
In his mind’s eye, he saw her trapped in the twisted metal that had been his car, blood streaming down the side of her face. Her black hair had been matted and lank, her eyes rolled upward in her head. Later she’d awoken for just a second and whispered in pain, “Danger . . .” then blacked out.
Guilt overtook him, and the scar splitting his eyebrow pulsed.
At that moment, Lucia’s gaze strayed from the choir leader to the door, and she missed a note, her eyes rounding at the sight of Cruz. The two nuns next to her, a tall African American and a shorter woman with big glasses, shot her a look at the sour note.
Lucia blanched, tried to pay attention to the choir mistress who rapped her baton on the music stand in front of her. The music stopped, voices fading as the piano’s notes ended abruptly.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Sisters, please!” the leader said sharply. “Sopranos? Is something wrong? Sister Lucia?”
“No,” Lucia answered, her voice so familiar, as if he’d been with her just yesterday. “I . . . I just lost track of where we were.”
“Then pay attention!” Again there was a rapping. “From the refrain,” she said. A piano chord echoed through the hallways, and the female voices rose again.
He decided to wait.
Why not?
Again, the worst thing that could happen was that they’d toss him out. Well, so be it. Sister Charity might be an authority figure, but she wasn’t exactly the Gestapo. She was a nun, for crying out loud.
He folded his arms over his chest and settled in near the door, one shoulder propped against the wall.