If Angels Fall by Rick Mofina Page B

gotten this to you last
week.”
    Turgeon looked at the laminated photo ID which read:
Inspector Linda A. Turgeon. San Francisco Police Department. Homicide Detail.
She ran her finger over the shield bearing the city’s seal. It depicted a
sailor, miner, and a ship passing under the Golden Gate. Above it, a phoenix
rose from flames. Below was the city’s Spanish motto. Oro en paz, fierro en
Guerra .
    “You know the jingle,” Gonzales said.
    “Gold in peace. Iron in war.”
    Turgeon’s heart swelled. Her father’s gold shield was
home in a jewelry box, with her favorite picture of him smiling in uniform at
her. She was eight, wearing his cap, smiling up at him. She blinked several
times. I did it, Dad. I did it, she thought.
    “Welcome to the dark ride,” Gonzales said”
    “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
    Gonzales cleared his throat. “I knew Don in the early
days.”
    “I didn’t know.”
    “Yeah, we walked the Mission together. For a spell.”
    Turgeon nodded.
    “Linda?”
    “Yes.”
    “You done him proud, real proud.”

FOURTEEN

    Vassie Laptak , the choirmaster for Our Lady Queen of Tearful Sorrows Roman
Catholic Church, tapped his baton crisply on the podium’s edge, halting “The
Lord is Risen.” He pushed aside his wild, maestrolike strands of ivory hair and
studied his sheet music.
    The North American Choir finals in San Diego were
three months off. Our Lady was a contender and with God’s help they could win.
Victory would mean an audience with The Holy Father in Rome. Vassie lay awake
nights imagining how it would be. Our Lady’s singers were spiritually dedicated,
but today his number-three contralto, the dwarfish spinster who cleaned the
church, was off.
    “Florence, dear, you are not feeling well today.” He
reviewed his sheet music on the dais.
    Florence Schafer flushed. “Why I’m fine, Vassie.
Really.”
    Agnes Crawford, the choir’s star soprano, put her hand
on Florence’s shoulder. “Are you sure, Flo? You look pale. Would like some
water? Margaret, fetch some water for little Flo.”
    Florence loathed that name. Standing at four feet, six
inches, she was, in the clinical sense, a dwarf.
    “Please don’t bother. I’m fine.”
    Vassie regarded her sternly through his fallen locks.
    “I wasn’t concentrating, I’m sorry.”
    “Very well.” Vassie sighed, nodding for the organist
to resume. Pipes and voices resounded through the stone church, but Florence’s
attention wandered again.
    She admired the statue of the Blessed Virgin in the
alcove behind Vassie. The Queen of Heaven, in the white gown with a golden hem,
arms open to embrace the suffering. She was beautiful, mourning the death of
her child. As she sang, Florence recalled her own grief and the part that died
so many years ago. Philip, the young man she was going to marry, was killed in
a house fire. She had wanted to die too. The night of his death, she visited
her parish priest. He helped her find the strength to live, she never love
another man. For years, she considered becoming a nun, but instead devoted
herself to her church and her job as a city hall clerk before retiring after
forty years.
    Florence lived alone, but was not lonely. She had
Buster, her budgie. And there was her hobby, true crime, mystery, and detective
stories. She walked in Hammett’s footsteps, Pronzini’s, and others. On
vacations, she took famous murder-scene tours, visiting police museums. She devoured
novels and textbooks. She clipped articles, filing them meticulously. To what
end, she didn’t know, For each day of her life was marked by the three china
and three sterling silver spoons she used for tea, which she took in the
morning, afternoon, and evening as she read, Three times daily, as a steam
plume rose from the kettle, she pondered the meaning of her life, wondering
what God’s purpose was for her. It had become her eternal question.
    She now knew the answer.
    And this afternoon she would act on it.
    After choir rehearsal,