graffiti vandals had sprayed in black on the flagstones in front of the door.
As Broker approached, Lymon moved to unlock the door and said, “There’s a small rectory around back where Moros lived; you want . . .”
“Wait,” Broker said and nodded toward the rundown house across a vacant lot from the church. A scruffy broad-shouldered man sat in the shade of the narrow porch. Watching.
“Is that Tardee?” Broker asked.
“That’s him; he’s waiting on you,” Lymon said.
“Okay, open it up,” Broker said. Lymon opened the heavy wooden door. Broker inspected the lock. It would fasten when he pulled the door closed. He didn’t need the keys to lock up.
“Thanks,” Broker said. “Now I want to be alone.”
Lymon began to say something like, Why the hell did you bring me out here? But he thought better of it and went toward his car. “I’ll be back at the office,” he called over his shoulder.
Broker had brought Lymon out in the heat so Tardee could see them together. It would help establish that he was a cop—because he was traveling a little light in the credentials department. Because, you moron, you let Harry take your badge and gun.
Broker watched Lymon’s blue Crown Vic lurch away down the unpaved street. Then he turned, studied the arched stone entryway, and stepped into the church. The raw limestone, old oak, and coarse stained glass closed around him. The temperature dropped. It was cool like a mausoleum. Or a morgue.
He walked into the dank interior and found his way to the confessional. The crime techs from the BCA lab had left both doors wedged open.
First he looked into the penitent chamber and saw the kneeling rest, the shattered wooden grille through which the penitent would announce himself to the priest.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
God’s work. That’s what Harry had said. Was the Saint doing God’s work?
If pushed on the subject, Broker considered himself a serious but skeptical pilgrim who traveled without a declared belief in God. His eyes traveled over the altar, the old-world statues and pageantry. The roots of this power went back to imperial Rome; absolutely the longest-running show in the world. It occurred to him that if he were seriously trying to find God, he sure wouldn’t start in a building some men had built.
Whatever.
He moved a few steps and looked into the priest’s side of the confessional booth. A misshapen tape outline described where Victor Moros had lain in death. The bloodstain still looked damp in the middle. That was the humidity. Neither sweat nor blood were drying as they should.
Harry was right. Broker had never acquired the investigator’s instinct to absorb telling detail from a crime scene. But even he could see the direction of bullets through the shattered wood grille, the bits scattered into the room. The killer had fired through the screen. The killer had been talking to the priest.
This was no burglary gone bad. This was personal. Or psychotic.
His eyes settled on the bloody carpet and the abstract taped image of the dead priest. So did you deserve it? Broker pushed sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and felt a throb of pain originate in the bump behind his ear and radiate through his head like a thought that Harry had put there.
The hell with this. Better to talk to the living.
He walked out, pulled the door shut behind him, went through a side gate in the sagging wrought-iron fence, and crossed a vacant lot snarled with weeds and wildflowers. Ray Tardee’s house was a single-story wood-frame 1890s shotgun; living room, kitchen, bedroom.
Tardee sat in a slant of shadow on his front porch sipping a can of Pig’s Eye.
He was in his midfifties, big shouldered, with not much belly. He wore a leg brace on his right foot, and even on this very hot day he wore motorcycle boots, grimy jeans, and a stained T-shirt from which the sleeves had been sliced out. His thick fingers and palms were intricately whorled in
As Broker approached, Lymon moved to unlock the door and said, “There’s a small rectory around back where Moros lived; you want . . .”
“Wait,” Broker said and nodded toward the rundown house across a vacant lot from the church. A scruffy broad-shouldered man sat in the shade of the narrow porch. Watching.
“Is that Tardee?” Broker asked.
“That’s him; he’s waiting on you,” Lymon said.
“Okay, open it up,” Broker said. Lymon opened the heavy wooden door. Broker inspected the lock. It would fasten when he pulled the door closed. He didn’t need the keys to lock up.
“Thanks,” Broker said. “Now I want to be alone.”
Lymon began to say something like, Why the hell did you bring me out here? But he thought better of it and went toward his car. “I’ll be back at the office,” he called over his shoulder.
Broker had brought Lymon out in the heat so Tardee could see them together. It would help establish that he was a cop—because he was traveling a little light in the credentials department. Because, you moron, you let Harry take your badge and gun.
Broker watched Lymon’s blue Crown Vic lurch away down the unpaved street. Then he turned, studied the arched stone entryway, and stepped into the church. The raw limestone, old oak, and coarse stained glass closed around him. The temperature dropped. It was cool like a mausoleum. Or a morgue.
He walked into the dank interior and found his way to the confessional. The crime techs from the BCA lab had left both doors wedged open.
First he looked into the penitent chamber and saw the kneeling rest, the shattered wooden grille through which the penitent would announce himself to the priest.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
God’s work. That’s what Harry had said. Was the Saint doing God’s work?
If pushed on the subject, Broker considered himself a serious but skeptical pilgrim who traveled without a declared belief in God. His eyes traveled over the altar, the old-world statues and pageantry. The roots of this power went back to imperial Rome; absolutely the longest-running show in the world. It occurred to him that if he were seriously trying to find God, he sure wouldn’t start in a building some men had built.
Whatever.
He moved a few steps and looked into the priest’s side of the confessional booth. A misshapen tape outline described where Victor Moros had lain in death. The bloodstain still looked damp in the middle. That was the humidity. Neither sweat nor blood were drying as they should.
Harry was right. Broker had never acquired the investigator’s instinct to absorb telling detail from a crime scene. But even he could see the direction of bullets through the shattered wood grille, the bits scattered into the room. The killer had fired through the screen. The killer had been talking to the priest.
This was no burglary gone bad. This was personal. Or psychotic.
His eyes settled on the bloody carpet and the abstract taped image of the dead priest. So did you deserve it? Broker pushed sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and felt a throb of pain originate in the bump behind his ear and radiate through his head like a thought that Harry had put there.
The hell with this. Better to talk to the living.
He walked out, pulled the door shut behind him, went through a side gate in the sagging wrought-iron fence, and crossed a vacant lot snarled with weeds and wildflowers. Ray Tardee’s house was a single-story wood-frame 1890s shotgun; living room, kitchen, bedroom.
Tardee sat in a slant of shadow on his front porch sipping a can of Pig’s Eye.
He was in his midfifties, big shouldered, with not much belly. He wore a leg brace on his right foot, and even on this very hot day he wore motorcycle boots, grimy jeans, and a stained T-shirt from which the sleeves had been sliced out. His thick fingers and palms were intricately whorled in
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