Bad Samaritan (23 page)

“Someone here in town?” Sister Agatha asked. She already had an entire list of possibilities.

“No, she's from Albuquerque. The woman, Sherry Haines, apparently contacted Robert and told him that she was going to ruin his life, like he'd ruined hers. After that, she got in touch with me.”

Sister Agatha sat up, her attention completely on Tom. “What's her story?”

“Robert was coming home from someplace, probably a bar, and he was so drunk he could barely walk, much less drive. He pulled out in front of Miss Haines, and she had to swerve to avoid a head-on crash. It was winter, the road was icy, and she lost control and rolled her car. Her injuries were serious, and she was trapped inside. Robert stopped, took a look, then panicked and left the scene. Forty minutes went by before another driver spotted the car and called the paramedics. That lapse in time cost her dearly, too. She lost the use of her legs and right hand and had to go on disability. Right now she's living at Partners in Assisted Living.”

“Where did the accident take place?”

“Way west of here, between Bloomfield and Cuba. Apparently, since there were no other witnesses and no physical
contact between the vehicles, Robert thought he'd gotten away with it.”

“How did she find him?”

“At first, she had no idea who he was or where he lived. She never expected to find him, but then last week, she saw a photo of Robert at a campaign rally on the Internet. The first thing she did was call him and tell him that her second call would be to me. She wanted to ruin him in the most painful and public way possible.”

“That must have hit Robert like a bolt of lightning.”

“Yeah, but he knew how to cover his butt—in fact, he specialized in it. He called to tell me that the woman had made it all up and asked to meet face-to-face so we could talk. I agreed to a time and place—the park, while the crowd watched the fireworks.”

“Were you expecting him to withdraw from the race?” she asked.

“Expecting is too strong a word, though it would have been a logical move. There was no way his campaign could have survived a scandal like that. Once the press heard her story, and a photo of her in her wheelchair hit the TV screen . . .”

Sister Agatha considered it, then spoke. “From what you said, the cars never made contact, and the DWI claim would have been impossible to prove now. The case would have most likely been thrown out of court.”

“True, but facts wouldn't have killed Robert at the polls—innuendo would have. Think of the political races in recent years. Careers were ended on speculation alone.”

“So what happened next?”

“Robert did what he did best—find a way to turn things in his favor. He came to me with a deal. If I helped him by convincing people the woman was a crank, he wouldn't reveal what he
had in the manila envelope.” His lips clenched into a thin white line.

He paused for several moments until curiosity made her prod him. “What was in there?”

“Photos of Gloria and Coach Brady. Some of them had been taken with a telephoto lens, but it was clear who they were and what they were doing. When I saw the photos, all I wanted was to rip Robert's head off. I might have done just that, too, but suddenly I felt sick. Everything started spinning, and I knew I was going to pass out. At first I thought I was having a heart attack. I remember Robert stepping away from me. He said something, but I couldn't make it out. Next thing I remember is waking up on the grass with Millie and some paramedics crouched next to me.”

Sister Agatha shook her head slowly. “Tom, I can understand your anger after seeing those photos, but surely you don't expect me to believe that you had no idea your wife was having an affair. You're a police officer trained to look for nuances and inconsistencies in behavior.”

He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “My job is round-the-clock, and with the campaign, I barely had time to think. Gloria's job was the house and the kids. I was taking care of my end, and I expected her to take care of hers,” he said, then, in a strained, reluctant tone of voice, added, “I wasn't paying attention.”

“So what you're saying is that you ignored your wife and family. Gloria needed you to be her husband, but all she got was a part-time roommate—if that,” she said, refusing to sugarcoat it. “Don't you dare pass all the blame on to her.”

“I know I'm partly to blame. I get that,” he snapped, “but this is larger than Gloria and me. I don't want our kids to see those photos—and I have no idea where they are now.”

He gazed at some indeterminate spot across the room. “A dad is larger than life in his own kids' eyes. That look they give you at times can make you feel like you can conquer the world. I don't think I could stand to lose that,” he said. “A part of me would die if all I could see in their eyes when they looked at Gloria and me was disgust.”

The fact that he was also worried about what their sons would think of Gloria spoke volumes. “You still love Gloria.”

“Yeah, I still love her, and despite everything, I'm sure Gloria still loves me. We share too much . . . history.”

“Then fight to save your marriage. Everyone makes mistakes. You made yours and she made hers. Don't allow the past to stand between you.”

“I want her back, and I intend to fight to fix things with my family—but first I've got to get out of this mess,” he said, then took a deep breath.

“What do you think happened to those photos? They weren't around when the deputy showed up, right?”

“No, or my attorney would have heard about it from Marquez by now. I've given this a lot of thought. Either the killer took them or they were grabbed up by the first person on the scene—Al Russo, as far as I know. Of course, someone else could have come by after the killer left and before Russo showed up.”

“Al Russo didn't turn in an envelope or even mention the existence of one to the police,” Sister Agatha said. “He was Robert's campaign manager—do you think he knew about the photos?”

Tom considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe so, but he wouldn't have wanted people to see Robert as a blackmailer. If he found them, I'm sure they've been destroyed by now.”

“If the killer found the envelope, of course, that opens up other possibilities.”

“Like what? I haven't been contacted, so, unlike it was with Robert, it doesn't look like blackmail's going to be his angle. As of right now, I have no idea what, if anything, he intends to do with those photos.”

“Maybe he looked them over and threw them out, knowing they would have linked him to the scene,” Sister Agatha suggested.

“That's one possible answer. That individual would have probably surmised that I'd be unlikely to mention them to Marquez or anyone else. Those photos would only have established an even stronger motive for me to have killed Robert,” he said. “Not knowing what happened to the photos really worries me. If they show up somewhere along the way, they'll end up doing the kind of damage I'll never be able to set right. I'll still be able to prove I'm innocent of killing Robert—I truly believe that—but the harm they'll do to our boys . . .”

Sister Agatha thought about Tom's kids and how they'd react if those photos were made public. The damage that would do wouldn't be easily erased. As often happened, the innocent would pay the highest price of all.

A
FTER MORNING PRAYERS THE FOLLOWING DAY, SISTER
Agatha was summoned into Reverend Mother's office. The starkness of the once cozy room hit her hard. A cardboard box was on the floor beneath the window, and Mother's familiar desk had been replaced with a small vinyl-topped card table. The only other items were two folding metal chairs, a telephone, and the wooden cross on the otherwise bare white walls.

“I wanted you to know that Sister Maria Victoria and Sister Ignatius will be leaving for Colorado this morning,” Mother said. “That'll leave only four of us here. Sister Eugenia, who refuses to go until I do, Sister Bernarda, and you.”

“Mother,” she managed, but no more words came.

Reverend Mother looked at the spot where the small statue of the Blessed Mother had been. “Our own time to leave is fast approaching, too. Have you made any progress helping the sheriff?”

Sister Agatha gave her a quick update. “I'm working as fast as I can, Mother.”

“If our time to go arrives before you're finished with the case, you'll have to remain behind. You can meet the rest of us up at Agnus Dei once the case is closed.”

Sister Agatha felt torn between relief that she'd be able to complete what she'd started and undeniable sadness at the prospect of remaining alone at the monastery. These halls she'd shared with the sisters would feel unspeakably empty without them.

As she left Mother's office, Sister Agatha silently prayed for guidance. Although she'd been given the gift of time, she still had no idea what the next step in the investigation should be.

“Can you give me a hint, Lord? What should I do next?”

Though no answer came, she knew one thing. The answers weren't to be found here at the monastery.

Sister Agatha headed into town with Pax a short time later, formulating a plan along the way. She'd start by trying to get more information about Sherry Haines, the woman who'd accused Robert Garcia of abandoning her along the side of the road. Sherry Haines hadn't killed Robert—there'd been no wheelchair marks anywhere around the body—but it was possible she'd been in communication with others besides Tom and Robert. That could have started a chain of events that had led to Robert's death.

Monty Allen, for example, wouldn't have wanted her story to appear in the papers or on television. Maybe he'd murdered Robert to save the firm from the kind of publicity that would have threatened his livelihood. It was a stretch, but then again, stranger things had happened.

As she parked outside the newspaper office, Chuck rushed outside to meet her. “You heard what happened, right?”

The wild excitement on Chuck's face made her stomach tighten. “No, I guess not. What's going on?”

“Hang on to your hat . . . or veil. Something with a really bad odor hit the fan this morning.” He took her to his desk and picked up a copy of the
Voice,
an Albuquerque tabloid-inspired weekly. “Front page, no less,” he said, handing it to her.

Sister Agatha glanced at the cover. The photo was grainy, with Coach Brady's face deliberately blacked out, but even if she hadn't been able to make out the subject, the headline and caption removed all doubt.

GREEN—WITH JEALOUSY
?

NEW MOTIVE
?

“Gloria Green just blew it for her husband,” Chuck said. “This'll cinch the DA.'s case.”

“This looks bad for Tom's wife, but how's this going to hurt Tom? Coach Brady's not dead—Robert is,” she said, wondering if he'd somehow made the connection between the envelope Robert had carried and Tom.

“Sister, don't you know who owns the
Voice
?” Seeing her blank expression, he added, “TFC Corp. Recognize the initials? Garcia's campaign logo was the same as that of his corporation. The Garcias own the
Voice
. A case will be made against Sheriff Green saying he'd known Robert was going to print the photos to embarrass him publicly, and the two had argued. Then, in a rage, Tom killed him. You get it, don't you? I mean, it won't be long before people link those photos to the envelope Robert carried with him that day.”

Sister Agatha sat down and studied the photos. She had no doubt that these were the ones Robert had shown Tom. “Why would the killer, or whoever removed that envelope from the scene, release the photos now?”

“There's a woman claiming that she was a victim of Robert's
drunk driving—Sherry Haines. She went to the press with her story, and things have been buzzing ever since. That story hasn't reached the newsstand yet, but it will in a matter of hours. Maybe the Garcias, or someone sympathetic to them, decided they needed something to counter it with the public,” Chuck speculated. “The edition with those photos just came out.”

She nodded. “That would serve to protect the Garcias by turning the scrutiny and suspicion back onto Tom. It would also help discredit the evidence that supports Tom's version of the story—like the fact that both of the men were drugged.”

She carefully considered everything she'd learned, but something about the timing still bothered her. It was more important than ever that she find and speak to Sherry Haines. “Do you know where Partners in Assisted Living is located?”

His eyes narrowed as he gazed at her. “Sister, you've got a lead, and I want in.”

“I'll tell you all about it, I promise, but first I need to confirm a few things. Will you give me twenty-four hours?”

“In newspaper terms, that's a lifetime, but okay,” Chuck said, looking up the address for her.

“Thanks, Chuck. Oh, about Coach Brady—please forget I mentioned his name, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. In this town he could lose his job over the gossip if people found out that he was the guy in the photos,” Chuck answered. “Mum's the word.”

The drive into Albuquerque took longer than she'd expected, traveling down the old highway and off the main streets. Forty minutes later, Sister Agatha and Pax arrived at the rehabilitation center. Pax was wearing his orange service dog vest as they
walked up to the front desk. There, a stately, silver-haired woman greeted them with a warm smile.

“Hello, Sister. I'm Mrs. Goldman. What brings you here this morning?”

“I'm Sister Agatha, and I'd like to speak to Sherry Haines about Robert Garcia,” she said.

“She's in therapy right now,” the woman replied after checking her computer screen. “Would you like to wait?”