Mortal Sin (17 page)

That was the last thing she expected Tom to say. “Thank you,” she said.

“No hard feelings?”

“Not yet,” she said.

An email message popped up from Padilla. “Just a sec,” she said. “I’m waiting for something.” She clicked the message.

Last known address for the Hangstroms: 3450 Eucalyptus Street, S.L. Olivia Hangstrom was a teacher at S.L. Elementary for 52 years. Paul Hangstrom owned a hardware store. Two grown children, Paul, Jr. in San Francisco and Miriam Hangstrom Kline living in Phoenix. Below is their contact information.

“I need to follow-up on a lead.”

“Anything I can help with?”

She almost said no. She didn’t know if she could trust Tom.

But even though she and Tom had butted heads since her appointment as sheriff, they’d worked together for years. He was a good cop. Steady, methodical, principled. She pictured his face when Truxel was speaking at the press conference. Truxel had picked Tom to run because Tom was the most experienced cop in the department. He was a life-long Santa Louisa resident, like Skye, but older and wiser and respected. The problem was, he
was
older, and he wasn’t as spry as he used to be. Still, maybe she’d let her feelings of incompetence and the fear that she really wasn’t good enough to be sheriff interfere with her relationship with her team.

“You remember Joe Smith.”

“Of course. You have a lead?”

She weighed how much to tell him, and decided that most of the truth would work here.

“I might. I went back to the storage unit last night because something was bugging me. I realized in the original crime scene report that they hadn’t thoroughly searched the storage units, though they noted that several had locks cut off.”

“Looters.”

She nodded. “That’s what I assumed. So I went back to take a look, and there’s one lock that was very recently broken. None of the others seemed disturbed. Unit 214. I tracked down the original owner, but I think we need to go through that facility again. Print the contents of that locker. Take pictures. Double check the other storage units.”

“You think it’s connected to Joe’s murder?”

“I don’t know. I just think that it’s odd that Joe was killed and one of the units was recently broken into. We need to find out when and if the bank did an inventory and whether they inventoried each individual unit. What if Joe was simply in the wrong place and the wrong time?”

“I can do that. Thanks for letting me help. We need to find whoever killed Joe. I don’t like that another killer is on the loose. We’ve had too much violence in town.”

She hesitated. Was he being critical of her? Or just making an observation? She decided to hold out an olive branch.

“Maybe the election rubbed me the wrong way,” she said, “and I apologize if I’ve made you feel like you weren’t part of the team.”

Tom didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he leaned forward and said, “I should have been appointed sheriff. And honestly? I don’t think you’re ready for the hard decisions. But you’re not a bad cop, and you have good instincts. Just watch yourself. People are suspicious of that girl from Ireland. She’s an odd one and always seems to be in the middle of the shitstorm. And Truxel is right about one thing—you never asked that guy Cooper, the shrink who survived the massacre, the hard questions.”

She bristled. “I did, Tom. Just not in the public eye.”

He didn’t say anything. She didn’t really know what he was thinking.

“Are we done here?” she asked. Inside, she was jelly, but she couldn’t let him see her weakness.

He stood. “I may not think you’re qualified, but I think you’re right about investigating the storage facility, and I will go over the place with a fine-toothed comb. I promise you that.”

For a second, she hesitated. She’d brought Moira and Anthony there. But Anthony had worn gloves, and Moira hadn’t touched anything. She hoped.

And she didn’t know quite what to make of Tom’s comments. Friend or foe? She leaned to foe, but she said with a curt nod, “Thank you.”

He left. Skye sighed and rubbed her head again. She needed more coffee. More sleep. She really hoped Tom wasn’t playing a twisted game with Martin Truxel, maybe trying to get information from her. It had seemed odd that he’d come into her office then, when he had made a point of staying away from her ever since he announced his campaign against her.

But even if he were playing both sides, she still needed the information from the storage unit, and Thomas Williams was still a cop. A good cop, his feelings of superiority notwithstanding. She had to believe he would do the right thing.

Sometimes, she didn’t know what the right thing was anymore.

She made sure she was alone, and that her door was closed. She called Paul Hangstrom, Jr. at the number Padilla had given her.

“Law Offices,” the secretary answered.

Terrific. A lawyer.

“Mr. Hangstrom please.”

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

“Sheriff Skye McPherson from Santa Louisa. Tell him it’s about his parents’ estate.”

“One moment.”

It took less than a minute before Paul Hangstrom picked up the phone. “Sheriff McPherson?”

“Yes. Are you the son of Paul and Olivia Hangstrom?”

“Yes I am. I’m surprised that the sheriff would be calling me.”

“During the course of an unrelated investigation, we found a storage unit rented by your parents shortly before your father died. Your mother kept up the payments until her death, and it then went into default. But the unit wasn’t auctioned off because the facility went bankrupt.”

“I didn’t know they had a storage unit. There was nothing in their papers about it, and my mother was very meticulous.” He paused, then said, “My parents were frugal. They didn’t have much when they died, but they had no debt. They left everything to their church.”

Skye’s instincts tingled. “Which church?”

“St. Francis de Sales. It’s the only Catholic Church in Santa Louisa. My dad was almost a priest. He went to Seminary, but ended up returning to Santa Louisa and marrying his childhood sweetheart, my mom. But he was a deacon for years, and my mom knitted blankets for every baby baptized there until her hands couldn’t hold the knitting needles. If you need me to sign something, I will—the church should have the contents. And I’m happy to pay for anything owed for the unit, to bring it current.”

“Thank you—I’ll forward your contact information on to the bank. I’m sure they’ll be able to help you with that. I have one more question—are you familiar with an antique wooden box, very heavy, with a religious carving on the top? About the size of a large jewelry box.”

“No, I don’t remember anything like that. But I haven’t lived in Santa Louisa for forty years, and only visited my parents a few times a year. They may have acquired it, especially if it had religious significance. They were quite devout and devoted to the church. Sheriff, did something happen? What investigation are you working on?”

She didn’t want to say too much, but gave him the basics. “The storage facility was broken into and we’re contacting anyone who had a unit there, even if they were in default.”

“It’s very odd,” Paul continued. “I was the executor of my parent’s estate and there was nothing missing from their house, their bills were in order. I would have noticed a charge or check made out to a storage unit. Are you certain it was my parents?”

“Their name was on the rental agreement with their address. I’ll have a copy faxed to you.”

“I appreciate that. And please send me the bank information and I’ll follow through on that as well, no need for you to have to do it.”

“Of course, thank you.” She hung up, sent Padilla a message with Paul, Jr.’s address and number, asking the CSI to get him the appropriate information.

But she couldn’t help but wonder why an older couple hid the fact they had a storage unit, and why they stored things that wouldn’t be missed by their own children. She needed to go back there and look through the boxes. What if something else was there that they’d missed last night?

She glanced at her watch. It was one in the afternoon. She had hoards of paperwork to do, but first called the church to make an appointment with the priest, Father Isaac. He was relatively new to Santa Louisa, but he might have known the Hangstroms and know what the box was and why it was important.

She regretted letting Anthony walk off with it.

Anthony left Juan’s room feeling more than a little troubled. Not only because Juan’s writings had become more frantic, but because there was the very real possibility that he’d killed a man. Anthony didn’t hold much stock in man-made laws, but he respected science. Magic could distort many things, but it would extremely difficult to completely change evidence. It would be more logical to cast a spell over the person analyzing the evidence than to change anything physical. And it would be difficult for a witch to know which crime scene tech would be analyzing the fingerprints.

And it made no sense! Why frame a troubled man like Juan Martinez?

Unless Juan was a threat to him. Maybe the ramblings he wrote were a threat to the coven and their plans.

Anthony thought about where Juan might have gone. If he wasn’t at his house, there were only a few places he might be. In a situation like this, Juan would go where he felt safest. The church or the mission.

Because Anthony was closer to St. Francis de Sales, he drove there first.

Juan needed to go away for help. Anthony should have sent him to St. Michael’s from the beginning. Moira had brought it up multiple times, and he dismissed the idea because it had come from her—and he would never trust that witch. Still, in hindsight, he should have come to the conclusion on his own. St. Michael’s had the resources and people who could help Juan.

The overwhelming sense that he’d failed the man hit Anthony, coupled with a deep anger that they were losing the battle. How could they hope to win when so many were against them? When they had to follow rules that helped protect the guilty?

And then Skye… they had finally regained something intangible they’d lost. Last night… this morning… he already felt the loss in his heart. Anthony needed her; she gave him something he didn’t know he’d needed until he met her.

Their problems were his fault. The weight of his commitment to St. Michael’s conflicted with his love for Skye. He wanted both. Hadn’t he sacrificed enough for St. Michael’s that he could have one pleasure in his life? But she’d looked at him again with doubt, the same doubt she’d had when they first met at the mission, after the slaughter of the twelve priests. He couldn’t bear to see the uncertainty in her eyes. That she doubted
him
when he’d given her everything he could.

It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

He stopped at the church. The noon mass was just getting out. He searched the grounds, then spoke to Father Isaac. Juan hadn’t been there. Father allowed Anthony to search the area, but Juan wasn’t hiding.

“If you see him, Father, call me. Anytime.”

“Of course, son.”

Anthony left for the mission, a sensation of loss and anguish filling him.
Son.
He’d been the son of no one, abandoned at St. Michael’s when he was an infant. Why did that bother him now? He was in his thirties, hardly a young boy missing the tender ministrations of a mother he couldn’t possibly remember. He’d never had unconditional love. He thought with Skye… maybe there was hope for him…

But there were conditions, weren’t there?

The thought of losing Skye pained him, but he didn’t know what to do. Not when there was a battle being played here, now. He couldn’t walk away from the battle, no matter how much he wanted to at times.

His thoughts tormented him, the thoughts of Skye’s doubt, her love, her questions, Rafe’s trauma, Moira’s past—he had been solid through it all. A rock. Because that’s what he was. He’d always been the steady hand in a sea of turbulence.

And he didn’t know if he could do it any longer.

Stop the self-pity.

He took a few deep breaths and was almost surprised that he was already at the mission. He barely remembered driving here. The truck Rafe was using was parked to the side.

Rafe would be a voice he could trust. Anthony needed someone who understood what they faced.

That is not fair, Anthony. Skye has faced death with you. She’s been steady and faithful.

Anthony frowned. His head ached.

He stepped into the caretaker’s cottage. He wasn’t surprised to see Rafe sitting at the table.

He was stunned, however, to see Juan Martinez sleeping on the cot. He appeared passed out, and didn’t move when Anthony walked in. Juan was so thin he looked anorexic, and Anthony couldn’t picture him in this condition having the strength to beat a man to death.

“Where did you find him?” Anthony asked. “Skye is looking everywhere.”

“He was praying at the fountain when I drove up. He saw me and handed me this notebook. Then he collapsed. I brought him inside, gave him water and bread, and he slept. It’s a deep sleep. He hasn’t moved in two hours.”

“Skye is going to be furious you didn’t call.”

“Why would I call her?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Juan’s prints were found in Bertrand’s office. He’s wanted for questioning.”

“Questioning?” Rafe asked quizzically. Then the realization dawned on him. “No way. He didn’t kill Bertrand.”

“I wish I had your faith. The evidence proves he was in the room.”

“Look at him, Anthony. Skye said Bertrand was hit repeatedly over the head. This man couldn’t lift a spoon to his lips.”

Anthony knew Rafe was right. Juan was so thin his bones were visible through his skin. He was forty, but looked twice his age. “How did he get here?”

“He must have walked all night. He didn’t come in a car. He’s in no condition to be questioned.”

“I agree.” But how could he keep the information from Skye?

“What’s that?” Rafe asked, pointing to the box Anthony had under his arm.