Mortal Sin (3 page)

“Rafe and Moira moved into my dad’s old cabin halfway between town and the mission. It was getting a little crowded in my small house with them and Anthony.”

The Santa Louisa de los Padres Mission—also known as the Lost Mission of California—was thirty minutes out of town up a winding mountain road. Skye’s dad had been a forest ranger before he’d died when he fell off a cliff. The cabin had been in Skye’s family for generations, and her dad had fixed it up over the years so it now had running water, an inside bathroom, and kitchen. Skye couldn’t bear to part with it, though she’d rarely gone up there since his death.

Her boyfriend, Anthony Zaccardi, hadn’t liked Moira and Rafe moving into the cabin together. He didn’t like a lot of things about their relationship, and Skye hated being the mediator. She loved Anthony—sometimes, she became terrified that she loved him
too
much. It had been her idea to get Moira and Rafe out of the house and into the cabin because the tension between the three of them—Moira, Rafe, and Anthony—was giving her an ulcer. Anthony’s thinly veiled anger and hostility toward Moira troubled her, but it had improved since Rafe and Moira moved out. Unfortunately, Anthony spent far more time at the mission supervising the reconstruction, reading his books, and sleeping there as much as coming to her bed. She hadn’t seen him in two days.

She felt she was losing him. Especially since he’d returned from his trip to St. Michael’s in Italy three months ago. He’d gone to Olivet, an American monastery in Montana, several times for so-called
meetings
and refused to discuss anything with her. She didn’t completely understand his work as a demonologist, but she did get that it was important. They were all working double-time to locate Fiona and Serena, to track down the remaining Seven Deadly Sins, and to stop the violence that seemed to become the life-blood of Santa Louisa. But Anthony’s distance from her had increased, and that disturbed her on multiple levels.

“I love you, Skye. Trust me.”

She wanted to trust him, but it was becoming more difficult as time passed.

Skye pushed aside thoughts of her struggling relationship. “Deputy Jorgenson is working on locating potential witnesses—when Bertrand left the hospital, when he came home, if anyone heard anything.” That was doubtful. Bertrand lived on a winding street in the hills above Santa Louisa. The nearest neighbor was more than a hundred yards away. “TOD would be helpful, the sooner the better. Cause of death seems obvious. The killer may have left prints or DNA all over the place, considering the destruction.”

“It’s odd from a forensics stand point that the violence is contained to this one room.”

“Maybe this is a simple homicide as you said when you first got here,” she said. “Nothing unusual about it.” She didn’t believe it, and neither did Rod.

“Sure, if you say so.” He sounded skeptical.

“You think I should call in Moira.”

“I didn’t say that.” He paused. “But I was thinking it.”

She’d been thinking the same thing.

She didn’t want to bring in Moira O’Donnell unless she had no other ideas. She could wish all she wanted that Bertrand had been killed by a drugged-out thief or a golfing buddy gone mad, but Bertrand was in the middle of everything odd and weird and most likely, something equally odd and weird was responsible for his murder.

Some people, the few who accepted supernatural reasons for the rising crime rate and unusually high murder rate, called Moira psychic. Moira said she wasn’t. What she
did
do was sense both magic and demonic activity—something Skye had never believed in until she’d seen it with her own eyes. If something supernatural was at work here, then Moira would know exactly what and how. Maybe she could ask Moira to come over simply to rule out the
woo-woo,
whacky stuff so Skye could focus on what she did best: investigate a homicide.

She said to Rod, “Find the weapon and get me a good TOD.” Then she left him to do his job.

She walked out of the house, but before she could take in a deep breath of fresh air, she came face-to-face with District Attorney Martin Truxel. Truxel had been born and raised in Santa Louisa just like her. He was only a few years older than she, and while she’d become a cop after getting her two-year degree at a nearby community college, he’d gone to UCLA to become a lawyer. He returned and ran for D.A. Of course he won. The Truxels were well-known and had money. But she’d never expected him to stay. She’d been surprised he’d returned, considering he’d always had grand plans. When he ran for student body president as a senior, when she’d been a freshman, he’d said he planned to be the first black governor of California.

She’d always wondered why he’d come back to small Santa Louisa if he planned to run the entire state.

“A little early for you to be involved,” she said to the D.A. “We got the call forty-five minutes ago. The M.E. just arrived. We’ll have more by morning.”

“Just checking on things.” Truxel tried to side-step her.

She put her hand up. He turned and glared at her. If he wasn’t such a prick, he would have been handsome, but he loved himself more than anyone else. There are been some rumors that he was aggressive with women, but she’d never been able to find anyone who would press charges against him.

She wasn’t afraid of Truxel. Except for his money. He was funding her opponent in the sheriff’s race. Tom Williams wasn’t a bad cop, but he was older and easily led. He—perhaps rightfully—thought he should have been appointed sheriff three years ago when the previous sheriff died of a heart attack. That the City Council had voted to appoint her to complete the term had been a blow to the seasoned cop. She thought she’d smoothed it over with Tom, but Truxel got to him.

“You can’t go into the house without gloves and booties.” She motioned for one of Fielding’s CSI’s to approach. “The D.A. wants access. Dress him up and stick with him.” She stared Truxel in the eye. “We wouldn’t want the crime scene compromised.”

He hesitated, just a fraction of a moment, then said, “I don’t need access. I just want to make sure you’re not giving
civilians
free reign here. Dr. Bertrand was one of our most respected citizens.”

She knew exactly what he meant, but she wasn’t going to let him push her buttons.

“Dr. Bertrand is just as important as Joe Smith, the homeless vet who was killed in an abandoned building last week,” she said. “And I will investigate both homicides with equal diligence.”

“At least for the next month,” he said clearly, then walked away.

“Fuck him,” Skye muttered. Truxel had made a stink about her bringing in Anthony to consult on the murders at the mission last November, especially when he learned that Anthony was a demonologist. Truxel had made her professional life miserable, and it was getting worse as the election grew nearer. He’d mocked her, leaked information to the press, and created a division in her department she didn’t know she could rectify.

She meant what she said—she wanted to solve Joe’s murder. Joe had been living on the streets since she was a kid. He’d been a veteran from Vietnam and her dad used to bring him leftovers at least once a week. He was a drunk, and lived like a homeless drunk, but he had never caused problems in town. No theft, no vandalism, no trouble. He’d been brutally gutted last week and their investigation was stalled. No evidence, no witnesses, no hope to solve the crime unless something new popped up. But she wasn’t going to let Joe’s death get buried under a pile of bureaucratic bullshit.

Yet, even though she didn’t like the man, Richard Bertrand was her responsibility as much as the homeless vet she had liked. He was most likely a criminal affiliated with Fiona O’Donnell; he’d possibly drugged or poisoned Rafe Cooper and may have been involved in the mass murder-suicide of the twelve priests at the mission; but there was no proof to any of it. Someone violent had killed him, and he deserved justice as much as kind, drunk Joe Smith.

And Skye wanted her town back. She wanted the violence to stop.

She watched Truxel drive away and then called Anthony.

“Skye,
mi amore
, I am sorry I did not come home last night,” he said in lieu of
hello.
“I was caught up in work until dawn.”

“Richard Bertrand is dead.”

Silence.

“Anthony?” she prompted.

“He is dead? How?”

“Looks like he was beaten to death with a blunt object, but I’ll wait for Rod’s autopsy for the final answer. His home office was tossed. We don’t know what was taken.”

Again, silence.

“Anthony, I’m still here. Talk to me.”

“I had a semi-public disagreement with Dr. Bertrand yesterday morning at the hospital.”

Her stomach flipped.
Please, no.
“I told both you and Rafe to stay away from him.”

“Rafe’s headaches are getting worse. We must learn exactly what Bertrand did to him.”

“Yet, he didn’t tell you anything. You knew he wouldn’t talk. So why did you even try?”

“I had hoped to appeal to his greed.”

She lowered her voice, but still looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to her conversation. “You
bribed
him?”

“I had approval from St. Michael’s to make him an offer we didn’t think he would refuse.”

She couldn’t believe this was happening. Anthony had tried to bribe Bertrand, the doctor refused, and now the doctor was dead… and Anthony didn’t have an alibi.

She wanted to talk to him, to find out what was going on with him, and the mission, and this ridiculous
bribe.
She wanted to see him. Everything she’d thought they had built over the last six months was fading away.

Not only was Anthony a potential witness, he was a possible suspect. He might have been one of the last people to see Bertrand alive.

“Where have you been for the last twenty-four hours?”

Again, the silence. The damn silence! “Skye,” he whispered.

“Tell me.” She was letting her emotions—her relationship—get in the way of her job. She shouldn’t have asked him on the phone. She should have brought him into the station. Or at least asked him face-to-face.

What job? You’re going to lose the election. You know that.

Formally, he said, “I spoke with Bertrand yesterday at the hospital, in his office.”

“Who was with you?”

A slight hesitation. “No one.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I do not lie,” he said, his voice rising in anger. “No one was in the room with me.”

But that meant either Rafe or Moira had been nearby. She knew it as much as she knew that Anthony wasn’t telling her everything.

“What time?”

“Noon. I was there for twenty minutes.”

“And then?”

“I went to visit with Juan, like I do every Wednesday afternoon.”

Skye wanted to ask how her detective—how her friend—was doing, but if there was a change, Anthony would have told her.

You hope he would tell you.

Anthony had been counseling Juan for months, so had Rafe, who had more training in this type of thing. But Juan seemed to be getting worse. Skye couldn’t even remember the last time she’d seen him—months ago, right after they’d captured Envy.

“Did you know that Juan’s mother was Bertrand’s housekeeper?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Dammit, Anthony!”

“Juan and Edith are my friends. Of course I would know. I would never use an old woman, Skye, if that is what you’re getting at.”

Maybe she had been making the insinuation. “After you saw Juan?”

“I went to the mission. I was there all night.” He paused. “You want me to have an alibi.”

“I need you to tell the truth.”

“I always tell you the truth.”

Doubt filled her heart. Bertrand was dead and Anthony had hated him. Anthony would deny it—he would say he didn’t hate anyone—but she’d seen his anger at Bertrand. She’d seen his anger directed at Moira. Anthony said he didn’t hate anyone, but the feelings were still there, whether he believed they were or not.

“Anthony?”

“Yes.”

“Stay at the mission until you hear from me.”

“I should be there, with you. To help.”

“Not until I figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Are you certain Bertrand was murdered? Maybe this is—”

“He was bludgeoned to death,” she said bluntly. “His office was trashed. The person who killed him will be identified and arrested. And if you are holding back anything from me, Anthony, now is the time to tell me.”

“I didn’t kill him,” he said.

Skye hung up. She glanced at the sky. She’d gotten into the habit of doing that, looking skyward, since Anthony had come into her life. She didn’t pray; she didn’t really
believe
in much of anything except that there were things in this world she didn’t understand.

But she understood murder. Bertrand had been murdered, and she would find his killer.

Moira stood over the portal to Hell and closed her eyes.

The hairs on her skin rose; the screams of the damned filled her head until she fell to her knees.

She hated this place. What she felt, what she smelled, what she heard. Dear God, she could handle everything but the sounds of suffering. Yet still she stayed because there were answers here if she could withstand the pain.

Moira craved a protective shell, wished she could cast a spell and be saved from her fate. But using witchcraft would be akin to wearing a white shirt under a black light. Or setting off a flare like a neon sign that flashed, “Come and get me!” Her mother would find her; her mother would kill her. And she’d do it without lifting a finger. For reasons Moira didn’t know or understand, if she used magic, it enabled Fiona to use
her
. To control her through demonic forces.

Nearly a decade ago, she and the man she loved had thought they were doing good—using magic to right wrongs, to save people, to locate Fiona and put an end to her quest for power and immortality.

They’d been so very wrong. They might have saved people, but at what cost? Peter had lost his life, and now there was nowhere Moira could go without being confronted with both her past and her fate.