Authors: Erica Spindler
“My last hurrah. Besides, couldn’t let Malone here handle it on his own. The department would actually like this one closed.”
Landry laughed and looked at Spencer. “Who drew the short straw?”
Malone knew Landry referred to his next partner. He also knew that word around the department was that he had. “Bayle.”
Landry’s eyebrows shot up. “Karin Bayle?”
“The very one.”
His expression said it all. “Didn’t know she was back from medical leave.”
“Officially returning to active duty tomorrow.” Landry started to say something else, but Malone cut him off. “Thanks for calling us in, man. This one has crazy written all over it.”
“Not my call. Your captain’s.” He turned his gaze to the front of the church. “You get a look at the vic yet?”
“Heading that way now.”
He nodded and they fell into step together. “Body was found a couple hours ago by one of the nuns.”
The center aisle formed a T at the altar. The body was located on the right arm of the T, near the side exit. As Malone approached the victim, he worked to tune out the activity around him—everything from the snap and flash of the scene photographer’s camera to the easy camaraderie between the CSI techs—and concentrate only on the victim, the scene and what they had to say to him.
Crime scenes had a story to tell. But they had to be gently coaxed. And carefully listened to. But still, some were stubborn and remained mute.
Malone wondered what this scene would bring.
The victim lay facedown. The back of his head had been bashed in. Blood had matted in the man’s fringe of white hair, leaked from the wound and created a dark stain on the wine-colored carpet. His arms splayed forward, as if he had tried to break his fall.
Malone squatted beside the body. He’d been elderly. Judging by the thin, age-spotted skin on the back of his hands, maybe in his seventies. He wore pajamas and slippers. His left slipper had dislodged as he fell.
Malone shifted his gaze to the side door.
“What’s with the PJs?” Tony asked.
“Bet he lived in the rectory,” Malone said, standing. “My guess, he got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, saw someone or something and came to investigate.”
“And surprised the vandal.”
Malone nodded. “He surprised him, then tried to run. See the way he’s positioned, arms forward and feet back?”
“So what’d our perp use for a—”
“Excuse, me, Detectives?” called a uniformed officer from the side door. He motioned them over. “It looks like we recovered the weapon.”
CHAPTER THREE
Tuesday, August 9
9:40
A.M.
At any given moment, the demons could descend upon Mira Gallier. Sometimes, she marshaled the strength to fight them off, denying their dark, tormenting visions. Their taunts and merciless accusations.
Other times, they overpowered her and left her scrambling for a way to silence them. To obliterate the pain.
Last night they had come. And she had found a way to escape.
Mira lay on her side on the bed, gazing blankly at the small rose window she had created in secret, a wedding gift for her husband-to-be. In the tradition of the magnificent Gothic windows, she had chosen brilliant jewel colors; her design had been complex and intricate, combining painted images within the blocks of color. For her, the window had been a symbol of her and Jeff’s perfect love and new, beautiful life together.
She had never imagined how quickly, how brutally, that life would be ended.
It hurt to look at it now and Mira rolled onto her back. Her head felt heavy; the inside of her mouth as if stuffed with cotton.
Eleven months, three weeks and four days, shot to hell by one small blue, oval tablet.
What would Jeff think of her now? Even as she wondered, she knew. He would be deeply disappointed.
But he couldn’t be more disappointed in her than she was in herself.
On the nightstand, her cell phone chirped. She grabbed it, answered. “Second level of hell. The tormented speaking.”
“Mira? It’s Deni.”
Her studio assistant and friend. Sounding puzzled.
“Who’d you expect?” she asked. “My husband?”
“That’s not funny.”
It wasn’t, she acknowledged. It was angry. And sad. Jeff was dead, and she had fallen off the wagon. Neither of which had a damn thing to do with Deni. “I’m sorry, I had a really bad night.”
“You want to talk about it?”
The roar of water. A wall of it. As black and cold as death, brutal and unforgiving. Jeff’s cry resounded in her head. Calling out for her to help him.
But she hadn’t been there. She didn’t know what that last moment had been like. She didn’t even know if he’d had time to cry out, to feel fear, or if he had known it was the end.
And she never would.
He was dead because of her.
“No. But thanks.” The last came out automatically, what she was supposed to say, even though gratitude was far from what she was feeling.
“You used, didn’t you?”
No condemnation in Deni’s voice. Just pity. Still, excuses flew to Mira’s lips, so familiar she could utter them in her sleep. They made her sick. She was done with them.
“Yes.”
For a long moment Deni was silent. When she finally spoke, she said, “I take it I should reschedule your interview?”
“Interview?”
“With Libby Gardner. From Channel Twelve, the local PBS affiliate. About the Magdalene window. She’s here.”
Mira remembered then. Her work on the Magdalene restoration was being included in a sixth anniversary of Katrina series the station was planning. “Shit. I forgot. Sorry.”
“What should I tell her?”
“How about the truth? That your boss is a pill head and basket case.”
“Stop it, Mira. That’s not true.”
“No?”
“You suffered a terrible loss. You turned to—”
“The whole city suffered that same freaking loss. Life goes on, sweetheart.” She spoke the words harshly, their brutality self-directed. “The strong thrive and the weak turn to Xanax.”
“That’s such bullshit.” Deni sounded hurt. “I’ll see if she can reschedule—”
“No. Get started with her. Explain how the window ended up in our care, describe the process, show her around. By the time you’ve done that, I’ll be there.”
“Mira—”
She cut her assistant off. “I’ll be in shortly. We can talk then.”
Mira hurried to the kitchen. She fixed herself a cup of strong coffee, then headed to the bathroom. When she caught sight of her reflection in the vanity mirror, she froze. She looked like crap. Worse even. The circles under her hazel eyes were so dark, her pale skin looked ghostly in comparison. She was too thin—her copper red hair like the flame atop a matchstick.
She wore one of her husband’s old Ts as a nightshirt:
GEAUX SAINTS,
the front proclaimed. Mira trailed her fingers over the faded print. Jeff hadn’t lived long enough to see his beloved NFL team win the Super Bowl.
It’s your fault he’s dead, Mira,
the voice in her head whispered.
You convinced him to stay. Remember what you said? “It’ll be an adventure, Jeff. A story we can share with our children and grandchildren.”
The air conditioner kicked on. Cold air from the vent above her head raised goose bumps on her arms and the back of her neck. No, she told herself. That was bullshit. Isn’t that what her shrink, Dr. Jasper, had told her? Jeff had been a fifty percent partner in the decision. If he had felt strongly they should leave, he would have said so.
His family blamed her. Her and Jeff’s friends had been subtle in their accusations, but she read condemnation in their eyes.
She stared helplessly at her reflection. The problem was, she blamed herself. No matter what her shrink said or what the facts were.
She moved her gaze over the destruction of her bathroom—drawers emptied, makeup bags and carry-ons rifled through.
As if thieves had broken in and turned her home upside down in search of valuables.
But she had done this. She was the thief. And the eleven months, three weeks and four days she had robbed herself of couldn’t be replaced.
Her cell phone went off. She saw it was Deni, no doubt calling to say the reporter had taken a hike. “Pissed off another one, didn’t I?” she answered.
“Something really bad’s happened, Mira.”
She pressed the device tighter to her ear. “What?”
“It’s Father Girod, he’s … dead. He was murdered.”
An image of the kindly old priest filled her head. He had approached her after Katrina about his church’s stained-glass windows, destroyed by the storm. In the process of restoring the twelve panels, she and the father had become friends.
Grief choked her. “Oh, my God. Who could have … When did—”
“There’s more.” Deni’s voice shook. “Whoever did it also vandalized the windows.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Tuesday, August 9
1:00
P.M.
Malone and Tony sat across from their superior officer, Captain Patti O’Shay. Always insightful and tough, in recent years she had shown her resiliency as well. She had bounced back from the murder of her husband, the chaos of Katrina and the betrayal of her oldest friend.
Malone respected both what she had accomplished as a woman on the force and the way she had done it—with integrity and her head held high. He admired her dedication and determination, both of which he saw in her expression right now.
And he could honestly say that his respect for her was in no way influenced by the fact that she was his aunt and godmother.
She hadn’t called them into her office for an ordinary case drill. Something was up.
He asked her what.
“First, tell me what you’ve got so far.”
Malone began. “Looks like the victim interrupted a vandal, or vandals, so they killed him.”
Tony stepped in. “Smashed him in the back of the head with a brass candleholder from the altar. We retrieved it and two spray-paint cans from the scene. All three are being processed.”
“Perp left us a message, graffitied on the stained-glass windows: ‘He will come again to judge the living and the dead.’ Punctuated with a smiley face. That’s it. Nothing was stolen and nothing but the windows was vandalized.”
“So what does it mean?” she asked. “Why break into a church just to graffiti the windows?”
Tony replied first. “Priest interrupted him before he had a chance to do anything else. Murder wasn’t on the agenda; he freaks out and takes off.”
“I’ve got a different take,” Malone said. “He does it because it’s really important to him.”
The three fell momentarily silent. A fanatic was more dangerous than even a hardened criminal. Malone would choose hunting down a hundred criminals over a single zealot. The zealot’s sense of purpose and destiny changed everything.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” Captain O’Shay said. “At this point it looks like we have a case of simple vandalism and a wrong-place-wrong-time murder scenario.”
She shifted her gaze to Tony. “You get a get-out-of-jail-free card for this one, Detective. I’m thinking you have a party to go to.”
Tony didn’t make a move. “Thank you, Captain. But if you don’t mind, until Slick’s new partner arrives, I’ll hang with him.”
She smiled affectionately. “Get the hell out of here, Detective. I think ‘Slick’ can bring Detective Bayle up to speed pretty quickly. Besides, there are a whole lot of people out there wanting to shake your hand.”
“All right, then.” Tony cleared his throat and stood. “You’re on your own, hotshot.”
Malone stood, crossed to his friend and hugged him. As he did, a dozen honest but gushy sentiments sprang to his lips, ones about gratitude, friendship and admiration. Instead he clapped him on the back and stepped away. “I’ll see you out there, Tony. Try not to eat all the cake.”
As Captain O’Shay’s door snapped shut, Spencer forced a lid on his sense of loss and turned back to her. And found her gazing at him not as his tough-as-nails superior officer but as his beloved aunt Patti.
“You’re going to miss him.”
“Hell yes, I’m going to miss him. He always had my back.”
“And you had his. Trust. It’s what makes a strong partnership.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “What are you getting at?”
“Are you sure you want to take Bayle under your wing? I’m giving you the out.”
His arched his eyebrows in surprise. “I thought this was settled.”
“I’m talking to you now as your captain
and
your aunt. I’ll partner her with someone else. You have major issues on your mind right now, with Stacy still recuperating and wedding plans to navigate.”
“I said I’ll do it, I’m not going back on my word.”
“Bayle melted down on the job. Completely lost it.”
“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware of her incredible service during and after Katrina. She’s a hero, Captain.”
“She is. But I’m not totally convinced she’s beaten her demons. And frankly, I’m not convinced you’re on solid ground yet either.”
“We’ve all suffered with PTSD to some degree since Katrina. Then the frickin’ oil gusher in the Gulf comes along, followed by another insane hurricane season. She snapped.”
He looked down at his hands, then back up at Captain O’Shay. “And I’m fine.”
“Really? Stacy almost died.”
Just hearing those words, knowing how true they were, stole his ability to breathe. He looked away, working to hide it from her. He couldn’t shake the image of Stacy in the hospital bed, pale as the sheets, fighting for her life.
Patti O’Shay wasn’t fooled. He should have known better than even to try. Her expression softened with sympathy. “Speaking of heroes, the chief’s awarding Stacy the Medal of Valor.”
Fury took his breath. Stacy hadn’t even been on the job. Her sister Jane had been in town; they’d been sightseeing in the French Quarter. Stacy had seen a stranger snatch a child and reacted. She’d tackled the man and wrestled him to the ground. He’d had a gun and shot her, the bullet penetrating her right lung.