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“You don’t believe he did it.”
“Who? Cruz?” Montoya wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. “I think Cruz is capable of a lot of things, some of it pretty fu—effin’ shady. But murder?” He gave his head a sharp shake. “No way.”
“So what’re you gonna do about it?”
“What can I do?” Montoya picked up the belt that was coiled on his desk.
“You tell me.”
“Haven’t decided yet.” He stretched out the tooled leather. “See here,” he said, pointing to a spot in the belt where the stitching had pulled away, the front separating from the back and creating the slimmest of pockets.
“Yeah? So what? Old leather separates.”
“If you say so.” But Montoya rubbed his finger over the stitching. “All of the rest of it is tight. Strong. Sturdy.” He eyed the opening. “Just one spot that completely split, and the ends of the binding? Not frayed.” His eyes narrowed. “It almost looks like the stitching was intentionally cut.”
“Why?”
“Dunno.”
“But you think that’s significant?”
“Might be. And I think it’s worth asking my brother about.” He snapped the belt once, then coiled it neatly again.
“You gonna talk to him?”
“Yeah. Eventually.” Leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes, Montoya added, “But first let him deal with the cops in Oregon.” He nodded to himself as if agreeing to a thought that had crossed his mind. “See what they find out.” Opening his eyes again, he stared up at the ceiling, and in the ensuing silence, Bentz heard the painters still packing up, talking to each other, footsteps retreating down the hallway.
It had been a long night and a day that seemed to go on forever. He’d found Samantha Wheeler in the old, nearly forgotten monastery, being choked by Father John. Bentz hadn’t thought twice about finishing the job he’d started years ago, and killed the murdering son of a bitch.
This time there was no doubt.
The man who’d pretended to be a priest had left this earth to meet his maker.
As for Dr. Sam, she’d been taken to the hospital, treated for her contusions and terror, gave her statement in a voice that barely worked, and insisted she wanted to go home ASAP, so after one night at St. Ada’s she’d left and was insistent that she would end her radio show and start her podcast as planned. Despite the fact that her voice held a gravelly edge to it. She was taking control of her life and no “freak of a fake priest or anyone else” was going to stop her. She had even indicated to Bentz that she and Ty were taking that planned Disney trip “come hell or high water or monsters dressed up in holy garb.” She’d had fire in her eyes as she’d held her husband’s hand in the hospital and Bentz believed her.
There was talk of the Laroche family dedicating a park in Helene’s memory. Her husband, Hugo, was still dealing with his grief, and while his daughter, Marianne, had been quoted by the press as saying “good riddance to bad news,” Hugo’s son, Vincent, had been more somber and remarked that Helene was a “sensitive soul” and he would miss her.
Stacy Parker aka Luna, who had nearly been killed by Father John, had given up her streetwalking life in New Orleans and had packed up and moved back to Wyoming, telling Bentz that she wasn’t “a city girl after all.” She was going back to college. Or business school. Or even ranching.
Who could blame her?
Bentz cracked his neck. After seeing Dr. Sam to the hospital, he’d spent most of last night and this morning with Kristi. Montoya had filled him in and his heart had nearly stopped when Bentz had realized how close he’d come to losing her, to losing his first grandchild.
But Kristi was, if nothing else, a fighter. His older daughter had seemed remarkably together after all she’d been through. “One day at a time,” she’d told him with a sad smile.
Once more he’d offered up his residence as a place to pull herself together and she’d told him flat out shewastogether and she wasn’t going anywhere.
Aldo Lucerno, the man who had killed Jay, Hamilton Cooke, and Reggie, was himself dead. Kristi saw no reason to fear living in her home. “I think I’ll be okay, Dad,” she said, despite a new bandage to her shoulder. “No more notes or snakes, black roses or ugly little knives. Okay? You can relax. I’ll be fine.”
He wanted to believe that.
He wanted desperately to believe that she would be all right.
But he didn’t think he’d relax. Ever.
Still, Kristi had the presence of mind to bring Jay’s gun with her on her visit to the Cooke house the night before. The police had found the pocket pistol wedged between the cans of tomato sauce and boxes of beans. He only hoped she’d never have a reason to use it.
Now he looked at Montoya across the expanse of their two desks. “You gonna be all right?” he asked his partner as he reached for his jacket.
