"Who'd lend money to me?"

  "I know a guy," Loving answered. "Downtown. Mark Sloan. He's a good ol' boy. We're not talkin' Mafioso or usury rates. He's a straight shooter. And he likes to help good people who've just gotten themselves into a little trouble. I could put in a good word for you, if you want."

  "Really?" Alvin sat up straight for the first time. "Man, that'd be great. I don't need much. Just something to get me through the next few months."

  "I'll call my friend first thing in the morning. I'll bet you can work somethin' out."

  Loving scribbled an address on the back of a napkin and Alvin took it. "Man, I didn't think there was a chance anyone would ever loan me money again."

  "Why's that?"

  "Oh, I just… I don't know…"

  " 'Cause you still owe Ernestine Rupert?"

  Alvin's alcohol-impaired eyes seemed to gain their focus. "How do you know about that?"

  "Hey, I'm an investigator. It's what I do."

  "I didn't think anyone knew about that. Except Ernestine, of course."

  "So she loaned you some money, and now she's callin' in your marker?"

  Alvin hesitated a moment. "Something like that."

  "The old bat leanin' on you pretty hard?"

  Alvin wiped his hand across his forehead. "Like you wouldn't believe. She's done everything but send out some boys to break my thumbs."

  "Sounds miserable."

  "It is. Especially now, on top of everything else."

  Loving waved at the bartender. A minute later, two pints of Bass Ale were headed their way. "You're talkin' about all the trouble at the church, right?"

  Alvin took a deep swallow. "Yeah."

  "What's your take on the murders?"

  "I don't know. I just don't know."

  Well, at least he didn't immediately blame Father Beale, like every other witness to whom Loving had spoken. "You know anybody who'd have any reason to kill those women?"

  "No, I don't. I can't imagine. It doesn't make any sense. Kate was a lovely woman. Lovely. We went out a few times, after my wife died. Did you know that?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "Yeah. And you probably don't believe it, now that you've heard. A beautiful woman like that going out with a homunculus like me? Doesn't seem right, does it?"

  "Oh, I don't know…"

  Alvin waved it away. "Don't bother. I know what I am. They were probably more pity dates than anything. Still… a man can't help but hope… even if he knows how unlikely it is." His eyes seemed to drift somewhere far away from the bar. "She let me kiss her, the last time. Only on the cheek. But still…"

  "You musta been pretty torn up when she was killed."

  His eyes remained fixed. "You could say that. Yeah."

  "What about the other woman? Helen Conrad."

  "Aw, I never dated her. She was married."

  Loving almost smiled. "Do you know anyone who might've had a reason to kill her?"

  "No. Makes no sense to me."

  Loving would have to agree with him on that score, but he'd seen some strange things in the time he'd been working at the Kincaid factory. "So you don't think the murders had anything to do with the church?"

  "Oh, I never said that."

  "But then why-?"

  Alvin seemed to withdraw back into himself. "I told you. I don't know."

  "Alvin…"

  "Don't hassle me."

  "Alvin, you know somethin'. Somethin' you're not telling me."

  "I don't. I don't know who the killer is."

  "But you know somethin'! What is it?"

  Alvin glanced back over one shoulder, then the other. "I've already said too much."

  What the hell was going on here? "Gimme a hint, Alvin. Is it about some religious thing? Abortion? Evolution?"

  "No, nothing like that."

  "Then what?"

  Alvin looked away. "I can't tell you. It's… secret."

  "Secret? Churches aren't s'posed to have secrets!"

  Alvin scoffed. "Don't be naive. All churches have secrets."

  "They don't all have murders!"

  Alvin pulled out his wallet and tossed some bills onto the table. "I have to go. I've said too much already."

  Loving held out his arm to block the man's passage. "If you think I'm going to let you tease me and then just disappear, you've got another think coming."

  "Let me pass."

  "I can get your butt subpoenaed."

  "Won't matter. I won't say anything."

  "Alvin, tell me what you know!"

  "No. Let me pass."

  "No!"

  "I have friends in here!"

  Loving gazed at the man's stony face. This was a loser situation, of course. He had no way to make the man talk, especially not in a public place. He could only come out of a confrontation looking stupid. Like it or not, he would have to back down.

  He reluctantly lowered his arm.

  "Thank you," Alvin said. He began to walk away.

  "I still can't believe it," Loving muttered, to himself as much as anyone. "I can't believe a church could have some secret so big no one will talk about it. Even after two people have been murdered."

  Alvin paused. He stared down at the floor. And just before he plunged into the smoke and far away from Loving, he whispered: "You wouldn't believe what's going on in this church. You wouldn't believe it."

  Chapter

  12

  Christina liked to think of herself as a paragon of feminine grace, but as she approached the front porch of Apartment 10B at 2952 South Peoria, she had a near-collision of a distinctly ungraceful nature. Just as she neared the front door, a tall woman wearing sunglasses and a hoodlike scarf came barreling out at about three times Christina's speed. A last-minute sidestep avoided a collision, but the woman was thrown off balance. She teetered sideways onto the steps, turned her ankle, and tumbled.

  Christina knelt beside the woman, who was sprawled across the concrete walkway. To her credit, the woman had not cried out in pain, but the expression on her face suggested that her landing hadn't been all pillows and marshmallows, either. The fall had knocked off her sunglasses, and her face was familiar, but Christina couldn't quite place her. She was someone Christina had seen at St. Benedict's, though-someone she'd seen the day Kate McGuire was killed.

  "Are you all right?"

  The woman ran a quick inspection of her immediately accessible body parts. "Nothing broken, anyway."

  "I'm sorry. I'm so clumsy sometimes."

  The woman shook her head. "Not your fault. I was moving too fast."

  Which was true, Christina was forced to admit. And which also raised a question: Why was the woman leaving the apartment of George Finley-the vestry member who supposedly lived alone-in such a hurry, her face hidden behind shades and scarf? At eight o'clock in the morning.

  The woman struggled to push herself up.

  "Let me help you," Christina said.

  "No, no. I can manage," she replied, but Christina helped her just the same. "I need to be moving along."

  At eight a.m.? On a Saturday? "Are you sure you shouldn't come inside and sit for a moment? Just until you've collected yourself?"

  "No, really, I must be-"

  "Susan?"

  George Finley was standing in the open doorway. "Are you all right, Susan?"

  Susan. That was it. Christina remembered now. This was Susan Marino, the new senior warden, now that Kate McGuire was dead.

  "I'm fine, George."

  "You don't look fine." He took her arm and steered her back toward the door.

  "I'm okay. Really," she insisted, but George kept a firm hand on her arm. He turned and, for the first time, his eyes drank in the fact that there was a third person on the sidewalk.

  "I'm Christina McCall," she said, extending her hand. "I'm the legal-the lawyer who called yesterday." It still required a conscious effort to keep from calling herself a legal assistant. Of course, she'd been a legal assistant for almost a decade and a lawyer for less than a year. "You said I could talk to you."

  "Right," George said slowly. "I guess I wasn't expecting you quite so early."

  No doubt, but Christina had learned it wasn't necessarily a bad thing to catch people when they weren't expecting you, as this morning was proving, big time. "Sorry. I have a lot of people to talk to, and only a little time till the trial begins."

  George frowned, but accepted her story. "Very well. Come inside." He maintained his grip on Susan's arm and led both women into his apartment.

  George's place was nice enough, for what it was-basically a modest-size midtown two-roomer. The furniture was adequate, if not extraordinary. Christina suspected he had probably taken the apartment prefurnished. The room was tidy-no underwear on the floor or thick layers of dust. Surprising, really, for a man his age who lived alone. If he did in fact live alone.

  "How can I help you?" George asked Christina as he led Susan to the couch.

  "As I told you on the phone," Christina said, seating herself in a nearby chair, "I'm working on Father Beale's defense. My associates and I are talking to all the prominent members of the church, trying to learn anything we can about what happened."

  "I see," George said quietly.

  "What can you tell me about the murdered women?"

  George almost shrugged. "I think Father Beale killed them."

  "But why?"

  "Kate McGuire was his fiercest opponent in the church," Susan explained. "And she was the leader of the vestry. What's more, she was a strong, very effective, capable businesswoman. He knew she would eventually boot him out of the church."

  "She hadn't had much luck so far."

  "But she would. She hadn't been senior warden long, remember. She was a forceful woman who knew how to get what she wanted. It was just a matter of time."

  "So you're saying he killed her-just to keep his job?"

  "I'm not saying it was planned or anything," George explained. "The man has a temper like the wrath of God. He was seen fighting with her at the wedding, you know. I think his temper got out of hand. He lost control and grabbed the paperweight and killed her."

  "What kind of person was Kate?"

  Susan answered first. "Serious. Hardworking. Efficient. She was an accountant for Helmerich and Payne. Had been for years. She was doing well."

  "What about her social life?"

  "I think she spent most of her time at work, which probably cost her her marriage."

  "Was she engaged in church politics?"

  "Obviously. She was senior warden."

  "What about church social activities?"

  George and Susan exchanged a look. It was brief, but not so brief that Christina couldn't catch it. "She did… some of that," George answered.

  "Bake sales, Lenten dinners, prayer meetings, that sort of thing?"

  "Yes. That sort of thing."

  Christina paused. Something was going on here-something they weren't telling her. Ben often rattled on about what keen instincts Christina had, but instinct could only take you so far. Right now her instincts were telling her something was up, something hidden that she needed to uncover. But how to do it?

  She tried a shot in the dark. "Wasn't Kate on some committees? Other than the vestry?"

  "I think so," George muttered. He looked to Susan for help. "Didn't she head up the Stewardship committee?"

  "No," Susan said. She had been staring at the door. She didn't like being here, Christina was certain of that. But why? Did she really have somewhere else she needed to be? Or was there something more? "Ernestine headed Stewardship, then and now. But Kate was on the committee. She and Ernestine worked together. On many things."

  Christina frowned. This interview was nowheresville. She wasn't going to get anything out of these two-at least not until she had enough information to force them to tell the truth. "Anything else you can tell me about Kate? Or Helen? Or Father Beale?"

  "The man's a menace," George said emphatically. "He's devastated our little church. Despite what Beale says, this is not a dispute over politics. It was always more than that. Beale has been…" Again he looked at Susan. "… a-a moral disaster. He's hurt this church in-in more ways than you can imagine. We've lost half our members in the past year-did you know that? People are sick of the controversy, sick of him. Afraid that if they hang around, they'll be his next victim. Is it any wonder our church is a shadow of its former self?"

  "As vestry members," Susan explained, "we're charged with preserving and protecting this church. And we've tried everything possible to expunge this monster. But no matter what we do, he keeps coming back, like Jason or something. Every time we think he's finally gone for good-he isn't."

  "Did you know," George added, "that the minute that insane judge granted Beale bail, thirteen more families turned in their requests for transfer of membership?"

  "No," Christina answered. "I didn't." She folded up her notepad. "Well, I've taken enough of your time." She walked over to Susan. "Sorry again about the head-on collision on the doorstep."

  "Forget it. I feel much better." She rose. "And I must be going, too."

  "How long have you two been dating?"

  George and Susan stared at one another, their faces frozen. After a few beats, Susan smiled, but it struck Christina as forced. "We're not… dating. I'm married."

  "Oh, I'm sorry," Christina said. "I just assumed… since you were over here so early…"

  "Susan and I were discussing church business," George said. "Kind of a planning session for the next vestry meeting. They've become so overwrought and complicated that… well, if you hope to get anything done, you need to start early."

  So he said, but Christina had read the expression in his eyes when he first saw Susan sprawled out on the sidewalk, and it convinced her that their relationship was something more than professional. Susan had insisted that they were not dating, though. And if they were, she would've surely heard about it by now. Wouldn't she?

  Christina let George lead her to the front door, then walked to her car, still pondering all she had seen and heard. There was something strange going on here. Christina had no idea how to get to it. But she knew they had to, and quick, before the trial. Because if she had learned anything from her years in the law, it was this: When you went to trial without all the facts, the price was always high. And in this case, the price might well be Father Beale's life.

  Chapter

  13

  "Your honor," Ben said, "clearly in this case the evidence of past crimes is more prejudicial than probative."

  "I disagree," Canelli responded, as if this might be a surprise to someone. "It's crucial that the jury know that the defendant is a repeat offender."

  "Repeat offender? We're talking about a man who was arrested at an ERA sit-in. Not exactly Charles Manson."

  "A crime is a crime. And the jury has a right to know who they're dealing with."

  "I agree," Ben rejoined. "That's why we have witnesses testify. But the jury won't be aided by the minor detail of a past conviction. It will, however, give the assistant district attorney something he can distort and misuse at trial."

  Canelli glared at Ben. "I resent that remark!"

  "Resent, or resemble?"

  Ben turned away, avoiding Canelli's wrath. For all his movie-star looks, Canelli had been anything but suave and debonair at this hearing. Ben didn't know if it was some weird Catholic-Episcopalian thing, or what. But something definitely had his dander up.

  Judge Pitcock, on the other hand, was his usual cool, collected self. If anything, he seemed somewhat amused by the sputtering of the attorneys and perhaps more than a little pleased to see so many members of the press in his courtroom.

  Ben was also impressed by the number of newspaper and even television reporters in the gallery-far more than had been in attendance at the preliminary hearing. Of course, the preliminary hearing had been a foregone conclusion. Everyone knew Beale would be bound over for trial, so Ben had no incentive to reveal any of his case strategy or theories. This pretrial hearing was different. The outcome was not preordained, and if Ben could keep some of the prosecution's evidence out of the trial, it would be perceived as a major success for the defense.

  "Mr. Canelli," Judge Pitcock asked, "are you suggesting that the defendant's prior arrest and conviction-which I note took place many years ago-are somehow related to the present case?"

  "Not as such, your honor. But there's a pattern here."

  "A pattern? How so?"

  "A pattern of… disregard for the law."

  Pitcock cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose we could say that about any conviction, couldn't we?" He drummed his fingers. "Explain to me how the fact that he was previously arrested during a social protest is probative on the issue of whether he murdered a woman in his church?"

  Canelli hesitated. "It shows that he… that he… he is subject to strong feelings. Temper. That leads him to commit criminal acts."

  Ben looked at the judge. "This no doubt explains the outbreak of mass murders on Greenpeace boats."

  That one got a hearty laugh from the gallery. Judge Pitcock frowned at the disruption, but unless Ben was mistaken, he was forcing back a grin himself.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Canelli," Pitcock said, "but I'm not buying this one. I don't think you need this evidence. I don't think it helps you. Frankly, I think you may be better off without it."

  Ben had entertained similar thoughts himself. Defense attorneys always tried to keep out past crimes to prevent the jury from being negatively biased. But in this case, if he drew the right jury, it might actually be helpful. It would make clear that Father Beale was a man of convictions, a man who cared deeply about causes and people. Or in other words, the last person on earth you would expect to commit a murder.

  "Your honor," Canelli said, "may I expand on my argument?"

  "No, I think I've heard enough on this one. The defendant's motion to suppress evidence of past crimes will be sustained."

  Out the corner of his eye, Ben saw the reporters in the front row of the gallery breaking out their pencils. That's right, Ben thought, keep score for all the people out in newspaper land. Kincaid, one; Canelli, zero. And be sure to spell my name right.

 

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