Deliver Us From Evil Part 15

"What about tox screens? Wouldn't the hospital have run tests?"

"Is this important?"

"Yes."

"I'll call over to the hospital and find out. I had the lab test his blood and he had no mercury or heavy metal poisoning."

"Didn't you say that you could see traces in the hair of the priests?"

Rod paused. "Yes, but that ended two weeks ago. And your comatose friend was only there for a few weeks before."

"Can you check, anyway?"

He sighed. "Of course."

"And don't forget the prints at my house."

"I have someone working on it."

"Thanks, Rod. I didn't mean to snap at you. This case-" She didn't have to say anything else.

"I know. Be careful."

She hung up and considered the new information. Either Cooper hadn't eaten the stew and he was involved, or as the evidence showed, he was locked in his room. A room with no locks.

If Cooper had suspected the housekeeper of drugging the priests, why hadn't he pressed charges? Nothing had come through her department. And if Davies was no longer in the picture, how was the food tainted? By this Hatch guy who had no stew in his stomach? But he was dead when the fire started-had Davies broken into the mission to set it? Had they been working together? Why? And what purpose would she have had for drugging those men and turning them into killers?

Motive. That's what was bugging Skye. There was no d.a.m.n reason for those men to be drugged.

By the time she walked into the station late that evening, she was exhausted, but Juan was still missing and she'd get no sleep knowing he could be injured, imprisoned, or worse.

She ran the delivery guy and Hatch through the database. Nothing. Hatch didn't even have a driver's license, in California or any other state. Which made sense because there had been only one car at the mission, a ten-year-old Chevy Suburban registered to Raphael Cooper.

Deputy Tommy Reiner dropped a thick file folder on her desk. "Background on the dead priests," he said.

She opened the folder. "Anything pop out at you?"

"Lots of holes. Only three were United States citizens. The other nine were from all over the world. Got one guy from Argentina, another from Nigeria, another from Denmark. A regular melting pot up there."

"Why's the folder so thick?"

"I pulled medical records, at least what I could get without a court order. They were all under the care of the same doc, a shrink named Charles Wicker."

"I spoke to him this morning." And then she'd let Anthony talk to a potential witness. How could she have done that?

She had more questions for Dr. Wicker. Because it was after hours, she dialed his home number first.

After four rings: "Wicker residence."

"This is Sheriff Skye McPherson from Santa Louisa. I'd like to speak with Dr. Wicker regarding a patient of his."

A long pause. "Badge number?"

She didn't expect that, but she recited the number from memory.

"Sheriff, this is Officer Timothy Young from the Santa Clara Police Department. Dr. Wicker was shot earlier today. We arrived on the scene an hour ago after his daughter discovered him and called 911."

"How?"

"Gunshot to the head. He apparently surprised a burglar. We think his attacker may have been after drugs."

"Why do you think that?"

"Dr. Wicker was a psychiatrist. His garage was converted into an office. We believe it happened between one and two when he returned from lunch."

"Will he make it?"

"Touch and go. He's in surgery now."

"Do you know what was taken?"

"Not exactly. The file cabinets were broken into, drugs all over the place, the room is a mess."

"I need you to do me a favor," she said. "Can you check for a specific file?"

"Is this related to a case?"

"I'm working the murders at Santa Louisa Mission. Dr. Wicker was the psychiatrist for the men who lived there."

Skye could almost see Officer Young nodding. "I'll have to talk to the detective in charge; he arrived a few minutes ago. I'll have him get back to you. What are you looking for?"

She read him the list of names of the dead priests, Raphael "Rafe" Cooper, and asked for any files related to Santa Louisa.

She hung up and told Reiner what she'd learned. "I don't think Wicker's shooting was a coincidence."

Reiner was reading her report from her meeting with the bishop. "Hey, I don't know if this means anything, but it says that the housekeeper, Davies, had worked in Salem. One of the dead guys, Hatch, was in Salem about five years ago. Think they knew each other?"

Hatch hadn't eaten the stew.

"Maybe," she said. "I made a call to the diocese earlier today, but haven't received a call back." She called again, but it was after hours. She wondered if Anthony would be able to get information from them tonight, but again she hesitated to ask for his help. She could just as easily make the call in the morning. "Let's a.s.sume that Davies and Hatch knew each other, what does it mean?"

Reiner shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe they had a thing going on. Maybe they hated each other. Maybe she wanted to kill him, but poisoned everyone so there wouldn't be a connection."

"Let's go out to the Davies property again."

Her phone rang again. It was Rod.

"What do you have for me?"

"h.e.l.lo to you, too." His words were slurred.

"You okay?"

"Never been better," he said sarcastically. "Just came home from the morgue to shower the stench of death off my body."

"You're drunk. Let's talk in the morning."

"I have the report from my team who went to your house."

"And?"

"The only fingerprints are yours, Juan's, and Mr. Zaccardi's."

That made sense. Juan was a regular visitor, they often had drinks after work, especially when his wife took the girls out of town to visit their large extended family. And Zaccardi had gone through her entire house.

"What about the coffeepot?"

"Yours and Zaccardi's. You told me he's the one who checked the grounds."

"What about the jar I keep my coffee in? The back of the coffeepot where the water goes?"

"I know how to do my job. The entire coffeepot was checked. Mercury-laced grounds, a borderline lethal dose. You're lucky Zaccardi was there."

Lucky? What if he had poisoned her to begin with? To distract her while his accomplice searched her house? Destroyed the journal? Or replaced the journal with blank, torn pages? She'd told him to leave the country; what if he had helped the killer? What if he was part of a larger conspiracy?

Her head pounded. "Thanks," she said quietly and hung up.

It was Anthony all along. He'd poisoned her coffee, his were the only fingerprints on the pot. There was no other explanation.

How could she have been so wrong about him? How could she have screwed him? He'd filled her mind with doubt and confusion, steering her away from the truth, giving her hope through trickery. She'd wanted so much to believe him when he told her he never lied. Even her heart lied to her, telling her she was safe in his arms.

Anthony was a master of deception.

"I want an APB put out on Anthony Zaccardi," she told Reiner. "Call the front desk sergeant. I told Zaccardi he could pick up his pa.s.sport. When he does, I want him arrested."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

ANTHONY FOUND ROD FIELDING at his house. The head CSI was three sheets to the wind, and still drinking.

"Hey, preacher," Rod said, opening the door wide, looking like an old man.

"I'm not a priest."

Rod shrugged. "What can I do for you?"

"Can I come in?"

He shrugged again and Anthony stepped in, closed the door. "You're done with the autopsies."

"Eight of them. Four more tomorrow. Then tissue a.n.a.lysis, blood work to follow up on, body parts to catalogue. Fun." He drained a tall gla.s.s that looked more rum than c.o.ke.

"I-"

Rod interrupted. "We found the eyes, by the way. Skye was upset about the eyes, but I found them."

"Where?" he asked quietly.

"In the hands of another victim."

Anthony swallowed thickly. "I need to ask you something."

"I can't tell you anything, you know that."

He raised his eyebrows. "But you can share the information about the missing eyes?"

"Where's Skye?"

"Working."

"She booted you off the case."

"I'm not a cop."

"She can be p.r.i.c.kly, but she's a good cop."

"I know."

"She doesn't believe your theory."

"Do you?"

He rose, mixed himself another drink-rum with a splash of c.o.ke. He sat down across from Anthony, leaned forward, face flushed but eyes surprisingly sober. "I don't know what the f.u.c.k to believe, Zaccardi. This s.h.i.+t doesn't happen here. I'll never get rid of these images. I want to believe that something supernatural did this, that no human being could be so vicious. But I know we can. I saw what a man did to his family last year. Stabbed them to death while they slept. But nothing, nothing like this."

"Who was on the altar?"