He was late. Really late, he realized. But finding the letter in Camille’s mattress had set off a chain of events in which the forensic guys came out again, the mattress was taken into the lab, and another round of questions begun. He’d talked to Father Frank, in the priest’s office, a book-lined room filled with volumes on philosophy, history, and religion. In a quick glance, Montoya saw the names of Friedrich Nietzsche, Sigmund Freud, Mao Zedong, and Thomas Jefferson on the spines of those closest, though there were hundreds more.

The priest’s desk had been bare save for a few pictures of members of his family, some of whom Montoya recognized. A crucifix was mounted over the door, another behind his desk, and a print of Jesus and the Sacred Heart framed upon one wall.

Upon being shown the letter, Father Frank had closed his eyes and pulled back as if he expected the words to twist and form into Satan incarnate.

“Yes,” he had said, he’d thought Camille had penned the letter.

No, he didn’t think it was intended for him, but he had no idea who that might be.

Who, indeed?

Was Frank O’Toole lying, trying to lay blame elsewhere? Or was Sister Camille was involved with a second lover? Was he the kinky guy—into handcuffs and dominance? Or was that Father Frank? After they had left the building, Bentz had admitted he thought the man was “lying through his orthodontically straightened teeth.”

Again, if Camille had another lover, who was it?

The question had plagued him ever since discovering the letter. The conversations with Father Frank and Sister Charity hadn’t been enlightening. When questioned about Father Frank’s alibi of visiting the sick old Arthur Wembley, Charity had looked away, as if embarrassed to lie, but she had verified the priest’s story.

Charity Varisco was nothing if not loyal.

Now, Montoya tried to put the case aside. At least for a few hours.

The beams of his car’s headlights washed over the single-story shotgun house as he wheeled his Mustang into the drive and cut the engine. Scooping up the items in the passenger seat, he locked the car, then jogged across the patch of front yard. Similar homes lined the street. The neighbor’s dog, a friendly dalmatian, bounded over the row of boxwoods separating the yards.

“Hey, boy,” Montoya said, stopping to pet the animal, when the door to the house next door opened.

“Apollo?” the neighbor, a middle-aged woman wearing a bathrobe and slippers, called from her front porch. The red tip of her cigarette glowed in the night. “Come on, now! Come on home! It’s gonna rain soon! Git in here!”