All he had to do was figure out who had gotten her into the old wedding dress, then overpowered her and garroted her, only to leave a pattern of blood drops at the neckline and ensure that her rosary was threaded through her fingers.

Sick prick.

He turned his attention to his computer screen and began checking his e-mail, hoping that the phone records for Camille Renard had been sent, when his office phone rang.

He snagged the receiver before the second blast. “Montoya.”

A female voice said, “This is Officer Joan Delmonte, SFPD. I’ve been looking for Lea De Luca, that novice who left St. Marguerite’s Convent a while back?”

The other nun supposedly involved with Frank O’Toole. “Right.”

“So here’s the problem. I can’t locate her. Checked all the nunneries around here and no one has heard of her. Even called the archdiocese but got nowhere there, too.”

“Wait a second.” He checked his notes, found the date, and offered it up.

“Yeah, I know. But I’m telling you, so far Sister Lea De Luca doesn’t exist, at least not anywhere in the Bay Area.”

Montoya felt his skin crinkle in apprehension.

“You got the name of any relatives? Someone we could talk to other than anyone connected with the church?” she asked.

“I’ll get it to you.”

“Be a big help, if this is that important.”

“It is,” Montoya assured her, his stomach twisting the way it did when things didn’t add up, when he felt that he was being manipulated. “Keep looking and go beyond the church, if you can. If she’s not a nun, she could be a layperson, a teacher maybe. I think she had her credentials, at least here in Louisiana.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks. I’ll get back to you later about the relatives.”

He hung up and stared at the phone a second, then called the number he had for the SFPD and asked for Joan Delmonte. Just in case. There was a log of all the calls that came into the department, but he wanted to hear the woman’s voice, to convince himself that he wasn’t being played.

“Delmonte,” the same woman answered after he’d gone through an operator.

“Montoya, NOPD, just thought you might want my cell number.”

“Sure.” She laughed, deep and throaty that ended with a smoker’s cough. “Don’t kid a kidder, Montoya. We both know why you called. Just in case I was some nutcase yanking your chain. Sorry to disappoint. I’m the real McCoy. But give me that number anyway.”

He rattled it off and hung up.

Zaroster appeared in his doorway. “Next of kin for Asteria McClellan has been notified, and the press is all over the story.”

“Tell them—”

“I know, I know. To talk to the public information officer. Sinclaire’s preparing a statement.”

“Good.”

“Won’t stop the likes of Brenda Convoy.”