“He did what? Oh, for the love of God, what an idiot.” Outraged, Montoya was on his feet, the bag still in his hand. “What the hell was he thinking? He should have just left things alone, called and let us handle it. Now there’s no evidence chain—we can’t prove that someone else didn’t get a hold of the diary since it was put in the locker.” Montoya was furious. Fuming. The frustration of the case that had been building inside exploded white-hot. “A defense attorney will have a heyday with this. Even if Slade Houston swears it was with him from the moment he pulled it out of St. Elsinore’s, it creates doubt, no police record. Shit!” He kicked his chair back to the desk. “He probably contaminated evidence and compromised the whole damned case.” Raking fingers through his hair, he forced himself to calm a bit. “Where are they?”

“Interrogation room one.”

“Let’s go!” Hauling the plastic bag and diary with him, he was out of his office in an instant, impotent fury propelling his long strides. “Wasn’t she a cop or something?”

“Detective with a county in Texas.”

“Detective? Yeah, that’s what I thought. I don’t know how they train ’em in Texas, but she should have known better!” Montoya was striding down the short hallway. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. “Son of a goddamned bitch!”

Val knew she’d be hung up by her hamstrings for taking the diary, and she wasn’t disappointed. Detective Montoya was rabid in his anger as he stood in the interrogation room, the plastic bag and Camille’s diary on the table in front of her. “This is a police matter; there are rules that we have to abide by so that our case isn’t compromised, so that all parties are protected.”

“We found it and brought it in,” she said, her hackles already raised as she sat in the stiff, uncomfortable chair next to Slade. So far they hadn’t split them up; that was probably coming, but who cared. Their stories would match. They were only telling the truth. “Someone else was killed last night, another nun from St. Marguerite’s,” she said. “It was on the news this morning.”

Montoya hesitated for a second, slightly derailed. “Sister Asteria McClellan.”

“Oh, God,” Val whispered, her hand flying to her mouth as she remembered the fresh-faced girl with the red hair and freckles, the one who, in the garden, had gazed up at Father Frank O’Toole with such open adoration as she’d held out a single white rose to the priest.

Val felt sick to her stomach. “Oh, no.” She shook her head.

“You knew her?”

“No, but I met her.” She told Bentz and Montoya about running across Asteria in the garden with Father Frank.