Frank O’Toole was still on the radar, too. The fact that he’d cowered behind his father’s three-piece suit and law degree wasn’t helping his case, not with Montoya.

Father Thomas Blaine was due back in town tomorrow. Montoya meant to meet him at his office first thing in the morning.

Then there was Father John.

The real deal, back from the supposed goddamned dead?

Or a copycat?

Montoya felt that the murderer was just toying with them, whoever the hell he was, that the murder of the prostitute might be meant to throw them off the case.

Where the hell were the missing bridal gowns? Was it significant that two of the victims, the nuns, had been adopted out of St. Elsinore’s? Not so with Grace Blanc, the working girl.

There were too many loose ends in this case and no way to tie them up.

Tomorrow night was the auction at St. Elsinore’s.

Montoya planned to be there.

He heard a noise.

The baby?

He listened, his father radar on alert.

No. It was Cruz. Probably getting up to use the crapper. Sure enough, he heard the toilet flush, and then damned Cruz walked down the hall and out the back door.

Montoya glanced at the digital clock.

Twelve-seventeen.

What the hell?

He rolled out of bed just as he heard the sound of Cruz’s Harley roar to life, then a tire chirp.

Montoya walked to the back door and stared out to see the red taillight of Cruz’s motorcycle wink bloodred, like the eye of a dying Cyclops. “Hey!” he yelled, but it was far too late, and the sound of the motorcycle winding through its gears slowly faded.

He turned to walk into the house again and nearly ran into Abby, her hair mussed, her eyes squinting. “What’s going on?” she asked around a yawn.

“I wish I knew,” he said, and closed the door. “I wish to hell that I knew.”

She offered him a bit of a grin. “Can I buy you a drink?” she teased.

“A little late for that, but . . . ?” He arched a suggestive eyebrow.

“But?” she replied, responding in kind.

He grabbed her and hauled her off her feet. She let out a squeal of surprise. “You’re bad, Montoya!” But she was laughing.

“That I am, woman, and I intend to show you just what it means.”

“Oh, God, save me from the husband with bad come-on lines,” she said, but giggled as he kissed her more roughly than usual, growling against her neck. She laughed outright at his tough-guy tactics, and they tumbled onto the bed together while Cruz took off for who knew where.

Cruz waited under the flickering fluorescent lights of the gas station.

Lucia was late.

Or wasn’t coming at all, had just pulled his leg.