Using a plastic fork, he dug into his coleslaw, barely tasting the tang of spices or the sweetness of the honey in its dressing.

“Sister Louise, the nun who’s missing, she was an orphan at St. Elsinore’s. Adopted out to a couple in Maine, but she came back.”

“Sister Charity searches for them,” Montoya said. During the interview process, Sister Devota Arness had let it slip that the reverend mother was in constant contact with all the women who had at one time or another been orphaned and stayed at St. Elsinore’s.

“But Lucia Costa had family.”

“So if the connection between the victims was living at St. Elsinore’s, then she would be safe.”

Bentz finished his coleslaw and wadded the waxed paper that his ribs had been wrapped in. “Lucia Costa probably didn’t know that; hell, we just came up with it. All she sees is fellow sisters being killed.” He tossed the wadded paper into the trash.

“We know that Camille Renard was involved with Father O’Toole. But the others weren’t.” That lead, the one that kept nagging at him, was going nowhere, he thought, like the squirrel he was watching, the one who had taunted Charlie the dachshund. It was now scampering from one tree to the next, only to be dissatisfied and hurry, tail puffed and flicking, across the lawn again.

“Except for the missing nun. Sister Lea,” Montoya said, biting into his corn bread, then brushing the crumbs from his goatee. He scowled, not liking his train of thought.

“Right.” But it wasn’t enough. The connection to Father Frank O’Toole wasn’t strong enough. Even if he had been involved with Lea and Camille, what about Asteria, Lucia, and Louise?

His thoughts in a tangle, Bentz finished his lunch, draining his Diet Coke and tossing all the remains into a trash can while he considered the fruitless morning. Uniformed cops had scoured the grounds and buildings of St. Marguerite’s convent, cathedral, and cemetery and had come up with nothing. Nada. Zilch. No signs of a struggle, no dead body, nothing on Louise Cortez. And who the hell knew where Lucia Costa and Cruz’s motorcycle had ended up.

The neighbors, as usual, hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual. Father Frank had an alibi: Father Paul. They had spent the night talking, working on sermons, and praying until long after midnight.

Louise could have been kidnapped in the morning, so O’Toole wasn’t completely off the hook, but still . . .

Montoya finished his ribs, ignored the slaw, and took two more bites of his corn bread before tossing the remains into the trash. Together, each lost in his own thoughts, they returned to the station.