“A few times a week, sometimes less, other times more.”

“Did she ever mention any old boyfriends?”

“You mean, besides you?” Frank cocked a dark eyebrow.

Montoya held on to his temper. “I mean anyone who might want to do her harm?”

“No.”

“Enemies?”

Father Frank shook his head. “I didn’t know that much about her personal life,” he said. “If you’re asking about her confessions, those are private, between her and God.”

“And you.”

“Or Father Paul.” His smile held little warmth. “You might want to talk to Sister Lucia or Sister Louise. They all seemed to be close.” He appeared suddenly tired, almost irritable. “Is there anything else?”

“I guess that’s it for now. But if I think of anything else . . .”

“Of course, Reuben. Just call.” He flashed a humorless smile as he rose and walked out the door, his dark cassock billowing, a stain visible near its hem.

“Father Frank?”

The priest turned, his face supremely patient.

“There’s something on the bottom of your cassock.” Montoya pointed at the stain, black on black.

“What? Is there?” He glanced down, saw the almost invisible stain. “I was out in the rain. . . .”

Feeling oddly like a supplicant, Montoya bent down on one knee and touched the hem. A faint crust of reddish brown smeared his fingertips.

“It’s blood,” he said, looking up at Frank.

The priest frowned, his forehead furrowing. “It has to be Sister Camille’s. From when I bent down over her body. Of course I hoped, prayed, that I could revive her. . . .” His voice faded and his features twisted with the memory.

“We’ll need the cassock.” Montoya rose, face-to-face with the tormented priest.

Frank’s face was pinched, as if he were about to object, but changed his mind. “Of course. I’ll get it to you.”

Montoya was already at the door. “If you don’t mind, Father, I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t trust me, Reuben?”

“This is a homicide investigation, Frank. I don’t trust anyone,” Montoya admitted.

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 9

“Son of a—” Valerie bit off the last of the oath as she walked out the back door the next morning. Her eyes narrowed on the battered pickup with Texas plates. Covered in mud, with grimy arcs across the windshield showing where the wipers had slung off dirt and water, the Ford was parked beneath the overhanging branches of a willow tree on the apron of her driveway, right behind her relic of a Subaru.

The screen door slapped shut behind her, startling a couple of blue jays into flapping from their perch on a picket fence to the safety of the upper branches of a tree.

Valerie barely noticed; her eyes were trained on the damned truck.

On one side of the cab, his nose forced into the slit of a cracked window, was her dog. On the other, slumped behind the steering wheel, was her husband.

She was glad to see one.