“Welcome to my mess.” He quickly crossed himself. “Watch your step. I’ve got material on the floor, too.”

Mess was an understatement. Sparks’s entire office was crammed with junk. Enough papers and books to replenish a tropical rain forest. Piles upon piles of notes on his desk—his desks. There were three of them. Walls of bookshelves, all of them overflowing with reading matter. As Decker looked around, there was some loose logic to the categories. Books inscribed in Greek were all placed together in one case, matter written in Russian or some other obscure Cyrillic language occupied another case. The Latin and English tomes comprised the biggest portion of his collection, taking up the entire back wall.

But Decker’s eyes were transfixed by other things. The texts written in Hebrew and Aramaic. Specifically, a Hebrew Bible, a Chumash, along with a complete set of Talmud that took up two shelves.

The holy books of his newfound faith.

There were other Hebrew books as well, but Decker couldn’t understand the titles. For just a moment, he wished Rina were here. Then he scratched that thought. Because he could only imagine how uncomfortable she would feel in this library. Because Orthodox Jews feel antsy about anyone outside the faith dissecting their sepharim—their holy books. Yet here was a slew of holy books that Rina kissed because God’s name was written inside of them—sitting in bookshelves, handled by a priest in an office that also held an enormous wall crucifix of Jesus.

Fighting fatigue and a pinch of uneasiness, he forced himself into his professional mode. A man had been brutally murdered. He had a job to do.

Next to the wall crucifix were several framed photographs. The first was a candid—Bram in a cassock, sitting at a table, his head resting on his open palm, reading a tome in Latin. The other two were posed shots. Bram with old men dressed in ornate religious vestments. In the last photo, Decker recognized all the parties. Bram with the Pope.

Sparks said, “Rome and I get along.”

“I can see.”

The priest took a pile of papers off a chair and placed it on the floor. “Please. Have a seat.”

Decker sat. “I came around through the front. Pity that churches have to lock their doors.”

Sparks took a seat behind one of his three desks, unplugging the phone and answering machine. “When someone controls the vandalism, I’ll keep the door unlocked.”

“Fair enough.” Decker took out a notepad. “The rectory. You have residential quarters there?”

“Yes.”

“So you live at the church.”

“Basically, yes. I’ve been the resident priest here for seven years. But I’ve always maintained a one-bedroom apartment off grounds. Growing up in a large family, once in a blue moon, I have a fierce need for privacy.”

“Who’s Jim?”

“The young man who answered the door?”

“Yes.”