I thought about Meadows, dead. The only thing I had to connect his death to was that he was working this cold case, and that he was intending to visit the abbey. Who knew this? And what information might still be found there now even after Santangelo was gone? Could he have known something about Beaufort’s drug deals, something that was serious enough to still get him in trouble? Was Beaufort’s reach this far and this strong? That seemed unlikely after all this time, but Meadows’s body told me otherwise. No, the monastery was the only lead I had. After the police let me go I checked into a Marriott in Sarasota, and called Carlo to reassure him that yes, though I had been talking to Meadows before he was killed, I was quite safe and Carlo shouldn’t worry no matter what he saw on the evening news, and that I was going to call St. Dominic’s to follow the only lead that Meadows gave me.

Brother Eric, who identified himself as the guest master, picked up and, when I asked, told me that Abbot Franklin was in prayer.

“This is very important. Please tell him that someone from the FBI is on the line, and needs to speak with him. It’s urgent.” I usually don’t wave those letters around, seeing as how I’m no longer with the FBI, but I didn’t have the time.

Brother Eric sounded a little aggrieved when he said that evening prayer was of the utmost importance to the abbot, and did I realize it was evening?

“If you won’t do it, then please have Jesus tell him that Detective Ian Meadows was shot to death a few hours ago and I’m concerned that someone might harm the abbot himself.”

Apparently I called it right and they weren’t keen on that whole martyrdom thing.

“Abbot Franklin here,” a deeper, older voice said, not trying hard to disguise a little irritation at the interruption to his prayers mixed with concern for the safety of himself and his monks.

I explained what had happened with Meadows and how I suspected it had something to do with him intending to visit the abbey. Again, I didn’t at that point connect it to myself. “What can we do?” he asked, his concern crackling over the line.

“Tell me if you know anything about Victor Santangelo that might help me find out who did this,” I said.

“I can’t see what I could possibly know. All I can tell you is that Detective Meadows called here to speak with him. Is that why you’re calling, because you knew of that connection?”

“I did, and I think Meadows must have been on to something. I think he was on to someone so dangerous that Santangelo’s death might not have been any more natural than his own.”

“Victor … are you saying he was murdered?”