Bad Samaritan (27 page)

“I've seen Al with RJ, and those two
are
great friends,” Sister Agatha agreed. The sandwiches from Judy's Place had also given her an important clue she was definitely going to follow up.

“It's rare these days to see family moments like those,” Claire said. “My husband, Jerry, used to play like that with our son, but Jerry's in Iraq now. I really miss him,” she said with a sigh. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, she added, “I've got to hurry now, Sister. I'm running behind this morning.”

“Thanks for taking time to talk to me,” Sister Agatha said, thinking back to the last time she'd seen Al with RJ. They'd both had that same lopsided grin . . .

As Claire moved to the next room, Sister Agatha remembered her conversation with Scout. He'd claimed to have seen two people wearing Garcia campaign caps near the scene of the crime. Al had been the one to approach the body. Perhaps the second person had been Victoria.

When Chuck came back into the room, he gave Sister Agatha a long, speculative look. “What's happened?”

“I may have found a motive for Al Russo, but I'll need to check a few things out before I'm sure.”

“He's already number four on my suspect list, Sister, but I'm willing to bump him up a notch or two. How about a sneak peek into that brain of yours? Remember, you gave me your word that I'd get the story.”

“You will, but I need to verify a few things first. As I've learned the hard way, half-truths can damage people far more than anyone realizes, and I don't want to be guilty of that.”

“Come on, just a hint? It'll stay between you and me for now.”

She considered it for a moment, then nodded. “All right. The truth is that I could really use your help. I need to know what Al did for a living
before
he became Robert's campaign manager. I also need you to find out how long he and Victoria have known each other.”

His eyes grew wide. “I see where you're going with this. If your suspicions are right, this could turn out to be one heckuva story.”

“Slow down. I have no proof, so this better not find its way into print until we know a lot more.”

“Count on it, Sister. I don't want to be sued or lose my job by jumping the gun. I'll start looking into it right away and get in touch with you the minute I know anything.”

“Good.”

Sister Agatha and Pax drove directly to Judy's Place. Getting a whiff of the marvelous scents that belonged to the breakfast menu, Pax barked happily.

“Nothing doing, old boy. We took a meal when we were hungry because we hadn't eaten, but we both had breakfast. Accepting food now would be nothing short of gluttony—a sin.”

Pax whined softly.

“You heard me. No begging!”

Moments later, Sister Agatha knocked at the back door, and Judy came to meet her. “Good morning, Sister. Come in.”

Sister Agatha accepted some of the café's special coffee, and the first sip convinced her that Judy's Place would be a fixture in their town for many years to come. “Everything you prepare is so good!” she said, and Pax whined.

Sister Agatha shot him a cold look, but Judy laughed. “How about some breakfast, Pax?”

“No, don't. He doesn't need it,” Sister Agatha said, but before she could finish, Pax went over to Judy and placed one of his huge paws on her lap.

Judy burst out laughing. “I'll tell you what. We have some day-old tortillas . . .”

Pax barked once, and Sister Agatha sighed. “Go ahead.”

Moments later, Judy returned with a plate of leftovers. “I have a soft spot for former officers,” she said, looking at Pax, then back at Sister Agatha.

Sister Agatha took a few more sips of her coffee, which had the faint taste of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. “I know you pack huge crowds in here for lunch, and you probably don't remember one from the other, but I need to ask you a question. I've been told that Victoria Garcia comes by around noon sometimes and picks up a couple of takeout lunches—”

Judy raised one hand. “
Her,
I remember. Victoria acts like
Queen Victoria herself. She's really difficult to deal with, Sister. She always orders three lunches and is incredibly picky about one of them. No mayo, nothing with pork, no added salt. One time the waitress made a mistake and put a small container of potato salad in the bag. Victoria had a fit. She said that to someone like her friend who has a severe allergy to eggs, anything with mayo was nothing short of a death sentence.” She rolled her eyes. “For Pete's sake, all she would have had to do was eat it herself or toss it out, but she made the most incredible ruckus.” Judy shook her head and smirked. “Now, I always have two people check her orders.”

After thanking Judy for the information, Sister Agatha went back outside with Pax. The possibility that Victoria and Al had worked together to eliminate Robert was looking more plausible by the minute. It was still all circumstantial, but the picture was certainly coming together.

There was one problem, however. Al Russo's time had been accounted for the day of the murder. He'd been campaigning and had also hung out with the kids from the local youth program.

Sister Agatha considered her next step. If those kids were local and had records, the
Chronicle
would have their stories. Maybe Al had found a way to exploit them, using the kids to establish an alibi for at least part of the time. It was also possible that one of them had pointed Al to a source for the date-rape drug that Tom and Robert had ingested.

Sister Agatha called Chuck and asked him to check his files. As she waited, she prayed they'd find a connection. At long last Chuck came back to the phone.

“According to a story I did on the group last year, two of the kids in the program dealt drugs at one time,” he said. “One of them, Brent Corda, was eighteen, so his name was released. He was supposedly selling that date-rape drug when he got busted.
He got into trouble again several months ago and got kicked out of the Second Chance Program Russo takes part in. Brent's got new charges pending, though he's currently out on bail.”

“Was he at the park on the Fourth?”

“If he was, he wasn't with Al—at least officially. Russo's on record saying that he won't deal with repeat offenders.”

She'd have to pay Brent Corda a visit. “What's Brent's address?”

He hesitated before answering. “Sister, I know Brent. If you're thinking of paying him a visit, you shouldn't go alone. He's bad news. Besides dealing, his track record now includes assault and battery.”

“I'll stay outside in plain view, and Pax will be with me. We'll be okay.”

“Maybe, but without leverage, you'll get nowhere,” Chuck said. “The dude's a bit of a loose cannon, Sister. If you're lucky, all he'll do is slam the door in your face.” He thought about it for a second. “If you let me ride along with you, I may be able to help.”

“How?”

“Brent owes me one. I testified on his behalf, and that's how he avoided jail the first time.”

“Okay. Get ready. I'll swing by and pick you up.”

Twenty minutes later, they drove into an area on the south end of town. Single mobile homes stood on quarter-acre lots across the railroad tracks from pueblo-style residences that dated back to the forties. The struggles of the residents who lived in this part of town were told mostly through the crumbling stucco walls, litter, and old junked cars in the backyards. These were tough times, but tougher on some than on others.

Even before she parked the Harley in front of the old house with the sagging porch and trash-filled yard, she knew what she'd be facing. Anger and hostility all too often followed long-term poverty.

As she reached for Pax's leash, a young man wearing baggy jeans and a loose shirt came to the front door, a bottle of beer in his hand. He glanced at her, then at Chuck.

“Hey, Chuck. You guys lost?”

“Nah, we're not lost. We came hoping to talk to you, Brent,” Chuck answered. “Got a minute?”

“Depends. What's on your mind?” The underage boy took a sip from the bottle.

Something in his tone made Sister Agatha tense up. People who lived on the edge, slipping from one side of the law to the other, knew how to play the game. Getting information from them was often as easy as getting answers from a rock.

As she approached Brent, Pax suddenly growled. Sister Agatha stopped in midstride. Something wasn't right.

Chuck glanced down at Pax, then back up at Brent. “You packing?”

Brent patted a bulge in his waistband beneath his unbuttoned shirt. “Yeah, I'm expecting some people. Just being careful.”

“If the dog sees your handgun, he's likely to react according to his training,” Sister Agatha warned.

“I've heard about him—former police dog, right?”

She nodded. “We're not here to hurt anyone. Could you put that away, at least for now?”

He looked up and down the graveled lane, then nodded. “Let's go inside. I don't like making a target of myself.”

Sister Agatha wondered how someone so young could stand living the way he did, always looking over his shoulder. If
nothing else, it had to be exhausting. Remembering that Christ was in everyone, she tried hard not to judge him.

Moments later, they were sitting at a metal kitchen table. From where he sat, Brent had a clear view out a window at the road leading into the neighborhood.

“I can give you about fifteen minutes. Make them count,” he said, looking toward the drawer where he'd placed the small semiauto pistol.

“You owe me one,” Chuck said.

“Yeah. That's why you're getting fifteen minutes.”

Chuck glanced at Sister Agatha and nodded.

“Brent, at one time you were dealing date-rape drugs. Then, while on parole, you joined a community youth program for offenders under twenty-one. I understand Al Russo was your sponsor,” she said.

“Yeah, and that man really walks his talk.” He met her gaze and held it. “I owe him big-time.”

“Why is that?” Sister Agatha prodded.

“He helped me when he didn't have to, and as Chuck already knows, I respect that.”

“We're not looking to nail you,” Chuck said. “We're looking for a killer.”

“So I've heard, but I wasn't even in town the day Garcia got capped. Ask the cops. They've already been by.”

“Was it because of your connection to benzodiazepine?” Sister Agatha confronted him.

“Yeah.” He glanced away, avoiding her gaze.

“You didn't tell them everything, did you?” Sister Agatha said, playing a hunch.

He laughed. “Sister, in my business you
never
tell the cops everything. That helps keep you alive out on the streets.”

“We're not cops, so why don't you tell us?” Sister Agatha insisted.

“What's in it for me?” he countered.

“For starters, you'd be squaring the debt you owe me,” Chuck shot back. “If it hadn't been for me, you'd have served time—no parole—three years, maybe more. Remember?”

“Yeah. That judge wanted to make me an example,” he said, then walked to the side of the window, looking out but not exposing himself to view. “If I talk to you, that'll square us once and for all.”

Chuck nodded once. “Deal.”

Brent looked at Chuck, then at Sister Agatha. “The Second Chance Program required that we stay clean, and I did—for the most part—but then my old man got sick. He needed painkillers, and I needed some fast cash, so I started dealing again. Al found out, but he kept his mouth shut. He even helped me stay below the radar. When my caseworker told him about a surprise visit he had planned, Al came by to give me a heads-up. I had, like, less than an hour to get rid of the merchandise. There was no way. I don't even have a car. So Al told me that if I stayed clean from that point on, he'd take the stuff with him,” Brent said. “Al kept his end of the deal, and so have I. I make my living doing other things these days.”

“What kind of drugs did you have on hand?” Sister Agatha asked.

“Painkillers, a little grass, and some Rohypnol.”

“Did Al ever tell you what he did with the stuff he took with him?” Chuck asked.

“No, he carted it off in a milk carton, and my guess is it ended up at the dump.” He looked at Chuck, then at Sister Agatha. “I know what you're thinking. Word's out that both the sheriff and
Garcia were drugged, but I can tell you right now that Al wasn't involved in that. He's a straight arrow. The only way he would have ever killed anyone is if his own life had been threatened, or maybe if he'd been trying to protect someone else.”

Sister Agatha thought about Al's relationship with RJ and of the times Victoria had been physically beaten. Slowly a new picture—a sad one, to be sure—began to emerge.

Sister Agatha stood, getting ready to leave. “You were given a chance to get your life together, Brent, but you're still as lost as you've ever been. If you turn to God, and ask Him to help you, He'll show you a way out.”

“God doesn't visit my neighborhood anymore, Sister.”

“You're looking for Him in the wrong place, Brent. He's not out there someplace,” she said with a sweep of her arm. “He's within you.” She tapped over her heart. “Unless you can find a way to connect, you'll never feel safe, no matter how much money or firepower you have.”

S
ISTER AGATHA DROPPED CHUCK OFF AT THE PAPER'S OF
fice a short time later.

“You're going to talk to Detective Marquez, aren't you?” he said. “Brent'll just deny what he told us, you know.”

“Undoubtedly, but the link between Al and that drug is serious. Maybe Frank can think of another way to follow this up, or maybe he can offer Brent a deal.”

“Do you think Al killed Robert on his own, or do you think Victoria was involved?”