City of Strangers (Luis Chavez Book 2) (2 page)

II

The sun had barely cracked the eastern horizon when Father Luis Chavez was out the door of the St. Augustine’s rectory and on the streets. There was an early-morning Mass at six thirty, which gave Luis about an hour for his morning run. He considered heading east toward the USC campus and its many jogging paths around the stadium and Natural History Museum, but the area would already be packed with students. Instead, he crossed the bridge over the I-10 freeway and headed for the south part of downtown, which he knew would be empty.

Though he could occasionally hear a car or truck a few blocks over, the city itself looked abandoned. Every block was depopulated, every shop locked up tight. The streets and sidewalks didn’t get swept or the trash picked up here as often as elsewhere, adding to the apocalyptic feel.

Luis didn’t mind.

So much of life at the church and at the neighboring parochial school, St. John’s, was task driven. There was always something to do, always someone trying to get his attention. Even when in prayer it could feel as if he was stealing time from some other task that needed to be done. Out on the road he was able to open his mind, commune with God as he let his thoughts flow freely, and reflect on the days ahead.

The day before he’d gone out to the cemetery in Echo Park to visit the grave of Maria Higuera, a woman whose family had gotten caught up in the Marshak case, leading to the death first of Maria’s brother and then Maria herself. Only her son, Miguel, remained. Though Luis tried to keep tabs on him, Miguel wasn’t interested in what he had to say, preferring to spend time with newfound criminal associates. Of the many things he prayed over, this was one of the most frequent.

Once he reached the outskirts of the Staples Center parking lots, he circled back to St. Augustine’s. He wondered if another reason he was attracted to running was that it was one of the only times while awake he was without his Roman collar. Passing a shop window, he caught sight of his reflection. His collarless appearance took him by surprise, making him feel like he was looking at some old photograph taken before he’d entered the priesthood. It wasn’t so long ago, was it? But like an itch that needed scratching, he couldn’t go too long without it on. He didn’t feel like himself. He
wasn’t
himself.

Like clockwork, whenever he began to feel like this, he knew it was time to head back to the rectory and start the day.

The sun was higher as the church came into view, the shadows of its spire and roof thrown long across the parking lot. Somewhere in that darkness near the chapel, Luis spotted the silhouette of a man trying first the doors leading to the administrative offices and then coming around to try the ones at the back of the building. People tried to enter the church at all hours of the day, so Luis didn’t think much of it, until he saw the lone police car in the parking lot.

He froze. His instincts, formed in his pre-collar days, ran through the various scenarios. He hadn’t likely been seen yet, so he could turn and go back the way he came. He should slow down, maybe cross the street at the nearest light. But where was the second cop? Could he have eyes on him even now, wondering what his next move would be?

“Excuse me! Sir? Could you come over here?”

It was the cop. He’d spotted Luis and was moving toward him. Luis’s first thought was that he didn’t have any ID on him, only the key to the rectory. The second was that he was wearing a St. John’s sweatshirt and sweatpants and didn’t look like someone you’d bust for loitering with intent even if it was the “quota time of the month.”

“Can I help you, Officer?” he asked, walking over.

“Are you a priest here?” the officer asked, stopping and looking Luis over.

The officer’s tone was suspicious.
Maybe I’m not above reproach,
Luis thought.

“He is,” called out a voice. “One of our priests and teachers.”

Both Luis and the officer turned as St. Augustine’s parish pastor, Gregory Whillans, and a second officer came from around the side of the church. Though he’d only seen him the night before, Luis was still aghast at his pastor’s appearance. In three short months the cancer that was laying waste to Whillans’s body had diminished him to the point he was almost unrecognizable. Gone was the bombastic and imposing clerical figure Luis had so admired when they first met. In his place was a wizened old man who looked decades older than he was.

The first policeman relaxed as Whillans approached with his partner. Luis came over to take the pastor’s arm.

“Is everything all right?” Luis asked.

“Well, no,” Whillans admitted, glancing to both officers. “There’s been a shooting. Father Benedict Chang at St. Jerome’s. He was shot and killed last night in the parking lot. Though the killer was apprehended, the police—rightly so—have come to check on the other parishes.”

Luis searched his memory. He didn’t know Father Chang and barely knew St. Jerome’s. Still, it was troubling news. People were killed every day in Los Angeles, but Luis couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard of the murder of a priest.

“If you see anything, give us a call,” the first officer, whose name badge identified him as Ybarra, said as he handed cards to Luis and Pastor Whillans. “This appears to be an isolated incident, but you never know.”

Appears to be.

“Thank you very much, Officer,” Whillans said, his hand weighing heavily on Luis’s arm.

They watched the squad car drive away, then turned back to the chapel.

“Awful story,” Whillans said. “It sounds like someone was waiting for him and shot him as he went to the rectory.”

“A robbery?” Luis asked.

“No. The shooter sat down and waited for the police to come.”

Luis could conjure no one reason somebody would shoot a priest. Rather, he could come up with a thousand.

“Well, we’ll have to be on our guard,” Whillans said. “But more than that, we’ll have to make sure our students and parishioners feel safe. I’ll write something up and let Erna circulate it. Will you tell the other priests?”

“Yes, Father,” Luis said, guiding Whillans to the door of the admin wing. “Anything else right now? I need to grab a shower before morning Mass.”

“Yes, in fact. Bridgette and I were talking about you last night,” Whillans said, referring to the laywoman with whom he’d maintained a noncelibate relationship for the past twenty years, something Luis was still conflicted about. “It’s the Feast of Saint Peter Claver this Sunday. I think—and she agreed with me—that it’s time you deliver the homily at Mass. Is that something you feel up to?”

Luis was surprised. Since he’d become assistant pastor, Whillans had gradually increased his duties around the parish in order to help shield Whillans’s condition from inquiry. Luis had thrown himself into these and learned quite a bit, but the homily? So soon? He knew that the other priests at St. Augustine’s weren’t likely to begrudge him, but this would be putting a novice out in front of the congregation as well.

“I think so,” Luis said, hoping he sounded steadier than he felt. “What’s the scripture?”

“Up to you,” Whillans said. “But being Claver, maybe Jeremiah 25:5?”

“‘Turn ye again now everyone from his evil way, and from the evil of your doing?’” Luis recited, feeling like he was back in faith formation class. “Mind reading a draft or two in advance?”

“Not at all,” Whillans said. “One more thing. There was already a voice mail on the office phone this morning—Michael Story asking for you to give him a call. Any idea what it’s about?”

Luis froze. Though some in the archdiocese knew of Luis’s involvement sorting out the Marshak human-trafficking case that summer, only Whillans knew the whole story. Including that the ambitious and possibly venal deputy DA, to whom Luis had fed his findings, was not a person Luis thought he’d hear from again.

“No idea. Probably just some detail about the Marshak case.”

“Of course,” Whillans replied. “Just wanted to make sure you got the message. Let me know if it’s anything else.”

“I will, Father,” Luis lied.

Dr. Suyin “Susan” Auyong stared at the headline in disbelief. Late for her morning shift at the clinic, she’d ignored the texts, e-mails, and voice mails from Nan that had her phone lit up like a pachinko machine when she’d woken from a less-than-four-hour nap following her last shift. It was her boss, the clinic’s—well, unlicensed clinic’s—chief administrator, Clover Gao, who’d brought the news story to her attention.

“Isn’t this your friend?” she’d asked without feeling.

Priest Shot Outside San Gabriel Parish.

It wasn’t even on the front page, didn’t warrant more than a thousand words. Was that why she didn’t take the news as hard as Clover wanted her to? Or was it that she had so long expected to see a headline just like this that when the shoe finally dropped, she felt only numbness rather than anguish?

“Yes, Father Chang,” Susan acknowledged to Clover. “He was very charitable. We met because he would occasionally bring his parishioners here when they were in need. If they couldn’t pay, he’d pay for them.”

“Given the rumors I’m hearing about why he was killed, I think it best to say little of that association,” Clover said in her infuriatingly Clover-like way.

“What rumors?” Susan asked.

“I won’t spread gossip,” Clover said airily before heading away. “Mr. Carreño is waiting for his pills in Room Four. Could you take care of that?”

Susan nodded as she sank back against the wall. She didn’t want to deal with Mr. Carreño or his pills. For that matter she didn’t want to do anything but go home, find whatever alcohol she might have lying around, and drink herself into a stupor.

Poor, poor Father Benny.

Then she remembered Nan. Dear God. She grabbed her cell phone and dialed a number.

“I’m so, so,
so
sorry I didn’t call back,” she said when it was answered. “Wherever you are, just come to meet me. You can stay in my office all day if you’d like. It’s terrible, and I know you don’t want to face the world right now. But I just don’t want to think you’re there all by yourself.”

There were a few sniffles in response, a muffled sob of someone who’d been crying for some time now, then a grunt of acceptance.

“I’ll expect to see you soon then,” Susan said. “And I’ll find someone to cover for me so we can go somewhere to talk about this. He loved us both so, so very much. ‘We three vagabonds,’ he called us, remember? Strangers in a strange land who’d found each other.”

“He was
 . . .”
Nan began but couldn’t finish.

“I know,” Susan said quietly. “I know.”

As she hung up, still wondering how she would get through the next few hours, Clover poked her head out of her office.

“Mr. Carreño. Room Four,” she said sternly.

Susan nodded and headed to the supply closet, where a deliveryman was stocking the shelves with boxes of pharmaceuticals, the unlicensed clinic being an unlicensed pharmacy as well.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“What’re you looking for?” the deliveryman, a pleasant-looking young man whose accent suggested he was also from Hong Kong, asked.

“Um
 . . .
Hasix,” Susan said, snapping back into work mode and pointing to one of the open boxes. “Thank you.”

The deliveryman obliged, and Susan carried the box of pills down the hall. For all she cared she could be handing Mr. Carreño rattlesnake poison rather than his hypertension medication. She tried to comport herself before stepping into the examination room, but one thought kept playing itself over in her head. It wasn’t a question of
who
wanted Father Chang dead but who
didn’t
?

“Is Christianity based on the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth?” Luis asked his students. “Or the interpretation and expansion on those by Paul the Apostle? That is what we’re going to tackle today.”

Luis scanned the room. It was only the second week of classes, but he already had a sense of the group’s comfort level. They liked a little boat rocking, particularly when he said something that flew in the face of something they’d heard at Mass. Too far, however, and they got uncomfortable, as if fearing for their souls should they hear something outright blasphemous.