Fatal Strike Page 7

  An email from earlier in the day garnered his attention, and he noted the sender. He’d rather hit Delete than dive into personal stuff. The message was from the widow of a good friend . . . Hanson. Hard memories refused to let him go, and just when he thought he’d licked it, bits of Hanson and Chip plodded across his mind and heart.

  Face it. The truth will never let you go.

  He clicked on the email.

  Jon,

  It’s late but I wanted to thank you for little Jon’s birthday present, except he’s not so little anymore. At eleven years old, he’s shooting up like a cornstalk in summer. You were far too generous, and he loves the drone. As you recommended in his birthday card, he spent hours reading the instructions and watching the recommended YouTube clips for more information. He asked to send you a thank-you email, but I need your permission first.

  Hope all goes well with you. We’re good here. School starts for me in one week, and little Jon starts the next.

  I’m seeing a man from my church. He’s a widower. It’s getting a little serious. We’re both scared and stepping out in faith. Jon adores him—almost as much as he loves you.

  And you? Are you saving lives by risking your own? My dear Jon and Hanson. True heroes.

  We miss you and pray for you. When will you be in Illinois?

  Love,

  Claire

  Jon scrolled down through the email to a pic of Jon, his namesake. The red-haired, freckle-faced boy held up the assembled drone and grinned into the camera. Looking at the familiar dark-blue eyes, so dark they looked black, and the thick red hair brought back images of Hanson. The man looked at life and laughed. Preacher Hanson, the others called him. The one man who’d shown Jon what faith in God meant by living it. No matter what knocked him to his knees, he got back up. Defied danger. Except for the last time.

  Jon shoved aside the acid roiling in his stomach. If Claire could take a bold step, he could too.

  Hi Claire,

  Thanks for the birthday pic of Jon. Hanson lives on in your son. Please give little Jon my email address. He can write anytime he wants.

  Claire, I’m no hero, but I am fulfilled with my role in the organized gang division and as a SWAT sniper. Lives are saved. I’ve never told you what my job involves, but it’s more about gathering information and observing situations so a problem can be solved without loss of life. I wouldn’t want little Jon to think I shoot people for a living.

  Glad you’re looking to the future. I need to meet this guy. :) I’m on a mission, but as soon as it’s over, I’ll plan a trip your way.

  I’m not seeing anyone. Well, my new partner is a woman. But two snipers? Two type A personalities? I think we’d kill each other. I can hear Hanson making fun of me.

  Thanks for your prayers.

  Jon

  He stole a look at the time: 12:45 a.m. He should get a little sleep soon. Leah had most likely been in bed for hours. He liked her. Today he’d seen a professional woman who had a compassionate side. Earlier when they completed the paperwork from the SWAT mission and then requested reports for the new case, night had crested. Dark circles under her striking copper-colored eyes and exhaustion in her voice said the day had been long enough. Morning was soon enough to bring her up to speed.

  15

  THE ALARM SOUNDED AT 4 A.M., much too early for Leah, but the hour came with the job. At least she’d managed to sleep in her own bed and breathe in the comforts of home and she wasn’t in some remote spot waiting for orders to shoot. After a hot shower, she blew her hair dry, watching the time. With Houston’s traffic, Jon’s suggestion of leaving the office at 5:30 was a good idea. She’d rather avoid bumper-to-bumper madness and drive into Galveston early.

  With nine minutes to spare, she brought her laptop to life. Intel was her lifeblood, and she craved information like a toddler whimpered for cookies. She scrolled through her in-box and clicked on a message from Jon sent around 2 a.m. Why hadn’t he been sleeping? They needed to have their heads in the game.

  She read while her electric toothbrush did its job. Dylan’s friend Aaron Michaels was enrolled at the University of Houston. He’d contacted Galveston police to offer information after the BOLO went public. A little odd in her opinion. Maybe Michaels didn’t want to be implicated in a crime. He hadn’t seen Dylan since December. Their friendship had deteriorated several months ago, but no explanation was given. Michaels had a clean record. Still he’d be talking to the chief of police today and perhaps to her and Jon.

  Grabbing her backpack, she set the home alarm and hurried to her Camaro for the fifteen-minute drive to the office.

  Leah pulled into the employee parking lot at FBI headquarters and discovered Jon’s truck idling. Interesting. Agent Colbert played the always-early game. So much for demonstrating control in this new partnership. She’d remember this for the future. The moment she opened his truck door and slipped her backpack behind the seat, she smelled the amazing aroma of coffee, and like a warm blanket enveloping her, her ruffled personality was soothed.

  “Good morning.” She pointed to the cups in the console. “The coffee smells wonderful. You’re about to be my fave agent.”

  “Are you saying if I hadn’t brought you coffee, then I’d be your least favorite?”

  “Give or take.” She buckled her seat belt and hid a grin. They both had the navy-blue pants and blazer going . . . FBI typical.

  “Are you perky in the mornings?” He pulled through the gate and onto Highway 290.

  “Once I have a few swallows of coffee, I’ll be jabbering.” She peeled back the plastic tab on the coffee cup and blew into it before taking a sip. “I read your email. What time did you go to bed?”

  “Shortly after three. And you?”

  “I worked until eleven, specifically on the police reports regarding Ian Greer’s and Marcia Trevelle’s deaths. But you received those?” When Jon nodded, she placed the coffee back into the console. Too hot to drink.

  “Did you notice a discrepancy in the way the bodies were staged and the Veneno pattern in other cities?” Jon said.

  “What am I missing?”

  “Aside from Galveston, all the bodies were left at the entrance of a church, not the rear like Judge Mendez. And Ian Greer’s and Marcia Trevelle’s bodies weren’t found anywhere near a church.”

  She recalled the reports from the previous night. “Neither did all the victims have a dead rattler draped across their chest. Wonder why the Venenos switched up their mode of operation?”

  Jon shook his head. “Has to mean something, but what?”

  “Chief of Police Everson could have insight.” Leah shifted gears to the other issue that had been nagging her after reviewing the reports. “It’s odd that Rachel Mendez didn’t mention how the judge and Greer were schoolmates.” She noted Jon’s nod, then said, “Maybe in her grief, she forgot to mention it. Definitely want to talk to her about that today. We have a full schedule. I assume we’ll also interview Judge Mendez’s staff at his office, and I have questions for Aaron Michaels. Plus those we listed yesterday.”

  “Let’s start with breakfast at the Sunflower Cafe,” Jon said. “I think you’ll like it. Great local food.”

  Leah was used to coffee and a bagel for breakfast, carryover from being a New York City gal, and she was picky when it came to food. If she’d take the time to eat, she’d have more of a shape than a fence post—a true Texan expression.

  Jon continued. “Why don’t you call Father Gabriel and ask him to join us?”

  Leah pressed in the priest’s number, and he answered on the second ring.

  “Agent Colbert and I are en route to Galveston. We’d like you to join us at the Sunflower Cafe at 7 a.m. for breakfast and to discuss the case.”

  “Eggs and interrogation on the menu?” he said.

  She glanced at Jon. “The only thing Agent Colbert and I eat early in the morning.” She was relieved when he agreed and ended the call. “Father Gabriel might have found a surge of coopera
tion.”

  “Or a stab of guilt?”

  “We’ll find out.” She tried her coffee again, and like Goldilocks’s, the temperature was perfect. “I honestly understand how he wants to help and push us away at the same time. Losing his nephew to a gang means the death affected him, or he wouldn’t have chosen to rehabilitate others.”

  “His thinking is a bit skewed.”

  “I intended to research Catholicism and priestly vows last night, but it never happened. I’m pretty clueless when it comes to religion.”

  “Everyone believes in something.” Jon shot her a look, then returned his focus to the road. “In short, a priest doesn’t betray those who seek his confidence,” he said. “Wonder if the nephew was caught in cross fire or if he was a gang member?”

  “I’ll request it.” She typed a quick note to the FIG. “In your email, you mentioned wanting to talk about our partnership.”

  “Yep. My partner fell while rock climbing with his kids. Had emergency surgery and will be out for six weeks.”

  “Now you’re stuck with me. We’re working well together . . . so far. Do you have family? Other than your dad, who reminds you of Father Gabriel?”

  “Mom teaches political science on a collegiate level. Active in promoting literacy. Three sisters who are older, married, and with kids in high school.”

  “Ever been married?”

  “Nope. What about you?”

  She took another delicious drink of coffee. “Haven’t found a man who wanted to take on my temperament or my job.” Truth was she’d like to one day find a husband, but then she’d have to be honest about her past.

  “Parents? Brothers? Sisters?”

  She hadn’t seen any of them in years. How did she respond? “I’d rather not discuss my family. I’m a one-woman show.”

  “Hey, we all have things we want left alone. What have you heard about me? I’m sure I need to explain some rumors.”

  She thought through the bits and pieces of info filtering through her brain. Jon was incredibly good-looking, but she’d not mention it. “Crack shot. Intense. Likable. Doesn’t talk a lot about himself. Okay, turnabout is fair play.”

  “Don’t make her mad.” He lifted his brows, an exaggerated expression. “Stoic. New Yorker. Full of surprises. Outstanding marksmanship as your reputation proves. Can’t think of anything else.”

  “I’m stubborn, particularly when I know I’m right.” She paused, running through the nicknames she’d been given. “What does New Yorker mean?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Cold? Unfeeling? Blunt? I fall into all three.”

  “I think the accent,” he said.

  “What about Panther?”

  He took a breath. “I plead the Fifth.”

  “Actually I don’t mind that one. Keeps the come-on boys away.”

  “I’ll remember those words of wisdom. Here’s another question.” Traffic slid to a snail’s pace. “Is there anything about the way I handled the SWAT mission and later the preliminaries of Judge Mendez’s death that hindered our working relationship?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “Bring it on.”

  “I feel out of control with you driving.”

  He laughed. “Can’t even picture myself sitting on the passenger side with you at the wheel.”

  “Are you saying you can’t handle a woman driving?”

  “I’d rather not discuss my obsessive fears.”

  He’d succeeded in making her smile. Again. She didn’t see any problems in their working arrangement yet. “If you make me crazy, I’ll let you know. And feel free to reciprocate.” She sipped her coffee, and her mind went straight to the case. “What’s really going on here? Judge Mendez sentenced Dylan Ortega to eleven months for armed robbery. Later he assigned Dylan to Father Gabriel for community service. Then Judge Mendez gave him a job. Why would he kill a man who tried to help?”

  Jon turned onto Fourteenth Street toward the café meeting place. “Definitive answers are in the making with our breakfast, optimistically speaking.”

  “You’re sure of yourself,” she said. “Maybe Father Gabriel’s just worried about the status of your soul.”

  “Mine’s in good shape. No need for him to waste his prayers.”

  16

  JON AND LEAH WALKED INSIDE the Sunflower Cafe and inhaled the mouthwatering smells of bacon, coffee, and cinnamon rolls. Jon spotted Father Gabriel at a table on the left side, his back facing the entrance. Not smart for a man who’d been threatened. A handful of people sat around the tables. None appeared suspicious.

  He and Leah wove around the tables to the priest. A tea bag was steeping in his mug. If Jon were to stereotype a priest, the choice of caffeine in a bag fit. Father Gabriel stood, his black shirt and white collar giving him a distinguished look against his white hair and beard. Dark circles beneath his eyes indicated a lack of sleep.

  What kept you up last night? Were you wrestling with your conscience or unable to rest because of the turmoil in your church and community? Or both?

  The three shook hands and eased onto chairs that gave him and Leah full view of those entering and leaving the restaurant. After a waitress filled Jon’s and Leah’s cups with coffee, they gave their food orders—shrimp omelet for Leah, eggs Benedict for Father Gabriel, and smoked chicken hash for Jon.

  Once the waitress disappeared, Father Gabriel folded his arms on the table. “I’d like to apologize for what may appear to be a lack of assistance in the investigation of three murders. I assure you, I’m deeply troubled by the deaths, and I want the senseless violence stopped. The island is filled with people who are scared and grieving. They need to see God in my words and actions.”

  “What’s changed since our last conversation?” Jon was in no way interested in starting an argument at 7 a.m.

  “I want my cooperation clarified. How do you think I feel about my church used as a transfer station for a violent gang’s crime?”

  “Angry? Distressed?”

  Father Gabriel breathed in deeply. “Add mourning.”

  “In the event Dylan or a criminal makes confession, would you encourage them to contact law enforcement?”

  “I assume their efforts to that effect would be termed as cooperation?”

  “It’s always better for suspects to turn themselves in. Is there a reason you neglected to tell us about St. Peter’s being a community service organization for those under Judge Mendez’s court, specifically Dylan Ortega?”

  Not a muscle moved on Father Gabriel’s face. “I apologize for omitting the information.” He held up his hand as though to stop Jon from saying more. “Yesterday I spoke the truth. I haven’t talked to Dylan but twice. He came to the church, completed his responsibilities, and left. He checked in and out with my secretary.”

  “What were his duties?”

  “To keep the grounds clean and make any small repairs deemed necessary. If there was a matter needing his attention, then I left instructions with my secretary.”

  The priest’s hands-off attitude didn’t seem like the actions of a man who wanted to rehabilitate those assigned to community service. “You didn’t try to strike up a conversation? Try to get to know him better? Draw him into church?”

  “He wasn’t interested. I approached him many times, but a conversation takes two people. Dylan is resentful of God, has no use for our Lord.”

  “We’d like a list of those persons who’ve completed community service at your church, male or female, and dates.”

  “All right.” Father Gabriel pulled out his phone and typed. “You’ll have the information before noon.” He laid the device beside his knife.

  Jon turned to Leah. “Agent Riesel, what questions do you have?”

  “You mentioned a church secretary. We didn’t see anyone in your office yesterday.”

  “She’s on vacation this week. I’ve been handling the clerical responsibilities myself.”

  “We’d like her name and contact information.�
� Leah positioned her hand over her phone’s keypad.

  “Lucinda Serrano.” Father Gabriel gave the phone number.

  “What can you tell us about her?”

  He removed the tea bag from his cup. Looked like coffee. “In her early fifties. Married. Grown daughters. Lucinda never forgets a face.”

  “Did she know Greer or Trevelle?” Leah said.

  Their breakfast was set before them, and Father Gabriel asked God to bless their food and their time together. He crossed himself. “You asked if Lucinda was acquainted with the other victims, and I’m not sure.”

  While the three ate breakfast, Jon’s thoughts centered on how to stop a string of deaths . . . and where Father Gabriel’s new information would take them.

  The priest laid down his fork. “Agent Colbert, you’re honest and to the point. I’m a man of God above all things. My vow of obedience means the church comes before anything else in my life. Serving my members and the community is my priority. I’m responsible to spiritually guide those within my flock, and I will denounce this violence from the pulpit. I’ll contact the local newspaper and a Houston TV station with a plea for anyone who has information to step forward. I want people to know all are welcome at St. Peter’s, Catholic or otherwise, to have absolution of their sins through the sacrament of confession.”

  “Thank you.” Jon toyed with the handle of his coffee cup. “I commend you for your devotion. I understand forgiveness, but have you forgotten the threat on your life?”

  “I’m offering God’s grace. I encourage forgiveness, mercy, and an opportunity to secure lasting peace with our heavenly Father. I’m a priest, not a member of law enforcement or the judicial community. God will render His justice to those responsible.”