Eleventh Hour

Dane looked over at Delion. The man wasn’t giving anything away at all. He just stared back. Dane wasn’t a fool. He slowly shook his head. “No, I’d like to work with Delion.”

“Good.” Chief Kreider raised his coffee cup, took one sip, and set it down. “I’ll have the lieutenant reassign Marino. Delion, I expect twice-daily updates.”

After they were dismissed, Delion said as they walked to the garage, “Lots of the guys wonder how Kreider makes love since the guy is always pacing, back and forth, never stopping. Tough to get much done when you can’t hold still.”

“Didn’t you see that old movie with Jack Nicholson—Five Easy Pieces?”

Delion rolled his eyes and laughed as he pulled the 1998 Ford Crown Victoria, white with dark blue interior, out into traffic on Bryant Street. Delion headed north, crossed Market Street, and weaved his way in and out of traffic to Nob Hill. They found a parking slot on Clay.

Delion said, “Dispatch sent a field patrol officer from the Tenth District. He notified Operations, and they called me and the paramedics. Here, our paramedics are the ones who notify the medical examiner. Because it’s very high profile, Dr. Boyd himself came to the church. I don’t know how well you know San Francisco, but we’re near one of the gay districts. Polk Street is known for lots of action. It’s just a couple of streets over.”

“Yes, I know,” Dane said. “Just in case you’re wondering, my brother wasn’t gay.”

“That’s what your sister told me,” Delion said. He paused a moment, looking up at the church. “Saint Bartholomew’s was built in 1910, just four years after the earthquake. The other church burned down. They made this one of redbrick and concrete. See that bell tower—one of the big civic leaders at the time, Mortimer Grist, paid for it. It’s a good thirty feet above the roof.”

“Everything seems well tended.”

“Let’s go inside the church first,” Delion said. “You need to see where everything is.”

He needed to see where his brother’s life was ended. Dane nodded, but as he walked down the wide central aisle, closer and closer to where Michael had been shot, in the third confessional, Delion had told him, the one that stood nearest to the far wall, each step felt like a major hurdle. His breathing was hard and fast. As difficult as it had been to see his brother lying dead on that gurney, this was harder. He suddenly felt a vivid splash of color hit his face and stopped. He looked up at a brilliant stained-glass window that spewed a spray of intense colors right where Dane was standing. He didn’t move, he just stood, looking up and then beyond the colors, to the scene of Mary and Joseph in the stable, the baby Jesus in the manger in front of them. And angels, so many of them, all singing. He could practically hear the full, brilliant chorus of voices. He drew in a deep breath. The air began to feel warmer, and the crushing pain eased just a bit. He couldn’t see the confessional. Rather than a yellow crime-scene strip, they’d rigged up a tall black curtain that cut off the confessional from prying eyes and curious hands. Delion moved the black curtain aside to reveal the confessional—all old, dark wood, tall and narrow, a bit battered, with two narrow doors, the first for the penitent and the far door for the priest. The dazzling colors from the windows were shining down on it now, making it look incandescent.

Slowly, he opened the door and sat down on the hard bench. He looked through the torn mesh netting. His brother had been just there, speaking, listening intently. He doubted the man had used the kneeler, not with the angle of the bullet. Did Michael know the man would kill him?

Dane rose and walked to the other side. He opened the door and eased down on the cushioned seat where his brother had sat. He didn’t know what he expected to feel sitting there where his brother had died, but the fact was, he didn’t feel any fear, nothing cold or black, just a sort of peace that he let flow deeply into him. He drew a deep breath and bowed his head. “Michael,” he said.

Delion stood back, watching Special Agent Dane Carver walk out of the confessional. He saw the sheen of tears in his eyes, said nothing.

“Let’s go talk to the rectory people,” Dane said, and Delion just nodded.

They walked around to the back of the church to the rectory, which was set off by eucalyptus trees, a high fence, and more well-tended grounds. It was quieter than Dane thought it would be, the sounds of traffic distant. The rectory was a charming two-story building, with ivy trailing over the red brick walls, the tinkling of a small fountain in the background. Everything smelled fresh.