CHAPTER TWENTY
The Healing Hands Ankh em Maat Spiritual Centre sat on the edge of Back Cove, an old, now-scruffy former fishermen’s chapel, squatting beside a low-slung slab of fancy stone and glass that was either an avant-garde dental clinic or the HQ of a fancy lawyer.
Red and blue strobes from the cruisers fractured in the puddles by the kerb.
Kate flashed her badge and ducked under the yellow tape, holding it up, unsuccessfully, for Marcus to follow. The scent of incense hung stubbornly in the air—sandalwood and something sharper—just faint enough to be unsettling.
Inside, Desiree, already zipped into her Tyvek suit, turned toward them, her dark locks caught back in a careless bun that was far too stylish to be accidental.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite crime fighters,” she said, eyes lingering on Marcus a beat too long. “You clean up nice, G-man.”
Marcus managed a weary grin. “You’re seeing me after three cups of coffee, Dez. Peak grooming hour.”
“Don’t spoil the illusion.” Desiree handed him a clipboard and then, with a conspiratorial wink, addressed them all.
“Victim’s a Sister Dorothy Kane. Time of death: roughly midnight.
Still waiting on final numbers, but rigor puts it close.
More things: no sign of forced entry, no pizza box like before, they don’t have CCTV—I’m serious— and route of entry not yet examined due to y’all know. ”
Fortunately, they all did know what she meant by y’all know.
It meant that everyone knew there was not enough.
There was not enough leeway, not enough ink for the printer, not enough gas, training, support, recognition, pencils, teaspoons in the kitchen, dialogue.
Not enough people for the job. Yet they were all still here.
They showed up anyway. And that was what it meant.
Kate crouched beside the sheet-draped body. The pale, lined face that emerged looked oddly serene, as if the last breath had left her mid-prayer.
Desiree pointed with a gloved hand. “Injection site just behind the left ear. There’s some redness and swelling—mild allergic reaction to the baclofen-sedative cocktail. Could’ve slowed absorption, maybe prolonged the sedative effect, but not enough to change outcome.”
Kate noted it down. Marcus’s jaw tightened.
“Struggle?” he asked.
“Couple broken nails on her right hand,” Desiree said. “Nothing major—just enough to say she didn’t go quietly… It’s a shame. Sister spent some dollars on those claws.”
She reached for a small evidence bag and passed it to Kate. “Found in her left hand. Thought you’d want first look.”
Inside the plastic sleeve lay a sheet of creamy paper, folded once.
A single line of script marched across the page.
Kate’s eyes flicked over the words; her pulse ticked up.
One was a Bible reference. The other was a sentence, of sorts.
It said: two years, two months. She read both silently, the letters dark as dried blood, her thoughts fluttering.
Behind her, Poppy—brought along for crime-scene experience— had already crouched at the far wall, flashlight beam playing over the baseboards. “There’s a basement,” she called. “So I’m guessing there’s a basement window.”
“Which means?” Marcus asked.
“Killer could have left traces, could have found an entry-point,” Poppy said. “I’ll go search the alleyway outside, he might have left a print. Or an envelope with his name and address on it,” she added, with a grin.
Marcus straightened, scanning the chamber.
Gold-painted lotus capitals lined the walls; hieroglyphs winked from mosaics.
He spotted a woman sitting stiffly by the altar—mid-fifties, iron-gray hair swept into a chignon, a long white stole draped over a simple linen dress.
She clutched a beaded cord so tightly her knuckles blanched.
“You’re Beverly Locke?” Marcus asked.
She inclined her head. “I’m- I was Sister Dorothy’s assistant.”
Marcus moved closer, lowering his voice. “Can you tell me a little about her… and about this place?”
Beverly exhaled slowly, the beads sliding through her fingers.
“We were Episcopalians, once. Ordinary people with ordinary pews. And good friends, me and her… we used to be in charge of the flowers and the old folks’ luncheons.
Then Dorothy lost her child—her only one.
After the funeral she began to… see. Visions, she called them.
” She sniffed loudly and fell quiet, almost as if she’d forgotten they were there.
“Visions of what, Mrs Locke?” Marcus asked, gently.
“Miss,” she corrected him. “I was married to this place.” She gave a very faint chuckle.
“Almost married to Sister Dorothy, too.” She shifted in her chair.
“The Sister’s visions told her mankind had wandered from the true path; that all our religions were fragments of one pure faith that existed before Egypt, before Babylon.
She said traces survived—in the rites of the Nile, in the chants of Babylon, in Judaism and Christianity, Hindu ceremonies.
All of them… b-broken mirrors of the original light. ”
Her voice trembled, but her gaze stayed steady.
“She was given a mission. To lead us back. And she was gifted—she could heal hearts, soothe minds. People left here lighter. For a fee, yes,” Beverly added, catching Marcus’s raised brow.
“But what’s a few dollars for a candle, for a vial of oil?
Better that than a bottle or a crack pipe. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Marcus gave a slow nod. “Did you believe her visions?”
Beverly’s mouth tightened into something like a smile. “Belief is complicated, Agent Reid. But Sister Dorothy made people feel better. Sometimes that’s the only miracle anyone needs.”
A commotion flared near the entrance. Two uniforms were barring a man in a tailored charcoal suit from stepping past the tape. Poppy was observing at the top of the alley, notebook in hand, spectacles almost falling off the end of her nose.
The man’s sandy hair was slicked back, and he wore the expression of someone used to talking his way into places.
“I have an appointment,” he insisted, brandishing a leather folio. “Ten a.m. with Sister Dorothy.”
Marcus strode over. “Sir, this is an active crime scene. Your name?”
“Ethan Tate.” The man’s eyes darted toward the shrouded body, then away. “I—uh—the meeting was…” He jumped suddenly, as if he’d just made the connection between the body and the agents. And possibly himself. “What’s just happened here?” he asked, hoarsely.
“Sister Dorothy was murdered.” Marcus said. “What was the meeting about?”
Tate seemed to recover fast from the shock. “That would be between me and the Sister.” His jaw clenched. “I’m just a financial consultant. If we’re done here, I’ll be going.”
He started to move, but Marcus placed a large, firm paw in the centre of his chest.
“Do you have a business card, Mr Tate?”
Tate eyeballed him, weighing things up, considering the odds. He looked like he could fight his way out of trouble, as well as talk it, if the need was pressing. Eventually he broke his stare and pulled a card from his pocket.
Marcus took the card, read it, looked from the card to the man, and studied him a long moment, before stepping aside with a curt nod. “We’ll be in touch.”
Tate left quickly, his shoes clicking on marble like retreating gunfire.
Poppy slipped her phone from her pocket before the echo died.
Her thumbs flew. Within minutes she murmured, “Got him. Ethan also Eytan also Evan Tate, and Evan Ward. Two years in federal for wire fraud. Currently under IRS investigation for laundering and tax evasion. His clients? An eclectic bunch, including a number of cash-heavy, faith-based charities.”
Marcus gave a low whistle. “So maybe our healer was another preacher skimming the flock.”
“Or someone thought she was,” Kate said.
“There’s nothing in the alley by the basement window,” Poppy reported. “But it rained in the night.”
Kate nodded, distractedly, gazing at the bagged note. The scripture burned in her mind like a brand. She took a photo with her camera, then handed the evidence to Poppy.
“Make sure it’s logged and photographed before it goes in the van. I need to go see someone.”
She walked away, eyes on her feet, deep in thought. Observing her, Poppy and Marcus conducted a conversation in shrugs:
What’s up with her?
Who knows?
Outside, the late-morning light dazzled against the cruiser roofs. Kate slid behind the wheel of her Bureau sedan. Before she could start the engine, her phone buzzed.
“Governor?” she answered.
“Agent Valentine,” the prison governor’s voice rumbled, heavy with fatigue. “I’m calling about Cox—his condition’s taken a turn. The wound was deep but as I believe I told you, it avoided any major organs or arteries, and it was cleaned properly. Unfortunately, he’s showing signs of sepsis.”
Kate frowned. “What’s the treatment for that?”
“Stronger antibiotics, IV fluids, oxygen. The Doc has recommended complete rest so I just wanted to let you know, in case you were thinking to interview him. He might need to go to hospital if things don’t improve.”
“I appreciate that. It’s actually Father Santos I wanted to talk to.”
“He’s transferring out to County Jail tomorrow morning.”
Kate cursed inwardly — there was no way she could get over to the prison today. And Winters wouldn’t forget that she’d promised to re-interview the priest. But tomorrow was another day; it didn’t matter where she interviewed Santos, as long as she got it done.
In the meantime, she still had the Governor on the line, and something else on her mind.
“While I’ve got you, Governor, about the plastic shank—my boss suggested that Cox himself could have brought the weapon into the room.”
He hesitated. “It’s possible. He wouldn’t have been searched prior to the visit. For obvious reasons, we only search the inmates after a visit. And I’m afraid they’re always two steps ahead when it comes to hiding and smuggling. It’s… a constant battle.”
“What about your guards?” Kate asked, sharper than she intended.
Silence. Then his tone iced over. “Are you accusing my staff of complicity, Agent Valentine? Because if so, I’ll be filing a formal complaint.”
Kate winced. “That’s not what I meant—”
“I hand-pick the men and women who work at this facility,” he thundered, a different man to the one who’d called her.
“From the guards to the guy who mows the grass and the girl who orders the ink for the goddam printer. And there is not one of them that I wouldn’t trust with my life. My baby grandson’s goddam life.”
“Governor—"
But the line had already gone dead.
She lowered the phone, the dial tone humming in her ear. She could have phrased that better, sure. But the Governor’s defensiveness told its own story.
And what an overstatement. He’d trust ‘the girl who orders the ink’ with his baby grandson’s goddam life?
One thing her training and experience had taught her, one type of person not to trust. An exaggerator.