Devious by Lisa Jackson Page A

teacher?
    â€œHer parents are gone. She has one sister, who lives somewhere in East Texas, I believe. A small town, I think. I can’t recall now, off the top of my head.”
    That was right. Camille did have a sister, a year or two younger than Montoya. “Do you know her name?”
    â€œI should, but . . . Veronica? Something like that. I’ll check.”
    Veronica didn’t sound right, but Montoya could picture her. Around five-seven, if he remembered correctly. Taller than Camille, with big eyes and a stare that cut right through you. Where Camille had always been outgoing and a flirt, her older sister was studious but outspoken, someone who didn’t suffer fools or the stupid teenage antics of her peers. The sister was a girl Montoya avoided, but he remembered her.
    â€œWas it Valerie?” he asked, and the nun looked at him sharply, the corners of her mouth tugging downward.
    â€œYes.” She nodded, her wimple not moving a bit. “Valerie. That’s it.”
    â€œWe need her address.”
    â€œOf course.” She glanced to the doors leading to the chapel and seemed suddenly saddened by the events of the night. More people had arrived. Despite Sister Charity’s objections about outsiders trespassing on holy grounds, the crime scene techs went about the business of collecting evidence. Photographs and measurements were taken; the area dusted for prints; Luminol sprayed; and the floor, walls, and pews analyzed for footprints or scuff marks. The crime scene investigators worked with relentless precision.
    â€œThis is such sacrilege,” Sister Charity murmured, her eyes imploring. “Really, it has to stop. The chapel is a holy place, not meant for . . .” She lifted a hand, palm out, almost in supplication toward the chapel where the medical examiner was examining Sister Camille’s body. “We follow rules and a strict schedule of devotion, and we cannot have . . .” Her voice cracked, and Montoya didn’t know if the emotion was grief for the death of Sister Camille, concern about the black mark a murder would make upon St. Marguerite’s reputation, or simply an act. “This disruption is unacceptable,” she said, but the conviction in her words was fading. “You’re upsetting everyone here, making a mockery of our chapel, yellow tape and people meandering so close to the holy tabernacle.”
    â€œOne of your own is dead,” Montoya reminded her, letting loose a fraction of his irritation. “Looks like a homicide. We have a job to do here, and we’ll do it as quickly and thoroughly as possible, but we will do it. It would be best if no one impeded the process.”
    Her chin worked as if she wanted to say something, lambaste him for his impropriety and lack of respect. Instead she whispered, “So be it. I must attend to the novitiates. But please, remember this is the Lord God’s house.”
    â€œAnd something very evil went down here.”
    â€œWe don’t know what happened,” she said in a crisp tone that allowed no argument. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to the sisters.” As she bustled off, skirts rustling and rosary beads clicking, her outfit was meticulous but for the hem of her habit, which showed more than a trace of dirt.
    Odd.
    Otherwise she was impeccably put together—now, in the middle of the night.
    Did the old mother superior sleep in her habit? Montoya made a mental note to speak with her later, when she’d had some time to cool off.
    â€œSister, wait up!” Bentz said, lunging to catch up with her. “I need to see Sister Camille’s room.”
    â€œThere’s nothing there.”
    â€œWe don’t know that.”
    She paused, then nodded stiffly. “Come along, then.” She was already leading him up the stairs to the living quarters of the convent.
    Yeah, Montoya thought, he’d speak to Sister Charity again. Alone.