Eleventh Hour by Catherine Coulter Page A

eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said again, tears thick in her voice.
    She clutched the Kleenex in her right fist, sat up, and swung her legs over the side of the sofa. She took a very deep breath, looked down. She paused a moment, sniffed, swallowed, then said, “This sofa is really ugly.”
    Dane laughed. Somewhere deep down, there was still laughter in him. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s butt ugly.”
    “Yeah, yeah,” Delion said, scooting his chair forward, crowding Dane out of the way, easy since the office was very small. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Ms.—Hey, we don’t know your name.”
    She blinked at him. “My name is Jones.”
    “Jones,” Delion repeated slowly. “What’s your first name, Ms. Jones?”
    “Nick.”
    “Nick Jones. As in Nicole?”
    She nodded, but Dane thought it was a lie. What was going on here? Was she wanted by the police in some other city? Maybe she was wanted here, in San Francisco. Maybe that was why Michael had wanted to help her. Michael had always been able to sniff out folks who were in trouble, and he always wanted to help them. He gave her a long look but didn’t say anything.
    “Well, Ms. Jones,” Delion said, “I could arrest you, send your fingerprints off, and find out what you’ve done.”
    “Yes,” she said. “You could.”
    She was a good poker player, Dane thought.
    Delion folded first. “Nah, we’ll pass on that. No more questions about your background, your own situation. You got a deal. Now, tell us, Ms. Jones, did you meet other people that Father Michael Joseph knew?”
    Nick nodded. “Yes, there was another woman he was trying to help. Her name is Valerie Striker. I think she’s a prostitute. She was in the church when I got there. She’d just stopped by to speak to Father Michael Joseph for a moment. I remember she left maybe five minutes before that man came in.”
    Delion said, “Oh, shit. Whatcha bet he saw her?”
    “It’s possible,” Dane said.
    “Did you see her when you ran out of Saint Bartholomew’s, Ms. Jones?”
    She shook her head.
    “Valerie Striker,” Delion said and wrote the name down in his book. “We’ll check on her. Just maybe she saw something.”
    “Or maybe he saw her,” Nick said. “Dear God, I hope not.”
    SEVEN
    Nick said, “I’m really sorry you lost your brother, Mr. Carver.”
    Dane’s hands were clasped in his lap. “Thank you,” he said, but didn’t look up. He said after a moment,
    “You said that you and my brother were friends. How close were you?”
    “Like I told you, we only met two weeks ago. Father Michael Joseph was visiting the shelter a couple of days after I arrived. We got to talking. We got off onto medieval history. I don’t remember how it came up, to be honest. Father Michael Joseph was very kind, and very knowledgeable. We got to talking, and it turned out that he is—he was—fascinated by King Edward the First of England, particularly that last Crusade Edward led to the Holy Land that led to the Treaty of Caesarea.” She shrugged, tried to look self-deprecating, but Dane wasn’t fooled for a moment. Who was she?
    “He took me for a cup of coffee at The Wicked Toe, a little café just off Mason. He didn’t care how I looked, didn’t care what anyone else would think—not, of course, that the area is any great shakes.”
    She looked over at Dane, stared at him, and then she started crying again.
    Dane didn’t say anything this time, couldn’t say anything because his throat was all choked up. He wanted to cry himself, but he wouldn’t let himself, not here. All he could do was wait, and listen to her sobs.
    When she’d stilled, he said, “Did my brother give you anything to keep safe for him?”
    “Give me something? No, he didn’t. Why?”
    “Too bad.”

    Delion came into the lieutenant’s office and said, “Valerie Striker lives on Dickers Avenue. I’m outta here. You want to come, Dane?”
    Nick was on her feet. “Please, please, let me come with you.