CHAPTER ONE

The nude woman’s body had no head.

Homicide Detective Sgt. Kate Flynn first thought it was obscured by the thick undergrowth of sumac brush where the body lay. Moving closer, she was surprised to see only the stub of neck edged with a ring of dried, black blood. The rest of the neck was presumably attached to the missing head. For the average cop of thirty-five, the unexpected might startle; no head was very unexpected. But Kate was not average—she was a third-generation Irish cop with an IQ that hovered in the 140s. When she was a teenager and decided she wanted the same career as her father, a homicide detective, he began showing her crime scene photos from his cases. For Kate’s eighteenth birthday, she watched her first forensic autopsy.

As a veteran cop, this missing head was no more than an underline in her crime scene notes.

She was keenly aware of the uniformed officer watching. His name was Lester Hicks, twice passed over for promotion. He was a dough-pudgy jerk and a gossip. Kate had been in the Santa Barbara Police Department little more than a year, having transferred from Los Angeles homicide as Detective Sgt. She was still fighting currents of male resentment and she knew that Lester was going to report back to the “boys” on her first homicide in Santa Barbara as lead detective. He was hoping like hell to say that she screwed up.

Lester cleared his throat to get her attention. “The hands are gone, too.” He seemed pleased. “And the feet.”

She moved in for a closer look. The dumbass got that part right, the hands and feet were missing. She looked for defense wounds and discovered a circular abrasion on the left wrist. From her pocket Kate produced a tape recorder and began dictating.

“Notes on Jane Doe homicide corpus: left wrist abrasion suggests possible handcuff attached to briefcase. No head—no dental. No hands and feet—no prints. Killer was very determined to prevent identification. This appears textbook, a pro.”

Hicks grinned, showing broken teeth—a parting souvenir from his ex-wife, who finally took exception to his abuse. “I think she was killed someplace else and dumped here.”

“Really? Damn, and I thought it was road rage.” From his blank look, he obviously missed her sarcasm. The man was an imbecile.

“No, you’re wrong,” he argued. “Two hikers found her. Teenagers, a dude and a girl. They’re waiting in my cruiser.”

“You question them?”

“Yeah. They’re spooked, probably the head thing. They came down off that upper trail.” He indicated the dirt road about thirty yards above. “And here she was.”

They were interrupted by the sound of a vehicle on the road. Kate expected to see the forensic van, but it was another Santa Barbara PD cruiser. The door on the passenger side opened and a man got out. The officer pointed toward Kate; he nodded thanks and began walking down the hill through the low underbrush toward her.

From habit, she sized him up as if writing a police description: height, five-eleven to six-one; weight, 185 to 195; age, thirty-eight to forty-three; even features, ruddy complexion; hair dark and close-clipped; wearing jeans, a leather jacket, and running sneakers.

Based upon the report from Homicide that morning, everything about him was wrong. He should be dressed in a monk’s robe like the others at the Saint Joseph Monastery on the mountain above Santa Barbara. He should be pale and have a weird haircut. He was too young—shouldn’t monks be older, like in the movies? And he definitely should not be attractive. Obviously, this was the wrong guy.

“Detective Sgt. Flynn? I’m Thomas Bardsey.”

It was the right guy. “Thanks for coming,” Kate said. “I thought you’d be wearing a monk’s habit.”

“I do at the monastery. Outside, we usually dress civilian. I came as . . .” He saw the body. “Oh, dear God.”

“You reported a missing person two days ago, Denise Hollander. This woman was found this morning. Since there is no . . . uh, head, we hoped you could make an ID. You might recognize her from identifying marks on the body.”

“I’m a monk.”

“So?”

“I’ve never seen her naked.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

“Besides, a head wouldn’t help. I have no idea what she looks like.”

“Didn’t you report her missing?”

“Yes. But we’ve never met. She flew in from New York two days ago. We had an appointment to meet at the monastery. When she didn’t show, I phoned her company in Baltimore and they said she arrived in Los Angeles. She had called her boss with her mobile phone while driving to Santa Barbara. I immediately notified the police.” He frowned. “Isn’t all that in my missing person report?”

“I haven’t seen it yet. Homicide woke me at home and said you would meet me here.” She looked him over. “I’ve never seen a monk out of uniform. I’m Catholic too—terminally lapsed.”

“I’m not Catholic. I’m Anglican.”

“I didn’t know they had monks.”

“Monks, nuns, the priests can marry. Also, some women priests. I like to say that we have all the problems.”

Her laugh and the spark in her eyes surprised him; she was very attractive. His gaze shifted from her eyes to the dead body. “My only contact with her was by phone and email.”

“What were you meeting about?”

“She was bringing me a manuscript. A diary, fourteenth century. Her company asked me to translate it.” He added, “Celtic studies is my field.”

Kate had no idea what that meant. “Is the diary valuable?”

He paused before answering. “Quite valuable.”

“Enough to kill for?”

He paused again. “That would depend upon what’s in the translation.”

His pauses suggested he was being evasive. Great: a reluctant witness. Opening her writing pad, she scribbled a note. “Who wrote the diary?”

“A monk. A Templar Knight named Brychan.”

“Spell it.”

He did. “Rhymes with rye-kan. The ‘ch’ sounds like a ‘k.’ A Celtic term meaning royal bloodline.”

“So, what is a Templar Knight?”

THE PEARL MOON was set in a black velvet sky in the coldest March the elders could remember. It was anno domini 1314. Sharp icy gusts stabbed spears at the two Templar riders and their packhorses. The younger, Sir Brychan, rode lead, his gray eyes reading the terrain. His huge companion, Sir Ursus, sat alert in the saddle as if awaiting an attack from the dark surrounding woods.

It was the third night since their escape through French King Philip’s lines. They had pressed on for two hard days and nights of cold, dry camps. Despite a late freeze that coated puddles with a skein of ice, they did not risk wearing their white wool mantles that marked them as Templars. Since the brutal execution in Paris of Templar Grand Master Jacques de Molay, only days ago, King Philip’s bounty on fugitive Templars had been paid in gold, not sous or denier.

That night, under the shelter of a towering spruce, they risked a low fire and roasted chunks of blood sausage on spits. Black rye bread and a comb of honey provided a meager meal. They also brewed a pot of precious kahveh. The roasted dark beans were finely crushed and boiled in water—a taste Templars acquired from Turks during the Crusades. Said to be a craving among them, its heavy aroma was often found in their camps. Because kahveh was Saracen, most bishops had prohibited its use. The ban was lifted when Pope Clement himself became partial to it.

Afterward the two men curled together, double-cloaked against the freezing wind, and slept in dreamless exhaustion. An iron chest sealed with lead lay between them. On its lid was carved the single word “VERITAS.”

A few hours earlier, a lone scout from a band of outlaws heard the Templar horses moving in the woods and stealthily followed until they made camp. He waited until they bedded down, then went back for the others: eight predators who hunted these trails for anyone foolish enough to travel without escort. There had been no travelers for nearly a month, save for a caravan of merchant wagons under the protection of a troop of king’s cavalry. The bandits in hiding could only watch hungrily as the caravan rode past. This time the scout reported there were only two men, six horses, and their packs—an easy prize.

It was ten days later when the High Sherif of Auvergne, Sir Gilbert de Bage, and his men rode upon the scene. They had been tracking the Templars for days. He was able to tell what occurred that night by the circle of bodies. Now weathered carrion, they lay in a broken ring as they had fallen, a feast for ravening wolves, woods rats, and carrion crows.

Sir Gilbert sniffed, believing he could still smell the feff of corpus rot. There was a prickle of hairs on his neck. He had heard many Templar stories as a young squire when he served his great-uncle Bors, who had been a Templar Knight in the last Crusade. The old warrior, when “drunk as a Templar,” would tell tales hinting of the Order’s mysteries. Sir Gilbert now read the signs: the two Templars surely must have been members of the Zealotes, which was a secret band within the Templar Order. Their fighting left a mark like no other.

The bandits’ remains—gnawed bones, bits of leathery skin, and torn rags—were scattered in a rough circle around a space wide enough for two men fighting side by side. An odd assortment of weapons, a few swords, an axe, and a broken pruning hook marked the attackers as bandits, not soldiers. That the weapons lay rusting in the winter weeds meant no one had passed this way.

Gilbert immediately saw that this bandit attack was different. By day, they quickly overwhelmed travelers; at night, they killed their prey while they slept. Why had these been so foolish as to attack two Templars standing ready to fight?

The sherif was amused when he saw the answer. Inside the ring of bones where the Templars had stood were the charred ashes of their fire. Being fugitives, the Templars probably were not wearing their white mantles. Nor would the bandits know of the Zealotes’ manner of always sleeping with one hand clasping a drawn sword. If awakened by any unusual sound, the two would be instantly on their feet, side by side, weapons ready.

His uncle had explained that Zealotes were paired in twos and drilled for countless hours in their peculiar stance, each sensing the other’s move. When Zealotes battled in pairs, one warrior fought sinister, left-handed, so that any approach to them faced a lethal blade. The opposite hand held a dagger or mace. Zealotes had mastered fighting with a weapon in either or both hands.

Templar Knights were allowed to retreat only if the odds were more than three to one, Zealotes never: they won or died where they stood. Many of their brother Templars considered them fanatics. When a pair fought double-bladed, there was a Templar saying: “Two Zealotes, four blades, all dead.”

Looking over the ground, the sherif counted seven skulls, two of them split from crown to jawbone by a powerful slash. One skull was missing. Eight against two, but it would not have mattered had there been a dozen. They were no match against two Zealotes of the Knights Templar.

TWO DAYS LATER, the younger Templar, Brother Brychan, edged closer to the fire and opened a scribe’s case from the horse pack. It was a cherished present from his mother, Lady Gwynn, the year he entered the Templar Order. Placing it on the thick horse blanket, Brychan settled back comfortably against the high saddlebow.

The older Templar, Brother Ursus, placed the cracked kahveh urn where Brychan could reach it. He added a few dry sticks to the modest fire against the late afternoon chill. A light curl of white smoke rose from the blaze and filtered above through the spruce branches—not enough to give them away.

Brychan set out his writing tools, a crystal vial of fresh ground ink, four selected quills and a thin-bladed sharpener. From the scribe case he took out the diary given to him by Friar Luke, senior cleric in the Order. Its cover was of seasoned cypress finished in oiled leather with brass fittings, and so skillfully fashioned that if submerged in water, it would bob to the surface.

He blew on his fingers and selected a quill. Testing its point with his habitually ink-stained thumb, he dipped it, skimming the excess ink on the vial rim. “How many bandits did we fell two nights ago, Brother?”

Brother Ursus thought of it for the first time. “Six or eight. Too dark to be certain. Why are you writing about them?”

Brychan, surprised, looked up at him. “For a record. We neither buried nor prayed over them.”

“No time.”

“All the more that they be noted here.” Brychan smiled a gentle reproach.

“They attacked us.”

“But we did not wear our mantles. Had they known we were Templars they might have been afraid and therefore, spared.”

“Or fought harder to get the bounty on us.” Ursus scowled at the quill lines on the page. He had the natural mistrust of writing common among those who could not read. Less than half the Templar Knights could read or write; that was left to the brother clerics and priests of the Order. Even Grand Master de Molay was illiterate.

Writing was considered beneath warrior monks—the “Poor Soldiers of Christ.” Ursus took justifiable pride in being illiterate, for it marked his warrior status. Brychan, who had been schooled from childhood by Cistercian monks, was an exception, but he was different in many ways.

Ursus warned, “Your diary will get us burned if we are caught.”

“If we are captured, Brother, we will be truly blessed if burning is all they do.”

Both men were Scots nobility. When talking with each other they spoke English or Scots Gaelic. They also spoke the Norman French dialect still used in some parts of the British Isles. Beyond their common languages, the two men differed greatly in age, size, and experience.

Brother Ursus was Sir Angus MacTeal, clan MacCallan, Templar Knight and monk. Due to his great bearish bulk, he was affectionately called Ursus Scotus—Scots Bear—and his bright red hair and beard added to that presence. A fearsome warrior of forty and four years, he was a master of all arms. He had fought in the final campaigns in the Holy Land, where he also learned a considerable amount of Arabic. After ten years of hard service he was initiated into the elite ranks of the Zealotes.

Sir Brychan of Houston, clan Howistean, was twenty-seven, a rangy six feet with a duelist’s lithe body. When he turned twenty-one, he was knighted a Templar in Paris in the last group to be admitted. Seven days later King Philip the Fair of France ordered the arrest of Grand Master de Molay and all other Templars on Friday, October 13, forever known among Templars as Black Friday.

From that day, Sir Brychan was a fugitive, and there followed seven years in hiding. Then, in Paris, on March 19, on King Philip’s orders, Jacques de Molay, a worn seventy, exhausted by repeated torture and seven years in prison, was taken from his cell and burned alive by slow roasting at the stake. Hours before his execution, a message was smuggled from prison through the mythic Templar underground. It commissioned Brother Brychan a Zealote and charged him and Ursus with a secret mission to be followed to the death.

Brother Ursus slowly drew his sword, clearing its sheath with a metallic hiss. “Can you keep watch for me while you write?”

Brychan glanced around. “Yes. Attend to your prayers, Brother.”

Ursus stepped off three paces, one for each of the Holy Trinity. He laid his sword on the ground and knelt. Templars who strictly kept the Rule said twenty-four Pater Nosters and twenty-four Hail Marys daily, even when traveling. If they were Zealotes, one kept guard while the other prayed. The tradition came from scripture when Christ, on the night he was betrayed, asked his disciples to keep watch while he prayed. When outdoors, Zealotes always prayed with sword drawn and on the ground beside them.

As he kept watch, Brychan wrote in the meticulous script peculiar to the Cistercians. His diary did not record each day, but significant events were noted, like the recent outlaw attack. His writings also might include musings, jottings of verse, or an inspired moment of prayer written in Latin.

But his most private thoughts were written in Gaelic, for even in his precise Latin he did not have the words. Only Gaelic, language of the bards, could describe the visions of strange beings and glowing apparitions that came to him in their mysterious beauty.

To him they were not shadowy phantoms, but solid as earth under his feet yet light as a spring wind. They came in his sleep or at times when he thought he was asleep, only to discover that he had been in a trance and was hurled, as by war catapult, back to the present. Brother Brychan had “the sight,” as did his mother and her mother before her, which was said to be marked by their gray eyes.

The diary was unusual in other ways. At the front were blank pages on which Brychan wrote. On the back pages were symbols and numbers, ciphers impossible to read without the key. The codes gave access to the Templar financial empire, by far the wealthiest order in the Church.

Brychan understood little of the “science of numbers” and less about cyphers. When charged with keeping the diary, it was explained to him that Templars had a system of banking using letters of transmittal called cheques, from the Arabic chess term shah mat: checkmate. With these documents, money was exchanged without coin or bullion being carried. Anyone could use them: clergy, nobles, kings, even the Pope himself. Merchants had become greatly dependent upon them. The system was so trusted that even after the fall of Jerusalem to the Saracens, now seventy years past, Templar cheques were honored everywhere, including the Muslim world.

Brother Ursus knew only that the Order had chosen Brychan to keep the codes and diary. Beyond whatever else it contained, the ciphers alone were worth the killing. But Brychan’s writings in the diary, if they fell into the hands of Holy Office of the Inquisition, would mean indictment for heresy and witchcraft. That was certain burning.

At the sound of the cry, both men were startled. An animal? As they looked at each other it came again, a shriek of terror.

Ursus grabbed his weapon from the ground; Brychan stuffed the diary in his writing case and drew his sword. The wail came again from the woods on their left.

Brychan started to move, but Ursus stopped him with a gesture. Then Brychan heard it too, the sound of horses, not running but moving about.

Without a word, Brychan kicked out the fire. Ursus moved to his pack, took out a two-handed broadsword in its sheath and drew it. The two men exchanged a look indicating direction and still without speaking, moved into the forest.

About fifty paces into the thick brush, they came upon a rise in the ground. Beyond, they could hear the sound of men laughing. They moved up the slope quietly, their steps muffled by stiff, frozen weeds. Near the top they dropped down, crawling through thick ground wayz flecked with frost. They parted a growth of gray thistle and looked below.

In a clearing were four soldiers wearing the yellow livery of the King’s cavalry, one on horse and three afoot. Two were holding a young woman on the ground. One of the men had pulled her skirt up to her waist; she was naked beneath. A burly third trooper had unbuckled his sword; his britches were down to his knees. As the girl cried out, he laughed, pulling at his huge erection.

At one side was a caravan wagon hitched with two horses. It was of a distinctive style—a bow-topped roof. Its red paint bore decades of weathering and was farded with leather and metalwork. On the ground lay the hacked body of an old man, his white hair wrapped in a red cloth.

Gypsies.

Brychan and Ursus looked at each other. With the King’s price on their heads, to interfere would give them away to the soldiers. Besides, the girl was a Gypsy; this was none of their affair.

As they were about to turn away, the woman kicked the rapist hard in the ballocks. He yelped, sprawling to the ground. She twisted free and jumped to her feet, running. Two soldiers scrambled after her. One caught the back of her blouse as she frantically pulled away.

Cursing, the soldier yanked and ripped her blouse open, revealing her breasts and a crucifix on a chain.

“Jesus, help me!” she screamed.

Brychan and Ursus looked at each other astonished. Neither had seen a naked woman in years, nor ever heard of Christian Gypsies. But all Zealotes were bound by the first Templar rule: to protect all Christian travelers no matter who they were.

The woman was on the ground in a frantic struggle with three soldiers. One held her arms while a second choked her into submission; the rapist was on his knees between her legs, brutally forcing them apart.

The trooper on horseback, gleefully watching, sensed something. His hand was on his sword grip before he looked back. He turned into the powerful slash of a two-handed broad sword that almost cut him in half at the waist.

The soldier choking the girl looked up to see the mounted trooper tumble to the ground. Beside the horse was a Goliath of a man who charged with a huge broadsword. Two soldiers jumped up; swords drawn. The rapist’s weapon lay on the ground midway between him and the giant.

A second warrior suddenly appeared out of the brush to their right. He carried a sword, but no shield. The giant halted his charge—a diversion until his comrade appeared. Now, in a well-practiced move, both men edged sideways in opposite directions, forcing the two cavalrymen to face out and become more separated.

The rapist was struggling, with his britches entangled on one of his spurs. His pants were wrapped around his knees; arse bare, erection withered.

The girl frantically crawled to the side, even more terrified. These two were not rescuers, only two more mad dogs to fight over the same piece of meat.

The giant roared, “Beauseant!” Swinging the broadsword in a great arc, he closed with the first soldier. The cavalryman defended with a two-handed parry. Each ringing clash took him another step, distancing him farther from the others.

Brychan attacked the second man with a flurry that forced his opponent to give ground. The trooper, a veteran sergeant, was bewildered; from its particular sound his opponent’s blade was a Toledo. It could cost almost as much as a knight’s armor, yet this magnificent weapon was wielded by one dressed rough, neither peasant nor noble.

Ursus continued his assault—a mix of quick slashes, spins, and turns. His broadsword, crafted especially for him, was almost five feet, longer than any the cavalrymen had ever seen. Brychan continued pressing his attack on the sergeant; the wily veteran began to give ground, tempting Brychan to overextend his blade.

Reading him, Brychan stopped in mid-swing, leaving the sergeant’s arm extended. A swift inside slash caught his exposed elbow, severing the arm with a scream. Brychan, with both hands swinging the sword, slammed the sergeant’s helmet with a sharp crack. As he was falling, a deep thrust took him dead center.

Ursus turned to face the rapist who had retrieved his sword. The soldier was big, but bulf and clumsy. He parried solidly against Ursus’ battering, but with each backward step his britches crept down, exposing his arse. When his opponent’s blade missed a desperate parry, Ursus slashed a scarlet gap across his lard-white belly.

The man groaned and dropped to his knees, grabbing at his spilling guts. With a merciful blow, Ursus severed his head.

Ursus looked at Brychan. “He was nae Scot. They love fighting bare-arsed.”

All the cavalrymen lay dead. The fight had lasted less than a hundred-count.

The astonished girl watched them; one hand clutched her torn dress, covering her nakedness. She held a dagger from a fallen trooper.

Brychan raised his hand in blessing. “Peace, woman. We mean you no harm.”

She snarled, raising the blade.

“We are Templars.”

“Templars?” She suspiciously eyed their rough clothing. Both were clean-shaven, unlike Templars, who were known for their full beards.

“And fugitives,” he added.

Dropping the dagger, she ran to the dead Gypsy. Falling on her knees she began wailing and throwing handfuls of dirt in the air and on herself in the Gypsy manner of grief. When she paused for breath, Brychan spoke.

“Your father?” he asked.

“Uncle.” She looked at the dead soldiers, closed her eyes, and cursed a chatter of Romany sending their souls to hell.

Ursus scanned the surrounding trees, listening. “We must go. Their troop is close by.”

Brychan turned to the girl. “Come with us.” He ignored Ursus’ angry look. “We’ll take you to the nearest village.”

Ursus shook his head. “Her wagon will slow us.”

“Then she must leave it.”

The girl indicated her uncle’s body. “No. He is an elder, he must burn in the wagon.”

Ursus, still looking at the trees, spoke in Gaelic. “Leave. Now.”

Brychan knew well to trust Brother Ursus’ instincts. His ability to sense trouble was a cause for wonder among their fellow Templars. Ursus explained that “he listened to the trees,” which was the Celtic way of divining. Many believed that he simply had hearing like a fox, while others were convinced that God had given him a special gift.

Brychan motioned to the girl. “Come.”

“He must burn in the wagon!” she insisted.

“Woman, get your belongings.” Brychan’s tone left no room for argument. He made the sign of the cross over the dead Gypsy.

While Ursus collected the cavalry mounts, Brychan unhitched the two draft horses from the Gypsy wagon. They were good stock, well-tended. He gave each a firm pat on their bruffed winter coats and offered a prayer that some lucky peasant might find them before the wolves did.

Ursus selected the largest stallion to carry his bulk and led the other horses to the Gypsy wagon.

When the girl appeared from inside the wagon, she was now wearing a long leather cloak lined with thick fleece. She carried a leather satchel and in the other hand a canvas bag of provisions: Gypsies never left food behind. Ursus took the parcels from her and hung them on the harness rig of one of the packhorses.

From the wagon seat, she nimbly climbed on a stallion, revealing a luscious flash of leg and thigh as she curled it around the pommel to ride sidesaddle. The glimpse took Brychan’s breath away. As she confidently grasped the reins, he was reminded that Gypsies were notorious horse thieves.

With a grieving look back at her uncle’s body, she followed the two knights.

By custom, when in the forest, Zealotes rode in silence to avoid their sound carrying. Brychan was relieved that the girl did not talk. He wondered if it was the nature of all Gypsies from their way of living apart.

As they were approaching their camp, both men sensed something was wrong. Ursus spurred his horse and broke from the tree cover with Brychan close behind.

They reined up, astonished. All their horses were gone. And the chest.

Ursus pointed to the skyline of a distant hill, which cut an arc into the setting sun. They could see the silhouette of three riders leading their stolen horses as they disappeared over the horizon.

Brychan spied his writing case on the ground half-covered by a blanket. Jumping off his horse, he ran and fell to his knees. With trembling hands, he opened it.

The diary was gone.

Jake’s was Santa Barbara’s vintage diner, where savory, greasy fries in brown gravy were a cardiac hazard, and burly coffee in thick porcelain mugs could revive a coma. It was the police hangout for heavy carbs or a caffeine kick.

Kate and Thomas had come directly from the crime scene. Thomas was enjoying a second coffee as he watched her eat.

Kate was devouring the Lumberjack special: eggs, sausage, and a mound of hash browns high as the three flapjacks. At his look, she smiled.

“I never gain weight,” she said. “I am going to donate my metabolism to medical science.”

“As a monk, you’d starve in a week.”

“Were you always a monk?”

“No. Were you always a cop?”

“Most women are curious about priests and monks. Wondering if—well, you know.”

“I’m not gay, which is what you really wanted to ask. In another life, I had it all—a wife, a mortgage, even a bulldog named Merlin.”

“You were married?”

“Yes.”

“Divorced?”

“She died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Why do we always think divorced first?”

“Maybe because you are divorced.” At her surprise, he explained. “You don’t wear a wedding ring; most married women do. You surely had offers. You must have taken one of them.”

She was startled at how easily he read her. “Both of us were LAPD,” she said. “I was homicide, he was vice. The perfect couple. Then one day he announced he didn’t want to be married anymore.” She paused. “Why do men always say that?”

“Do they?”

“Anyway, he left me for a girl barely in her twenties. A hooker he once arrested.”

“That must have been—”

“It was. I resigned from LAPD homicide and came home to Santa Barbara over a year ago. They were short-handed in homicide and I had ten years’ experience. Except for pissing off half the force who are trying to make detective, it’s been boringly routine. Now thanks to you I get a murder, a mutilation, and your weird diary.” She raised her coffee cup in a toast. “You’ve made my year.”

“I keep thinking of Miss Hollander, poor woman. Killed and butchered simply because of the diary she was delivering.”

“I wonder had it been a man whether he’d have been so horribly desecrated. Bastards. Brother Thomas, would you please take me, step by step, and explain how a monk safely cloistered in a monastery on a mountaintop in California gets involved in a homicide over a diary in this violent, evil world?”

She took out her notebook and waited.

“It all happened shortly after I came to the monastery. I’ve only been novitiate monk for a year.”

“What does that mean?”

“A probation period; I am a few months away from my final vows. I was contacted at the monastery by Winslow Fallon, the head of Med-Tek. You’ve heard of him?”

She wrote his name. “Vaguely. One of those computer moguls?”

“And very eccentric. In addition to his multibillion-dollar empire, he has a passion for collecting rare books and manuscripts. Especially anything on the Templars. Like the diary.”

“What makes the diary so special?”

“It is a legend in the rare book world. Some experts believe it is bogus, a fake or forgery. Others say it is cursed, bringing death to anyone connected with it.”

“Sounds like voodoo.”

“For seven hundred years it’s disappeared then reappeared. Every time it appears, there’s a murder—and usually more than just one. Recently it surfaced in the hands of Lazlo Reiner. He is the perfect image of the shady dealer. Despite Reiner’s bad reputation, Fallon was convinced the diary was authentic and paid him two million dollars for it.”

She looked as if she had not heard right. “Two million?”

“Then Reiner was murdered.”

“With Hollander, that’s two homicides. Looks like the voodoo is still working.” She wrote Reiner’s name. “Anything in the diary that could be a motive for murder?”

“Millions in hidden Templar wealth, according to the legend.”

“Murder over a legend?”

“But based on fact. For seven hundred years, people have been killing for something in the diary. And just as I was about to get my hands on it, this happens. That’s all I know.” he shrugged.

“Okay.” she nodded. “So, tell me more about the Templars.”

“Forget all that stuff in popular novels. Good fiction, bad history. First, there is no proof that Templars were associated with Mary Magdalene. That’s a myth. Second, there’s no credible evidence they were connected with the Holy Grail. These Templar stories are legend and fiction written by three medieval writers, all novelists.”

“Then who were they?”

“An order of warrior monks established in the twelfth century and lasting about two hundred years. They were highly disciplined and very secretive. Each Templar took a death vow of loyalty.”

“Like the Mafia?”

“But tougher. Templars were considered by their enemies, the Saracens, to be the fiercest of the Crusaders, sort of an elite Special Forces. They answered only to the Pope, became his private army, and paid no taxes. In just a few years the Templar Order became the richest in the entire church—that’s very, very wealthy. Eventually they became the main bankers of Europe.”

“I’m a suspicious cop. What went wrong?”

“Jump to the year 1314. King Philip of France was nearly bankrupt and wanted to finance another war. He was already deeply in debt to the Templars. So, he came up with a simple solution—steal the Templar wealth. Working with the Inquisition, he created trumped-up charges of heresy. In a single day at the same hour, his troops raided every Templar site in every province, city, and town in France. It was the first mass arrest in history. But the treasure was gone.”

“Gone where?”

“That’s the mystery. Somehow, the Templars knew of the king’s plans. Just days before the raid, they secretly moved approximately one hundred wagons full of their assets—gold, jewels, and various treasures. That’s two hundred years of loot! Everything was loaded on eighteen ships. They sailed away and were never seen again. It was like robbing the Bank of England and coming up empty.”

“I bet the king was pissed.”

“He burned a hundred and fifty of their leaders at the stake. Several thousand more were tortured and imprisoned.”

“Now that’s making a statement. So, what happened to all the loot?”

“The king never found it. If the diary is authentic, it’s the key to finding at least some of the Templar wealth. Conservatively, that’s many multi-millions.”

Motive: money, she wrote. “How did Fallon hear about you?”

“From my doctoral thesis on the wizard Merlin.”

“King Arthur’s Merlin?”

“That’s him. King Arthur is probably a legend, but Merlin was real. He left writings that prove it. I discovered a document that gives a completely different picture and suggests that Merlin lived a secret double life. He wasn’t just a wizard; he was also a bishop and became a saint in the Celtic church under another name. I dumbed-down my thesis and it was published as a pop-culture history. That’s when Fallon contacted me.”

“How did you get involved with this Celtic stuff?”

“By birth. My grandfather was a Scot and taught Celtic studies at University of Edinburgh. My father, an American, went there to study and ended up marrying the professor’s daughter, my mother. Grandfather Andrew insisted that I be raised half-Scot. I spent every summer in Scotland with him. Gaelic became my second language.”

Kate looked at her notes and frowned. “Thomas, the diary is evidence in a homicide. It’s written in several languages and has a very complex history. Would you help us?”

“I need permission from my abbot.”

She held out her cell phone. “Ask him.”

•••

Father Abbot Methodius listened impatiently on the phone as Thomas explained the situation. Methodius rolled his eyes. Thomas was totally unpredictable, from his controversial past to recently persuading Fallon to pay half a million dollars to the monastery for the diary translation. Now he’s involved in a murder investigation? He is a monk, heaven’s sake!

As Thomas continued talking, Methodius pictured the $500,000 in planned renovations fading before his eyes. He interrupted, “Brother Thomas, you must do everything possible to help the police recover the diary. Under no circumstances do we want to alienate Dr. Winslow Fallon.”

After they left the diner, Kate decided not to go to the precinct. They were talking easily, which sometimes changed in official surroundings. She decided to drive to the bay. It was a perfect day and traffic was light, much like their mood: two people chatting instead of a witness interview.

As they talked, she became aware how different he was from the men she knew—mostly cops, detectives, a PI or two, and the occasional lawyer. Thomas was articulate, intelligent, and, though she would have denied noticing, attractive.

When she turned off the 101, in the mirror she noticed a dark sedan hanging three back. It was switching to whatever lane she took. She changed lanes again, and so did the car. But when it suddenly turned off at an exit, she decided not to mention it.

It was a decision she would soon regret.