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Thirty

Jack and I walked inside the St. John’s Catholic church that Kelter used to attend and where Stella had claimed to see their unsub. Wide aisles led to the pulpit where a large crucified Jesus was looking down over the space. No doubt to remind everyone who saw him that humankind was imperfect and in need of saving. I wasn’t sure I bought into that propaganda. A greater being, sure, but not one that required us to line the pockets of priests and attend church every Sunday. Ironically, for a place claiming to be about love and acceptance, it made shivers run down the back of my neck and an unsettled feeling grew in the pit of my stomach.

A door opened to the right of the pulpit, and a woman in her sixties came out. “Can I help you?” Her demeanor was pleasant enough, but she didn’t exactly make me feel warm and fuzzy.

“We’re agents with the FBI—” Jack paused as the woman signed the cross. “I’m Jack Harper and this is Brandon Fisher.”

“I’m Regina Brown. I’m Father Ryan’s right hand. How can I help you?” She might have been small enough to stuff into a suitcase, but she had the fire of a bobcat in her eyes.

“We understand that Jenna Kelter is a parishioner here,” I said.

“Yes. Horrible what happened with the accident and all.” Regina clasped her hands and angled her head. “What can I help you with?”

“Have you ever seen any of these men before?” Jack pulled out his phone and brought up the photo array.

Regina scrolled through the pictures and pointed to the photo of our unsub. “I’ve seen him.”

Good news that she remembered his face, but… “Do you know his name?”

“No. I only saw him the one time.”

And crash and burn…

“When was that?” I asked, suspecting what her answer would be.

“He was at Lester Jett’s funeral. That was easily five years ago. He gave a generous donation, too.”

“Are you responsible for tracking the donations?” I asked.

She nodded. “One of the many hats I wear.”

“So the man in the picture made a donation at the funeral?” Jack asked.

“Uh-huh. That’s right. He sought me out and said the funds were to go to the Jett family, but he wanted the money routed through the church.”

Okay. Now I was listening. What would make our unsub donate money to the Jett family? Another aspect of what Regina had said earlier struck. “How much was this generous donation?”

“Thirty thousand dollars.”

I tried to fight my jaw dropping. Lost the battle. “Whoa.”

Regina held out her hands as if to say, See, I told you. Generous.

Jack looked at me, the vein in his forehead throbbing.

“Ahem. That’s certainly generous,” I deadpanned, going for the polar opposite of my initial reaction to the amount, though it was difficult. Thirty—three zero—thousand dollars. Murders three years apart. Three days out of prison. Killed three days after that.

“He wrote a check, then?” Jack tucked his phone back into his pocket.

Regina nodded. “A certified one. I probably only remember that after all this time because it’s not every day I process a check that large.”

The donation might have been made about five years ago, but it could still give us some info that might help in tracking him down. Though I couldn’t figure out why our killer would leave such a trail. “Could you send us a copy of the check?” I asked.

“I can,” Regina started, “but it will take some time to pull the records.”

I nodded, appreciating that this could be the break we were waiting for, but I was still in shock at the amount. What prompted our unsub to give so much money? Did he know the Jetts well? People typically didn’t cough up that much cash for friends, let alone strangers.

While the donation might have raised some questions, it told us our killer had money—either still had or had five years ago.

“It was horrible what happened to that poor woman. Mrs. Jett,” Regina clarified. “Having her husband ripped from her life like that. And to think, we’ve lost two members of our church that way…to drunk drivers. But those drivers live in their own torment. No amount of prison time could help them live with themselves.”

I was aware Regina had continued speaking, but I was stuck on her words, We’ve lost two members of our church that way. Maybe she was just mistaken and was referring to Kelter’s disappearance? It would have been all over the news by now. I was surprised that she hadn’t brought it up, actually.

“Who else besides Mr. Jett?” I asked, curious.

“Abigail Cole.”

The woman who was made a widow because of Marie Sullivan’s accident.

Jack and I looked at each other.

“I take it that’s news to you.” Regina arched a brow.

“You could say that,” Jack admitted.

“The records show that Cole’s funeral took place in a home,” I said, remembering having read it and rather proud that I had. Some things stuck, whereas others fell through like water through a sieve.

“Ah, yes. That poor dear lost her way. But she was baptized here.”

I went on to inquire about the three families affected by West’s accident, but Regina had never heard of them. So we couldn’t tie all of the victims from the DUI accidents to this church. Two out of five families was still something.

Regina hadn’t heard of Kent West or Marie Sullivan either. Maybe we just had to dig deeper. We certainly needed to figure out if the seeming connection to this church mattered in the grand scheme of tracking down our unsub.

Regina pointed to Jack’s pocket. “That man, the one in the photo you showed me, what has he done?”

“We can’t discuss details of an open investigation,” Jack replied.

“Ah. Then I’m going to guess it has to do with Mrs. Kelter’s disappearance.” Regina tilted her head and smiled knowingly at Jack.

Jack held firm. “We can’t say.”

“Fine, then. Anything else?” Regina clasped her hands, her expression hardened.

“We’d like to talk to the priest,” Jack said.

“I’ll see if Father Ryan can see you now. Stay here.” She turned to leave.

“Before you go—” Jack pulled two cards from his pocket and handed them to Regina. “Please send the donation information to Nadia Webber. Her information’s on there.” He pointed to the one for Nadia. “And the other card is mine.”

Regina wandered off, and I watched her until she disappeared back through the door through which she’d first entered the nave.

I turned to Jack. “That large of a donation to Ava Jett? Does our killer know her? Does she know him?”

“We’ll be finding out,” Jack said with conviction, his gaze laser focused.

“And is everyone somehow connected to this church? The DUI accident victims and the drivers? Our killer?”

“Not according to Regina, but that’s why I want to talk to the priest.”

“And if our unsub donated to the Jetts, did he donate to the Coles and the three families affected by West’s accident? Either way, our unsub has money. Donating could be a pattern for him.” The words were rushing out of me.

Jack’s brow arched downward. “Don’t get carried away just yet. We know of one donation. But, yes, it’s an angle worth looking into.”

Footsteps sounded, and Jack and I turned to face the pulpit. A man in his fifties was striding toward us. He was dressed in a black cassock and had a strip of white at his collar. He was maybe five foot nine and balding. Physically unassuming and certainly not intimidating, but here inside the church, the vision of him sent shivers tearing through me.

I must have had a bad experience with a priest as a child. Not in the headline news sort of way, but it had made an impression regardless. I racked my brain, but all I could remember was my mother telling me about my reaction to seeing nuns for the first time. They’d loaded onto an elevator with us, and Mom said I had burrowed into her side and asked if they were witches.

“God’s children.” The priest had a light, airy voice that was abnormally high-pitched for a man.

Goose bumps.

“Miss Brown said you were interested in a man who gave generously to help a family in need,” the priest continued. “That would tell me this man is an angel.” He smiled.

An angel of death…

Jack’s cheek got a tapping pulse. “Angel or not, we are looking for more information about him. Do you recognize him?” Jack pulled out his phone, this time going right to our unsub’s picture.

Father Ryan looked at the screen. “I recognize him.”

“From where?” Jack stretched his neck, his discomfort hard not to see. I’d wager he was more unsettled by religion than I was.

“From here, I’m sure.”

“Have you seen him more than once?” Jack asked.

“It is hard to say.”

“Not really,” Jack fired back.

Could disrespecting a priest earn Jack eternal damnation? Hopefully, for his sake, belief in such a punishment was necessary for its fulfillment.

“Our congregation is an active one, Agent. This place is packed every Sunday.” Father Ryan stretched his arms open, pride sparkling in his eyes.

Though wasn’t pride one of the seven deadly sins? Then again, what did I know?

“Our interest is specifically in the funeral services held here,” Jack clarified.

“Sadly, I have spoken at too many of them over the years.” The priest gestured toward Jack’s phone. “Whether that man was here for a funeral or mass, I don’t know.” He steepled his hands and looked expectedly at Jack, as if seeking dismissal.

Instead, Jack gave the priest time to practice self-control and perseverance. He ran through a series of questions similar to those we had asked Regina and netted the same results. Cole, Jett, and Kelter were connected to this church, and our unsub had been spotted only at the Jett funeral.

“Now, if that will be all…” Father Ryan said drily.

“Thank you for your help.” Jack’s tone matched the priest’s.

“You are very welcome, Child of God.” Father Ryan moved his gaze from Jack to me and back again, then turned to leave.

Once we were outside the church, I took a few deep breaths.

“You all right there, kid?” Jack asked.

I faced him, and we locked eyes. He knew I didn’t like it when he called me “kid,” but it never stopped him from pulling it out from time to time. And no amount of staring him down or stating my grievance with it would make him stop.

“Let’s just say I’m not a fan of religion,” I admitted. “And from the looks of it, I’d say neither are you.”

Jack pulled out his cigarettes, knocked one from the pack, and lit up. He took a couple of long drags and exhaled his polluted smoke upward. “We’ve got a lot of new avenues to explore,” he said, completely disregarding my comment. “We need to pay Jett another visit, see if she knows our unsub.”

“And it wouldn’t hurt to find out why she lied about quitting her job.”

Jack met my gaze. “That, too, but I’m not sure it will crack the case.” He gave me the lopsided grin he typically reserved for when he was chiding me.

But I decided to be the bigger person and let it go. “We also need to know if any of the other families affected by the DUI accidents received donations, anonymous or otherwise, in a significant amount.”

“Yep.” Another drag and exhale. “Also why he gave that money to the Jetts, and by extension, if it is a pattern.”

“Well, it would seem he’s dishing out punishment on the drivers but taking it one step further by giving money to the families of those who were killed in their accidents. Almost like he’s paying for damages. Again, that’s assuming he’s done so with all of them.”

Jack took another puff. “Right now, what does that tell you?”

“That our unsub was personally affected by a DUI accident.” The conclusion felt good coming from my lips, and I was prepared for an attaboy when Jack’s phone rang. Though I had to face it: I probably wasn’t going to get one anyhow.

“Agent Harper,” he answered. As he listened to his caller, he was watching me. If I was reading the hardening lines of his face right, the news wasn’t good.

He hung up, took one more puff and squashed what was left underfoot. “Jenna Kelter’s head was just delivered to her lawyer’s office.”