53

Darby woke up that morning, in the uncomfortable hotel bed with its stiff sheets, and stared at the ceiling with her hands clasped behind her head. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was grasping at straws.

Still, she couldn’t discount a few key facts.

Fact No. 1: Byrne’s body did not exhibit the physical signs of someone who had engaged regularly in auto-erotic asphyxiation. She did not believe he had suddenly decided to try it out, at his advanced age, while hovering close to death, and in pain.

Still, it was possible.

But if he didn’t hang himself – and her professional experience kept telling her he had not – then someone had killed him. Maybe the same man who had tried to kill her. Or maybe the two were completely independent of one another. Byrne had a lot of enemies. A lot of them, Darby was sure, wanted him dead.

But wanting someone dead and putting a plan in place and – this was the important piece – actually going through with the plan were two completely different things. The only person she knew who had tried to kill Byrne was Mickey Flynn.

Could Mickey have killed Byrne? If given the opportunity, yes. He had gone to Byrne’s home once to kill him, and, on the second time he returned, if Byrne hadn’t already been dead, Darby was sure Mickey would have tried to beat the truth out of the former priest, maybe even have gone so far as to torture the man.

What Darby kept coming back to, what kept gnawing at her, was the actual crime scene. The easiest thing would have been to smother Byrne with a pillow. Or shoot him.

Fact No. 2: The pictures of the girls were not sexual, or sexually provocative. They seemed too neat and clean too – not something you’d find stored underneath a dusty floorboard. Same with Claire Flynn’s snow jacket. And, regarding the pictures: they showed no sign of wear. They were too crisp, like something hot off a colour photo-printer.

And there was Byrne’s note to her, where he stressed that he’d had nothing to do with killing the Snow Girls. That he was, in fact, dying with a clear conscience.

If the crime scene was staged, someone had put a lot of thought into it. Someone had hanged Byrne and put all the props – the pictures of the girls, the clothing – on the floor.

Three people had access to Byrne: Grace Humphrey and the two bodyguards, one of whom was dead. The Humphrey woman didn’t look strong enough to physically handle Byrne by herself. Then again, Byrne was most likely physically and mentally incapacitated by the morphine. Maybe she had given him an extra dose. Maybe she’d had help. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

What Darby needed was motive, and she didn’t have one.

Money might be a motive; Grace Humphrey had been listed in Byrne’s will. Did Byrne tell her? Had she taken the money? Darby remembered the woman had said she was going to donate it to charity. Did Humphrey follow through or was she blowing smoke? There was one way to find out.

Darby whipped back the covers, and, as she headed to the shower, she considered Fact No. 3: Judith Levenson and Heather Flynn were both Catholics and had had abortions. Both had sought forgiveness from Father Richard Byrne. Both of their daughters had been abducted and were never seen again. Father Byrne was the prime suspect in each case. And, while Nancy Hamilton hadn’t come out and confirmed she’d had an abortion, she had certainly reacted strongly to the question.

So Darby had two, possibly three, women who’d had abortions and gone to confession to seek absolution from Father Byrne. Two, possibly three, women who’d had young girls who were abducted and disappeared, with Byrne as the main suspect. That was too much of a coincidence to ignore. Belham PD, though, would ignore it. They weren’t going to devote time and manpower – both of which required money – to chasing down a wild theory.

Darby had the luxury of time. She didn’t report to anyone. Showered and dressed, she headed out and drove to Grace Humphrey’s house. The only available parking spot was at the far end of the street. Darby parked and walked the rest of the way.

Two cars were parked in the woman’s driveway. Darby climbed the front steps. The front windows were open but the blinds were drawn, and there was a two-inch gap between the windowsill and the shades. Darby wanted to check to see if Grace was awake – it was 8.30 a.m. – so she bent down and peered through the screen, relieved to see a shadow moving across the far wall. Grace Humphrey was home and, judging by the faint chick-chink noise Darby heard, the woman was probably unloading her dishwasher.

Darby walked to the front door and rang the bell, expecting to hear footsteps. She didn’t. Darby waited almost a full minute and then went back to the window and bent down. Grace’s shadow was no longer moving; she was standing absolutely still.

‘Miss Humphrey, it’s Darby McCormick. May I talk with you for a moment?’

A pair of legs came out from the kitchen. By the time Darby had stood up, Grace had cracked open the front door. She looked slightly embarrassed.

‘Sorry, I thought you might have been a reporter,’ she said. ‘Please, come in.’

The air inside was cool and heavy with a lemon-scented cleaner. The bookcases were bare, the contents most likely packed away in the neatly stacked and labelled boxes near the window.

‘I didn’t know you were moving,’ Darby said.

‘Neither did I until a few days ago.’ The woman brightened. ‘This amazing opportunity came up and, well, I decided to jump on it.’

‘Judging by that smile on your face, I’m guessing it has nothing to do with the hospice business.’

Her smile gained some wattage. ‘A good friend of mine works at this very high-end spa in Phoenix, Arizona. She called the other night and we got to talking, and she started telling me how they’re looking for a new massage therapist. Sally – she’s my friend – knows I used to be a massage therapist years ago. So Sally was telling me about how nice the weather is out there, you know, warm and sunny all the time – great weather if you suffer from fibromyalgia.’

‘How long have you suffered from it?’

‘For years. Doctors don’t know the exact cause, but people who have it suffer from constant pain and fatigue, and cold climates and places like New England, where the weather is constantly changing, only aggravate the condition. I’m really looking forward to it, especially after everything that’s happened here.’

‘Sounds exciting.’

A short and uncomfortable pause followed. Darby said, ‘I’m sure you’re sick and tired of answering questions.’

Grace’s smile was polite. ‘I’d be fibbing if I said no.’

‘Reporters are still bothering you?’

‘The calls have pretty much tapered off, but every now and then someone will drop by unannounced.’

‘I’m sorry. I should have called.’

Grace reddened with embarrassment. ‘I wasn’t referring to you.’

‘It’s okay. I understand where you’re coming from, I truly do. I’ve come across some information and wanted to run it by you.’

Grace looked puzzled. ‘I thought the case was closed – at least that was what Detective Blake had told me.’

‘I’m just trying to tie off a few loose ends.’

‘He said I shouldn’t talk to you. That you’re not working with the Belham police.’

‘I’m not. I’m working for Mickey Flynn. I’m sure you’d want to help out in any way you could.’

‘Of course. Here, let’s sit.’

Darby took the same spot she’d had the last time she’d been invited inside. She caught sight of the gold crucifix the woman was wearing. ‘Did Father Byrne ever talk to you about any special work or service he did for the Church?’

‘Such as?’

‘It seems a lot of women went to him for the sacrament of reconciliation after they elected to have their pregnancies terminated.’

The shock on Grace Humphrey’s face barely masked her disgust.

‘It’s a different time now,’ Darby said. ‘I know the current Pope has allowed all priests to absolve women who’ve had such procedures. But, go back a decade, and only a bishop could grant forgiveness for this sin. A bishop or a priest who specialized in this area. Not many priests were permitted to do it.’

‘As well they shouldn’t. We’re talking about murder.’

Darby didn’t want to get into a political debate. ‘I hear you,’ she said.

‘I know some priests forgive that sort of thing – just as some priests and cardinals knowingly shuffled sexual predators to other parishes and then covered up their disgusting actions. To use your power to hide such things – to forgive such things – is an absolute disgrace.’

The room had an awful stillness to it.

The indignation set in Grace’s face slowly melted away, her features softening, slipping back into the bright and pleasant woman who had greeted her at the door.

‘I’m sorry,’ Grace said. ‘I didn’t mean to get on my soapbox.’

Darby’s instincts told her to probe further. ‘No apology necessary,’ she said. ‘I completely understand.’ Then, to establish a rapport, she lied: ‘I feel exactly the same way.’

‘It’s just … what happened here in Boston with Cardinal Law, and now what you’ve just told me about Richard – it makes it hard to keep believing.’

‘In God?’

‘The Church,’ she replied. ‘When I was growing up, I never considered the Catholic Church a political organization. But that’s exactly what it is. A business. It’s always been that way, I suppose, but it didn’t sink in until my sister tried to get her first marriage annulled. She’d been married for two years and had a baby girl, when her husband just packed up and left. Wanted nothing to do with her any more. The Church wouldn’t annul her marriage on account of the baby. Now take that example and compare it with the son of late senator you-know-who here in Massachusetts who was married for something like twenty years and had four children. The Church granted that annulment right away. It’s disheartening, but that’s the way things get done in life – and in the Catholic Church. You wouldn’t believe the stories Richard told me.’

‘Like what?’

‘He just talked about how political the Church was. I’m sure some of that – well, maybe a lot of it – came from the bitterness at being defrocked. He missed it. Being a priest, I mean.’

‘And the cloak of secrecy it provided for him.’

‘Yes,’ Grace added bitterly. ‘The side of Richard that hurt those girls and kept those things hidden under the floorboards of his bedroom – I didn’t know anything about that man.’

Darby felt her heart skip when the woman talked about the floorboards – a detail, she was sure, only the police knew. She kept her face neutral, nodded in understanding.

‘I just knew the man who had cancer.’ Grace shrugged. ‘I’ve told you everything I know now.’

Yes, Darby thought. You certainly have.