He couldn’t inherit her money.

The problem was, with Beale convicted and behind bars, they couldn’t pin this murder on him. They would have to contrive some other explanation.

“Do you think people will be suspicious? About another murder victim from the same church?”

“After what people have heard was going on in that church, I don’t think anything will surprise them.” What a fool Manly was. A twisted simpleton with a taste for violence. The most useful devils were the ones who thought they were angels.

“We’ll wait a while,” he said finally. “Then we’ll plant the body.”

“But… that’s a long time to have a stiff lying around, isn’t it?”

“What’s the matter, Manly? Getting creeped out by your own work?”

“No-I just-you know. She might start to smell or something.”

“We’ll get her out in plenty of time. You can Lysol the house afterward. I’ll help.”

But he wouldn’t, of course. After the body was moved and the work was completed, Grady Gilliland would disappear. No more wig, no more fake glasses and mustache, no more silly accent. There would be no need for him anymore. After all this planning and effort, the work would be done. And all that would remain was Bruce Ashour, devoted nephew of the late Ernestine Rupert, the poor sap she treated and mistreated like a miserable servant.

A miserable servant now in line for roughly 10.6 million dollars.

“Ben, open the door. Do you hear me? Open up!”

Ben heard him, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

“Come on, Ben, snap out of it. This is Mike. Let me in!”

The pounding on the door grew louder and more insistent, but Ben didn’t budge. Rude, he knew. Self-indulgent, self-pitying. But he still didn’t move.

“Christina says you’ve been sitting around your apartment moping for… way too long. She’s worried about you.”

He pounded the door some more, but it didn’t get him anywhere.

“I’m worried about you, too. And unlike Christina, I’m not inclined to let you sit around stewing in your own juices.”

What exactly did that mean? Ben wondered as he sat on the sofa, not moving. What juices? And how exactly did one stew them?

“Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” A few seconds passed, then there was a thundering crash at the front door. Mike spilled through the entry, shoulder first.

This time, Ben responded. “You broke the door down! You splintered the jamb!”

“Sorry. Complain to the landlord.”

“I’m the landlord!”

“Well, next time, answer the damn door.” Without waiting for an invitation he knew wouldn’t come, Mike threw himself into the chair facing the sofa.

“Don’t you have any… like, real police work to be doing?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m swamped. I’ve got two fresh homicides, plus some nutcase who’s running around beating up people connected to pro-choice organizations and abortion clinics. And despite that, please notice, I’m here with you.”

“If I’m supposed to be grateful, I’m not.”

“What’s shaking, Ben? You’re not planning to off yourself or anything, are you?”

“No. Is that all you wanted to know?”

“No, but it seemed like a good starting place. Look-I’m sorry the jury turned on you in the Beale case.”

“It wasn’t the jury’s fault.” Ben’s eyes were like tiny dots of black. “The jury only did what any jury would do, given what they saw. I blew it. I lost the case.”

“Ben, come on…”

“I did. I threw Father Beale’s life away.”

“You tried everything possible-”

“It wasn’t enough. And now he’s going to spend years of misery in jail. Then he’s going to be executed. And he’s innocent.”

“I’m not convinced of that. I think our case against Beale was pretty damn tight.”

“He’s innocent. I know he is.”

“But what about-”

“They’re talking about sending him to McAlester, did you know that? Can you imagine? Father Beale, one of the most educated, sensitive men I’ve ever known, rotting away in that penitentiary? How long will he last in there?”

“Ben, I don’t know why you’re taking this so hard. You’ve lost cases before.”

“Not like this. Not-not-” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I guess there’s nothing I could say that would persuade you to give yourself a break?”

“Father Beale was my friend,” Ben said quietly. “And inspiration. He was there when I needed a friend. But when he needed a friend-I failed him. It’s as simple as that.”

The phone rang. Ben stared at it a while, seriously considering not answering it. And indeed, if Mike hadn’t been there, he probably would’ve let it alone.

“Yes?”

“Ben? This is Ruth O’Connell.”

Ruth was calling him? After she’d done everything possible to convict Father Beale?

“I’m worried about Ernestine. She’s gone missing.”

“And you’re calling me?”

“I didn’t know who else to call.” The tremor in her voice told Ben she was genuinely concerned. “The police said she had to be missing longer before they could do anything. You’ve always helped when we have problems at the church.”

“I’m sure she just got sick or fell asleep or something.”

“I’m telling you, it’s serious. She and I have gotten together for lunch every Friday for the last twenty-two years. She’s never missed once. Not once. And even if she were going to miss, she’d call. It’s not as if she could just forget, not after all these years.”

Ben frowned. That did sound unusual. But what could he do?

“I’m just afraid, when we’ve had all those murders, and then she disappears…”

The full impact of what she was saying struck Ben like a hammer. Could there have been another killing? While Father Beale was behind bars? Because if there was, that would mean…

“I’ll look into it, Ruth.”

“I’d be so grateful.”

“I’ll get the police on the case. They’ll start checking it out immediately.”

“But I’ve called the police.”

Ben looked across the room at his friend and smiled. “I may have a few connections you don’t.”

Ben had wanted to come, but Mike wouldn’t allow it. Mike didn’t believe for a minute that there was still a killer out there; the killer had been locked up good and tight. Still, if there was any chance of danger, Ben didn’t need to be in the thick of it. Ben was like a danger magnet; it always seemed to gravitate toward him, and he was pathetically ill equipped to deal with it.

After issuing the APB, he drove to Ernestine’s house. There was no sign of her and no sign of any struggle or violence. But Ben had told Mike she had a nephew who was with her frequently, one she treated more like a handmaiden than a relative. So that seemed like the logical next stop.

After he knocked on the door, Mike could hear hushed muttering inside. Two voices talking in subdued tones.

Mike pressed his ear against the door. He heard a shushing noise. Then the voices stopped.

Could be nothing, of course. But something about this was making the short hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. And when you’d been a cop as long as Mike had, you learned to listen to those little short hairs.

The door swung open, but the man standing on the other side was not Bruce, the nephew. He didn’t match the description Ben had given him. He was sandy-haired and muscular and… well, not very well-to-do or bright-looking.

“Yeah?”

Mike pulled out his badge. “I’m Major Mike Morelli. Tulsa PD.”

The man looked at the badge, looked at Mike, then sort of levitated, as if unable to decide what to do next. Mike had seen the look before-but only from people who had something to hide.

“I’d just like a few words.”

“Yeah.” The man’s eyes darted all around. “Can you just… give me a moment?”

“Sure,” Mike said, since he had no choice, and the man closed the door.