“It troubles me, about Bruce,” Father Beale said. “I talked with him many times, of course. I knew he resented the way his aunt treated him-who wouldn’t? But I never suspected the depth of his resentment. If only he had come to me. Talked about it.” He shook his head. “What a troubled soul the poor man must’ve had.”

Ben supposed he should be sympathetic, but what Beale said only magnified his frustration. Stop being a priest already! he wanted to shout. Look after yourself for a change!

“The problem is the fingerprints,” Ben said, intentionally changing the subject. “That’s the red flag the DA keeps waving in my face. If Manly committed the first three murders, why weren’t his fingerprints on your St. Crispin’s Award? That’s the question I still can’t answer. If I could, I might be able to make some progress. I was in my friend Mike Morelli’s office earlier, and I told him that I-I-”

Ben stopped midsentence. A strange expression came over his face. “I was saying that-that-”

Father Beale frowned. “Ben? Is there something wrong?”

Ben seemed to be lost in some internal thought process. “I was staring at him, and I said-” His voice cut off again, and this time he let out a small gasp. “Oh, my God.”

“What?” Beale leaned closer to the glass. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Ben said quietly. “No. Except-oh, my God-”

“What?” Beale bellowed into the receiver. “Would you stop talking in riddles? What is it?”

Ben spoke slowly and deliberately, barely able to believe he was saying it as he spoke. “I think I know who killed the three women at the church, including Kate McGuire. I think I know who did it-and how.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Just a minute! You can’t leave me hanging like this!”

“I can’t stop to talk now.”

“Why? Where are you going?”

Ben drew in his breath. “To see the killer.”

Beale could barely contain himself. “Who is it? Who are you going to see?”

It was not an answer Ben wanted to give, but it had to be said sometime. Was there any sense in waiting?

“Answer me!” Beale repeated. “Who are you going to see?”

Ben looked at him solemnly. “Your wife.”

“You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?” Andrea Beale said when she saw Ben on her doorstep.

Ben nodded his head slowly. “I think so.”

“It was bound to happen.” She closed her eyes. “Just a matter of time, I suppose.”

She widened the door, implicitly inviting Ben to enter.

It was a nice home, tastefully decorated on what must have been a limited income. But Ben wasn’t here to admire the furniture. “Will you tell me about it?”

She nodded sadly, then walked into the living room. Ben followed.

He had considered calling Mike, or maybe Loving. For all he knew, she might try to run. Or might even try to hurt him. But Ben saw no evidence of either reaction. She seemed entirely resigned, unresisting. Or maybe it was more that she was… out of breath. Emotionally winded. At any rate, she wasn’t putting up a struggle, and Ben couldn’t imagine that she ever would.

“Will you do one thing for me first?” she asked after they were both seated.

“Well, I don’t know if-”

“It’s a little thing. Indulge me.”

Ben pressed his lips together. “Okay. What?”

“Tell me how you figured it out.”

Ben nodded. Fair enough. “I’ve been assuming that Bruce persuaded his thug Manly to kill the three church women to set the stage for killing Ernestine, and to pin the blame on your husband. But there were problems with that theory. Bruce persuaded Manly to kill by playing on his pro-life sympathies, but Kate McGuire and Susan Marino had no connection to that cause at all. And how could Daniel be blamed for the murder of Ernestine after his bail was revoked?”

“I can see where that would present a problem.”

“I’ve known all along the key was the absence of fingerprints on the St. Crispin’s Award. There had to be some explanation-I just couldn’t figure out what it was. And then, as I was speaking to your husband today, I thought back to when I last saw my friend Mike. He was messing around with some files, trying to assemble them properly, and he got glue all over himself. That’s when I realized.”

“Yes?”

“I remember reading somewhere about how you can coat your fingertips with a thin layer of glue. I don’t remember where. One of Mike’s magazines, maybe. Dick Tracy, perhaps. Who knows? It makes sense, though. One of the prosecution witnesses explained that latent prints are the result of skin secretions left on receptive surfaces. Cover your fingers with glue, and presto. No skin secretions. And it’s easy to do. Any kind of glue will work. You just roll a thin layer over your hands and fingers and let it dry. Kind of like kids do in grade school. A thin transparent layer of glue will be virtually invisible to anyone else-but it will prevent you from leaving fingerprints.”

“And that’s when you remembered the wedding reception.”

“Yes,” Ben answered. “And I remembered seeing you there, carrying all those decorations and supplies-with glue all over your hands.”

Andrea’s eyes wandered down to the carpet. “I must hand it to you, Ben-you have a marvelous memory.”

“May I ask a question now?”

The woman nodded.

“Why?”

She looked at him strangely. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Why did you kill Kate McGuire? And the other women?”

Her eyes widened, like slowly inflated balloons. “You think I did it?”

“Well-but-you said-”

“You think I killed those women?”

“But-you had the glue on your hands!”

“Ben, I was just cleaning up, remember? I told you that at the time. I wasn’t the one who made the decorations. By the time I got to the glue, Kate was already dead.”

“But you said-”

“I didn’t get it at first, either, not till you called just now and said you wanted to talk about glue. That’s when I started thinking about it, and I realized what must’ve happened.”

Ben’s brain was in overdrive trying to take everything in. “What-but then-you’re not-?”

Andrea stared at him. “You don’t know who it was, do you?”

“No, evidently I don’t. Could you please fill me in?”

Andrea pressed a hand against her breast. “You won’t believe it,” she said quietly. “You just won’t believe it.”

“He lives right over there, you know,” Judy said.

“Who? Ben?”

“Yup. That-a-way.” She pointed across the Tulsa skyline. “He’s not home at the moment. Probably with Mike.”

“Who’s Mike?”

“Homicide detective. They’ve known each other since college. Met their freshman year.”

Maura stared at her friend. “Do you know everything about this guy? I mean, this is getting a little spooky.”

“There are no secrets these days, Maura. Not to anyone with a computer and a modem. I can find out anything about anybody.”

The two girls sat perched atop St. Benedict’s bell tower. Not an authorized play area, but they had learned years ago how to pick the lock on the door, climb the stairs, and crawl beneath the bell to the edge of the tower. It was more than three stories high, and since the church was on the crest of a hill, it afforded a lovely view of Tulsa’s rolling green landscape.

Maura opened a small handbag and withdrew a long elegant necklace. Diamonds glistened in the reflecting light of the setting sun. She held it against her neck. “Do you think it looks good on me?”

“Better than it ever did on Susan Marino, anyway.”

“Or do you prefer this one?” She pulled out a much simpler piece of jewelry, a gold chain with a single heart-shaped pendant. “Understated and elegant. What do you think? Better?”

“Not even close. Kate didn’t have Susan’s taste. Or her money, for that matter.”

“You’re probably right.” She threw the pendant off the edge of the tower, deep into the prayer garden. “Some of this stuff we took off Helen looks positively ratty. But I did get that lovely pocket knife, remember?” She reached into her purse and withdrew a knife about the length of her hand. She pulled out some of the blades, then lightly ran her finger down the sharp edges. “It’s a lovely knife.”