Judy went to the window and introduced herself to a middle-aged woman with bright blue eyes and a warm, professional smile, then said, “I’d like to speak with Detective Boone, in connection with the death tonight of Father Keegan.”
“Is he expecting you?” the woman asked, brightly. She wore her light brown hair in a bun and had on an orange T-shirt with KENNETT SQUARE POLICE printed onto the breast pocket, with khaki pants.
“No, but I left a phone message.”
“Is this a tip? Because he’s very busy tonight.” The woman shook her head sadly. “It’s a terrible loss.”
“I do have information that I believe can help him. He knows me because he’s been working on a case involving my aunt, Barb Moyer.”
“Oh, my, I know who you are.” The woman’s eyes registered recognition. “You’re the woman who was assaulted last night, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Judy answered, moving her hair aside to show her goose egg. “This is me, the real thing.”
“Go to your left, and I’ll buzz you in the door,” the woman said, hurrying off.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“We’re meeting in here?” Judy asked, following Detective Boone, who was unlocking the door to the Mayor’s Office. “Won’t the mayor mind?”
“This is Kennett Square, not New York City.” Detective Boone led her inside a small, completely empty office lined with tasteful walnut bookshelves full of leather-bound volumes of law books and black plastic binders. A clean mahogany desk and old-school courtroom chair sat in the far corner next to the American flag, and nearest the door was a modern round conference table, also of walnut, with three matching chairs.
“Where’s the mayor?”
“It’s after hours.” Detective Boone tugged out one of the chairs and gestured to Judy to sit down. “Please.”
“Thanks.” Judy sat down, getting her bearings. “I thought we’d meet in the squad room, like they do in Philadelphia.”
“Technically, it’s not my squad room.” Detective Boone sat down in the chair opposite her. “The county detectives’ office is in West Chester. When we’re out on a job, like tonight, we’re squatters. How’s that noggin of yours?”
“Fine, but I’m so sorry to hear about Father Keegan.”
“Me, too. He was a great guy. It’s a real blow to the community.” Detective Boone slid a ballpoint pen from his pocket, along with his skinny spiral notebook. He looked the same as he had last night; his close-set blue eyes intense and concerned behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his sandy brown hair in its short, professional cut, and he had on another boxy dark suit with a patterned tie. “Do you have something for me, on Keegan? They said you had a tip.”
“I spoke to him this morning, on the phone. He called me because he’d read that I was assaulted and he wanted to tell me that Iris’s apartment had been broken into and ransacked. Did you know about that?”
“No.” Detective Boone flipped open the cardboard top to his notebook. “Anybody assaulted or injured?”
“No. Nobody was home.”
“Anything taken?” Detective Boone started taking notes.
“Nothing of value. I think they were looking for the money that Iris had stashed in my aunt’s house.” Judy wanted to get to the point. “Detective, I believe that Father Keegan’s death is linked to Iris Juarez’s. I think they were both murdered.”
“What are you talking about?” Detective Boone frowned, looking up from his note-taking. “Father Keegan was a hit-and-run accident.”
“Can you explain to me how it happened?”
Detective Boone hesitated. “I’ll tell you what’s public record. He was struck from behind, along the curve, walking to his car. It’s very dangerous there, there’s no sidewalk. It happened at about five fifteen, and it was dark. The car was driving north, so it couldn’t have seen him when it turned the corner.”
Judy tried to visualize the scene, though she had never been there, and it tugged at her heart to imagine the priest in the last minutes of his life, not knowing that a deadly car was bearing down on him. Still she reminded herself not to be emotional. If she really wanted to convince the detective of anything, she had to keep her wits about her. She asked, “What was he doing there, by the side of the road?”
“There’s a little restaurant, called Jamie’s. He was walking from the restaurant to his car, which was parked in the side lot.”
“Where’s the restaurant?”
“On Warm Spring Road, number 870, I believe. It’s at the curve.”
Judy made a mental note. “What’s the cross street?”
“Closest one is Buck and Doe.”
“That’s a street name?”
“Yes, city girl.” Detective Boone almost smiled.
“Did anybody see anything, like in any of the surrounding stores or houses?”
“There aren’t any. It’s on the outskirts of town.”
“Another remote stretch? Why am I not surprised?” Judy felt more convinced than ever, now that she was getting the facts. “Was he alone?”
“Yes. He eats there every night, the early-bird special, soup and sandwich.”
Judy thought a minute. “How do you know that? From asking around?”
“Of course, yes.”
“So it was generally known?”
“Everybody knew about it, in the parish. He even used to meet with parishioners there. They would seek him out. I heard that from more than one person.”
“It was that well-established a routine?”
“Most of us are creatures of habit. That doesn’t mean anything.” Detective Boone cocked his head. “We figure it was a drunk driver. We get a lot of that out here. Country life can be boring, for kids and the like. And if they’re undocumented, they’re going to keep driving. Either way, they won’t get away with it. We’re all over it.” He gestured toward the waiting room. “But let’s go back a moment. When was Iris’s apartment burglarized?”
“Last night at about six o’clock, right before I was attacked at my aunt’s house. I think the bad guys, whoever they are, are looking for the money. They went to her apartment, then they went to my aunt’s.”
“The address we have? On Point Breeze?”
“Yes.”
“Were there any witnesses?”
“Not that I know of, but you have to follow up with that.”
“We will, but it’s going through the motions. They’re not going to tell us anything, just like they didn’t report it.”
“But you will try anyway, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“What about Iris’s phone? Did you follow up with that, about that call she got?”
“Yes, but we can’t find a phone. The police at the scene didn’t bag one, neither did the coroner.”
Judy blinked. “She had one, I saw it.”
“Do you know for a fact that she had it on her?”
“No, but why wouldn’t she?” Judy thought about it. “Whoever killed her took it.”
“I’ll keep investigating.” Detective Boone returned to his note-taking. “What about the money? What did you decide to do with it?”
“It’s safely in a bank right now.” Judy had to get back on track. “I called the coroner to find out the autopsy results on Iris, but I couldn’t because they were all working on the Father Keegan case. But if it turns out that she died of unnatural causes—”
“Excuse me, I’m not following.” Detective Boone held up a hammy hand, with the pen. “What does Father Keegan have to do with Iris? I’m assuming she was a parishioner, but what of it? Most of the Mexicans in the county belong to that church, or St. Agnes.”
“When I spoke to him this morning, I told him about the cash in my aunt’s house and that I thought that Iris was in a drug ring. He knew her very well, and he refused to believe that she would be involved with anything illegal.” Judy felt her chest tighten, and another wave of guilt washed over her, but she tried to stay on point. “I’m bettin
g that after he hung up, he tried to get to the bottom of it. Maybe he started asking questions about her death, or about drug dealing in the community, and whoever is selling the drugs, or whatever, got wind of it and killed him to silence him.”
“This is speculation,” Detective Boone said, but his wrinkled forehead showed that he was mulling it over.
“It’s not speculation, it’s circumstantial, and there’s a difference.” Judy found her bearings, now that she’d learned the facts about how the priest had died. “If Father Keegan had a routine of going to this restaurant and the bad guys heard that he was digging around, then they could very easily predict where he’d be, right?”
Detective Boone didn’t reply, but met her eye and ceased his note-taking.
“It gets dark early, this time of year. If they know generally what time he leaves the restaurant, they could plan for it and run him over. It would look like a hit-and-run, but it could really be murder.” Judy leaned forward, encouraged by his interest. “What do you think?”
“That’s a possibility,” Detective Boone answered, after a moment.
“It certainly is. Between what I know and what you know, if we work together, we can figure this thing out.”
Detective Boone lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t get the wrong idea here. I’m listening to you, but I am not working with you.”
“Okay, I understand.” Judy dialed back her enthusiasm.
“The other possibility is that Father Keegan’s death was an accident and Iris Juarez died of natural causes. You call this circumstantial, but I think it’s speculation, and either way, none of it is supported by any evidence or facts.” Detective Boone picked up his notepad and abruptly rose to his feet. “Excuse me for five minutes.”
“Sure,” Judy answered, surprised. “Where are you going?”
“Be right back,” Detective Boone answered, heading for the door. He opened it, letting in noise and chatter from the waiting room, then closed it behind him.
Judy sat back in her chair, feeling her heart begin to thump. The more she thought about it, the more her theory made sense, though she had no idea how to go about proving it. She felt driven to find out what had really happened to Father Keegan, not only to bring his killers to justice, but to help her redeem herself for his death. She felt her throat tighten with emotion but swallowed hard to keep it at bay.
Judy reflexively pulled out her phone to check her text and email, on lawyer autopilot. There were no new texts from Frank and she read through her incoming email, but there was nothing important from any of her clients or from opposing counsel, like Rick Kelin. She’d have to catch up with their other cases at some point, but she couldn’t begin to think about that now. She scrolled to the phone function to call her mother and check on Aunt Barb. The call went to voicemail after one ring, but she didn’t leave a message.
Suddenly, the door to the office opened, letting in a burst of crowd noise as Detective Boone entered the room carrying a sheaf of papers, but his demeanor had changed. His expression had snapped back into its official mask, his blue-eyed gaze had cooled and his thin lips formed an unsmiling, if professional, line. “You want facts? I have facts.”
“What?” Judy asked, intrigued.
“Iris Juarez died of natural causes. She had a heart attack. This is the pathologist’s report.” Detective Boone set down the sheaf of papers on the conference table. “I spoke with him and he emailed me a copy of his findings.”
Judy felt dumbfounded as she slid the papers over. Her eyes shot to the top line, which had a blank for Cause of Death and stated MYOCARDIAL INFARCTION. “Oh no.”
“In law enforcement, we consider this good news. A natural death is better than murder, correct?” Detective Boone walked around the table, returned to his chair, and sat down, crossing his legs.
“I can’t believe this.” Judy skimmed the report, which seemed like a thorough autopsy report, typical in every way.
“I think this should put your theory to rest, on Father Keegan as well.”
“I don’t get it,” Judy said, stumped. She flipped through the report until she reached the section for Internal Examination of Organs, and the description of Iris’s heart read that its arteries showed evidence of atherosclerotic cardiovascular disease, A.S.C.V.D.
“He said that there’s a real problem in the undocumented community because they don’t get the medical care they need to control heart disease and hypertension.”
“Did they find any drugs in her system?” Judy flipped to the back of the report, where the toxicological screens were usually attached as an appendix, but there wasn’t one.
“The tox screen takes two to three weeks to come in and it will show if there was alcohol or drugs in her system.”
“What about legal drugs?”
“The basic covers only illegal drugs, not legal ones.”
Judy looked up. “Can we test her now for legal drugs? Do they keep the blood? How does that work?”
“An expanded takes longer, and it doesn’t happen unless a detective or the pathologist believes it’s in order. He didn’t request it.”
“Would you request it?”
“No.” Detective Boone shook his head. “Iris Juarez died a natural death. She wasn’t the victim of a homicide. You’re a lawyer, you know that police departments are subject to budget constraints. If I authorize expenditures on Juarez, then I won’t have it in a case where I have evidence of a suspicious death.”
“How much does it cost?”
“Basic is $120, expanded is $160.”
“Listen, if it’s just a question of cost, I’ll pay for it myself. I’d like to request the coroner to do a screen of her blood for legal or prescription drugs, an expanded. How do I do that?”
“You have to get in touch with the coroner’s office tomorrow. They may or may not do it.” Detective Boone shook his head. “But what is it exactly you’re hoping to find?”
“Detective, I admit, I don’t know what I’m looking for. If I did, I wouldn’t be looking for it. Maybe abuse of prescription medication, counterfeit medication, something like that.”
“Point of information, what comes in from Mexico isn’t prescription meds or counterfeits. It’s heroin. And it doesn’t originate in Mexico but comes through it, because it’s easier to smuggle heroin into Mexico than the States. Generally, the dealers pay mules to carry it up north, for distribution and sale.”
Judy couldn’t picture Iris as a heroin smuggler or dealer, but something still stunk to high heaven. “Do you have a heroin problem in the county?”
“No more than elsewhere in the state, to my knowledge.” Detective Boone paused. “If the pathologist had found trace evidence of heroin on her hands or fingers, it’d be different. But he didn’t.”
Judy checked the report, flipping to the external examination of Iris’s hands, which read, broken fingernails on right index and right middle finger with superficial scrapes on fingerpads. “Look at this, the broken fingernails. How did she get those?”
“She could have done that a number of ways, none of which is suspicious at all.”
“In a struggle?”
“There weren’t any signs of any struggle or defensive wounds of any kind.”
Judy tried another tack. “What about heroin on the money? How do I get the money tested?”
“I believe there are private labs that do that. Check online.”
Judy gathered the autopsy report in case her aunt wanted to see it. “What about the fifty grand, the assault on me, and Father Keegan? How do you explain it?”
“Rest assured, we’re investigating the hit-and-run and will continue to do so. Father Keegan meant a great deal to us, and we will give him a hundred percent of our efforts. As for the money”—Detective Boone shrugged mildly—“granted, I can’t explain it, but there’s no crime that has been committed and even if there were, it’s a matter for the Kennett Square police. They have only twelve officers full time, so they work closely togeth
er. They’re all aware of what happened at your aunt’s house. That’s how you got past the front desk to me tonight, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Judy had to concede.
“Trust me, it’s the talk of the squad room. Leave it to them. They’re small-town, but they’re professional. Don’t underestimate them just because they’re not big-city.” Detective Boone rose, brushing down his slacks. “If you observe anything further or, God forbid, are a victim of another attack, you need to call them.”
“I appreciate your time, but I just can’t accept this, not yet anyway.” Judy rose, feeling as if she had failed Father Keegan, Iris, and her aunt. Even herself. “Maybe if the only thing that happened was that Iris had a heart attack, I would believe it, but taken as a whole, I’m just not buying that it’s all innocent.”
“Good night.” Detective Boone walked to the doorway, put his hand on the doorknob, and opened the door. “If there’s anything you need to know, we will contact you.”
“Thank you,” Judy said miserably, but she was already thinking of her next move.
Chapter Thirty
Judy pulled over and let the engine idle across the street from Jamie’s Restaurant, unable to get closer because the area had been cordoned off with parked cruisers, flares, and sawhorses. Uniformed police and other personnel gathered in groups inside the perimeter, and reporters clustered on the outside. A chubby traffic cop stood with an orange flashlight, ready to direct traffic around the scene, though the only car was Judy’s.
The coroner’s van must have already gone, and a police truck was towing away an old blue minivan, presumably Father Keegan’s. Judy felt a pang at the sight, thinking how awful it must have been for the priest to die this way, by the side of the road, in shock and pain. She felt a new wave of guilt and grief, and being there felt like an awful replay of Saturday night, when Iris had been found in her car.
Judy cut the ignition, and got out of the car to look around. The air was cold, and Warm Springs Road would have been pitch black except for the lights from the police vehicles. She surveyed the street, which was just as she had pictured it, completely deserted and lined by tangled underbrush and thick dark woods on both sides, with no houses or shops. It was barely wide enough to accommodate two lanes, which ran in different directions and curved dramatically around the restaurant, a small converted house of white clapboard that couldn’t have held more than eight tables. Light came from inside the restaurant, and she could see police personnel milling at the counter.