The final calculation was still way short of what was needed to cover her estate agency’s bills for the month. She placed her reading glasses on the desk in front of her and pinched the bridge of her nose. This was the fourth consecutive month she’d have to default on several payments. The week was drawing to a close, and the two viewings they’d had this week hadn’t produced an offer. According to her calculations, if she didn’t get a sale soon she’d only be able to afford to keep the agency open for a few more weeks – maybe a month.
Amanda had dropped out of high school at the age of seventeen after flunking tenth grade for the second time. She was an intelligent girl, but when it came to exams and answering questions her heart would take off like a fighter jet, her mind would go blank and she couldn’t get a single answer out.
Amanda knew she was very good with people. And she had charisma – bundles of it. Her first job was as a trainee broker in a small real estate agency in central LA. It didn’t take her long to get the gist of things, and within a year her sales figures were topping everyone else’s in the agency.
She didn’t stay in central Los Angeles for long, accepting a job with Palm Properties, one of the largest real estate agencies in Palm Springs.
In California, businesses don’t come much more cutthroat than real estate, but Amanda knew how to use her assets to her advantage. Other than being smart, charismatic and charming, she was also very attractive, with shoulder-length blond hair, sky-blue eyes and porcelain-smooth skin. Some would say she slept her way into her partnership just three years after joining Palm Properties.
Amanda stayed with the agency for eleven years before giving up the partnership and opening her own agency – Reilly’s – in West Hollywood. She was a hard-working woman, and during the following ten years three other Reilly’s opened across Los Angeles. But just over a year ago, the booming American property market came crashing to a halt. Repossessions were at an all-time high. Bank loans were nonexistent. No one was buying. Not even the super-rich.
Amanda tried every trick she’d learned over the years to keep her head above the waterline, but nothing seemed to work. She had to close all but her flagship agency in West Hollywood. The past four months had been particularly hard for Amanda and her company. She had to let everyone go except for her best friend and first ever Reilly’s employee, Tania Riggs.
Despite the gloomy week, Amanda was feeling lucky. Late yesterday she’d received a call from a potential buyer who sounded very interested in one of her most expensive properties. A seven-bedroom, nine-bathroom, four-million-dollar mansion on Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. The caller had seen the property advertised on their website and loved the features – the swimming pool, the large eccentric fireplace in the living room, the tennis court, the beautiful grounds – the house was perfect. He had requested a viewing for late this afternoon.
‘Here you go,’ Tania Riggs said, handing Amanda a dark green plastic folder.
Amanda had asked Tania to prepare a ‘killer’ package on the property.
‘I’ve included everything.’ Tania said. ‘Photos, detailed information on the house and grounds – even a list of celebrities who live within two miles of the place. There’s also a CD with that PowerPoint presentation I showed you earlier.’
Amanda smiled. ‘That was a fantastic presentation, Tania, thanks. I have a good feeling about this.’ She wiggled the folder in her hand.
‘Me too. It’s such a beautiful house, and if you have the money . . . a bargain.’
Amanda admired Tania’s optimism. For someone who hadn’t received her wages in five weeks, she sure knew how to stay positive.
The phone rang and Tania ran back to her desk to pick it up.
‘Amanda,’ Tania said, after placing the caller on hold. ‘It’s Mr. Turner for you.’
Amanda nodded and reached for the phone on her desk. The conversation took less than a minute.
‘Please tell me he didn’t cancel,’ Tania said nervously, after Amanda hung up.
‘No, no.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘But he’ll be about an hour late.’
‘Oh, that’s OK, then.’ Tania smiled. ‘Do you want me to wait with you?’
‘There’s no need. I’m all set here.’ She pointed to the dark green folder Tania had given her. ‘Go home, girl. And try to have a good rest over the weekend.’
‘I sure will. Good luck.’
Tania buttoned up her coat all the way to her neck before closing the door behind her.
Amanda placed her right elbow on her desk, rested her chin on her closed fist and stared at the spreadsheet on her screen once again. Things were about to change, she could feel it.
Twenty-Four
Hunter and Garcia were studying the forensic photographs taken at the church when Captain Blake entered the room without knocking and closed the door behind her. Her eyes rested on the piles of leather-bound notebooks on both detectives’ desks.
‘Are these the priest’s journals?’ she asked, approaching Garcia’s desk, picking a volume up and flipping through the first few pages.
Hunter nodded.
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Depends what you consider interesting.’
Captain Blake gave Hunter a look that told him she didn’t have time for bullshit.
‘We’re going through them as fast as we can,’ Hunter explained. ‘But there’s a lot of stuff in those books. They’re not proper journals or diaries. They’re just books the priest used to write his thoughts, the way he felt, things he’d done . . . There’s no sequence. Most of the entries read like dissertations, and they go back a long way.’ He walked back to his desk. ‘The problem is we’re not really sure what were looking for. It could be anything, a word, a phrase . . . or it could be hidden between the lines. If Father Fabian feared for his life, we were hoping to find something in the most recent diary, but they aren’t dated. The idiots who brought them over after forensics were done dusting them didn’t think to number the books in the same order they were found on the shelves inside Father Fabian’s room.’
‘They’ve been shuffled like a deck of cards,’ Garcia commented.
‘So if by interesting you mean stories of a tormented priest, then yes, they’re very interesting,’ Hunter continued. ‘But if you mean “have we found something that might give us a clue why he was murdered?”, then the answer is – not yet.’
Captain Blake closed the diary and placed it back on the pile. Only then she noticed how neat and tidy Garcia’s desk was. Nothing was out of place. No clutter. All the objects on it were arranged symmetrically. ‘What do you mean by a tormented priest?’
‘It seems like he’d questioned his faith more than once,’ Garcia offered.
‘We all do that every now and again,’ she replied with a shrug.
‘That’s true.’ Hunter looked for something inside his top drawer. ‘But it looks like what Father Fabian saw and heard over the years made him doubt priesthood was really his call.’
‘Why?’
‘You need to believe in God if you’re gonna be a priest. At times he questioned God’s existence.’
‘Plus, there’re a few passages that make it clear that he was struggling with the whole celibacy concept,’ Garcia noted.
‘How many of these have you been through so far?’
‘Three each, and we’ve been reading through the night.’ Hunter answered.
The captain folded her arms and exhaled a deep breath. ‘Bishop Clark is worried about these journals.’
‘Worried how?’ Hunter cracked his knuckles and Captain Blake cringed.
‘He fears Father Fabian might’ve written things he shouldn’t have.’
‘Can you be a little more specific, captain?’ Hunter asked. ‘We don’t have a lot of time for guessing games.’
