“Like Yury.” Paige is catching up.
“Exactly. Yury knew Elizabeth was gone, and he intended to move into her business the moment Leona went down. The business was vulnerable. Carmen had to make sure that didn’t happen and used Elizabeth—Santa Muerte—to make it happen.”
“My God. Then Elizabeth killed her own mother.”
I nod, remembering the ghost of Leona and the look on her face. She must have known, in the end, who was about to kill her. I then recall Carmen’s crocodile tears when we went to tell her Elizabeth was gone. I remember Paige, David, and I trying to console her.
I turn to Paige. “It’s not over. She’s not done.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was trying to kill everyone involved in the case. That means…”
“David,” Paige finishes.
I pull out my cell phone and dial David. Not waiting for him to pick up, I put the car into gear and start heading east.
“You’ve reached David Resnick with the Los Angeles Police Department. Please leave a message after the beep.” Beep.
“David!” I yell into the phone. “That woman at the church, Carmen, is not Elizabeth’s mom. Call me back. And be careful!” I hang up and toss my phone to Paige. “Keep calling.”
“Where are you going?” she asks, dialing again.
“To the police department.”
I floor my little Mini and head east. The Central Police Station is clear across town, twenty miles. That’s a relatively short distance, but it could take me an hour to get there from the Palisades. As I race through the dark and winding Sunset Boulevard, part of me hopes a cop will spot me and pull me over. At least then I could get a hold of David.
No such luck. We merge onto the 405 and navigate through the late-night commuters clogging the freeway.
Paige has no luck calling David on his cell, so she finally breaks down and calls the dispatch at the department. She pleads with them to get a hold of him, and after ten minutes of negotiating, they finally tell her they can’t reach him either.
“Where do you think he is?” she asks.
I don’t answer, but I have a theory. I make it to downtown in record time and take the Temple Street exit. This drops me off right next to the Cathedral.
My heart sinks when it turns out that my theory is correct. A blue Charger is parked across the street. David’s car.
My tires screech as I pull up behind it and shut off the engine. There’s no sign of David through his rear window. Muffled gunshots echo from the Cathedral across the street. Without hesitating, Paige swings open the passenger door and sprints across the street toward the church.
“Wait!” I yell, but the sound of my voice doesn’t travel as fast as Paige does.
I whip open my door—only to have it crunch against the curb. Shit. Paige is already up the steps and disappearing into the courtyard. I drag my body over the passenger seat and tumble into the street. A passing sedan nearly clips me as I struggle to regain my balance.
A few yards down, I see the panel van parked by the curb—police surveillance. As fast as I can, I sprint to the driver’s-side window and start banging on it. “Open! It’s Darcy! Detective Resnick is in trouble!”
There’s no answer. That’s not good. I circle around to the sliding door and yank it open. I poke my head inside, and more of my worst fears are realized. Two dead detectives lie inside, their hearts ripped out.
Santa Muerte is back.
I look down the street at the marked and unmarked police cars stationed around the Cathedral. I have no doubt the other officers have suffered the same fate. I crawl into the van, check the waist of the closest detective, and unholster his sidearm. Then I grab an extra magazine and stuff it into my back pocket.
I race across the empty street toward the Cathedral then slide to a stop. My toes meet the boundary of the church grounds, where an actual seam is carved into the surrounding sidewalk. At my feet, I find a metal placard: Right to Pass by Permission and Subject to Control of Owner.
I can already feel the nausea growing. The holy force field around the property repels me like the wrong poles of a magnet. I look through the open gate into the empty plaza. Paige didn’t pack her gun tonight. She’s in there, completely defenseless. And David—poor David—probably got lured into a trap. And Father Ramon… Please, God, let him be okay.
More gunshots ring out. There isn’t a single pedestrian in earshot, and a handful of cars zip by with their windows up, none the wiser. There are thirteen million people in the Greater Los Angeles Area, and it’s my luck that none of them are nearby tonight.
I pull out my cell phone and dial 911.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” answers a woman’s voice.
“Yes, I’d like to report gunshots at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Angels.”
“You’re hearing loud bangs?”
“No, gunshots! As in, someone is shooting a gun in the church! Please send the police here as soon as possible!”
“And what is your name?”
Two more gunshots ring out.
All I can think about is that all my favorite people in the world are hurt, or worse, and I’m standing out here, dealing with customer service. Despite knowing the agony that awaits me on the other side of this perimeter, I can’t wait here any longer.
I drop the phone, hoping they’ll put a trace on it. Steeling myself, I
