Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

Outside the concourse she found a taxi and directed the driver to the federal building in Westwood. The cab headed north to the San Diego Freeway. Traffic was worse than she remembered, and eventually the flow of vehicles came to a standstill. At her urging the cabby exited at Venice Boulevard and took Sepulveda, creeping through the stop-and-go traffic. It was hot outside, the cab’s air conditioning didn’t work, and Tess was rapidly developing an animus toward the City of Angels that was almost pathological. Then she saw the church.

It was on Olympic Boulevard, east of the intersection with Sepulveda. She glimpsed the spire in the sun. She had been to that church on her last visit to L.A., taking confession there, her first confession in many years.

“Turn right,” she said. Obediently the cabby maneuvered through the clogged intersection and turned onto Olympic. She pointed at the church, and he stopped in the empty parking lot. “Just wait here. I’ll be right out.”

In the year and a half since the Rain Man case, she had thought of this church many times. Confession had helped her, though she hadn’t felt so sure of it at the time. She felt an obligation to this place, which she intended to satisfy with a donation to the poor box.

She contributed most of the cash on her person, reminding herself to stop at an ATM and refill her wallet. Having given alms, she was ready to go, but strangely she didn’t want to. Then she understood that she’d had an ulterior motive in coming here. She wanted absolution. She wanted to confess.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I broke the rules. I broke the law. I cut corners. I allowed myself to get away with behavior that I would never tolerate in a subordinate.

Something like that.

She entered the nave and walked down the central aisle. The church was empty. Her only company was a host of plaster saints and the backlit figures in the stained-glass windows, and the suffering Jesus on his cross, lifted behind the altar.

She remembered the location of the confessional. This was not the time when confession would be scheduled, but she’d gotten lucky on her last visit, and she hoped for the same luck again.

But she was disappointed. There was no priest in evidence. She really was alone.

Well, it had been worth a shot. She knelt and prayed before the altar, but it was a perfunctory prayer, and she felt nothing. She was retreating up the aisle when she saw a gray head bent low in one of the pews. An elderly woman, sitting alone. Tess hadn’t noticed her before, and there had been no other vehicle in the parking lot.

The woman felt her gaze. She raised her head and looked at Tess. Her face was wet with tears.

After making eye contact, Tess couldn’t walk away. She sat beside the woman. “Are you all right?”

“I come here every day,” the woman answered. “I’ve come for the last three months.”

Tess didn’t ask what had happened three months ago. “Does it help?”

“I don’t know. It’s supposed to.”

Tess touched the woman’s hand. “I hope things get better.” She rose to leave.

“What I want to know,” the woman said softly, “is why there is so much.”

Tess didn’t understand. “So much…?”

“Pain. How can there be so much pain, everywhere?”

It was the same question, Tess realized, that had kept her out of churches after Paul Voorhees died.

There was nothing she could say in reply. She had never found an answer. Somehow, over time, she had lost the need for one. It was just the way things were. There was no point in trying to understand. There was only the struggle to make things better.

On impulse she leaned down and hugged the woman gently. Neither of them said anything.

“Thank you,” the woman said in the tone of a blessing.

Tess nodded. She left, not looking back.

She arrived at the federal building and received a temporary ID badge from the guards in the lobby. An elevator ride brought her to the seventeenth story, where she was buzzed into the FBI suite that occupied the entire floor. The agent who greeted her was Rick Crandall, probably her only friend in the L.A. office. Though he had put on some muscle in the past year, he still looked impossibly young to be a federal agent.

Crandall had been a rookie when she met him-a first office agent, or FOA in the Bureau-speak. He was now in his second year, still at the GS-12 pay grade. The salary he was pulling down, even with overtime, wouldn’t go very far in a town like L.A.

“Rick, good to see you.” She thought about giving him a hug, decided against it because the receptionist was watching, and settled for a handshake instead. “How is everything with you?”

“Not bad.” His voice was flat, his manner distant.

“Still managing to impress your old man?” Ralston Crandall was a deputy director at Bureau headquarters in D.C.

“I guess,” he said tonelessly, not looking at her. “You can stow your suitcase behind the reception desk for now.”

He key-carded the door to a hallway and led her inside. She tried again to make conversation. “Well, your father should be impressed. L.A.’s a tough gig for a new recruit.”

“I’m not a new recruit anymore. I’ve been on the job nearly two years.”

“Right, of course. I didn’t mean…” Her apology trailed away. Crandall kept walking. She let the silence persist for a few seconds, then stopped him with a tug on his arm. “What’s the matter, Rick?”

“Nothing.” He pulled free of her grasp.

“I thought we were friends.”

“Yeah. I thought so, too.” He took a breath. “You want to know, Tess? You really want to know?”

Without waiting for an answer, he ducked into the break room, a kitchenette with a table and chairs, the air permanently infused with the aroma of coffee.

No one else was inside. Tess entered, and Crandall shut the door. He kept his voice low, but his eyes were fierce.

“Real good friends, that’s what we are, right? And friends don’t keep secrets, do they? They don’t lie. So I guess that’s why you told me all about Abby Hollister, right? Or should I say Abby Sinclair?”

Tess froze. For a moment she could think of nothing to say. Finally she asked the obvious question. “How do you know about that?”

“Because I saw her. I fucking saw her, in the flesh, alive. Not drowned in the storm tunnels.”

“I see.”

“You lied. You lied to everybody.”

“I never actually said she drowned. People made the assumption-”

“Don’t bullshit me. When we arrested Kolb, he said you two were working together. You denied it. But it was true, wasn’t it?”

Abby gave in. She hoped to God that Crandall wasn’t wearing a wire. “It was true.”

“You went outside the Bureau, hooked up with some private detective?”

“She’s not a PI. Not exactly.”

“What is she, then?”

“A security consultant.” Tess sat at the table. “You said you saw her. When?”

“Last night. Coming out of Andrea Lowry’s house.”

“You were surveilling the place?”

Crandall hesitated, then took a seat also. Some of the rage had gone out of him, but she still saw the deep hurt in his face. He had looked up to her, trusted her.

“We were surveilling Lowry’s vehicle, actually,” he said in a more subdued voice. “We mounted a GPS tracker on her car.”

Tess was familiar with the procedure. The global positioning system would log the vehicle’s movements, saving the information to a computer file.

“She parks in a carport,” Crandall went on, “so it was easy enough to get access to the vehicle. It was my job to download the data every twenty-four hours and see where she’s been. When I arrived last night to do the data dump, I saw a car parked outside the house. Later I ran the tags. The car belongs to your friend. She was visiting Andrea Lowry.”