“And the accomplice, Silva?”
“He vanished completely. We tried to find him—and believe me, the Vatican knows how to find people.”
“How did you identify Castillo and track him down?”
“Rome is blanketed in CCTV cameras these days. We were able to trace him from the church to his pensione and back. In Italy, you have to show a passport to check into a hotel. It was forged. But by tracing his movements from the pensione to the airport, we were able to establish his real identity, because he flew in on a real passport in his real name.”
“And you think Castillo still has, or rather had, the relic?”
“We do. While we can’t know for sure, from all we can tell, he didn’t pass it along to anyone.”
Now Cash leaned on her elbows and gave him a searching look. “Do you or the church have any idea of his motive?”
Armagh spread his hands. “At first, we thought it might have something to do with a dispute about the authenticity of the relic. There are four churches that claim to have relics of Saint John, and perhaps this was an attempt to prove our relic was bogus, or the opposite.”
“And how would they prove that?”
“By scientifically dating it, for example, to see if it really was two thousand years old. Or testing the bone to see if it was human. But then I found out that Javier Castillo was Jewish. That seemed to rule out an internal Catholic dispute or conspiracy.”
“Castillo was Jewish?”
“Yes. At least, that’s what the Vatican investigation established.”
At this, Cash made a note. “Any other theories?”
“All I have are guesses.”
“So tell us, Brother, how did you become involved?”
“The Holy Father was consulted, and he wished to avoid publicity by sending someone to track down Mr. Castillo and see if he could be persuaded to give back the relic. I was that person, because I’d worked for years in prison ministries in Chicago. So I flew to San Francisco, I learned he had come to Colorado, I followed him out here—and then, of course, I found he’d been murdered.”
“How were you planning to persuade him?” Cash asked.
“I was going to threaten him with criminal prosecution.”
“You weren’t going to appeal to his better nature?”
At this, Brother Armagh chuckled. “During my years in Chicago, I quickly discovered that appealing to someone’s ‘better nature’ rarely works. I was going to take a strong line with Castillo. He was a wealthy man with a great deal to lose.”
“Up to threatening him with actual violence?”
“Agent Cash! Of course not. We are a peaceable, pious, and pacifist order. I resent the implication.”
“Apologies,” said the woman, not sounding apologetic at all.
After a short silence, the sheriff, who had been silent, cleared his throat. “Brother Armagh, I have a few questions.”
“Yes, Sheriff?”
“Is it possible the killing might have been in retaliation for the theft and desecration of the relic?”
“I greatly doubt it. Nobody knows about the theft beyond a small circle in Rome—the Pallottine Brothers, the Holy Father, Cardinal Collini, a few others. There are no murderers in our midst, I can assure you. And once again, I must protest the implication that any of us would be involved in murder.”
“I’m sorry, Brother, but it’s our job to ask offensive questions.”
“I realize that, Sheriff, but to think that one of us is a murderer… Impossible.”
“Having worked in a prison ministry,” said the sheriff mildly, “perhaps you’ve learned that anyone might be capable of murder, given the right circumstances?”
