Some Hours Before Marcus Hale Called Dempsey
There was one thing that came with hunting someone by the book — it was bloody hard work and drained every ounce of energy. Like now, his body was surviving on bagels and caffeine, shoveling down cup after cup of coffee to ward off sleep. Marcus Hale had dragged himself across L.A., all the way down to Central Park. When he climbed out of the car, his boots were caked with the dust of two days; his brown trench coat was musty with dirt and grease; his black hat even seemed to weep from days of continuous use. Dark circles weighed under his eyelids, and they began to hurt when he touched them. His face had overgrown with small white hairs sticking out all over his chin and side cheeks — rough and prickly to the touch.
He produced a lighter and a cigarette at once from both pockets. Two sparks and the tip glowed. He inhaled and blew the smoke away. The savory hit jolted his nerves, and he sniffed, swallowing hard. He didn't care what the media said about cigarettes — it was the best therapy ever.
He lowered himself onto the metal bench with intricate designs of curved wings cast in black-painted iron. Behind him, a thick table of flowers cut into an arch and went down the street until his eyes could see no further. He pretended to read a newspaper, using the cover of his wide hat to scan the building before him — St. Ann's Orphanage Home.
Since he'd been there, only one car had come and gone — it dropped off a nun who hurried into the building. Everything looked normal, and that wasn't much fun. The more someone tried to hide the truth, the more the facts pointed straight toward it. But even the wind on this street was normal and calm.
"Bloody hell," he cursed, rising from the bench. After this task was done, he was taking a long vacation far from this job. He crossed the street briskly, light on his feet, and stopped before the gate with metal bars. Through them, he could see the wide compound where two kids chased each other across the grass.
He pressed the small electric button on the fence, and a guard appeared from the small room just a few feet from the gate. The man was grumpy and looked like he could quit his job at the mere thought of being asked. His skin was black as coal and his face as hard as iron.
"What?" he barked.
Sensing a fellow with less time on his hands than an I.T. developer, Marcus Hale snatched out his I.D. and held it up. "I'm Marcus Hale, a private investigator working on behalf of the Morales Law Group. I'm here to speak with one of the residents, if that's alright."
"Name?" the guard growled.
"Sister Cecilia. I have an appointment with her by ten."
The man hissed for the better part of half a minute before pressing a button inside. Hale heard a buzzing sound, and the gate slid open slowly to the left.
"Follow me," the guard ordered firmly. Hale chuckled at the man's stiffness — he was probably sick of work himself. They walked past the first building overlooking the gate, passed a hall where children were playing outside who stopped to stare at him, and finally reached the end of a cobblestone walkway that cut into a small garden.
The guard pointed. "She's behind that building." Hale nodded and turned.
"Cigarette," the guard said, striking out his palm.
This was a no-smoking residential area, and Hale had forgotten — no wonder the kids stared at him like he'd just crawled out of the sewers. He pulled out the cigarette and put it out with his boot. The guard grunted and walked away.
Hale crossed the garden to the back of the small cottage. There he found a woman on her knees tending to tomatoes and bell peppers. She looked at least in her thirties — too beautiful to be wasting away in black robes as a nun.
"You must be Marcus Hale. You almost beat the sun here," she said without looking up.
"Blame the caffeine," Hale replied.
"You came all the way for nothing," the nun said, and his forehead creased. She went on, "I didn't meet Father Andrew in this place." She paused and made the sign of the cross briefly. "Everyone who knew him had been transferred long before any of us got here."
"Then you must know at least one of the people who worked here with him at that time. I just need a name," he said dryly. His throat was itching for a drink — not caffeine. When was the last time he'd had water?
"You're a relentless man." She rose and turned to him. Hale sized her up — tall and busy. Her face was small, with a neat nose, bright eyes, and beads of sweat glistening on her skin. Hale swallowed hard.
"My line of work requires it," he said. "Otherwise it chews you up and spits you in the gutter."
"Even if I did know something — which I don't — the Church has forbidden any nun from speaking to the police."
Hale stepped forward with an envelope. "Then thank goodness I'm not with the police. I'm just a man who wants answers. I'll be gone before anyone knows I was here." He held out the envelope to her. Inside was a check for ten grand — a slice of the money Vincent had deposited to see him through this case. Hale had planned to use less of it; he'd better walk away from this with a stack still waiting.
The nun eyed the check. "I can't take a bribe — and don't tempt me with it."
"It's not a bribe, and I don't give bribes — just a token for your troubles." He paused, then added, "Your mother might need that one."
Her eyes cut at him like daggers. He could feel her blood surge with anger. She took the check and hid it away.
"I don't know where she lives now," she said. "But she left the sisterhood for reasons unknown. She practically disappeared. Anne Gabrielle." The nun brushed past him. "And good luck finding someone who doesn't exist."
Hale turned just in time to watch her hips sway beneath the robe. He inhaled deeply — that wasn't fair.
"Disappeared from society," she'd said. Hale chuckled as he alighted from the taxi in Santa Monica. That nun was forgetting one thing — he was Marcus Hale, and the only way he couldn't find something hidden was if it was floating in space.
He walked down the street that faced the sea, the waves constantly slapping against the stone sidewalk wall.
The district he was in was a suburb by the water, lined with small stalls selling fresh fish and fruit. He scanned the line of vendors ahead, passing kids kicking footballs barefoot. He stopped at one of the stalls and took off his hat to wipe away the sweat.
A teenager in bum shorts and a t-shirt knotted at the belly appeared, her voice lilting like a melody. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked. He looked her over — just the right age to match the number of years since Anne Gabrielle had left the convent.
"I'm looking for Anne Gabrielle," Hale announced. The girl looked like she had no idea who he was talking about. But a woman in the back heard the name and came running.
"There you are," Hale said with a bright smile.
"Who are you? What do you want?" she demanded at once, pulling the girl behind her.
"Easy, woman — I ask the questions." He picked up an apple and bit into it, the crunch sharp as juice dribbled down the side of his lips. He nodded.
"Father Andrew," he said. "I want to know everything you knew about the man."
"Go find Marcelo," the woman urged the girl.
"No need," Hale said. "He's passed out on his couch — won't be up for a while." He smiled. He'd gone to her house first, hoping to find the man who lived with her — a thug who could mobilize twenty others in a minute. That was too much trouble; Hale had taken care of him first.
Seeing she was cornered, Anne told the girl to leave. When she was gone, Hale pointed at her. "She looks like you — can't hide that."
Anne Gabrielle froze at his words. Her eyes darted toward the door the girl had gone through, then back to Hale.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice brittle, uncertain.
Hale exhaled smoke toward the ceiling and smiled faintly. "Sure you do. You knew Father Andrew. You worked under him at St. Ann's before you left. Don't lie to me, Sister. I've already seen your transfer file."
Her lips pressed tight. "I'm not a sister anymore."
"Good. The monastery would love that one confession,that also means you can talk freely," Hale said. "Now, start from the top — what do you know about Father Andrew?"
Anne's breath shook. She turned toward the window, watching the sunlight break across the water. "He was a good man. Too good for this world. The kind that carried everyone else's pain until it buried him alive."
"Tell me more," Hale said softly, though there was steel behind it.
"He came to St. Ann's five years before I did. He was kind to everyone — the children, the nuns, even the drunks who'd come begging at the gate. He took in anyone who needed shelter." She swallowed hard. "But there was a girl. A special one. Her name was Jennifer."
Hale didn't blink. "Go on."
"She was about eight when he found her. Or maybe she found him. I don't know which. He cared for her more than anyone — taught her, fed her, kept her close. That kind of affection didn't go unnoticed. His superiors… they didn't like it. They said he was too attached, that he was losing sight of his vows. But he wouldn't let her go."
Her voice cracked, and she turned away. "That's why they made him leave the orphanage."
Hale flicked ash onto the floor. "You said you didn't meet him there."
"I didn't," she replied quickly. "He reached out to me later, after I'd left the convent. He said he had something important to tell me — a secret."
"What kind of secret?"
Anne hesitated, as if weighing whether her soul could survive speaking it aloud. Finally she said, "He told me that Jennifer's parents didn't die in an accident. They were murdered. And it was a man named Voss who killed them."
The silence after that was sharp enough to cut. Hale lowered the cigarette slowly. "You're sure he said that?"
"Yes," she whispered. "He said this Voss had reasons — reasons he meant to reveal to someone named Vincent. Father Andrew was supposed to meet him, to tell him everything, but…"
"He never made it," Hale finished for her. "Because someone shot him."
Anne nodded, her eyes glistening. "I swear that's all I know. He called me the night before he died, said he was scared. I told him to go to the police, but he said he couldn't — said it was bigger than him."
Hale studied her, unblinking. "And you've told no one else about this?"
"No one. I have a child now. I've been hiding. Please, don't let them find me."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another envelope. Inside was a check — five figures, crisp and clean. He placed it on the counter beside her basket of apples. "You'll keep quiet about what you've said. No one needs to know you talked to me."
Anne didn't touch it. "You can't buy silence forever, Mr. Hale."
"I don't need forever," he said. "Just long enough."
She stared at the envelope for a moment, then sighed. "There's something else he told me that night. Something I didn't understand."
Hale tilted his head. "I'm listening."
"Father Andrew said Jennifer wasn't alone in the world — she had a brother. He'd found proof of it. But Voss already knew, and he was planning something. He wanted to use the boy for whatever it was he was doing."
Hale's brows drew tight. "Where is he? The brother."
"I don't know," she whispered. "Father Andrew never said. Only that Voss knew, and that he was dangerous. He said if anything ever happened to him, someone would come asking. Maybe you're that someone."
Hale slipped the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it against the counter. "Maybe I am."
He reached for his hat, placed it low over his eyes, and turned toward the door. Before leaving, he said quietly, "Forget I was ever here, Miss Gabrielle. Pray harder — you'll need it."
When the door closed, Anne collapsed onto the stool, tears streaking down her face. Outside, Marcus Hale lit another cigarette and stared out toward the gray line of the horizon. His phone buzzed with a text: You asked for this address. He exhaled sharply.
The sea was calm, but inside him, a storm had begun to stir.