Page 133 of You'll Never Find Me

He nodded. “I do, Jack.”

“I’m going to move my truck,” Jack said. “We don’t know how much he’s been around watching the place, and he might know I’m Margo’s brother. But I’ll be here, out of sight, the whole time. And Father Diaz and O’Neil won’t be here, correct?”

“No. Not until nine tonight.”

The school had a half day and the kids were already off campus. Father Diaz and Father O’Neil were at a day-long retreat in Sun Valley that Uncle Rafe was supposed to be at, but he backed out at the last minute. There was always the off-chance that a parishioner would come by the rectory or the church seeking guidance, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it. The office had a closed sign, as well as the church, and because the retreat had been scheduled long ago, they had no Mass this evening.

Jack hoped no one showed up. His concern was about innocent bystanders. He would let Uncle Rafe worry about Carillo’s soul.

“Then we’re good,” Jack said and left.

He put his toolbox behind the driver’s seat of his truck, then drove it around the block and parked. His cell phone rang. It was Rick.

“All good?” Jack answered.

“Why did you have to do this the day Sam graduates? I would be there.”

“You can’t, Rick. You know that.” He was a cop, and if Carillo felt like he was being entrapped it could jeopardize the entire case against him. “Did you talk to Sullivan?”

“Yes, called him first thing this morning and said exactly what we discussed. That Margo, as a long-time friend, came to me concerned that Peter Carillo was following her, and I learned he’d looked up her license plate on Monday. I was going to call his boss, but noted that there was an investigation into his wife’s disappearance and Sullivan was the lead detective.”

“Good. Better that you keep your fingers as clean as possible.”

“What are you two planning?”

“Better you don’t know.”

“Dammit, Jack.”

“I’ll see you at Sam’s party on Sunday, okay?”

Rick grumbled, but said fine and hung up.

One down.

Jack arrived back at the rectory five minutes later. Rafe was right where he had left him, sitting in the kitchen, a glass of iced tea between his hands. “Ready?”

Rafe let out a breath, sipped the tea, put the glass down. His hand was shaking.

“Hey, Uncle Rafe, we’re not going to let anything happen to you, okay? I promise.”

“What about Mr. Carillo?”

“Neither Margo nor I want bloodshed.”

Rafe walked to his office, picked up his phone, and dialed Peter Carillo’s cell phone. As Jack had already told him, he put the call on speaker. Jack started the recording. Arizona state law allowed conversations to be recorded as long as at least one party knew they were being recorded. “Mr. Carillo?”

“Yes? Who’s this?”

“This is Father Raphael Morales. You came by my church the other night asking about your wife, Annie.”

Silence.

“Mr. Carillo, are you there?”

“Are you going to tell me where my wife is?”

“After you left, I’ve lain awake at night, trying to come up with a solution to your problem. I think the best thing at this point is to offer my services to mediate.”