“Now that you think back, there is something, isn’t there?”

“Well, I’m just not sure. He said something recently about feeling helpless, and he hated that. Said he was going to do something about it.”

“Do you have any idea what he meant by that?”

“No, he wouldn’t say any more. Maybe a confession that curled his toes, maybe a parishioner he couldn’t help. But there was nothing at all that unusual about that. Michael dealt with lots of problems, lots of nutcases over the years.” Dane curled his fist over the chair arm. “Maybe there was something there, something that frightened him, I don’t know. I could have called him back and talked to him some more about it, pushed him when he clammed up. Why the hell didn’t I?”

“Shut up, Dane. You’re a cop. Don’t freeze your brain up with guilt.”

“It’s hard not to. I’m Catholic.”

A meager bit of humor, but a start. Savich said, “None of this was your fault. You need to find out who killed him, that animal is the only one to blame here, the only one. Now, I’ll have Millie make the reservations for you. Tell me again, who’s the lead inspector on this?”

“Vincent Delion. Like I said, he called me right before Eloise did last night, said he knew I was FBI, knew I’d want to hear everything they had. It isn’t much as of yet. He died instantly, a shot through the forehead, clean in the front, you know, it looked like an innocent tilak, the red spot Hindus wear on their foreheads?”

“I know.”

“But it wasn’t just a red dot on the back of his head. Jesus, not on the back.” His eyes went blank.

Savich knew he couldn’t let Dane get sucked down into the reality of it, couldn’t let him dwell on the hideous mess a bullet made of the head at the exit wound. It would just bury him in pain. He said very precisely, using his hands while he spoke to force eye contact, “I don’t suppose the killer left the gun there?”