The 7th Canon by Robert Dugoni Read Free Book Online Page A

right. It’s a building, not a home, but let’s have someone do some research and see if there is some precedent when the building is for a single purpose, like a boys’ club . . . something like that. It could be a stretch, though, since the priest keeps a room in the office, and the boys sleep there.”
    “He lives there?” St. Claire asked.
    “He has a bed and a sink in a closet at the back of his office.” Ramsey sat in the chair next to St. Claire, crossed his Ferragamo loafers, and pressed his fingertips together, creating a pyramid beneath his chin. “I had a tour.”
    Ramsey would not be district attorney long. Every significant poll predicted he would be California’s next attorney general. His father, Augustus, had taken the same career path to become a two-term governor, an office from which he had launched an unsuccessful bid for the Republican presidential nomination.
    Ramsey said what everyone in the room had been thinking. “We all know this is a political hornet’s nest. A lot of people in city hall supported Father Martin and his project, including me. If we mishandle this, there will be enough mud to cover us all.”
    “What about the letter opener? Where did Connor find it?” St. Claire asked.
    “Also in the office,” Begley said.
    “Also a problem,” Ramsey said. “How bad are the photographs?”
    “Bad,” St. Claire said. “Hard core, prepubescent. Enough to shock any juror.”
    The softness of St. Claire’s blonde hair and blue eyes belied her reputation and her résumé. Her ten capital-murder convictions numbered more than any other prosecutor in the state and had earned her a nickname she publicly rebuffed, but which many of her colleagues believed she privately relished: “St. Claire, the Chair.” This was the type of high-profile, winnable case Ramsey seemed to always assign her, which had led to other, less-flattering nicknames from her colleagues, names like “Cherry Picker” and “Glory Hound.” It had also raised suspicions about the nature of their relationship.
    “How old is the victim?” Ramsey asked.
    “Undetermined,” O’Malley said. “Sixteen, according to his juvenile records.”
    “Any theories on a possible motive?”
    Begley shook his head. “Father Martin has no history of violence or sexual misconduct.”
    “He has a juvenile record in New York,” St. Claire said.
    That got everyone’s attention, which O’Malley suspected had been St. Claire’s intent. Out-of-state records had to come from the FBI through the National Crime Information Center. Getting them was difficult, getting them so quickly, usually impossible.
    “I made a call to a law-school friend this morning,” she said coyly. “Father Martin was arrested for vandalism and malicious mischief. He stole a car when he was thirteen and did some time in a juvenile facility.”
    Ramsey dismissed it. “I could have saved you the call. He offered that information when he was stumping for his shelter. He made it a positive, said it helped him to relate to the boys—kids with problems, without role models; kids in need of a break.”
    “Maybe not so positive,” St. Claire said.
    “The point is, he isn’t hiding it.” Ramsey stood and stretched his back, then resumed jiggling the change in his pockets.
    O’Malley turned to Begley. “What do we know about the victim?”
    Begley pulled out a notebook. “Andrew Bennet. Goes by the nickname ‘Alphabet.’ Multiple arrests for prostitution, lewd behavior, drugs, possession with intent to distribute, a couple of B and E’s. He’s a regular in the Gulch.”
    “Not a choirboy,” Ramsey said.
    “Far from it,” Begley agreed.
    “We need to get back inside the building, find something that gets us closer to a motive. You froze it?” Ramsey asked.
    “I had no choice after Connor went Rambo.”
    “Does the priest have a lawyer?” Ramsey asked.
    Begley shrugged. “I don’t know.”
    “Has he asked for one?”
    “No,