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had her killer been a stranger?
    It wasn’t the first time he’d been at a crime scene where a member of the convent had been killed; his aunt had suffered and died at the hands of a maniac during an earlier case Montoya had investigated, the very case in which he’d met his wife.
    A cold finger of déjà vu slid down his spine. He glanced at Bentz, who scowled darkly, the way he always did when he was lost in thought.
    The church bells tolled.
    One in the morning.
    Montoya crouched beside the victim and stared at her still-beautiful face, then glanced at the bloodied lace of her gown. “What’s with the wedding dress?”
    â€œDon’t know yet.”
    He motioned to the tiny drops of red that discolored the neckline of the old lace.
    â€œThe vic’s blood? He took the time to drop her blood on the dress?”
    â€œMy guess,” Bentz said.
    â€œWhat kind of freak are we dealing with?”
    â€œSick. Twisted.” Bentz’s eyes looked tired, the crow’s-feet near his eyes pronounced. “Aren’t they all?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œLooks like our guy made some kind of necklace with her blood.”
    â€œOr his,” Montoya thought aloud as his gaze ran over the tattered folds of the gown.
    â€œNah. We couldn’t get that lucky that he left anything.”
    â€œShe raped?”
    â€œDon’t know yet.” Bentz frowned. “I think most nuns who haven’t been married are virgins.”
    Montoya’s guts tightened. He closed his mind to the memory of he and Camille on the short sofa in her parents’ home when they were away, wouldn’t think of her beautiful breasts, firm, with dark, aroused nipples. He studied the yellowed gauze of the wedding dress and shook his head. “So where are her other clothes, the ones she was wearing before she put on this dress?” He frowned. “Or did the killer dress her after the attack?”
    â€œDoesn’t look like it was done after she was dead. As for her clothes, I’ve got a couple of guys looking. Best guess is that she would have been in her nightgown. The convent’s schedule is pretty strict. Lights-out and in bed at ten. We’re not sure on time of death, but the body was discovered around midnight. The woman who found her heard the parish church bells striking off the hours.”
    Montoya glanced beyond the pews at the small group of witnesses gathered near the back of the chapel. The priest and one nun were fully dressed, while a younger woman shivered beneath an oversized cape. Her hair was wet, and her eyes had that hollow, glazed look of a person in shock. Something about her was vaguely familiar, and Montoya felt his nerves tighten with dread.
    What the hell was this?
    â€œThe younger one, Sister Lucia, is the one who found the vic. Claimed she heard ‘something,’ but it was nothing she could really explain. The upshot was she got out of bed to check and found Sister Camille.”
    Sister Lucia.
    Sister Camille.
    Son of a bitch, this is getting worse and worse.
    He didn’t say it; instead he pointed out the obvious. “The older nun’s wearing a habit.”
    Bentz nodded. “Not the most progressive parish.”
    Montoya, still crouched, took a last look at the victim. Around Camille’s long, pale neck were a series of contusions and deep bruises, as if she’d been garrotted. Unbidden came the memory of nuzzling that neck, kissing the hollow behind her ear. His stomach knotted.
    What kind of monster had done this?
    And why? Who had Camille pissed off? Or had she been a random target?
    Straightening, he shifted his attention back to the tight group of people sequestered behind the last pew. A uniformed cop was talking to the older woman in the nun’s habit as Sister Lucia listened in, huddled under the cloak. The sixtyish priest with thinning gray hair and rimless glasses had a rumpled look, and even in the dim light,