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disappearance. He had been a man of habits, at least in the early part of his days. Up at 5:30 for his morning prayers, opening the doors to the church at 6:30, on the altar next door for Mass at 7 &A.M.&, breakfast served by Mrs. Borelli promptly at ten minutes to eight. “He’d smell the bacon and keep the sermon short,” she said, comforted by the memory.
    The rest of a typical day involved parish administration, visits to the sick, and meetings at a handful of community groups he served on. The housekeeper affirmed that he followed his pattern his last few days. Well, almost. “He had taken to longer lunches away in the afternoons. And was late for supper a few times, which was not like him.”
    Heat drained her coffee cup and made a note. “Every day?” she asked.
    “Let me think. No, not every.” Nikki waited while the woman thought and then wrote down the days and times she recalled while Mrs. B. poured her a refill.
    “What about his nights?”
    “He always heard confessions from seven to seven-thirty, although not many customers these days. Changing times, Detective.”
    “And after confessions?”
    The housekeeper’s face pinked and she rearranged the sugar bowl and creamer on the tabletop. “Oh, he’d read sometimes or watch an old movie on TV or meet with a parishioner if someone needed counseling—drugs, abused women, that sort of thing.”
    Nikki sensed a dodge and asked another way. “Was there any time that he wasn’t working? What did he do for recreation?”
    Her face reddened a bit more and she said to the creamer, “Detective, I don’t want to speak ill of him; he was flesh, as we all are, but Father Gerry, he liked his drink and he would spend his evenings most nights having his Cutty at the Brass Harpoon.” Another note to follow up on. If he had been a regular at a bar, even if it didn’t lead to suspects, it meant friends, or at least drinking buddies, who might have some insights into a side of the padre the old woman wasn’t privy to.
    Nikki then got to the awkward question she knew had to be asked. “I told you this morning where we found the body.” Mrs. Borelli nodded in a small, shameful way. “Do you have any indication that Father Graf was . . . involved in that lifestyle?”
    For the first time, she saw anger in the woman. Her face grew stony and her eyes were riveted on Heat’s. “Detective, that man took a vow of celibacy. He was a holy man doing God’s work on earth and he lived a life of poverty, chastity, and obedience.”
    “Thank you,” said Nikki. “I hope you understand, I had to ask.” Heat then switched gears, studying the pages she had generated, and said, “I notice yesterday, the day you last saw him, as well as the day before, he left immediately after breakfast instead of conducting his usual meetings and office work. Any idea why he changed pattern?”
    “Mm, no. He didn’t say.”
    “You asked him?”
    “Yes. He told me to butt out. Joking but not joking, either.”
    “Did you notice any changes in his mood?”
    “I did. He was sharper with me. Like the butt out joke. The Father Gerry I knew would have said that and I’d have laughed. And so would he.” Her lips drew tight. “He was definitely on edge.”
    Heat had to come at it again. “And you have no idea where this tension came from?” When she shook no, Nikki asked, “Anybody argue with him? Threaten him?”
    “Not the past few days, as I recall.”
    Odd answer from the woman who seemed to recall everything about him. Nikki made a note to come back to that one later. “Any problems at the church?”
    “There are always problems at the church,” she said with a chuckle. “But nothing out of the ordinary.”
    “Any new people around? Strangers, anyone coming by at odd times, anything like that?”
    She rubbed her chin and shook no again. “I’m sorry, Detective.”
    “Don’t be silly,” said Nikki. “You’re doing fine.”
    Fatigue and the stress of a traumatic day