Page 59 of Last Resort

Hendricks shook his head. “Other than incense? No. And we didn’t notice that anywhere was colder than the rest of the room.”

“Okay—let’s see what Carr left behind,” Erik said.

Ben and Hendricks followed him while the deputy remained outside on guard.

Erik hesitated at the doorway, scanning the frame for sigils or evidence of spell work, but found nothing. Hendricks pulled the curtains to let in light, and Erik’s eyes grew wide.

“Oh, my,” Erik murmured.

“Fuck,” Ben said beside him.

Old photos, newspaper articles, and newer printouts were taped to the walls around the room. Ink-scrawled sheets of notebook paper littered the floor. Take-out containers overflowed the garbage can.

“Over there.” Ben nudged Erik and pointed to the corner.

One nightstand had been moved from the bed to the far wall and served as a shrine covered with a yellow and red cloth. A vase filled with drooping gladiolas in the same colors shared the space with white pillar candles and an incense burner. White ribbons spattered with red trailed from the vase. A figurine of a wolf sat next to the candle.

A few cookies and a withered apple lay on a plate—probably offerings, Erik thought. His eye was drawn to an ornate filigree box with a red velvet lining that lay open—and empty—on one side of the table.

On the wall above the shrine hung a poster in the style of a traditional saint’s painting. A woman with a defiant expression held a key in one hand and a single red gladiolus stem in the other. Thirty-two bullet holes marked her bloodstained old-fashioned nun’s habit.

Erik looked to Ben. “You grew up Catholic. Which saint is that?”

Ben shook his head. “First off, I flunked my catechism. Second—there are hundreds of official saints, not to mention the unofficial ones. And considering everything else we know about Carr, I’m going to bet she’s one of the underground saints.”

“Underground saints?” Hendricks asked.

Ben nodded. “Ever heard of Santa Muerte? She’s a cross between the personification of Death and the Holy Mother—revered in narco culture, along with several other ‘unofficial ’ saints. The Mob has its own, either saints who aren’t acknowledged by the Vatican or traditional saints who have been given a second meaning by the mobsters and the priests who support them.”

“Religious mobsters?” Hendricks questioned.

“Did you never watchThe Godfather?” Ben half turned to give Hendricks the side eye. “The religious ties and rituals run deep, even for the worst of the worst. At least that’s true in the Italian Mob.”

“Learn something new every day,” Hendricks said. “So you think all this means something?” He gestured to encompass everything from the scribbled notes to the shrine.

“Definitely,” Erik said. “May I take photos of the shrine? I have contacts who know more about some of these things than I do. But I’m certain there’s a reason for this particular saint.”

“Go ahead—just don’t post it on social media,” Hendricks muttered.

Ben made a slow circle of the room, reading the information tacked up on the wall. “He was definitely stalking Tom Raines.” He pointed to grainy photos of the dead man.

Erik tore his gaze away from the shrine long enough to glance at the pictures and realized that Carr had made the connection to Fun Factory with antique photos that he probably found online and a newer shot of the tower, all that remained of the old entertainment complex.

Since the tower was now on land used as a military installation, Erik wasn’t counting on it being a likely hiding place for Edwin’s loot.

“He’s got photos of Trinkets too.” Ben’s voice went flat and cold, something Erik thought of as going into “cop mode,” which Ben did when a threat arose. “And some of Tom Raines in the rental unit before the murder.”

“Anything else you make of all this?” Hendricks asked.

“Just a theory that Carr got help from a witch with Mob ties to help him track Tom Raines and look for Edwin’s treasure,” Erik said. “He clearly believes in the supernatural and that it can intervene on his behalf. That makes it likely he trusts the witch as well, and probably has been using spells and rituals to help him search for the treasure.”

Erik pointed to the empty filigree box. “That worries me. I think he’s gotten his hands on a relic from this saint, something he believes has magical power—and which just might.”

“Relic?” Hendricks asked.

“Something that belonged to a saint or biblical figure,” Ben clarified. “Nearly all Catholic churches have some sort of relic. It could be a splinter from the ‘true’ cross or a piece of cloth or a lock of hair from a saint—or a bone.”

“Real bones?”

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