Chapter 5

Markow had resisted contacting immigration or homeland security so far, but he knew his options were running out. Chief Grissom had phoned earlier to inform him that none of the other residents of the apartment building was able to provide any leads. Apparently MacSween and the people he was with had only moved in a few months ago and they kept pretty much to themselves.

"The apartment owner wasn't much better to be honest," Grissom had said. "She took a hefty cash deposit and didn't bother with too many details or checks. All she could give me was the woman's name — a Mrs Christine Anderson. She was informed last week that they would be moving out, but there's no forwarding address. I'm afraid it's looking pretty much like a dead-end, Greg."

Markow puzzled over the name of the woman who had rented the apartment. Anderson, not MacSween. That didn't sound as if he was dealing with family. Who was this Christine Anderson?

St Luke's was quite a modern church — more like a giant ranch style house than a place of worship. Gavin parked the SUV and walked up the path that led to the church doors. A signpost declared the timing of services and proclaimed that Fr Liam O'Connor was the priest.

The doors were unlocked and Gavin entered the church. Immediately inside the door was a font with water in it — holy water he guessed — and then the pews stretched forward on both sides of the aisle at the head of which stood the pulpit and the altar. A huge crucifix was mounted on the wall behind the altar and ornately carved wooden benches were set out on either side — probably for the choir. Candles of varying sizes were flickering as they slowly burned, lit perhaps by worshippers who wished to remember someone or offer up a prayer for whatever reason.

There was no sign of life and Gavin called out.

"Hello! Hello, is there anyone here?"

Noise from up ahead drew his attention. A door to the right of the altar opened and a man appeared. Judging by the suit and the dog-collar he was wearing, this had to be the priest.

"Can I help you?" he asked, as he walked down the aisle of the church.

Gavin walked forward to meet him.

"I'm Father O'Connor, welcome to St Luke's," he said, extending his hand.

Gavin guessed the man was in his fifties — his steel grey hair somewhat at odds with the still dark, black, eyebrows.

"Pleased to meet you, Father," Gavin said, shaking the priest's hand.

The priest looked at him expectantly, no doubt waiting for Gavin to introduce himself, but instead he began to explain why he was here.

"I'm hoping you can help me. I'm on something of a mission — to try to pass on a dying man's last words to his wife. I've managed to track down where they lived together, but unfortunately the woman's no longer there. The lady who owns the apartment they rented doesn't have any idea where the woman has gone, but she did remember the family were regular attendees at this church. I guess I'm clutching at straws a little, but I was hoping someone here might be able to help me find her," said Gavin.

His explanation clearly intrigued the priest.

"Of course I'll try to help if I can. What did you say the woman's name was?" he asked.

"I didn't, but it was Rose, Rose Sinclair and her husband was Johnny Sinclair. They had a young son, Donald. The only problem is that it may have been ten years ago since they last visited the church," explained Gavin.

He saw a reaction to Rose's name in the priest's eyes, but the man's response was at odds with that.

"Well now, I've been the priest here at St Luke's for going on eighteen years, but I don't remember a family by that name. Are you sure you've got the right church?" the priest asked.

Gavin was puzzled by the response. He could swear the priest had recognised Rose's name, so why would he deny knowing the Sinclairs?

"Are you sure?" Gavin pressed. "It was definitely this church and apparently they never missed a service. I was told they came every Sunday — rain or shine."

Father O'Connor shook his head and gave the impression he was no longer interested in continuing his conversation with Gavin.

"Young man, I know my flock very well indeed, particularly those who attend church so regularly. I can assure you that I know no one of that name. I'm sorry I can't be of any help to you in your mission, but I really have to be getting on now. It was nice meeting you, good luck."

Gavin had the sense that he had just been dismissed. The priest turned and walked back up the aisle, giving Gavin one last glance over his shoulder as he disappeared back through the door he had come from.

He stood for a few moments replaying the priest's reaction.

"I'm positive he recognised Rose's name, so why is he lying to me?"

Instead of leaving, Gavin decided that he had to confront the priest with his suspicions. He walked down the aisle, his martial arts training lending grace and balance to his movements. Reaching the door, he paused and listened, hearing the priest's voice on the other side.

"I tell you, he was asking about Rose. No, he didn't give me his name, but he's definitely looking for her."

Gavin pushed the door gently open and found himself looking Father O'Connor in the eye. The priest's eyes widened in surprise when he saw Gavin and he halted in mid-sentence.

"I have to go," he said, as he dropped the phone into its cradle. "What are you doing here, this is a private room!"

"Why are you lying to me?" Gavin asked, ignoring the priest's protest.

"I'd like you to leave. Now. Get out!" the priest snapped.

"Why are you lying? You clearly do know Rose. Who were you talking to on the phone?" Gavin demanded.

The priest picked up the phone again and punched in three numbers.

"Police? This is Father O'Connor at St Luke's. I'm afraid I'm having a little trouble with an intruder in the church."

Gavin cursed. That was his cue to leave. He spun on his heel and walked quickly back down the aisle and out of the church. He started up the SUV and decided to return to the Holiday Inn. It seemed that he would have to spend another night in Monroe if he was going to continue his search. The priest's behaviour was annoying him. Why had he lied? Who had he phoned? If he did know something about Rose, why couldn't he share it?

"The deeper into this situation I get, the more questions there seem to be," he thought.

Once he had a room, he fired up his laptop and took advantage of the wi-fi to go on-line. The wonderful power of Google soon helped him identify that a marriage license in Monroe would have been issued by the country clerk's office, working out of the county court. Typing in another search he found that he could access the Ouachita Parish County records on-line (for a small fee of course).

Given he already knew the date that Johnny and Rose were married; it wasn't difficult to find a copy of their marriage license. Gavin studied the details that were recorded. The names were important.

John Innes Sinclair

Rose Louise Latour

There were also two other names given as witnesses to the marriage, but they meant nothing to Gavin. He took a note of them anyway along with the addresses given for Johnny and Rose. Both addresses were in Baton Rouge.

"Why get married in Monroe if they both lived in Baton Rouge?" he asked himself.

Acting on a hunch, Gavin decided to search for a birth registration for Donald Sinclair while he was in the records website. He entered the details of the mother and father, including the address of the apartment on Lasalle, and the baby's name — Donald.

His search took fractions of a second to return the details. There it was, the registration of the birth of Donald Henry Sinclair, born on March 10th, 1998. That would make him 11 years old now.

Coming out of the County records website, Gavin returned to Google and typed in John Innes Sinclair and the address in Baton Rouge. He was pleasantly surprised to see that he had scored more than twenty hits and he clicked on the first one.

Over the course of the next hour he read everything he could find and the information had him more puzzled than ever. At first he thought the name had to be a co-incidence, that Johnny had the same name as someone else. The fourth link included a photograph however, and there was no doubt that the John Innes Sinclair he was reading about was the same man as the one who had died by the rail tracks.