“LET ME SEE IF I HAVE this straight, darling,” Helen says as we pull into the police station parking lot a little after 6 p.m. “Archbishop Knowland is driving all the way here from Baltimore first thing tomorrow morning, and he wants to see the letters we received.”
“That’s exactly it,” I nod.
“And he didn’t say why?”
“No. But something about what I said spooked him. Do you have a problem showing him the letters?”
“None at all,” Helen says. “I can use all the help I can get.”
Pulling into a space behind the station, I put the car in park and turn to her. “Nothing so far?”
“Not unless they found something at Saint Clare’s.” She sighs. “The shot clearly came from the produce stand—the trajectory of the bullet we recovered lines up right—and someone was definitely in there. The door was
