He was a stupid fool.

      Why had he expected her to be home last night? She was a beautiful woman. She wouldn’t sit around the shelter day in and day out. His cop’s intuition told him there was something about Samantha Turner that was far from saintlike.

      He’d felt like a total idiot as he’d thrust the flat of impatiens into the hands of the young black woman who’d answered the door earlier in the day. Her sullen mood had dissipated to some extent, but it hadn’t kept her from issuing a warning. “Ms. Turner has no interest in men.”

      With those words, she’d slammed the door in his face and left him pondering all night long the meaning behind them.

      Given the nature of the shelter, and the scars he’d seen on her back, it seemed likely that Ms. Turner’s aversion to men had to do with a relationship with one man that had soured her on the species in general.

      And you’re about to remedy that? The annoying little voice in his head had challenged him for the entire drive back to the shelter this morning.

      He really had no more information than he’d had the day before. Which meant that unless she abruptly changed her tune about her whereabouts on the night of the shooting, it would do little good to see her again.

      So instead of walking up her stoop he headed to the end of the block, to the store where his one supposed witness lived and worked.

      Peter gazed through the large display window at the various items for sale along with the santero’s services. Rumor claimed he was a healer, although Peter was reluctant to put much faith in gossip. Doctors healed. This guy was probably a con man robbing people of what little they had left from their social security and welfare checks.

      Not that Peter could do anything about it, even if that was the case.

      As he walked to the door, the sign that said Closed flipped to Open.

      Inside, it was not what Peter had expected.

      In the anteroom of the shop, one wall held an assortment of candles and books related to various religions. A glass-topped display counter ran along the opposite wall and bore an antique cash register. Within the counter, religious medals and pins made of gold, silver and semiprecious stones gleamed. Behind the register stood the healer himself and beyond him, bookshelves filled with dried flowers and herbs alongside sacred statues and other items of devotion.

      “May I help you, Detective Daly?” Ricardo asked.

      “Mr. Fernandez,” Peter said with a nod of his head. “I wanted to confirm the information you provided the other night.”

      Peter walked into the back room of the shop. Here at the farthest wall, there was a small altar holding a large statue of a saint, although he couldn’t identify which one despite his earlier life as an altar boy. Assorted candles were scattered along the altar, together with an assortment of small bowls and dishes that held an eclectic mix of items—flowers, tobacco and some coins.

      Peter motioned to the altar. “This is—”

      “To Catholics, Santa Barbara. But to those of us who practice santeria, it is Chango, one of the strongest of the deities.” Ricardo followed Peter then sat in one of the chairs in the back room.

      Peter turned to look at him, waving his hand at the woven grass mat on the floor and the chairs circling the area. “What exactly do you do back here?”

      “Worship. The Supreme Court says it’s allowed, you know.” As he spoke, Ricardo crossed his arms in a casual stance, but there was some anger in his words.

      Peter sat in one of the chairs opposite Ricardo. “Do you do your ‘healing’ here?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, but knowing he failed miserably.

      Surprisingly, the other man took Peter’s contempt in stride. “I’m not asking that you believe, Detective. But I know I’ve helped others with my abilities.”

      Peter flipped through his notes before asking, “You say you helped one of the teenagers that night.”

      Ricardo nodded. “One of them was still alive when I got there, but bleeding badly.”

      “Was it a mystical help or—”

      “Plain old medical help. I applied pressure to his wound and tried to do what I could. I was a medic in the army before opening my store.” Peter suspected there was more to that story than he was letting on, not that it mattered to this case.

      “And how about Ms. Turner? How did you help her that night?”

      “Detective. I’ve already told you. I was the only one on the street that night with the children.”

      “Right. So tell me how it is that Ms. Turner was the one who purchased the groceries at the store? Groceries in your possession immediately after the shooting.”

      There was no trace of emotion on the santero’s face. Not even a flinch or a narrowing of the eyes. “I went to the shelter. Ms. Turner was already inside when I took the groceries from her.”

      “In your pajamas? And you walked right into the line of fire?”

      “I’m a healer, Detective. What did you expect?”

      He’d expected the santero to do exactly what he was doing, Peter thought. Cover up for Samantha Turner. Peter had no doubt she’d been there that night. Maybe even had a hand in saving the lives of the children who’d survived. But if she had done so, she had to have been injured. The blouse and the blood in the stairwell gave mute testimony to that fact.

      “Did you heal Ms. Turner after she was shot that night?”

      Shaking his head, Ricardo rose from his chair and motioned for Peter to leave. “I think we’ve exhausted this line of questioning, Detective.”

      Peter followed Ricardo back to the counter. “Did you heal her? Off the record.”

      Ricardo narrowed his eyes as he considered him. “Off the record?”

      Peter nodded.

      “What Samantha has, I can’t heal.”

      Something akin to dread filled Peter’s gut. “She’s sick? Is it—”

      “It’s not a sickness like you can imagine, Detective. It’s in here,” Ricardo said and motioned to a spot above his heart.

      “I know she’s had it rough. I saw the lines on her back.”

      Ricardo seemed almost physically jolted by that revelation. “She doesn’t show them to many people. She must trust you.”

      He didn’t want to contradict the other man by telling him that he’d given Samantha no choice. Not that they were what he’d expected. But having seen them, he’d recognized that she’d entrusted him with something very personal and very painful.

      Peter said nothing else, just closed his notepad and headed for the door.

      “Detective.”

      Peter stopped and turned.

      “Don’t make her sorry that she trusted you.”

      Chapter 6

      The morning sun was still weak and she was still in overdrive from Diego’s blood. Not to mention that a flat of salmon-colored impatiens called to her to be