Reverend Monsignor Robert Bonetti, who would be celebrating his eightieth birthday in less than a week, had served as resident pastor of St. Bartholomew’s Church in Providence longer than any other in parish history-twenty-nine years by his count-and had no plans on retiring anytime soon. This was his parish, his neighborhood, for not only had he grown up only a couple of miles away on Federal Hill, the Reverend Bonetti had over the years repeatedly turned down opportunities for promotion in order to remain among his people. And even though “St. Bart’s” was staffed by the Scalabrini Fathers-a Roman Catholic Holy Order that traditionally transferred its priests from parish to parish every ten years or so-because of Bonetti’s age, his impeccable record, his outstanding work within the community, his expansion of the church itself, and his desire to go on ministering to the masses long after he could have retired, the Scalabrini Fathers made an exception in his case and allowed him to stay on at St. Bart’s for as long as he wished.

The tall and lanky priest met Cathy and Markham on the front steps of St. Bart’s-a much more modern-looking structure than the traditional Romanesque Neo-Gothic churches that dotted the working-class neighborhoods in and around Providence. Cathy, as a professor in Brown University ’s Department of History of Art and Architecture, immediately pegged the church as having been built-or at least renovated-in the late sixties or early seventies.

“You must be Agent Markham,” said the Reverend Bonetti, offering his hand. “Which means that you, my dear, are Doctor Catherine Hildebrant.”

“Yes, I am. A pleasure to meet you, Father.”

“Likewise-the both of you.”

“You spoke with Special Agent Rachel Sullivan on the phone,” said Markham. “She explained why we wanted to talk to you?”

“Yes,” smiled the priest. “Ostensibly about our Pietà. But you see, Agent Markham, I’ve been around long enough to know that things aren’t always what they seem. The FBI wouldn’t trouble themselves with a curious little theft that happened three years ago-that is unless they felt it was somehow connected to something much more important.”

There was nothing condescending in the priest’s tone; nothing sarcastic or off-putting. No, the Reverend Bonetti spoke with the simple sincerity of a man who did not wish to play games; a man whose gentle, bespectacled eyes and thick Rhode Island accent spoke of someone who had indeed been around long enough to know what’s what.

“This is really about that Michelangelo Killer, isn’t it?” asked the priest. “About what happened down there at Watch Hill?”

“Yes, it is,” said Markham.

For the first time the Reverend Robert Bonetti’s gaze dropped to the ground, his mind entirely somewhere else. And after what seemed to Cathy like an interminable silence, the priest once again met Markham ’s eyes.

“Follow me,” he said.

Once inside the dimly lit church, the good reverend led Cathy and Markham to a small chamber off the main church-the devotional chapel dedicated not only to a large pyramid of votive candles, but also to a series of marble statues that lined the surrounding walls. The statues were of various saints and were themselves also bordered by smaller stands of candles, and the sweet smell of scented wax made Cathy feel queasy. Behind the pyramid of votive candles, at the rear of the devotional chapel, Cathy and Markham were surprised by what they found: a large, exquisitely carved replica of Michelangelo’s Rome Pietà.

“Exactly like the one that was taken three years ago,” said the Reverend Bonetti. “That one had been donated by a wealthy family a number of years before I arrived here at St. Bart’s. It was hand carved to the exact proportions of the original, as well as from the same type of marble Michelangelo used five hundred years ago. Carrara marble, it is called. And as is the case with the statue you see before you, our other Pietà was made by a skilled artisan in Italy whose studio produces only a couple dozen statues per year-usually ranging in size, like this one, from about three to four feet high. His name is Antonio Gambardelli, and his statues are much more accurate, much more expensive than any other replicas on the market not only because of their attention to detail, but also because of their proportional accuracy. Indeed, at least three years ago, a Gambardelli Pietà of this size was valued at close to twenty thousand American dollars. I know this because whoever took our statue not only left us with instructions on how to replace it, but also left us the means to do so.”

“Wait a minute,” said Markham. “You’re telling me that the thief left you twenty thousand dollars?”

“Twenty-five thousand to be exact,” smiled the priest. “A little detail that I neglected to tell the Providence Police upon their initial investigation. You see, Agent Markham, when you’ve been around as long as I have, you begin to understand something of human nature. The person or persons who took our Pietà left the money in cash, in an envelope addressed to me right there on the pedestal, so that I could replace it-not so that I could redecorate the evidence room at the Providence Police Station, if you take my meaning.”

Sam Markham was silent, his mind spinning.

“The extra five thousand was undoubtedly intended for us to cover the shipping costs of the statue, as well as to repair the damage from the break-in and to compensate us for our trouble.”

“Why report the theft at all then?” asked Markham, his voice tight. “Why not just take the money, replace your statue, and not be bothered-that is, since you intended not to cooperate fully with the authorities to begin with?”

“I was the only one who knew about the money, Agent Markham, as I was the first one in the church on the morning after the break-in. However, the damage to the side door and the absence of the statue itself could not be hidden from my fellow Scalabrini, let alone the congregation. You see, Agent Markham, the money was addressed to me-twenty-five thousand dollar bills in a sealed envelope. There was no need to report it, as whoever took our Pietà seemed to want it, seemed to need it more than we did here at St. Bart’s. And even though I may not have understood that need, I took the gift of the money as an act of faith, as a confidential act of penance. And up until the telephone call from the FBI, took the person who left the twenty-five thousand dollars in the statue’s place as a man with a conscience.”

Sam Markham was silent again, his eyes fixed on the Pietà.

“But now,” the Reverend Bonetti continued, “I see that my silence may have been misguided, for now I see that the FBI thinks the man who took our Pietà three years ago might be the same man who murdered those two boys-the same man who made them into that horrific sculpture down at Watch Hill.”

“The envelope,” said Markham, turning to the priest. “The sheet of instructions on how to replace the statue-I don’t suppose you saved them?”

The Reverend Robert Bonetti smiled and reached into the inside pocket of his black blazer.

“I hoped this might help you forgive me for not telling the authorities about the money sooner. But now I hope even more that it’ll change your opinion of me being just a simple and foolish old man.”

The envelope that the priest handed Markham had scrawled across it in neatly looped cursive the words, For Father Bonetti. Inside, Markham found a brief handwritten note not only giving instructions on how to obtain another Pietà from Gambardelli, but also a short apology for any inconvenience the thief may have caused Father Bonetti and his parish. Markham showed the note to Cathy. She recognized the handwriting immediately.

Flowery. Feminine. Precise.

The same handwriting from the notes she received five and a half years earlier.