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Jake McCartey walked along the street with his ungloved hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Not wearing gloves was stupid, he knew, but he had already made one concession to the freezing cold of January in New York City - the watch cap that squashed his "signature" SoCal hair - and he wasn't ready to make another. He still didn't like how the gloves restricted his hands, he didn't like losing his sense of touch and he certainly didn't like how much more difficult they made it to pull his weapon out. Of course, he thought, hands numb from the cold might be just as bad. At least, he told himself, it had stopped snowing. He was about six blocks south from the site of Margaret Charles' murder when he noticed a sign on a door:

BROTHERS of ST. IGNATIUS

In peace, we welcome all to our home.

He stopped in his tracks. In all the reports he had read from the uniforms, he didn't recall any one of them mentioning this place. Jake took a step back to take a good look at the structure. It was a small building with two storefronts, both with curtains covering the windows and blocking the view inside. One storefront door was labeled "CHAPEL" and the other "WELCOME". He started to reach for the latter one with one hand and reached into his pant pocket to grab his badge with his other hand. He paused just before touching the knob. He knocked on the door instead.

Jake wasn't sure what exactly to expect other than the quick, vague notion of bald men in brown robes that flashed in his brain, so he was surprised by the appearance of the man who opened the door. Jake estimated he was about forty years old and a little taller than Jake. He wore faded jeans and a black sweater. From his features, Jake would have guessed that he was Latino or maybe Native American. His piercing, brown-black eyes gave him a fierce look which immediately softened when he smiled gently at Jake.

"Welcome," he said. "How can I help you?"

Jake could hear faint noises of conversation and clinking glassware from inside. He raised his badge into the man's line of sight. "Jake McCartey. NYPD. Can I speak with whoever is in charge for a few minutes?"

The man smiled a little more and offered a hand. "If anyone is in charge here it might be me. I'm Robert. Robert Meadows."

Jake shook his hand and Meadows added, "Please come in and out of the cold."

He opened the door further and stepped aside so Jake could enter. Stepping inside, Jake saw several tables set up next to each other to form one large dining table with about thirty people sharing dinner. Among them were women and children which Jake did not expect to be "Brothers of St. Ignatius." There was a nice aroma wafting from the table that Jake couldn't identify, but it definitely smelled good. Jake stood aside rubbing warmth into his hands while Meadows closed the door behind them. Jake said, "I'm sorry if I interrupted your dinner."

"It's quite all right. Have you eaten? You are welcome to join us."

"No, thanks."

"How about something to warm you up? Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee would be great. Thanks."

"Follow me."

Jake gave the other diners what he hoped was an apologetic nod and followed Meadows through a door that lead to a large kitchen. Jake could smell the coffee and guessed the pot had just finished brewing. Meadows indicated the small bistro table in the corner and Jake took a seat. Jake watched as Meadows grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured the coffee. The man radiated a sense of peace and calm that Jake had only seen a few times before in the faces of old-time surfers as they described the perfect wave.

"Milk or sugar?" Meadows asked setting the mug before Jake.

"No." Jake shook his head then wrapped his hands around the mug. "Thanks for the coffee."

Meadows sat across from him and said, "So how can I help you?"

Jake took a sip from the coffee. It needed sugar, but it was good and hot. "I'm investigating a murder that happened a few blocks from here."

Meadows nodded, somewhat sadly. "The one by Noah's Deli? I heard about that."

Jake reached into his back pant pocket and took out Margaret's picture. He showed it to Meadows. "Do you know her?"

His eyes widened slightly in surprise or shock. "That's ...that's Margaret. Is she..."

"Yes, I'm sorry."

Meadows closed his eyes, his hands coming together and his lips moving in a silent prayer. Jake waited, drinking his coffee. When Meadows opened his eyes, his brow furrowed with confusion and sorrow.

"What can you tell me about her?" Jake asked.

"Not much, really. She was separated from her family and needed a place to stay. She comes to stay with us for a few days every year or so for about the last ten years."

"Do you know who she was hiding from?"

"No, she wouldn't talk about it, but I sensed it was from dangerous people. She said she was not running from the law, but that it we would be safer if we didn't know who was after her."

"Can I see her room?" Jake asked.

"Of course."

As Jake followed Meadows out the kitchen to the back stairs, he asked, "So is this a church?"

Meadows gave him a little smile. "Not exactly. We are a non-denominational group, open to all. We pray together and discuss our various beliefs, but we focus on doing good in our community. We volunteer and help out however we can. Sometimes that means we do labor, sometimes we work with local kids, sometimes we provide a shoulder to cry on or an ear for your troubles, sometimes a place to stay."

"Why Saint Ignatius?"

"Our group was founded over seventy years ago by a former Jesuit priest." Meadows shrugged. "He said he owed it to the order."

As they went up the stairs, Jake took notice of the pictures lining the wall. Many were of the group's activities -meals, softball games, construction work, weddings- but one picture caught his attention because it seemed so out of place. It was a black-and-white photograph of a smiling woman with long, dark hair and light eyes. She was beautiful in an aristocratic sort of way, but her smile was full of warmth and love.

Meadows said, "That's Catherine."

Jake looked up at Meadows who had stopped a few steps above him. "She was a benefactor to us," continued Meadows, "oh, fifty years ago, I think. That was before my time. She brokered an arrangement with a wealthy individual who provides us with a generous funding in perpetuity."

"What individual?" Jake asked, continuing up the stairs behind Meadows who had started up the stairs again.

"I don't know. They've always wished to remain anonymous." He paused, thinking a moment. "Come to think of it, Margaret said she was a friend of Catherine's. That was how she had heard of us."

Meadows led him down a hall to a door at the end of the hall. "This was Margaret's room." He reached into a pocket and took out a ring of keys. He flipped through a few keys until he found the right one and unlocked the door. Jake followed him in.

The room was sparse with only a bed, a desk and a chest of drawers, but it was clean and tidy. A small window by the bed only needed one curtain to cover it. The curtain had a faded flower print and Jake wasn't sure if it was faded because of age or because the design was supposed to be faded.

"I should really head back to dinner," Meadows said. "Some of the brothers have family visiting..."

"No worries," Jake interrupted. "Would it be okay if I looked around?"

"Take your time and let me know if you need anything else."

Jake nodded, stepping farther into the room.

When Meadows reached the door, he turned back. "Detective McCartey? Do you think you'll find out who killed her?"

Jake gave him a reassuring smile. "We are doing our best."

Meadows nodded then left, closing the door behind him.

Jake didn't take long to search the room. A coat, a few shirts and two skirts hung in the closet and one pair of sandals were on the floor. The drawer chest had some socks and underclothes in the top drawer; the others were empty. Except for a pen and a blank notepad, the desk was empty as well. Jake sat on the bed, looking around the room, reminding himself that he would have to call Jarod again soon. There has to be more, Jake thought. He jumped off the bed then immediately dropped to his knees. Under the bed was a large backpack, the kind used by serious climbers or hikers on long treks. He pulled it out from under the bed, tossed it on top of the bed and sat down beside it. Inside the pack, he found three things - a first aid kit, a journal and a scrapbook. He took the scrapbook out first and flipped through it. It was mainly filled with newspaper articles, many with Jarod's picture, but a few had pictures of another man. Some articles had notes written on them. Jake sat back against the headboard, flipped to the first page in the scrapbook, and began to read.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

To be continued...