Devil in the Deadline Page 13

  “I want the name, Aaron.”

  The line fell silent.

  “You owe me one, and you know it.”

  “You’ll stop being pissed about the other thing?” he asked finally.

  “Deal.” If no other reporter had the contact info, my story would be first and better. There are worse ways to start the week.

  “You didn’t get it from me,” he warned before he rattled off the guy’s name and phone number.

  “I’ll just play psychic.”

  “Whatever works.”

  I thanked him and hung up, dialing the number he’d given me from my BlackBerry. If the guy wanted his name held out of the report, he wouldn’t pick up a caller-ID from the Telegraph office.

  It worked, in the sense that he answered the phone. It didn’t, in the sense that he promptly barked “no comment,” followed by “goodbye.”

  “Wait! Sir, I know most police officers have a kind of adversarial relationship with the press,” I blurted before he could hang up. “But I think if you ask around, you’ll find I’ve worked hard to build a reputation for fairness I’m pretty proud of.”

  The pause on his end of the line was pregnant enough to gestate an elephant.

  He sighed. “I had more than one run-in with the fella who used to cover crime up there.”

  “I understand you’re retired,” I said. “For how long?”

  “Eight years,” he said. “How did you find me, anyway? They promised to leave me out of this.”

  “I have a little experience with detective work,” I said.

  “Wait. Are you the gal who—”

  “Yes,” I interrupted.

  More silence. “He was methodical,” he said, so low I had to strain to catch it over the hubub of the newsroom.

  “He?”

  “Somebody strong cut that young lady up. But the blood was drained and gone. And the trunk was lined with plastic.”

  My hand whipped across the page. “Any markings? Clothing?” Unwelcome images of the murder scene in the old switch house flashed through my head.

  “No clothes. The level of decomp was—” He paused. “I didn’t touch or move her.”

  “Why park her in front of your house?” I wasn’t really expecting an answer, but I had to ask, anyway.

  “My guess? He wanted someone who would appreciate his work.”

  I scribbled. Sweet cartwheeling Jesus.

  “But how did this person know you were that guy? What division did you work in?”

  I knew before he spoke.

  “Homicide. Twenty-three years.”

  I thanked him profusely, promising to leave his name out of my story, and dropped the phone back into its cradle. Turning to my computer, I opened a new document, hoping I could avoid inciting a panic myself.

  Richmond detectives are searching for clues in the second apparent murder in the city this month, after the body of a young woman was discovered in historic Church Hill Sunday night.

  “A nineteen ninety-four Buick sat in front of [the complainant’s] house for two days,” RPD Spokesman Aaron White said. “He recognized the smell coming from the trunk when he was cutting his grass last night and picked the lock.”

  The man who made the discovery is a retired homicide detective.

  In an exclusive interview with the Telegraph Monday morning, the complainant, who asked that his name not be used, said what he saw of the scene looked nothing like an accidental death.

  I drummed my fingers on the desk, staring at my notes and trying to decide what to leave out. I wanted the big scoop. But I didn’t want to come off like Girl Friday, with no regard for how my story would affect people who lived in that part of town. If I was honest with myself, her stories were irritating me more than a little—losing to Charlie on occasion was part of the game. But to a faceless rival who didn’t have to stick to convention? That pissed me off. Not badly enough to go scaring the crap out of hundreds of people without better reason, though.

  “I didn’t touch or move her,” the retired police officer said, noting that the car trunk where the victim was found had been lined with plastic.

  The car was reported stolen from a Burger King parking lot in Ashland on Thursday.

  I added a few lines from the detective’s narrative, plus the car’s license plate info and a plea for anyone with information to call Crimestoppers. Finishing up with a stock quote from Aaron warning residents to be aware of their surroundings and stay safe, I scrolled back to the top and read through the story. Not too detailed, but enough to win this headline for the day. As long as Girl Friday’s secret source wasn’t in on the investigation, anyway.

  I clicked open my file on Jasmine and noted things I wanted to watch: who was the second victim? Who reported the car stolen (and was it actually stolen)? Was there video footage from the Burger King? I knew Aaron would have people checking all that out, and odds were better than even I could guilt him into giving me at least some of the answers. I scanned the day’s court docket. Nothing a few phone calls wouldn’t take care of.

  All that added up to a Monday afternoon I could spend digging for dirt on Golightly and Way of Life.

  I emailed the body dump to Bob and packed my bag. Striding to the elevator, I pulled up the phone number for the paper in California where I’d found Wolterhall’s name the night before. It was finally after nine a.m. on the west coast. Maybe my lucky streak would stretch a teeny bit further.

  Like, through this phone call and out to the Blue Ridge.

  15.

  Rose colored sunglasses

  Journalism Even Before the Age of the Internet 101: if the mention of a story from nine years ago leaves another reporter gasping and speechless, you’re following a good trail.

  The sweet news editor at the Register sucked in a sharp breath at Wolterhall’s name. When she found her voice, she told me his was the most horrifying trial she’d covered in her eighteen years at the paper. The public outcry when the guy walked out of the courthouse a free man because of a hung jury kept them buried in letters to the editor for weeks.

  Distraught at the (glossed-over) description I relayed of Jasmine’s death, she promised to email me a photo of Wolterhall as soon as she could dig one up.

  I tossed a quick thank you for the break Heavenward and laid my Louboutin slingback on the accelerator, the foothills of the mountains peeping blue-purple on the horizon.

  The sea of concrete that passed for Way of Life’s parking lot was largely empty on Monday afternoon. Shutting off the engine, I checked my email. Nothing from California. I tucked my BlackBerry into the pocket of my cream linen slacks and strolled to the front doors, examining the premises through lowered lashes.

  The church building was a massive brick and concrete structure, with wings shooting off in three directions from the central sanctuary (itself easily as big as a professional basketball arena). To the left sat a stately antebellum-style white brick building made to look like an oversized house. A huge veranda wrapped down two sides of the building, covered with climbing roses and jasmine vines I could smell from where I stood. I marked it as the dormitory by the bike rack out front.

  Past the dorm were a pair of boxy brick buildings, probably classrooms or offices (or both) and the pasture and barns.

  To the right of the church building, I spotted the TV studio—gray concrete with a ten-foot satellite dish on the roof.

  I saw probably twenty folks in the academy’s painfully plain uniforms, and one guy about my age, dressed in khakis and a blue polo. He paused halfway across the lawn, turning to stare at me before he waved and walked over.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, offering a grin almost as wide as his shoulders.

  “I’m just visiting,” I said. “It’s such a lovely day.”

  “Visiting who?” he asked, his brow creasing for a split second.

  “The Lord,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too crazy.

  He nodded, putting a hand out. His grip was solid, and my eyes
traveled up well-muscled arms. “I also like to pray outside. I’m Ben Mathers. I teach at the academy.”

  “Leigh.” I repeated my middle name, since I’d used it the day before. “I’m new to the church.”

  He leaned against a tree. “Welcome.”

  I studied his easy smile, something tickling the back of my brain. He hadn’t been on stage Sunday. But his picture had to be on the website.

  “How long have you worked here?” I asked. A teacher would surely remember Jasmine if she’d been a student here. But I couldn’t exactly blurt out that question.

  “Six years,” he said. “Secular pursuits weren’t for me. There’s no faith in science.”

  “What do you teach?” I asked.

  “Philosophy, music—a little of everything. Our classes are different from your typical course catalog.”

  “How does the school work, exactly?” I added an extra dose of naiveté to the words. “How would I enroll?”

  “Anyone can apply, but most of our students are college age or maybe a bit older. It’s a very close group.”

  “And what would I do after graduation?”

  “There are many churches across the country that hire our graduates as ministers or administrators,” he said. “Including this one.”

  “Does anyone ever leave? Like get here and not find what they wanted?”

  He shrugged. “Not often. The students come here seeking a closer relationship with the creator and a more Godly life. We put them on that path.”

  Not often. But not never, either. His earnest tone said asking him about Jasmine could lead to trouble, though.

  “That’s very…Christian of y’all,” I said.

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts and straightened, his gaze holding mine. The smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes, the almost black irises sweeping down my frame. And lingering on my shoes. “I’m afraid I have a class to run to. It was nice to meet you. I hope you find what you’re looking for with us.”

  Me, too. I watched him walk toward the red brick buildings before I spun for the front of the church. I had a feeling what I was looking for was in there.

  I perused the quiet foyer, something I hadn’t had a chance to do the day before, thanks to the shoe police.

  The doors to the sanctuary stood straight ahead, five sets of twelve-foot heavy wood doubles. Closed. To my right was the weird shoe locker room the Easter egg twins had hustled me into, and the staircase to the balcony where we’d sat for the service.

  To the left, a hallway stretched as far as I could see. I stepped toward it, the clicking of my heels on the marble echoing off the paneled walls.

  I found a bookstore with Golightly’s fifteen titles displayed in the windows and a slight boy with bad acne behind the register, his head bent over a book.

  I picked up a copy of Golightly’s latest hardcover and flipped it open. Signed. “The way and the life, Simon Golightly.” Uh-huh.

  Tucking it under one arm, I turned to a rack of CDs. Sermons, of course, and music recorded by the church’s house band. I picked a random one of each and carried the stack to the counter.

  The young man looked up from his book and smiled. “Good afternoon.”

  “Hey,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Blessed and favored of the Lord,” he said, punching buttons on the register.

  My eyebrows went up, the specificity of the phrase rankling. Like a restaurant that trains servers to reply to “thank you” with “my pleasure” instead of “you’re welcome.”

  “How lovely,” I said, at a loss for a reply.

  A sixty-dollar charge to my MasterCard later, I took a bag of research material from him and wished him a good day.

  “Go with God, washed in the blood,” he replied.

  Um. “You, too?”

  Between there and the office, I passed a food court, a coffee shop, and a florist, all dark and closed up. I also counted nine of the logo crosses adorning the walls.

  A honey-colored door with checkerboard windows and a tiny sign that read “administration” sat about halfway between the bookshop and the end of the hall. I opened it and peeked inside.

  “You.” The word was a cross between shock and disdain, quickly covered by a sugary “what can we do for y’all today?” in a thick drawl. I turned toward it, my eyes lighting on the woman who’d been wearing pink the day before. Today she wore lavender, her dress a similar potato-sack mass of shapeless fabric. Did she make them herself?

  I pasted on my best slightly-confused smile. “I so enjoyed the service yesterday morning, I want to get more information on the church. How to get involved, how to donate to the reverend’s work. Is there someone I could talk to?” I stepped into the office and shut the door. The walls were paneled in dark cherry, with forest green carpets and deep red furnishings. Like the set from a boys’ club in a Spencer Tracy film, minus the scotch and cigars. “Could I talk to one of the ministers?”

  She gave me a once-over, her brow creasing when she got to my shoes. Raising her eyes to my face, she offered a tight smile. “I’m afraid they’re in a meeting.”

  “I can wait,” I practically singsonged.

  “They’ll be in there a while. Prayer meetings on Mondays take most of the day. We get extensive prayer requests from our congregation on Sundays, you see.”

  I nodded. “I don’t suppose you could help me?”

  Her face told me she’d rather kiss a frog’s foot. “There’s some free literature there on the counter that will tell you about our mission and services.”

  “What about membership and getting involved?” I asked. “I’d like to know about the educational opportunities y’all offer, in particular.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you a little old for school?”

  Ouch. I kept my smile and sunny voice. “I think Reverend Golightly would say no one is too old to find the Lord.”

  Her smile imitation improved. “Of course, we welcome everyone to the Way of Life family.” She eyed my shoes again. What did she have against Christian Louboutin? Was he a closet Satanist or something?

  I waited for her to elaborate, but she fell silent and turned back to her computer.

  Alrighty then.

  I picked up a handful of brochures, wished her a good day, and turned back for the door.

  “You’ll find the exit to the right,” she said without looking up. “Go with God, washed in the blood.”

  Wow. God bless you, but don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out. The more time I spent at Way of Life, the weirder it got.

  I pulled my BlackBerry from my pocket and tried to check my email. No signal. I walked a few steps down the hallway to a window. Still nothing.

  “They scramble it.” A soft, sweet soprano came from behind me and nearly made me jump out of my skin. I turned on my heel, a quizzical eyebrow raised.

  A short, plump girl with frizzy red hair and large, black-rimmed glasses smiled from behind the coffee counter across the hall. She dropped the rag she was wiping the counter with and offered a hand. “Good morning. I’m Elise. You’re new.”

  I smiled, crossing the hall to shake her hand.

  “I’m Leigh,” I said. “I enjoyed the service yesterday and wanted to talk to someone about the church. But the lady in the office said there’s no one around to help me.”

  Her lips tipped up slightly and she shook her head.

  “I’m sure they’re all in a meeting,” she said.

  “She said they have long prayer meetings on Mondays.”

  “Uh-huh.” It didn’t sound like an affirmation at all. I smiled and leaned closer.

  “She didn’t seem too fond of me,” I said, tipping my head to one side like I didn’t get it. “I kind of got the same vibe yesterday, which is making me self-conscious. Thank you for being nice.”

  “She doesn’t like your clothes. Or your shoes,” she said.

  Again with the shoes.

  “What’s wrong with
them?”

  I glanced down at my sapphire silk tank, with its perfectly respectable neckline, and cream capris. My Louboutins were the same shade as the top.

  “I can see your boobs,” she whispered. “And your ankles. The shoes are too,” she looked around and leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a bare whisper, “sexy.”

  My hand flew to my solidly b-cup, no-cleavage-insight chest. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your clothes. They fit. You can see your body underneath them. And the shoes.” She shook her head and resumed scrubbing. “Not allowed. Shoes like that make men have lustful thoughts.”

  My jaw loosened, and I fumbled for words. “Not an insurance issue?” I managed.

  “No.”

  I peered over the counter at her outfit. Loose navy slacks, a two-sizes-too-big white oxford button down tucked into them, and white sneakers. The website photos from the classrooms flashed through my thoughts.

  I sagged against the counter. “You work here?”

  “Work study. I’m a student at the academy.”

  I nodded.

  She flipped on a faucet and rinsed out the rag.

  “For how long?”

  “Three years.” The ghost of a pretty smile almost reached her eyes before they fell on my BlackBerry. “They scramble the signals so we can’t have cell phones.”

  “Do they?” I had close to seven thousand questions about that, but wasn’t sure I could ask any of them without scaring her off.

  She kept talking. “No TV. Except the ministry’s channel. No phones. All Jesus, all the time.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Speaking of, I have class.”

  Wow. I watched her jerky, frustrated movements as she grabbed her backpack and flipped off the lights.

  “Nice meeting you,” she said. “If you’re coming back, ditch the shoes.”

  “Thank you.” I paused, then figured one couldn’t hurt. “Hey, are y’all ever allowed to leave?”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t seen my parents in two and a half years.”

  I made it back to Richmond before my thoughts stopped spinning.

  Stepford meets hostage crisis meets cult was one hell of a sexy headline. My chances of staying off Bob’s shit list if I took it to him today were less than that of Golightly’s face being a hundred percent natural, though.