Devil in the Deadline (24 page)

“Your involvement with the story would put you on a serial's radar,” Kyle said. “Nichelle—” He stopped, his gaze screaming a plea.

Mine jumped back and forth across the porch.

“I can't.” The words strangled around the lump in my throat.

Joey reached for my hand, but I pulled away, brushing past Kyle and grabbing the dog and her bag before I turned for my car.

“You're right. Both of you. It'd be stupid to stay here alone before someone figures out what's going on. But I can't choose. So I choose me. I'm sorry if I've done anything to hurt either of you—please, please know it wasn't intentional.” My breath hitched, and I put my free hand to my throat.

“Nichelle,” Joey's pitch rose with alarm.

“We'll be fine.”

I ran for the car before the tears could spill over. Backing out of the driveway, I caught a watery glimpse of something I never thought I'd see—Kyle and Joey standing together, gesturing and talking like they were planning a golf weekend—or maybe about to pick up where I'd interrupted their fistfight.

I didn't stick around to see which.

2
7.

  

A way to help

  

D
riving northwest out of Richmond, I didn't spare the horses until Culpepper. I found a four-room inn nestled on a corner in the historic district. Where better to hide from the world than a charming Victorian with wraparound porches and plenty of rockers?

And an owner who might take a check. With no idea who was looking for me, I didn't want to use a credit card or visit an ATM anytime soon.

I parked in a gravel lot out back with only one other car and tucked Darcy under one arm.

A brass bell over the front door announced my arrival and a woman who looked much more like Mrs. Claus than anyone I'd ever actually met closed the ledger on her antique cherry desk and looked up. “Can I help you, doll?” She flashed two rows of denture-perfect teeth.

She could. And did. I took a key ten minutes later and climbed the sweeping staircase to the Jefferson room.

It was just as period and lovely as the rest of the house, dominated by a giant claw-footed tub and a stone fireplace. I set up Darcy's bed, food, and water in the opposite corner from the tub and kicked my heels off, crossing the plush rug to the canopy bed. Flinging myself across it, I let my thoughts wander.

A dead woman who looked like me. Enough to scare both of the men I refused to think about.

It wasn't a serial—and if it was, I was in the best place I could be. But my gut said Landers was lifting rocks to no avail. Twelve hours ago, he'd seemed on the verge of admitting as much.

I knew why he had to focus there. Public safety was his first priority.

The truth was mine.

So what did I know?

Aaron and Landers had the wrong person in jail. I'd eat my Manolos if I was wrong about that. And I knew they knew it, too. Politics in policework irritates me on a good day, but this nonsense had me plain old pissed off. The sooner they knew who really did it, the sooner Picasso would be free. A little voice in the back of my head said I'd be freeing him to go back to peddling portraits for pennies.

Wait. What if it didn't have to be that way?

I sat up, snatching up the phone.

Jenna sounded out of breath when she picked up, but her tone brightened when she heard my voice. “What's going on with you?”

“Enough for a half-dozen margaritas,” I said. “But until we have time for that, I have a question for you: do you still know anyone in the RAU art department?”

“My favorite prof is the department chair there,” she said. “We had lunch just last month. Why? Did an artist kill those women?”

“The cops have one in custody, but I don't think he did,” I said. “He's homeless. Young. I think he's mildly autistic. Nice guy, and he's really talented, Jen. I've only seen pencil sketches, but—”

“Did he do the sketches I saw in the paper?” She pulled in a sharp breath. “I knew those didn't come from the PD. The lines, the subtle shadows—that was great work.”

“He did. I'd like for him to not return to being homeless when they have to let him go. You think you can help?” It was a big favor.

I needed desperately to do something good for someone.

“Worth a shot. There's always room for that kind of talent on a faculty,” she said. “You think he could teach?”

“I think so.” I sighed, a smile flitting across my face. “Thank you, doll.”

“Anytime. You okay?”

“Eh,” I said. “I'll be better when this story is filed and we can catch up.”

I hung up and flipped my laptop open, clicking into the sealed court transcript Kyle sent me.

Three hours later, I looked up from my screen when Darcy yipped and scratched at the foot of the bed.

If it wasn't Jealous Jared, it was Wolterhall.

It had to be. The testimony was horrifying. Violent. And his weapon of choice? A knife.

Somebody bought a juror to cause that dismissal.

I stood and clipped Darcy's leash to her collar. “Two seconds, girl,” I said, looping the leash over my wrist and unzipping my bag. I pulled out navy cotton slacks and a white oxford with a button-down collar, laying them carefully over the armchair and smoothing out wrinkles before I clicked my tongue at Darcy and turned for the door.

Elise said the ministers at Way of Life worked Saturdays.

Hopefully Mr. Wolterhall did, too.

  

My alarm buzzed before the stars faded from the inky sky, and Darcy growled from her bed when I turned the lamp on.

“This is not my idea of fun, either,” I said as I pulled on the academy uniform and brushed my hair. She tucked her face under a paw.

No makeup, per Elise's instructions, meant a little moisturizer and a quick look in the mirror, and I was ready to go. I slid Andrews's infernal camera into my pocket, just in case I could get Bob a few brownie points with it. Laying a potty pad next to the tub for Darcy, I ruffled her fur on my way out the door.

I started the car, pausing to open the text messages on my BlackBerry before I started the half-hour drive to Way of Life.

Swallowing hard, I clicked Joey's number. “Have some snooping to do today. Know you're mad, but you love D. She's at the Rose House Inn in Culpepper. Just in case. Wish this weekend had gone as planned. Really.” I hit send before I could chicken out.

My BlackBerry binged ten minutes into my drive. I didn't look. The heaviness in my stomach said I couldn't deal with Joey's goodbye and still focus on work. Psycho first. Tears later.

I cranked up Janis Joplin, questions from the list I'd made during the world's longest soak in that fabulous tub the night before flitting around my head. If I could manage a chat with Wolterhall and find the minister Jasmine worked with, I'd call the day a win. And maybe help Aaron get the warrant he was after, too.

I parked along a narrow dirt drive behind the barn, the first cantaloupe-colored rays of day peeking over the horizon. Thankful for my sneakers, I turned toward the shed, probably a quarter-mile across the pasture.

Easing the door open, I peeked through the crack. Empty. I slipped inside and leaned on the edge of the workbench stretching the length of the back wall. Deep breaths. As long as I wasn't obvious, I was safe.

Elise said the ministerial staff didn't keep track of the students closely, no matter how well their assistants helped them fake it. That was the crucial thing about Saturday: no assistants. I was fuzzy on the why, but it had something to do with preparing for service in solitude to receive God's anointing. And saving people's souls from the fires of eternal Hell. The day off was a bonus for the secretaries.

My gaze roamed over the feed bags, still in their perfectly symmetrical stacks. Four days since I'd been there last, and there wasn't a single bag missing. Surely they didn't order those one at a time?

Before I could consider that fully, voices—male ones—took over ninety percent of my attention. The other ten whirled desperately for an escape route.

Early morning. When they feed the livestock.

Shit, shit, double shit.

I shoved the toolbox aside and dove under the bench, pulling the case back in front of me and trying not to yelp when I lost a nail to the corner. Putting the end of my smarting finger in my mouth, I tasted blood and blinked back tears, but dropped my head to my knees and stayed quiet.

The door crashed open half a minute later, the guys divvying up work. “Let's get done and go back to bed” was the general theme of their conversation. Sending a thank you heavenward, I hugged my knees and tried to be as small and invisible as possible.

“Why do we have to do this on Saturday, anyway?” one guy said. “They have miles of grass out there. They won't starve.”

“A glad heart and many hands make light work,” another replied. “Your outlook is selfish. We're saving the eternal souls of every person here by keeping our food sources pure. Like the reverend says, pure food makes a pure soul and brings us closer to God.”

The road to Hell was paved with Pop-Tarts? My eyes popped wide, but I kept quiet.

The other voice grouched quieter. Plastic met plastic—bins opening and closing, maybe. Mr. Pure began singing a hymn under his breath, which sounded so close I was too petrified to look up.

A rattling that signified buckets being picked up followed, then retreating footsteps. The doors opening and closing. Three heartbeats. Five. I raised my head and blinked. Easing the toolbox aside, I peeked out from under the workbench. Alone again. I wanted out of the shed before they came back, and I had no frame of reference for when that might be. But if I ran, I might miss Elise. I also might be spotted by the cow feeder guys. Damn.

I bit my lip and pulled the ragged fingernail the rest of the way off, flinging a drop of blood to the floor and trying not to get any on my clothes.

Just as I rocked onto all fours to crawl out of my hidey hole, the door opened. “Leigh?” Elise hissed.

“Present,” I whispered.

She scurried through the door and pulled me to my feet. “I saw those guys and almost had a stroke,” she said. “They're early. And it's Saturday, too.”

“They said something about going back to bed.” I dusted off my pants.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “They didn't see you?”

“No.”

“Let's get out of here before they come back,” she said.

“Where are we going at this hour?”

“To open the coffee shop. You're new. I'm training you.” She winked and waved me outside. “No one has a way to confirm anything until Monday, not that they'll ask.” She gave me a once-over. “Nice work. You'll blend perfectly.”

I followed her out into the thick summer air, curiosity burning a hole in my frontal lobe. “Why do you stay if you don't believe?” I asked.

“Oh, I believe.” She smiled. “In normal circles, I'd be considered a zealot. But I believe in Jesus and Heaven and the Bible. And I'm not sure the reverend believes in the same ones. I've just never been able to decide if I'm right. What if it's Satan planting seeds of doubt about the mission? Jasmine...” She trailed off, her voice breaking.

I laid a hand on her arm. “There are too many people looking at this for it to go unanswered, Elise. We'll figure it out.”

“She deserved better,” she said.

I nodded. I'd never seen a murder wrapped in quite so much intrigue, but every dead end made me more determined to dig up an answer. The boyfriend and Wolterhall jostled for top of my suspect list.

“So, where do we start?” I asked, following her into the main building.

“You know how to make a latte? Two of the ministers are always up early on Saturdays. Even without your makeup, I have a feeling they'll want to talk to you.”

I grinned and quickened my steps. I would leave Way of Life with some answers today. I could feel it.

28
.

  

The right path

  

Fe
w things are creepier than a big, empty building. Except maybe a big, empty building full of ginormous, razor-edged gold crosses.

I followed Elise to the coffee bar. She made me a white mocha while I followed her prompts to punch it into the touch screen register. “Three-twenty-six?” I asked.

“You're hired.” She grinned.

I sipped my coffee and studied her.“I gather you haven't always been so suspicious of the reverend?”

“Oh, no. The first year I was here saved my life. I found purpose.” She made herself a coffee and took a sip, pulling a worn Bible from her bag under the counter and laying it on the bar. “I found faith. We never went to church when I was growing up. Funny, they say kids who grow up with religion rebel by leaving the church. Like Jazz. I guess the grass is always greener.”

“What changed for you?”

“I still didn't fit in,” she said. “Everyone is always nice, because it's unchristian to be mean. But I'm the odd duck. Jasmine was my first real friend. Some of the things she said, put together with things I saw when I worked in the office and things I see here every day—I'm just not sure the reverend is as invested in everyone's spiritual well-being as he professes to be.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “The revival started it. Once, during a summer revival, they asked for extra volunteers to pray over the donations. People came from all over that week, and the reverend touched so many of them with God's grace. It was amazing. People walked for the first time in years after he laid hands on them. Miracles left and right for three straight days.”

“Wow.”

“We're supposed to pray for those who made donations at the end of every service. I mean, we do it at the academy, but to be in the room while the reverend blesses the donations and prays for the people who gave, that's a big deal. I wanted it so badly. I prayed all week. And I was chosen.” Her tone took a left into darkness, her fingers moving to rifle the edges of her Bible's pages.

“What happened?”

“There was a thirty-second plea for God to bless the generous souls, and then we sat at tables and counted while his assistant reported the totals to him every few minutes. There was so much money. Too much money. I counted thirty thousand dollars in small bills, and there were twenty other people in the room doing the same thing.” She looked up, her eyes screaming questions I had no answers for. “If you read this book, Jesus didn't have much. He was a simple man. He talked about the poor and meek being blessed. The people with the money were the ones who killed him, right? How can it be Godly to take in that much money?”

Oh, boy. “I suppose it depends on what you do with it,” I said.

“They don't use the majority of it to help those less fortunate than themselves, that's for sure,” she said. “Which is something else Jesus said. But when I started asking questions about it, at first they told me God wanted to bless them for their hard work and faith. Then they just asked me to leave them alone. Questions aren't favored around here, I warn you.”

Of course not.

People who have something to hide never like questions.

Before I could consider that further, the door to the office across the hall opened and the young minister who'd introduced Golightly on Sunday stepped to the counter. He flashed a Colgate-commercial grin and asked Elise for a caramel latte.

She whipped it together and passed it to me, blessing him and poking me, her you're-on look barely registering.

Nothing registered, really—because for the first time in my life, I was staring into eyes that looked just like mine.

I scanned his face, running mentally through my bio file. Brady. The guy's last name was Brady. And he was the only minister on the staff who was younger than me.

Tall, well-built, amazing hair.

And the eyes. Holy freaking mirror image, Batman.

Elise poked me again, and I shook my head. Maybe he wore contacts.

And maybe Richmond had a serial killer. Eight years at the crime desk had taught me true coincidences are few and far between.

Brady smiled. “Good morning. How are you on this beautiful day the Lord has blessed us with?”

I jabbed at the register screen. Focus. They were just contacts. Right? What had Elise said to that wretched woman the other day?

“Blessed and favored of the Lord,” she chirped. “Oh, I'm sorry, sir. Leigh, I think he was talking to you.”

“Blessed and favored of the Lord.” And confused as hell. “Three-twenty-six, sir.”

He handed me a five and told Elise to keep the change.

“You're blowing it,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

What? I looked up as he turned for the offices, searching the facts I had.

Brady was the one Jasmine worked for. Double hell.

“Pastor,” I blurted. All this work to get in spitting distance of these guys. I couldn't let him leave when he was right there.

He paused, the jumbotron smile turning back to face me. “Yes?”

“I was wondering, if you, um, could maybe pray with me about something?” The words flowed out as fast as I could think them.

His smile widened. “Of course. I'm never too busy to pray with a young sister in the Lord.”

I glanced at Elise, and his brow furrowed. “Would you be more comfortable speaking in confidence?”

I nodded, and he motioned for me to follow him.

Point Nichelle.

Now, what did I need prayers for that wasn't catching the killer? Lying to a minister felt—well, like I'd go to Hell, no matter how honorable my intentions. Southern Baptist Sunday school lessons whispered through my thoughts as I followed Brady to his office.

Which was...damn. I had to bite my cheek to keep from whistling. The Oval Office had nothing on Way of Life in terms of opulence. Polished floors, Persian rugs, a stone fireplace, and dark, heavy furniture filled the space. Pentagonal beams outlined a star in the ceiling, a crystal and bronze chandelier dangling from the center.

Brady shut the door and gestured to the sofa in front of the fireplace. “Please. I hope you're well.”

“I'm just worried,” I said.

“Phillippians chapter four: Don't worry about anything, instead pray about everything.” He smiled, sitting in a chair opposite me. “Tell God your needs and don't forget to thank Him for His answers. If you do this you will experience God's peace.”

“Maybe worried is the wrong word. I guess I'm feeling a little lost.”

“How?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes laser-focused on me. He was charming. And all in this conversation. Could he have killed someone?

I returned the stare. My creep radar said no. I groped for an honest reply. “I just...how can we find our true path with certainty?” I actually wanted the answer to that more than I'd thought when I walked in there.

“Ah.” He nodded. “I hear this from many students every year. I was lucky, I guess, because I never questioned the path. I was always headed for the ministry, and I'm right where I want to be.”

“But how did you know?” I pressed.

“I was raised for it,” he said. “My parents—they were deeply religious people. My father was very involved in several ministries in California where I grew up. He and the reverend developed a friendship, and I came here to the Academy when my mom and dad went home to Jesus.”

I flinched. His father was dead? And from California? “I'm—I'm so sorry.”

“I'm not. Death is the last obstacle to eternal peace. I really believe that, but I know not everyone has my faith.”

“I think that's lovely,” I said, perfectly sincere. The idea of losing my mother terrified me to my bones. I admired Brady's ability to have peace with his loss.

His loss. Not mine. Even if the universe had a seriously skewed sense of humor here, I'd never met my father, and never had any desire to.

He nodded, opening a book on the coffee table to reveal a hollow interior filled with chocolates. He plucked one from the pile and nodded to me. “One of my weaknesses. But they make me happy.” He winked.

I took one and returned his smile. “Thank you.” I paused, drumming my fingers on my knee. I wanted to ask him about Jasmine, but wasn't sure how far to push. On one hand, Elise said they didn't like questions. On the other, I was here. What did I have to lose?

“That is comforting,” I said. “Especially when we lose friends young. Like Jasmine. She and Elise were close, but thinking of her being with the Lord makes it easier.”

His face fell, but he recovered the smile before most people would have noticed. It didn't reach his eyes.

“I wasn't aware anyone was still in touch with Jasmine.” He blinked hard, clearing his throat. “She was a good assistant and a sweet young woman. Heaven has gained another angel if she's no longer with us.”

I left it. Either he'd inherited some acting skills from my mom's old flame, or he really didn't know she was dead. Elise said they told the Academy students TV and newspaper would cloud their faith. Maybe Brady practiced what he preached?

I switched gears before my brain could get too mired in the possibility of this guy being my half-brother. Remote? I couldn't say for sure. The evidence certainly appeared stacked in favor of it. Not that I knew how to start that conversation, even if I'd wanted to.

“You're very sure about God's purpose for you.” I leaned forward, clasping my hands in front of me. “But you look so young. How old are you? Can I ask?”

“I'm twenty-seven,” he said. Two years younger than me. My stomach did a slow somersault as he went on. “I was raised for this. Chosen. Age has no bearing on destiny. By the time Jesus was my age, he had performed many miracles.”

“When you put it that way, I feel like a slacker.” I smiled.

“Everyone who seeks faith will find their way to it,” he said. “That's something the reverend says often, and I believe it.”

In my experience, the truth works the same way.

He smiled and bowed his head. “Shall we pray?”

I closed my eyes and listened to his strong baritone, asking silently for some insight into Jasmine's murder.

“Amen,” I said in unison with Brady.

“Go with God, washed in the blood,” he said as I turned to leave.

I stumbled at the words. Washing in blood was a thing with these folks. Could that have something to do with the horror scene—and cow's blood—in the switch house?