Gnosis (13 page)

“Get real, Detective. I was a teenager, I hated being a preacher’s son, and I paid absolutely no attention to Eli or his congregation. Back then I worshipped Bob Dylan and James Dean, not Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

“And yet you followed in your father’s footsteps.”

“Hardly. I answered God’s call, not Eli’s.”

“Even a preacher can have enemies. Can you recall your father ever having trouble with any church members?”

Isaac shook his head. “Those people loved my father. They hung on his every word like it had been faxed down straight from heaven. To them, he was like the thirteenth Apostle. And Eli loved them as much as he loved his own children. Maybe he loved them more than he loved us. He always said, ‘I am the one who shines God’s light into their dark hearts.’ Saving souls was his mission, and he took it seriously. No, Detective, he had no enemies within the congregation.”

“Had to be tough sharing your father with so many strangers.”

“You learn to deal with it,” Isaac said, looking away. “Why are you asking these questions?”

“Because I think your father might be innocent.”

“Well, you have now become the second person to hold that belief, the first being my sister.”

“Rachel?”

“That would be correct. She has never wavered in her belief that Eli is an innocent man. But I would say to you the same thing I have always said to her—show me the evidence that proves his innocence.”

“How old was she when it happened?”

“Eight or nine. And the apple of Eli’s eye. They have always been extremely close.”

“What about your brother?”

“You would have to ask him. I learned long ago not to speak for Tommy.”

Dantzler stood and looked at a large gold plaque on the wall. Inscribed on the plaque were the names of deceased church members. “How many members do you have in your congregation?”

“Almost two hundred.”

“I was told that in his hey-day, Eli’s congregation numbered around six hundred.”

“That’s a fairly accurate estimate, I would say. He was a very powerful, very charismatic evangelist. To this day, he remains one of the finest I’ve ever encountered.”

“That’s a rather generous assessment of a man you seem to have so little regard for.”

“As Eli often said, the truth is the truth, even when it might be distasteful.” Isaac smiled. “If you are asking whether or not Eli was a better preacher than me, the answer is, yes, he was. By many miles. However, my preaching skills are not inconsiderable. I’m no slouch when it comes to spreading the Word, Detective. If you’re wondering why my congregation numbers are small, it’s because of changing times, not because I lack talent. We are old school here. The men and boys wear a coat and tie, the woman wear dresses. Here, we still sing Rock of Ages, not rock ’n roll. I have little or no use for these so-called mega-churches. They are like Wal-Mart—big and loud and offer everything. But at their core they lack soul.”

“Who owns the property where Eli’s church was located?”

“Eli.”

“And what about the property where the murders occurred?”

“It’s all Eli’s.”

“He’s the sole owner?”

“Yep.”

“And when he dies?”

“I assume it will be jointly owned by his three children.”

“Does Eli have a will?” Dantzler said.

“I suppose he does, but I’ve never seen it.”

“That property has to be worth some serious money? Ever had any offers for it?”

“We are besieged with offers on an almost-weekly basis, some of which are rather hefty. One developer wants to put in a shopping center, condos, and a water theme park. There’s certainly more than enough land to do it. But Eli won’t sell, and no amount of money is going to make him budge.”

“Why?”

Isaac shrugged. “No one but Eli can answer that. What I can tell you is that once he passes on, the three of us will sell it in a New York minute.”

“You’ve discussed the matter, then?”

“No. But we’re not fools, Detective. We can use the money. We’ll listen to all offers, choose the best one, and sell.”

“Who pays the property taxes now?”

“You would have to ask Eli’s attorney. I don’t actually know.”

“Colt Rogers?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever had dealings with him?”

“Never. I’ve only met him once or twice.”

“What about Abe Basham?”

“I met with him several times during the lead-up to the trial. After the verdict, I maybe spoke to him a half-dozen times. Tell me, Detective. What makes you think Eli might be innocent?”

“Instinct, mainly.”

“That’s a rather tenuous thread to hang a belief on, isn’t it?”

“No more tenuous a thread than faith in a God who lives in the heavens, or belief in life after death.”

“I like my thread better than yours, Detective.”

“Well said, Brother Isaac.”

The L. Iler at 590 Longview Drive turned out to be Louise, Angie’s talkative, emotional mother. Louise informed Laurie that Angie’s last name was Claybrooke, she was divorced, and she now lived with her daughter, Nicole, on Cooper Drive. Her voice cracking with emotion, Louise went on to say Angie had never really gotten over the “horror of discovering those two slain boys.”

“An image like that can stay with a person forever,” Laurie agreed.

“Oh, my dear, you have no idea,” Louise said, crying into the phone. “She had horrible nightmares for years. We took her to a psychologist, paid a lot of money, but that quack didn’t help her at all. That was money wasted. I think Angie’s life was altered that night. She was never the same person.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Laurie said.

“Is it your intention to ask Angie about that terrible night?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my, my, my. Is it absolutely necessary? Can’t you get your information from some other source?”

“I’m afraid it is necessary,” Laurie said. “But I promise to make it as easy for her as possible. You know, I won’t ask her about certain specific details. Just general information.”

“I would be most grateful if you would do that. Angie needs to forget, not remember.”

“What can you tell me about the young man she was with? Greg Spurlock?”

Louise snorted. “Huh, I thought he was a bum. A jerk. I had no use for him at all.”

“Why did you have such negative feelings toward him?”

“Because he treated Angie like crap, that’s why. He would take her to a movie and make her pay for her ticket. Sit out in the car and honk rather than come to the door and pick her up like a real gentleman would. Things like that. Angie never would say it, but I suspected he did some heavy drinking. Probably did drugs, too.”

“Did you have evidence he used drugs?”

“No. Just a feeling, that’s all.”

“How long were they together?” Laurie said.

“They were never together. They only had four or five dates. I don’t think they went out again after that night.”

“The night when they found the bodies?”

“Yes, that horrible night,” Louise said, more angry now than upset. “He never called again, which was fine by me. And I think by then Angie had come to see what a loser he was. She was happy to be rid of him.”

“He’s a doctor now, you know?”

“So I heard. Well, all I can say is, I hope he treats his patients better than he treated my daughter.”

Laurie had to endure another ten minutes listening to Louise berate Greg Spurlock before she was finally able to get Angie’s home address and phone number. Laurie thanked Louise for her help, promised once again to be gentle with Angie, and closed her cell phone. She was exhausted by the conversation, which felt like it had lasted a week.

Laurie wondered if perhaps the shrink had seen the wrong Iler woman.

*****

Nicole Claybrooke was as concise and together as her grandmother was scattered and talkative. In a matter of seconds, she let Laurie know that her mother was a real estate agent with Rector-Hayden, she was showing a house in McMeekin Place, she should be finished at any moment, and, by the way, here’s her cell phone number.

Laurie thanked her and hung up. She thought about grabbing a bite of lunch, but decided to go ahead and call Angie. With any luck she might catch her between showings. Angie answered on the second ring.

“This is Angie Claybrooke.”

“Miss Claybrooke, this is Detective Laurie Dunn, with Lexington Homicide. I—”

“Homicide? I give my word that I haven’t murdered anyone lately. Not that the thought hasn’t occasionally crossed my mind.”

“That’s good to know. The reason I’m calling is to see if you have some free time this afternoon. If you do, I would like to get with you. Ask you a few questions about that night in nineteen eighty-two.”

Laurie immediately regretted the way she had broached the subject with Angie. It was clumsy and insensitive. She cringed, unsure how Angie was going to respond.

“No prob,” Angie said, cheerfully. “I’ve just finished showing a house, and my next showing isn’t for another two hours. If you like, we can meet here. It’s a terrific house. Who knows, maybe you’ll like it enough to buy it.”

“In McMeekin Place? On my salary? I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

“As Don Corleone so famously said, ‘I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.’”

“Yes, and as Sam Spade so famously said, ‘it’s the stuff that dreams are made of.’”

Both women laughed.

“When you turn into McMeekin Place, it will be the third house on the right,” Angie said. “You’ll see the ‘For Sale’ sign out front. You can park behind my black Volvo.”

“I’ll see you  in about fifteen minutes.”

Angie Claybrooke was standing next to her Volvo, a hammer in one hand and a thick folder tucked under her arm. She wore a blue pants suit, white turtleneck, and black Michael Kors loafers. The ensemble was tailored to accentuate a still-impressive figure. Her auburn hair was long and pulled back into a ponytail, which gave her a youthful look. She wore no noticeable make-up, and the only visible jewelry was a gold chain necklace. Chic and professional without being pretentious was Laurie’s assessment.

Upon seeing Laurie drive up, Angie tossed the hammer and folder into the front seat, moved away from the car, and waved.

“Sam Spade—it’s nice to meet you,” she said, once Laurie got out of her car.

“Same here, Don Corleone.” Laurie motioned toward the house Angie was showing. “Nice spread. And you really thought I could buy it?”

“I had to give it a shot,” Angie said. “It’s how I make a buck.”

“I couldn’t afford this crib if I earned twice what I’m making now. This place is a palace.”

“And for a million-two this palace can be yours.”

Laurie whistled. “Knock off the million and we’ll talk.”

“I’m afraid that in my line of work, another movie line always comes into play—‘show me the money.’” Angie pointed at the house. “Let’s talk inside. There’s a marvelous antique table in the kitchen. We’ll sit there and pretend we’re wealthy.”