The Rock 'N Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - a Spike Berenger Anthology (10 page)

“Excuse me a second,” Berenger said to Gina. He approached Carol and said, “Hello, Carol.”

“Well, well, Spike Berenger,” she said, stopping and looking him up and down. “I heard you were working for Flame’s murderer.”

“Come on, Carol, we’ve known each other a long time,” Berenger said. “For one thing, Adrian’s innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, you know that.”

She made a sound of disgust. “Oh, he’s guilty, all right.” Her eyes met Gina’s and she continued, “It’s in his breeding.”

Gina blinked, turned and left the office.

“Gee whiz, Carol,” Berenger said. “That was harsh, don’t you think?”

“This whole day has been
harsh
, Spike. Did you hear what went on in there? My husband gave twenty-five—no,
twenty-eight
—million dollars to those crazy religious fanatics over there!” She gestured with her head toward Brenda and Theo, who were too elated with each other to hear what was said.

“He’s your
ex
-husband, mom,” Joshua said quietly.

“Whatever.” Carol folded her arms and looked at Berenger. “So, I suspect you’ll want to talk to me about the case?”

“As a matter of fact—”

“You know, I don’t have to do that,” she said. “I talked to my lawyer this morning when I heard you’d been retained by the defense. He said I’m under no obligation to talk to private investigators.”

“That’s right, Carol, you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. But seeing as how we’ve known each other a long time—”

“Save the speech, Spike. I’ll talk to you. It’s against my better judgement but I’ll do it.”

Berenger nodded at her son. “I’d like to make an appointment to talk with Joshua as well.”

Joshua shrugged. “I don’t mind.” Carol looked at him and he added, “If mom doesn’t.”

Berenger tried to smile without giving away his true feelings. For a young man well over twenty-one-years-old, Joshua Duncan certainly wasn’t in control of his own life.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be in touch. It’s good to see you again, Carol.”

“Yeah, I wish it had been under more pleasant circumstances. Come on, Joshua, let’s get out of here.” She took her son by the arm and strode out the door.

Berenger lingered to shake hands with Derek Patterson and say he would be in touch, and then he took the elevator to the building lobby. He walked out onto Sixth Avenue and noticed the large black limousine parked at the curb in front of the building. Al Patton stood on the sidewalk, his hulking physique leaning down and speaking to the driver. Berenger waited a moment so he could talk to Patton and heard the door open behind him. Reverend Theo and Brenda Twist came outside. Berenger was surprised to see Brenda open the back door of the limo and get in. Patton ended his conversation with the limo driver and greeted Theo. While the two men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, Berenger got a look at the driver, another bald fellow that resembled Bruce Willis on a bad day. The Reverend said goodbye to Patton, nodded at Berenger in a “How are you, today?” friendly gesture, and then got into the limo beside Brenda. As the car pulled out into the busy avenue and sped away, Berenger noticed that the vanity license plate read, “FLAME.”

Patton moved toward Berenger and said, “How are you, Spike?”

“Fine, Al.” The two men shook hands. They had known each other for years but maintained a cool, professional relationship with each other. Berenger gestured at the departing limo. “Is that Flame’s limousine?”

“Uh huh,” Patton said. “Flame’s driver works for the Messengers now that Flame is dead.”

“And they’re using Flame’s personal car? For Messenger business?”

“Actually, Flame would have wanted them to,” Patton said. “He often lent Mister Black and the limo to Reverend Theo. That’s how Ron got the new position.”

“What’s the driver’s name?”

“Black. Ron Black. He’s been with Flame for, what, five or six years. I think he was with the Messengers before that. It’s how he got hooked up with Flame.”

“I see. What did you think of the proceedings upstairs?”

Patton shrugged. “It’s pretty much what I expected. I knew Flame wouldn’t leave
me
anything. Why should he? I must say I’m pretty surprised by the gift to the Messengers.”

“I think everyone was thrown by that.”

“Yeah. I don’t know, Spike. Flame was pretty mixed up these last few years. He was throwing his career away, what can I tell you? Look, I have to run. I’m late for another appointment.”

“Sure, Al. Listen, I’d like to talk to you about all this. You know I’m working for Adrian?”

“Yeah, I heard. Sure, Spike, give me a call at the office. I’ll talk to you.” Patton held out his arm and flagged an approaching taxi.

“Great. See you later, Al.”

He watched as Patton got in the cab and it sped away. Berenger began to walk uptown when his cell phone rang.

“Berenger,” he answered.

“Mister Berenger?” A woman’s voice.

“Yes?”

“This is Betty Samuels at Franklin Village.”

Berenger felt a shot of adrenaline. Was it bad news? Betty Samuels was the director of the assisted living facility in Hempstead, Long Island, where his mother currently resided. “Yeah?”

“Don’t be alarmed, everything’s fine with your mother. But we need to talk again about what we discussed before. About your mother moving.”

“What happened?”

“Well, she had another episode. She waited until the receptionist wasn’t looking and she walked right out the front door. No one realized she had left until a half-hour later, when it was time for dinner. We looked all over the building and finally John—you know John, one of the attendants?”

“Yes.”

“He went outside to look for her. He found her two blocks away, wandering aimlessly. She was lost and confused.”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s okay now. John brought her back and one of the nurses gave her a sedative. But I’m sure you can appreciate that’s a very serious situation. We simply can’t be responsible for her if she’s going to do that.”

“I understand.”

“When can you come out and talk about this? I think it’s time we move her into the Neighborhood.”

Berenger winced. The Neighborhood was the special locked wing reserved for patients suffering from dementia and Alzheimer’s.

“You think it’s come to that?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

Berenger looked at his watch. “Okay, I—uhm, I’ll drive out there this evening. Is that all right?”

“Sure. I’ll be here until nine o’clock tonight.”

“I’ll try to be there between seven and eight.”

Berenger put away the phone and continued walking uptown, where he could catch a crosstown bus to his apartment.

News like that called for a stiff glass of vodka and ice.

S
uzanne Prescott emerged from the Times Square IRT subway-station at the 44
^th
Street exit and walked west. The nine-to-five work force had been let out for rush hour and the area was packed with people. Perhaps the most populated tourist attraction in the city, Times Square and the theatre district was a mass of humanity twenty-four/seven. Once upon a time Suzanne had hated coming to the area because it had been such a cesspool of sleaze. In the nineties, though, New York’s mayor cleaned it up and now it was so family-oriented that Walt Disney would have been proud. The sex shops, “live nude girls” peep shows, and drug trade was for the most part relegated to points outside of Manhattan, leaving Times Square a haven for visitors.

That didn’t mean the area was no longer dangerous. Con artists and opportunists of every kind, hookers, and thieves could still strike the naïve and unsuspecting traveler. Street-smart New Yorkers, though, rarely encountered such vermin, and Suzanne was definitely savvy when it came to navigating around the city. One of the most valuable things that Master Chen taught her during her five-year stay in the Far East was a highly developed sense of awareness. She liked to call it her “spider sense,” named after her favorite comic book superhero’s ability. While Suzanne’s intuition certainly didn’t equal that of Spider-Man’s, she seemed to have a knack for detecting danger before it reared its ugly head.

It’s too bad her insight never worked when it came to her love life, but that was another story and she didn’t like to dwell on it.

Suzanne made her way toward Eighth Avenue and on to Ninth, noting that the crowds diminished as she went westward. Hell’s Kitchen, as the area was commonly called, was a lower-class neighborhood that happened to border the elite theatre district. Suzanne thought the moniker was a misnomer, for the people she had encountered in Hell’s Kitchen had been among the friendliest in all of New York. There was probably a fair share of drug addicts, pushers, gangs, and bad-guys in the neighborhood, but Suzanne had never encountered them. As a matter of fact, there was a pizza joint at Ninth Avenue and 44
^th
Street she liked to frequent and she was tempted to do so now. But she had a job to do so she kept walking toward Tenth, where the Messengers’ church and offices were located.

It was once a traditional church but the building was now painted an earthy green, a color that stuck out in the otherwise drab neighborhood. A glass display case protected a marquis scripted by plastic white letters that could be rearranged according to the organization’s plans for the week. Today it read “The Messengers – A Church for the Enlightened Soul – Tonight’s Message: Are You An Apostle? – 7:30 p.m. – Reverend Theo, Director.”

Suzanne ascended the stoop’s four steps and opened the large wooden door. The interior smelled musty and old, like most of the buildings in the area, but it was clean and well lit. A rack full of Messengers literature was prominently situated in front of the office, which was separated from the lobby by a closed door. Suzanne saw an African-American woman through a sliding glass window, working at a computer. The woman looked up, smiled, and rose. She slid open the window and said, “Good afternoon. How may I help you?”

“Oh, I’m just here to look around. I saw your building and I was just curious,” Suzanne replied.

“Well then, we welcome you,” the woman said. “I’ll come right out.” She closed the window and unlocked the office door. She appeared and stood beside the rack of literature. Suzanne guessed the woman was in her forties. She was slightly overweight, wore glasses, and was dressed in the type of loose black dress that Suzanne imagined elderly church ladies in the South might wear. In fact, the woman’s speech had a Southern drawl to it.

“I’m Juliet Ramsey,” the woman said. She held out her hand and Suzanne shook it. Reverend Theo’s wife, Suzanne recalled.

“My name is Suzanne. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.” The woman picked out two or three pamphlets from the rack and handed them to Suzanne. “Here are a few pieces of our literature. They’ll tell you a little bit about us and what our mission is.”
“What denomination are you?” Suzanne asked. “I mean, you
are
a Christian church, right?”

“Oh, Lord, yes, we’re a Christian church. But we’re our own denomination. There’s no one like us on the planet. I think you’ll find us a unique congregation. We are blessed with a reverend that’s in daily communication with Jesus and all the other Holy Ghosts.”

“
Ghosts
, as in plural?”

“Oh, yes, there are several. Our reverend talks to them daily.”

Suzanne couldn’t help raising her eyebrows. “Is that Reverend Theo?”

“Yes. Have you heard of our reverend?”

“I saw his name on the sign outside.”

“Oh, of course. Our good reverend comes from Jamaica. He and I founded the Messengers—oh, it’s going on fifteen years ago or so. Our congregation is one-hundred and thirty strong and climbing.”

“A hundred and thirty?” Suzanne asked. “That’s not very many, is it?”

Mrs. Ramsey continued to smile warmly. “We’re continually growing. The difference between our congregation and those of others is that our members remain with us once they’ve joined. If you go down the street to another church, you’ll find that the membership fluctuates. We’re one big loyal family and we like it that way.”