The Root of All Evil (Hope Street Church Mysteries Book 4) (32 page)

“Then I won’t ask again,” he said. “Let me look at my schedule . . . I’m afraid I can’t help you today. I have a meeting after school, and then I have some visitations to make. If you have time in the morning, I can be there about nine.”

“That would be perfect! See you then.”

Cooper returned to her sister’s side.

Ashley threw her hands in the air. “I give up! What was all that about?”

“You may have just given us a big break in our murder case.”

Ashley perked up and grinned. “Really? I helped?”

“You helped.”

“So I’ve helped with your relationship problems
and
a murder investigation, even though I’ve been sitting all day and haven’t washed my hair in a week?”

“You got it.”

Ashley let out a long, happy sigh. “Coop, thanks to you, I don’t feel so bored anymore. Let me know what you find out with your investigation.”

“I’ll give you a call.”

16

Saturday at nine a.m., Cooper, Jake, Trish and Quinton met Pastor Matthews at the storage locker, where the boxes from Sylvia’s classroom were being stored.

“I thought Savannah was coming,” Cooper said, looking around. “Is she in the car?”

Jake shook his head. “She caught a bug or something while she was teaching. I’m headed over to make her chicken noodle soup once we’re finished here. About now she’s probably watching Bryant deliver the weekend weather report.”

Trish laughed. “I love watching him on TV and then telling him about it later! He gets so embarrassed and pleased all at the same time. Isn’t Nathan going to be here?”

Her question was directed at Cooper, who struggled to think of a good reason why Nathan wasn’t there, other than the fact that he wasn’t returning her calls. “Um . . . He’s just busy right now. I’ll let him know if we find anything.”

“So what exactly are we looking for?” Quinton asked. “On the phone last night you said something about a signature.”

While Pastor Matthews opened the storage locker, Cooper passed around the picture from the copy machine. “It’s something my sister said yesterday, about an artist’s signature being an important part of the artwork. Nathan and Savannah found the subject of this picture. It was one of Sylvia’s students at Hope Street, but the girl knew nothing about the sketch. I’m guessing the students were supposed to draw a portrait for one of their projects, and this girl was unwittingly somebody’s inspiration. I think the important thing in the sketch is the signature—a series of three hashmarks. This morning, we’re looking for any other pieces of art with that same signature.”

“And what is that signature supposed to tell us?” Jake asked.

Cooper waffled. “Let’s just hope that we’ll know it when we see it.”

Pastor Matthews stepped aside so they could have access to Sylvia’s belongings, and Quinton and Jake brought out a box for each of them. Trish sat down in the hallway of the storage facility next to Cooper.

For the better part of three hours they searched through the boxes, scouring every picture, every quiz and every note. When all was said and done, Cooper had found one sketch of a farm house with the same hashmark signature, and Quinton had found a sketch of children on a playground. Neither image told them anything about the identity of the artist.

Just as Cooper finished searching through her last box, Trish stood, smiled and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I think I’ve found what we’re looking for.”

She scooted the boxes out of the way with her foot and then laid out a series of matted pictures on the floor. Each was labeled at the top: Good Example of Perspective, Good Example of Balance, Good Example of Texture. The last one—Good Example of Shading—bore the three little hashmarks in the lower right corner.

“That’s great,” Cooper said slowly. “But it doesn’t tell us anything.”

“There’s more,” Trish replied, handing the picture to Cooper. “Check out the back.”

Cooper turned the picture over. On the back was a sticker that read, “Coughlin Preparatory School Art Department. Property of Sylvia Wilburson.”

“Coughlin Prep?” Cooper could feel her heart beating faster. This was the break she’d been hoping for. “That’s her old school in Detroit, and Wilburson was her married name. Quinton, where’s the sketch of the children on the playground?”

Quinton held up a file folder. “Right here.”

“Does that say which class that picture was from?”

He flipped open the file. “Her fourth period.”

Cooper turned to Pastor Matthews. “Is there any way to find out who those students are?”

“Sure there is,” Pastor Matthews replied. “But I’m not allowed to share student names. Confidentiality and all.”

“Could you at least tell us what grade that is?”

Pastor Matthews closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Sylvia’s fourth period class. Let’s see . . . High school sophomores. That sounds right.”

Cooper stared at the “Good Example of Shading” image, depicting a busy city street in the late evening. Dark shadows extended out from the cars, buildings and streetlamps, and each building and face was shaded from the low-angle light of a setting sun.

“Let’s walk through this,” Cooper began. “Sylvia taught at Coughlin Prep and then Hope Street. This student attended Coughlin Prep and then Hope Street.”

“That’s a strange coincidence,” Pastor Matthews commented. “With all the places in this country to live, teach, and attend school, is it possible the same person was Sylvia’s student in both locations?”

“I was struggling with a similar coincidence the other day,” Cooper explained. “Until Inspector McNamara told me why it wasn’t so coincidental. Lewis Wilburson worked for a crime boss named Johnathan Borreo, and according to McNamara, guys like Borreo use men like Lewis as scouts to find new, safe locations. When Borreo left Detroit, he sent Lewis to Richmond to see if it would make a suitable home, while Borreo was lying low. Sylvia taught Borreo’s son in Detroit. Borreo was probably looking for a similar school environment as Coughlin Prep, and he found Hope Street. His son was eight when Borreo left Detroit.”

Jake sat back. “Which would make him fifteen now. The right age to be a high school sophomore. That’s an awful lot of assuming, though. We’re assuming Lewis was a scout. We’re assuming a mobster moved here. We’re assuming the hashmark signature belongs to one person and not two different people.”

“About that signature,” Quinton added. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Cooper held up the matted picture for all to see. “According to the newspaper article I read, Borreo’s full name was Johnathan Edgar Borreo II. What do you want to bet his son’s name was Johnathan Edgar Borreo III?”

Pastor Matthews gently took the picture from Cooper. “I don’t recall that name among our students.”

“I’m sure Borreo and his son are using assumed identities.”

The pastor shook his head. “This is all too much. I’m not even sure what to do with the information . . . or if I can do anything with it. It still doesn’t explain why Sylvia died.”

Cooper took a deep breath. “She must have figured out who the student was, and Borreo wanted to keep her quiet.” A piece of the puzzle shifted in Cooper’s mind and a part of the image that had been blurry suddenly became clear. She recalled Parent Night and Sylvia’s phone conversation, along with a comment that Abbi had made during their last discussion. “I think I know what happened. Lewis was always pushing Sylvia to sell her family estate in Michigan. It was worth a bundle and would’ve gone a long way toward paying off his latest gambling debts. In an attempt to save the last of her family’s holdings, Sylvia decided to blackmail Borreo into giving her money in exchange for silence. She didn’t realize just how bad an idea that was until it was too late.”

She paused to think through the idea again. Yes, it made sense. Cooper went on. “I realize that’s another assumption, but it’s all we have.”

Quinton sighed. “If it’s true, then it means all this was about money. Lewis gambled it. Borreo gave him more. Lewis lost that. Sylvia tried to get it through blackmail. All of this trouble and death for money.”

“That’s the theory, at least,” Cooper replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to have a chat with Inspector McNamara. I only hope he’s so happy about the information we found that he’s not too upset we’re doing our own investigating.”

“Good luck with that,” Jake said. “Do you need some help? There’s strength in numbers, they say.”

Trish nodded. “And if McNamara gets
really
mad, maybe we could be cellmates!”

Cooper laughed. “Tell you what. I’ll go alone, but if McNamara’s bent on throwing me in jail, you guys can raise money for my bail.”

“Agreed,” Quinton said. “I think we ought to hold a bake sale. I’m sure your mama would donate some cookies to the cause.”

• • •

After calling the station to make sure Inspector McNamara was there, Cooper headed home to change into more presentable clothing. She found Ms. Donna and Grammy sitting on opposite ends of the couch, watching the TV.

“Nice to see you two getting along so well,” Cooper said with a smile. “What are you watching?”

Grammy glared at Ms. Donna and then turned to Cooper.
“She
talks during the shows.”

Cooper gave Grammy a look. “You always talk during shows.”

“Yes, but
I
talk during
my
programs, not other people’s programs.”

Ms. Donna smiled so sweetly that Cooper would’ve thought her angelic, if she didn’t know better. “Why, Grammy Lee, you’re more than welcome to talk during
my
programs.”

Grammy muttered something unintelligible under her breath, and Cooper left the two of them alone to figure things out. Ms. Donna knew how to get under people’s skin, and Grammy was always more comfortable around animals than people, but today they’d have to learn to get along on their own. Or maybe Cooper would return to find Popeye chasing Ms. Donna around the house at Grammy’s command.

Either way, she had other things to worry about . . . like getting on McNamara’s bad side
again
.

All the way to the station, Cooper listened to the Beatles, trying to quiet the competing voices in her head. Sylvia, Lewis, Abbi, Harry, Nathan and Will all vied for attention, especially the latter two. Cooper turned up her stereo volume to drown them out, so she could concentrate on her imminent meeting. She had to choose her words carefully in order to come across as well-meaning and helpful, not simply nosy and woefully out of her depth.

By the time she arrived at the station, she had “Can’t Buy Me Love” stuck in her head, and she hummed it while she waited for the inspector. The song may not have made her more eloquent, but it did calm her nerves. That was worth a lot. Finally, McNamara stepped out of the back, waved to Cooper and led her to his office.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked. His tone was considerably less pleasant than his words.

“I wanted to talk to you about Sylvia Cassel’s murder.”

McNamara clenched his jaw. “By that, I hope you mean that you have nothing to offer but simply want an update as a friend of the deceased. I sincerely hope you’re not here to tell me you’ve been poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Cooper smiled meekly. “I’d love an update. I
might
have something to share. And . . .” She set the police file Ms. Donna had taken on his desk. “A friend of mine, intending to be helpful,
borrowed
this from someone’s desk.”

McNamara stared at it, eyes wide. “Your friend
borrowed
an official police report?”

Cooper nodded.

“Who is this friend? I think I’d like to have a chat with him.”

“Please, Inspector, I was hoping maybe you’d overlook that lapse in judgment in light of the other information I brought.”

“Who is it?”

“Just a person from church.”

“Who?”

“A very old woman who shouldn’t have to deal with the police.”

McNamara picked up his phone and punched four numbers. “Brayden. Get in here now.”

Seconds later, Officer Brayden appeared in the doorway. “What do you need, Inspector?”

“I don’t trust this woman or my own judgment right now. I’d like to have a level head in here with me. Close the door.”

Brayden did as he was told and stood off to the side.

Inspector McNamara continued. “All right, Ms. Lee. What other information do you have? And I warn you. It had better be good.”

Cooper handed him the sketch. “That sketch is the last image copied on Pastor Matthews’s copy machine.”

“I thought all the information was corrupted. How did you get this?”

She took a deep breath. “While I copied the hard drive contents onto your USB drive, I also put a copy on my computer. I’m afraid that when I made the copy for you I was . . .” She glanced at Officer Brayden, whose face revealed nothing. “I was distracted. I must have messed up the file transfer, and for that I’m very, very sorry. But that sketch you’re holding is the image Sylvia copied that night. The killer must have taken the original and the copy with him.”

“That’s a leap in logic.
If
Sylvia was making a copy, and
if
the paper didn’t just get lost in a stack of papers on the pastor’s desk, and
if
the killer took the paper . . .”

“I know that’s a lot of ifs, Inspector, but please humor me.”

McNamara rolled his eyes. “All right. For the sake of argument, let’s pretend all of those things are true. Why would the killer care about a sketch?”

Sylvia handed him the matted image from Coughlin Prep. “Because of this.”

McNamara compared the two pictures—the girl’s portrait and the cityscape. “Okay. So these have the same signature. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Do you remember when we were discussing John Borreo and scouts at Lewis Wilburson’s house?”

“I’m not senile, Ms. Lee. Of course I remember. John Borreo was like a modern-day Capone.”

“Well, as it turns out, Borreo’s son attended Coughlin Prep when Sylvia Cassel—then Sylvia Wilburson—taught there. About the same time that Borreo went into hiding, Sylvia and her husband moved from Detroit to Richmond. Lewis worked for Borreo.”