“You must calm down,” the pastor says. I haven’t been introduced to Pastor Sam, but I’ve come across her a few times. She lives somewhere on the compound. She’s always out and about.
“Hell if I’ll do that!” The behemoth is dressed like a polished businessman, which doesn’t match the cusswords spewing from his mouth. I straighten my shoulders in an attempt to look taller. “What’s the problem?” I ask in a stern voice.
Pastor Sam turns her calm gaze on me. She’s close to my age, maybe a little older, and dresses in black pantsuits and matching clogs. She has a wiry body and cropped hair that’s as gray as her makeup-less face. Not a hint of lipstick or a dash of eye shadow to brighten her sallow skin. The only touch of color is a thick gold cross encrusted with eye-popping jewels that dangles from her skinny neck.
“I’d like to introduce you to Dario Panini,” she says, caressing her cross with her fingers. “He’s upset about the passing of his mother, Mary.”
“You’re damn right I’m upset about my mother,” Panini says. “What the hell happened? She was fine when I spoke to her last week.”
“Dario’s mother passed away last night,” the pastor adds.
“Ma didn’t pass away,” Panini says. “She was killed.”
I’m not exactly sure what my role is here, so I let the detective in me take over. “Settle down,” I say sternly. I nod at the caretaker. “Is she hurt?”
“She’ll be fine,” the pastor says. “He scared her; that’s all.”
“He slapped me,” the caretaker sobs. “I think he broke my nose.”
“You hit her?” I reach for my nonexistent handcuffs.
“He didn’t mean it,” Pastor Sam says calmly, “did you, Dario?”
“If he hit her, we should call the police.”
The pastor gives me an inquisitive look. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What’s your name?”
“Zach Richards.”
“Well, Zach, you’ll learn we prefer not to involve outsiders. In fact, your role as a security guard is to help us take care of our own.”
I want to argue that an assault should be reported, but then Tina jumps into my head.
Don’t blow this job, she says. Keep quiet and follow their rules.
Pastor Sam turns to Panini. “It would be best if we discussed your concerns in private. Zach will accompany you to our chapel. I want to have a few words with our caretaker, and then I’ll meet you there.”
“I don’t want to air my concerns in private,” Panini yells. “Everyone here should know what you’re up to. You’re murderers, and I have proof.”
The pastor reaches out and rests her hand on Panini’s massive arm, looking like a David to his Goliath. “It’ll be okay,” she says in a soothing voice. “I promise you. We’ll have a nice chat and work this out. Now please follow Zach to the chapel. It’s not far from here.”
Panini looks like he might argue, and then his body slumps. “All right.”
It’s like he’s been hypnotized, Tina says.
I know. What’s up with that?
Four
Tuesday, July 9
Serenity Chapel is housed in a sandstone building near the golf course’s seventh hole. Big and dark, it’s full of strange echoes, the ceiling swallowed in a dusty gloom. It reminds me of the church my mom dragged me to when I was just a kid. She always told me God was waiting in the rafters to punish me for my sins. That was the beginning of what my dad called her crazies. She was committed by the time I was ten. I can’t help but think of Mom’s mental illness when Tina rummages around in my head.
The setting sun streams through the stained-glass windows, casting a hellish glow across Panini’s face. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. It’s like I’m not even there. He stares at the oversized altar, his large hands gripped tight into fists.
“You have a mom?” he asks after a while.
“She passed away years ago.”
“Dad?”
“He’s been gone a long time too.”
“Siblings?”
“Nope.”
“Lucky you.”
“Lucky?”
He turns to me, and in the streaming light I see there’s something odd about his eyes. One’s blue, the other green, and they’re set so far apart you can’t tell where he’s looking. He chews on a ragged fingernail while he continues to gripe. “It’s been a bitch,” he says, “flying cross-country every month. I mean, hell, I’ve dropped so much money on this place, you’d think Ma would’ve been taken care of. But Serenity-goddamn-Acres is as bad as any Medicaid dump.” He shakes his head and begins to pace.
“Ma only moved out here ’cause of my pain-in-the-ass sister, Annette. She was living with her jerk boyfriend in Montecito when that mudslide hit. Hell if those chickenshits didn’t up and move to Costa Rica.” He stops his pacing and tugs at his hair. “Can you believe that? My sis got scared and took off, leaving her poor old ma behind. What kind of person does that?” He glares at me like I’m supposed to have an answer.
“I don’t know . . .”
“Well, I do. It’s called a selfish bitch.”
I glance at the altar and think he shouldn’t be using foul language. But I doubt it’s my place to intervene.
“It was Annette’s way of screwing me over,” he continues. “Knew I’d have to drop everything and fly out every couple of weeks to keep my eye on Ma.”
He stops talking, and I speak up when the silence becomes deafening. “So why didn’t you move your mother back home?”
Curling his hands into fists, Panini leans my way. “I tried to, but you guys refused to cough up her deposit.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Ask him if he’s in the habit of slapping women, Tina orders.
“Not now.”
Ask him, she insists.
“No!”
“You talking to me?” Panini asks, his blue eye wandering.
“Sorry. Got a dispatch.” I tap my earpiece. “And sorry about the deposit.”
“Well, you should be.” He works his monster-sized hands together. “Got a question for you. Ever hear of something called the Goodnight Club?”
“The Goodnight Club?” I shake my head, my detective ears perking up. “No. Why?”
“A couple of months ago, Ma told me she joined something called the Goodnight Club. It’s not some regular club. It’s a bunch of old people that don’t want to hang on this earth no more, and there’s some guy that helps them out.”
“He does what?”
“Someone helps them,” he says angrily. “Gives them some juice. Sends them on their way. You know what I mean.”
“Assisted suicide?”
“Assisted nothing. It’s murder in my book. Thing is, Ma wasn’t ready to go. Told me so herself. You gotta agree on a date or something, and Ma said she hadn’t done no such thing. She just liked hanging out with some of the oldies that had her twisted frame of mind. Anyway, you wear a uniform. Why don’t you investigate?”
“Excuse me,” Pastor Sam steps up beside me, and I jump like I’ve done something wrong.
“Mr. Panini was just telling me . . .”
“I heard what he said. I’ll take care of things from here.” She stares at me until I turn and shuffle off. “Now why don’t we take a seat?” she says.
I head to the back of the chapel, where I can’t help but pause and listen in. Panini slumps into the front pew and drops his head in his hands. His back is twitching, like he’s crying. Or at the very least, he’s choking back tears. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” the pastor says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Your mother was a wonderful woman.”
He lifts his head. “You knew her?”
“Of course I did. She was quite engaging. Had made many friends at the campus.”
“Yeah. That’s my ma. The life of the party.” His voice turns mean. “But that doesn’t change a thing. I’m gonna go to the police.”
“Now why would you do that?”
“I wanna autopsy. I wanna know why Ma died.”
“I understand, Dario. And I feel your pain. But your mother was eighty-seven. Isn’t it likely she died from natural causes?”
“That’s what you want me to think. But she told me that some guy at the Goodnight Club was gonna help her kick off. I thought she’d gone daft with dementia. But maybe I should’ve listened better, ’cause I know as God is my witness she couldn’t have been ready. My little girl’s getting married next month, and Ma planned to be there. So I want you to get to the bottom of this. I wanna know if she got herself killed.” At this he begins to sob in an awkward way, more barking seal than man.
“I’ll tell you what,” the pastor says. “I’ll arrange to have a grief counselor meet with you tomorrow. And with any others in your family that might need a little support.”
“There’s only me,” he snuffles. “My sister lives out of the country and doesn’t give a shit.”
“All right. Then the counselor will meet with you.”
He stops his crying. “That doesn’t change anything. I want an autopsy. I demand it.”
Pastor Sam gets to her feet, arms folded. “All right, Dario. If you want an autopsy, we’ll order one. But if we bring in the coroner, the police will get involved, and that could get messy. I don’t think our caretaker will press charges, but we’ll have to let the police know you hit her. It’s possible they could charge you with aggravated assault.”
“Assault?” Panini stands, looming over the pastor like a cartoon character. “I didn’t assault her. She was talking nonsense, so I gave her a tap on the cheek.”
“You hit her, Dario. You may have broken her nose.” She pats his arm like he’s a child. “So maybe we shouldn’t order that autopsy. What do you think?”
He hesitates. “I . . . I can’t afford for this to get messy. I can’t have the police rummaging through my life. Got loads of work to get back to in Jersey. I don’t want any bad press.”
“Then you agree there’s no reason to involve the police in your mother’s death.”
He nods. “Yeah. I agree.”
“Good.”
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I just about bang through the roof. I spin around and come face to face with our baby-faced executive director. “Is there a problem here?” he asks.
Five
Tuesday, July 9
I feel an immediate flush of guilt, like I’ve been caught sleeping on the job. I glance at the altar, then hurry outside, Kai following close behind. When I get to the chapel herb garden, I pause and turn. “There was a problem with a visitor,” I say, giving Kai a discreet once-over. He’s dressed in faded blue jeans and a striped button-down, his dark hair slicked back into a ponytail. He reeks of musky cologne, or maybe the odor comes from the crap in his hair. He seems to use a lot.
“Define problem,” Kai says, his gray eyes fixed on mine. I wave my hand toward the chapel entrance.
“Code orange. Unhappy family member. Pastor Sam seems to be handling it fine.”
“I’d expect no less. And you are?”
I point to my name tag. “Zach Richards. Started working here last month.” I hold out my hand, and Kai makes a face like I’ve offered him a snake. I let my hand drop to my side, thinking handshakes must not be his thing. Kai glances past me into the chapel.
“Were you eavesdropping?” he asks.
“No.”
“Pastor Sam would be pissed if you were.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” I reply firmly. “I was trying to be of help.” I tap my earpiece. “Better get back to my rounds.”
“That can wait. I was looking for someone in maintenance, but I guess you’ll have to do. Follow me.” He starts down a well-worn path between the trees.
Go on, Tina says. Follow the kid.
“He’s a jerk.”
And you’re not?
I rap on my head and then follow Kai to the administrative building and into a small windowless office crammed full of cardboard boxes.
“Maintenance was supposed to move my stuff today,” he says, “but a couple of their guys called in sick.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with tonight’s All-Star Game.” He waves his hand at the pile of boxes. “Mind helping me with a few of these?”
Yeah, I mind, thinking of my knee.
Careful, Tina warns.
I shrug. “Where to?”
“My new office in the next building over. It’s not far.” He picks up a half-empty box.
“Got a hand truck?” I ask.
“No. But these aren’t too heavy.”
I sigh and pick up a box loaded with books and hobble out the door.
Kai’s new digs are a major upgrade from his former office. A three-room suite, freshly painted with a private bathroom and a bar. A flat-screen TV hangs on one wall; modern artwork fills the others. Colorful furniture that cries expensive. The kid can’t help but gloat once we’ve finished moving his boxes, a sheen of sweat coating his face. “Pretty damn sweet,” he says, his arms spread wide. “Don’t you think?”
I nod. “Yeah. Not bad.”
Kai opens one of the boxes and pulls out a jug of Patrón. “Have a drink with me?” he asks. “A little moving day celebration?”
“No, thanks.”
“You sure? It’s a limited edition. Goes down extra smooth.” He holds up his half-full tumbler, and I can’t say I’m not tempted.
Don’t you dare, Tina whispers.
“It’s against the rules,” I say.
“This is a special day. I’ll give you a onetime exemption.”
I shake my head. “Got a long night ahead. That stuff’ll put me to sleep.”
“Too bad.”
I lean against the wall, my knee twinging with a surging current. I’m ready to be released from my domestic duties, but the kid seems to have other ideas. He wanders from box to box, sipping on his evening cocktail. “You always been a security guard?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I was a police detective at one time.”
Kai sets down his empty glass and looks at me with interest. “Really? Then you’ll know what this is.” He reaches into his back pocket and whips out a knife. I take a step back, chilled. I know exactly what it is and have the scar on my chest to prove it.
“Why’re you carrying a karambit?” I ask, my gaze fixed on the wickedly curved blade.
He makes a few amateur moves, slicing the knife through the air. “A friend got me into the Apollo Reed videos. We’re flying to Vegas next week to take one of his workshops.”
Apollo Reed is a legend in his own mind, teaching a nation full of whacked-out preppers how to maim and kill under the guise of self-protection. “You a survivalist?” I ask.
“No, I just think the concept is cool.”
The perp who cut me was a survivalist, and a nutcase on top of that. The guy came out of nowhere and sliced me across the chest. “Well, I wouldn’t wave that thing around until you know what you’re doing.”
Kai pockets the blade with a sullen look. “I told you I’ve been watching the videos.”
“Any idiot can do that,” I mumble.
“What?”
I tap my headpiece. “Sorry. Another dispatch.”
He stares at me for a moment, like he’s trying to make sense of who I am. “Anyway,” he says, “I’ve gotta get moving. I have a Kali class tonight.”
“You’re studying Filipino martial arts?”
“You know about that stuff?”
“Weapon-based training? Yeah. I do.”
Years ago.
“Shush.”
Kai chuckles. “Well, my class is the vegan version. More like tai chi.” He tugs his cell phone from his pocket and makes a face. “Can I get you to empty a few of these boxes?” he asks. “You don’t need to arrange them or anything. Just stick the books on the shelves and leave the supplies on the desk. My new receptionist starts tomorrow. H
er name’s Uma. Like Uma Thurman. Only younger and hotter and smarter. She just graduated magna cum laude from UCSB.”
“And she wants to work here?”
He nods. “Lots of graduates want to stay in town, and there’s not so many jobs. I’m planning to take full advantage of that. We’ve got enough old people wandering around this place. We need some energy, some excitement, some . . . well, some basic drive.”
Tina barges in. He’s dissing you, she says.
“No, he’s not.”
What a prick.
“Shush.”
Kai grabs his rucksack and heads for the door. “Get everything ready for Uma to organize. Don’t want her to have a workers’ comp claim on her first day. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good.” He hurries out the door.
I settle on a shiny purple sofa and give my knee a good rub. The sofa is one of those modern things that may look good in some froufrou showroom but is about as comfortable as a straight-backed chair. I can’t help but feel all pissy inside. It’s one thing to play maintenance man and move the jerk’s boxes, but hell if I’m going to sort his pencils and pens. That’s a job for Uma and her kick-ass degree. I decide to do the minimum and dump a load of supplies onto his desk. A manila folder tumbles out, spilling its contents across the floor. “Shit,” I swear, easing down on my knees.
I pick up a bill with Past Due stamped across its face. Student loan. A big one. Looks like Kai hasn’t made a payment in months. There’s also a Nordstrom bill with a $10,000 balance. A MasterCard over its limit. I shake my head and whistle. Hell if our new boss isn’t a spendthrift. He comes off like some Montecito trust funder, but that must be part of his shtick.
“Can I help you with something?”
Pastor Sam stands in the doorway, looking anything but pleased. I get to my feet with a grunt. “Kai asked me to empty his boxes.”
“Did he?” She crosses the room and plucks the folder from my hand and pages through its contents. “Did he ask you to go through his personal things?”
What She Never Said Page 7
