Gus’s eyes bolt open, as if from a fever dream.
“What’s up?” Alex is standing there. “Didn’t want to bother you. Looked like you were in one of your trances.”
“Yep. I was getting a visual.”
Mills smiles, satisfied. He likes when Gus performs. Gus knows this. Gus used to feel a bit like one ring of a three-ring circus, but he doesn’t anymore. He welcomes the encouragement. “You found an interesting place to stop,” Mills tells him. “But I told you not to enter the room.”
“I couldn’t help it. I had my eyes closed. Indulge me, dude.”
“Consider yourself indulged. Dude.”
Gus takes it in. He’s in front of a blank wall, or at least a blank part of the wall, an artistic impasse in the collection. The paintings on either side witnessed everything but say nothing. But there was a crime. A very simple crime. He points to the wall and says, “Stolen.”
“Jeez, Gus, your instincts are superhuman today.”
Gus smirks. “No need to be a dick, dick. Just confirming. Can I touch the wall?”
“If you must, put on some gloves,” Alex tells him. “The place has already been processed for prints, but you never know.”
“I always worry the latex will get in the way of a vibe, like filter stuff out.”
“Has it ever?”
Gus’s uncertainty brings a twist to his mouth. “That’s hard to know if I’m always wearing the gloves. But I bet my clues would be more consequential. Maybe they’d add up faster to the truth. I don’t know. It’s not an exact science.”
“It’s not a science,” Mills says. “Here. Put on the gloves.”
Without another word, Gus takes the latex gloves from Alex and pulls them on his hands. He stretches and curls his fingers for a snug fit. Then he puts his hand on the wall, runs it the length and width of the absent painting’s outline; it’s an area of trespass, a place of abduction, this square of wall that has barely seen the light. The square is a dark, squinting anomaly. He can see the artist squinting in his studio. The sun enters from above and the artist must shift his easel to get the light out of his eyes. The artist is a master, a fiend, a brilliant interpreter. He lives his life in the abstract. The artist dominates Gus’s vibe; what Gus cannot see, cannot feel, is the person or persons who came to this wall with malevolent hands. Damn. There is something here. But it’s not the painting. It’s not the subject of the painting. It’s not the artist who matters. The vibe is deductive, not inductive.
“The painting is pivotal,” Gus says.
“Another superhuman instinct. Is that all you’re getting?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, man. Could I spend the night?” “What?”
“I bet if I slept here tonight I’d be overrun with visions.”
Alex puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. “What are you smokin’ these days, Gus? You can’t spend the night here. You probably shouldn’t even be here now.”
“But—”
“It’s not going to happen. As much I’d like to give you the keys, my friend, I can’t. And you know it.”
Gus steps forward and put his face inches from Alex’s and says, “That painting is the key. To the murder and so much more. We have to find it.”
Alex leads him out of the house. Crossing the lawn he stops Gus and says, “Obviously we need to find the painting if we want to find our killer. But are you sensing there’s more to the painting than that?” “I know there is.”
“Like maybe the painting was purchased on the black market?” “Something like that.”
“Well, it was a gift to Viveca Canning’s husband.”
“Doesn’t matter. Who knows how many times it’s changed hands? Maybe there’s some symbolism in the painting itself. What was the name of it?”
“It’s an untitled Dali.”
Gus nods.
“What?” Alex asks him.
“Nothing. But I think the artist in my vision looked a little like Dali.”
“You know what Dali looks like?”
Gus scoffs. “Not exactly. But in my mind I conjured up a face that’s probably not too far off, I don’t know . . . what I’d imagine Dali to look like.”
“There could be all kinds of messages in the painting but I don’t have time to take an art history class,” Alex says.
“One of my clients works at the Heard. Maybe he can help.”
Then Alex asks him if he’d be free to go to a memorial tonight for the victim. “Her body won’t be there. We still have it. But I bet you’ll pick up all kinds of vibes. It’s at her church. She was on the board of directors. We’re doing a little surveillance.”
Gus checks his calendar on his phone, making sure he doesn’t have a client and, finding no appointments, he gives Alex half a shrug and says, “Sure.”
“Meet me at 6:45 at the C-ARC,” Alex tells him. “You need directions?”
He can feel the bulbs of his eyes almost pop. “What?”
“I asked if you needed directions.”
“No, no. I thought for a moment you said the C-ARC. You couldn’t have said the C-ARC. Could you?”
“I did.”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t know if he’ll be there. Somehow I doubt it.”
Gus gets in his car, throws a wave in Alex’s direction, and peels out. Imagine me, he thinks, at the Church of Angels Rising cathedral! All that effing glass will shatter the minute I walk in. There will be blood everywhere. Just like the party at Viveca Canning’s house.
Back at headquarters, Mills is forking his way through a homemade salad when Calvin Cloke from the OME calls. He doesn’t stop eating. He and Cal have a talking-while-chewing relationship. Cal tells him that, as suspected, Viveca Canning was shot at close range, that the second bullet, not the first, was the one that killed her. The first entered below her eye and exited behind her ear. But the second bullet killed her instantly. She had alcohol in her system. She wasn’t drunk, but she had been drinking. Nothing excessive. She had Premarin in her system, a common menopause treatment that’s also used for osteoarthritis and breast cancer. She definitely had arthritis, but no signs of cancer. She was also taking Diclofenac, a nonopioid painkiller, Lyrica, and traces of Valium.
“Lyrica is for nerve pain, and fibromyalgia,” Cal says.
“When you say traces of Valium, what does that mean? Like a dose she took a long time ago, or a small dose she took closer to her death?”
“I’d go with the latter,” Cal replies. “We still have a few more tests ongoing. I’ll be in touch. OK?”
“Sounds good.”
“And next time invite me for lunch if you’re going to chew in my ear.”
With a friendly “eat me,” Mills hangs up.
He’s no sooner off the phone when it rings again. He’s studying his notes: Premarin, Diclofenac, Lyrica, Valium. He puts a circle around Valium, then picks up the call. The caller introduces herself as Aaliyah Jones, a reporter for Channel 4. “I’m calling about the Viveca Canning case. Your sergeant transferred me. I figured it would be best to go through him first so it’s all above board.”
“I’m not used to reporters being so conscientious,” Mills tells her. “You’ve been dealing with the wrong reporters.”
Her voice is as sharp and clear as a figure skate on ice, or whatever image might cool him off on a 117-degree day. “I don’t deal with reporters, Ms. Jones. That’s why we have public information officers. You should know that.”
“I do,” she assures him. “But I have information that I don’t want to go public with. Hence, my fear of the ‘P’ in the ‘PIO.’ I’ve met with Gus Parker. He suggested I contact you.”
“I know. He already told me. Look, I’m busy right now. Can you come by tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“And can you give me a hint about what you have?”
A hesitation from her end of the line. All he hears is white noise. The sound of empty. “ma’am?”
“I’m
sorry,” she says with a fluster. “I can’t. I can’t give you any hints. I’m afraid someone might be listening in.”
“Listening in?”
“Tapping my phone.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes,” she says. “It’s all about tactics.”
He rolls his eyes. “Whose tactics?”
“I can’t say any more. I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” Mills says, elasticizing the word. “You better not be indulging me in some crazy fantasy of yours, Ms. Jones. I don’t have time to be led down some half-baked path to nowhere.”
“I can assure you I’m not, Detective. I’m not some anonymous tipster. I’m a reporter.”
Before he knows it, before he can control it, Mills laughs out loud.
“Maybe you think this is funny, but when you hear what I have to say you won’t be laughing.”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head, both ashamed and annoyed. At her. At himself. At the heat. At the fucking world. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed. But my experiences with reporters have, frankly, sucked. But I’m sorry. Why don’t you swing by around four o’clock tomorrow afternoon? Ask for me at the front desk.”
She tells him she’ll be there. Then she asks if he has a favorite kind of doughnut.
He laughs and hangs up. But touché, Aaliyah Jones. Touché.
A few hours later he races home and shoves dinner down his throat. Kelly comes in as he’s scrubbing a pot. “What time is the service?” she asks. She’s trudging. She tosses her briefcase on a chair, flings it, really, like a case dismissed.
“The squad is meeting me at 6:45,” he says. “I gotta leave in ten minutes. You okay?”
“Define OK.”
“Kelly . . .” He goes to her. He pulls her close. “You look exhausted.”
“This trial is a fucking grind.”
“I can tell. It’s written all over your face.” Something has stolen the glimmer from her eyes.
“Thanks, Alex. Not what I needed to hear.”
He kisses her cheek. “You know what I mean. You’ll always be the most beautiful woman in the world. Past. Present. And future.”
She laughs. He’s been saying that for years. He laughs too. They stand there, still in the embrace, laughing until Kelly begins to weep. “Oh, Alex . . . I need some time off.”
He pulls back, holding her arms tight, consuming her with his eyes and says, “And you will get it. I promise you. As soon as this case is over and your trial is done, we’re taking off. OK? Wherever you want to go . . .”
“Right now I’d settle for a spa day at the Phoenician.”
“Don’t give me any ideas.”
She brushes away and he follows her to the bedroom, where he gets changed for the service. “How were the leftovers?” she asks.
“I have no idea. I ate so fast I wasn’t paying attention,” he tells her. “There’s still more in the fridge.”
He says goodbye as she’s stepping into the shower.
The sun has drifted westward and the valley to the east has turned into a city of gold, as it always does at this hour. The mountains are gilded like masterpieces, a fleeting but reliable beauty complete with the diamonds of waning light shining in the vast windows of those fortunate homes in the foothills. Dusk is an illusion, Mills knows. It paints a deceptive picture. Everything, from those jewels in the mountains to the streets below, everything glitters, even while crime, grime, and despair crawl in the underbelly. For about an hour a day, it’s a respite. He’s thinking too much. He looks to the west now, where the sun is sinking behind blood orange coils of clouds, several layers of coils stretching to the horizon. And he’s nearing the cathedral. He can see the glass prism from the highway. It’s on fire. Not fire department fire. Sunset fire. A confusion of rays in the prism creates the illusion of flames. He pulls into the long driveway, recognizes his colleagues as he swings into the parking lot. Powell waves. Preston nods.
Gus arrives a few minutes later and Mills leads all of them to the church’s lobby, where they’re promptly stopped by security guards. These are ex-marine types in tight fitting suits, expensive looking suits, wearing earpieces as if they’re Secret Service, which they’re not. They’re bald, all four of them. A dress code, Mills guesses. “This is a private function,” one of the bouncers says.
“Right,” Mills says back. “And we’ve been invited.”
“The church emailed invitations to its members and guests that must be presented here at the door,” another brawny guard tells them. “Do you have one to show us?”
“No,” Mills says. “I don’t think we were on the email list. But we were invited by Pastor Norwood. Personally.”
“Do you have any identification?” the first guard asks.
Mills ceremoniously, and he’s entirely conscious of the ceremony, displays his badge. As does Powell. As does Preston.
The guards look at each other emptily, like they’re as stupid as they are massive. Like they’re massively stupid. Then a fifth guard pokes his head into the mix and says, “Who’s this?” pointing to Gus.
“He’s with us,” Mills says. “Maybe if you alert the pastor that we’re here, everything will be cleared up and you’ll be free to harass some other guests.”
Two of the guards turn away. The remaining three fold their arms across their chests and attempt to stare down Mills and his entourage. The pomp and formality must be out of some Rent-a-Cop training manual, Mills guesses, right down to the synchronized arm folding, so he lets it go. Powell clears her throat. With her, that can only mean one thing. She’s about to launch into a laughing fit. He turns to her and glares. “Don’t,” he mutters like a ventriloquist. She bows her head. Her back begins to rattle. Very nice. Decorum, not her strong suit. Gus is staring off into nowhere, his eyes lost in the prism. Motley crew, that’s how they must look, with grandfather Preston ignoring them all, as grandfathers do. Suddenly a flourish. Like the arrival of a Saudi Prince, Gleason Norwood, flanked by the two security officers, marches toward them, six heels clicking in precision, a giant cape billowing behind him.
A cape.
“Mr. Norwood, I’m sorry if there’s some confusion,” Mills says, extending a hand. “But I thought you had invited us.”
The preacher laughs uncomfortably. “Didn’t know you were bringing a whole posse,” he says. “But of course, you’re all welcome here.”
Norwood makes a magnanimous gesture with his hands. His cape is elaborately embroidered, its edges gold. It’s not a prayer shawl. It’s not a robe. It’s a damn cape, like a superhero’s, words all but hidden in the tapestry of it all, words vaguely stitched within the winding fields of color. Arabic, or something from that part of the world. It’s Gleason and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Powell, who had looked up, has lowered her head again.
“Is the event open to the public tonight?” Mills asks.
Norwood puts his hands together like he’s praying. “We have many nonmembers on the invite list. We wanted to open the cathedral to her friends who might not be Angels.”
“Angels?” Gus asks.
“We call the members of our church Angels. You know, Church of Angels Rising . . .”
“I did not know,” Gus says.
“Neither did I,” Mills says, then makes introductions all around.
“As I’m sure you know, Viveca had a large presence in the valley,” Norwood says. “She had many friends who worship elsewhere, and that’s OK with us.”
Okay with you?
“I had heard that the church is otherwise very private,” Mills says. “That you don’t, in fact, welcome strangers.”
Norwood scoffs with glee. “That’s nonsense. We welcome newcomers every day. But yes, our most holy days, Saturdays and Sundays, are off-limits to nonmembers. Now, why don’t we get you situated . . .”
From the belly of the cathedral an organ begins to moan. Out here the music echoes against the glass, sending shivers down the prism’s spine
. Mills can feel it in his fingertips. Ushers call for the throngs of visitors to form orderly lines before entering the sanctuary. There’s a scurry of footsteps as the music reaches a climax.
“We’d like to keep your presence as subtle as possible,” the preacher says. “Wouldn’t want to worry the congregants.”
“Of course not,” Mills says. “You’ll notice we’re not in uniforms.” The preacher nods. “I’ll have you escorted to one of the skyboxes by these fine gentlemen,” he says, indicating the jarheads surrounding him. “You should be comfortable up there.”
“Are we free to roam?” Powell asks, sporting a straight face at last. “If you must,” Norwood replies. “But, again, the word of the night is ‘subtle.’”
“Subtle,” she repeats.
“I promised to find some key people to talk to you about Viveca, and I have. They’ll be available after the service,” Norwood tells them. “That said, I must ask you to not solicit information from random people tonight. That would make people nervous.”
Mills gives him a tacit agreement with a nod.
15
Norwood’s security team has placed Mills’s group in the skybox above the preacher’s office. Like the office, the skybox is a marble and leather showplace. It looks out to a stadium-sized arena with floor seating of easily thirty rows, thirty across, surrounded by two levels of balconies and, topping it all, this nose-bleeding strip of skyboxes. They’re perched above midfield, Mills guesses, with a decent view of the stage, a mammoth platform with a pie section for the orchestra, now tuning up, and risers for the choir, now filing in. Dressing the stage are flags with symbols unfamiliar to Mills, and Corinthian columns. Mills doesn’t get the columns, thinks they’re gratuitous. Suspended high above the stage from a daunting network of rafters are stacks of loudspeakers and spotlights. “We’re in for a fucking rock concert,” Mills says.
Valley of Shadows Page 12
