Every person in the church except me shouted the last four words with her, splitting my eardrums. I winced and tried to look like I was smiling. I wanted out of the church so badly I could almost cry. I wanted to run and hide like a little girl, to pretend I didn’t know people this rabid existed on the planet, much less one hour from my home.
“’Scuse me,” I said to the hairy guy on my left. He was the only one between me and freedom. “Bathroom. Emergency.”
He pressed his legs against the pew and leaned his upper body toward the back rest, and I squeezed past him into the side aisle. My path to the exit was blocked by a wall of unmoving people. The crowd was boisterous now, pumped up by the rabble-rousing end to the sermon. The room had grown steamy from the perspiration of excited bodies. Sweat trickled between my breasts. I couldn’t get enough air. Spots danced before my eyes. I swayed and saw the ground rushing toward my face.
“I said I’ve got your back, Sister, and I meant it,” the hairy man said, just before the lights went out.
***
I opened my eyes to discover a ceiling. Drywall, orange-peel texture, white paint, white glass bowl over a light with one bulb out. My legs felt weighted down. I tried to sit up, and the spots came back. I groaned and fought through them.
“There she is.” I didn’t recognize the voice of the woman speaking.
I turned toward her and didn’t recognize her face, either. “Hi, sorry, where am I?”
“You fainted. Brother Tom brought you into the Sunday school wing like a sack of potatoes. It’s cooler in here, more comfortable for you to rest.”
“Oh, wow.” The freaky service and mob of crazy people came back to me. Mighty is His Word. Outside Sanford, aka seventh circle of Hell. I was still there.
“I’m Sister Elise, by the way.” She smiled at me.
I swung my legs to the floor and a muslin blanket slipped off my legs and fell to the floor. I’d been reclined on a padded bench. The room around me seemed like an office, but it had crayon drawings and construction paper cutouts on the walls. I leaned over to pick up the blanket and held it out to her.
“We call those modesty blankets. We use them during communions and baptisms for women in skirts. Or, in your case, fainting.”
“Oh.”
“What’s your name?” she asked, still smiling.
My dry throat felt like it was closing altogether. I willed my fuzzy brain to think. “Ce-Cecilia.”
“Cecilia. Nice to meet you. Cecilia what?”
“Hodges.” I regretted both names immediately, but it was too late. They were the best I could come up with in my current state.
“Hodges. Any relation to Mary Alice or Trevon in Amarillo?”
Inside I quaked. “Um, no, never heard of them.” I wished I hadn’t snuck out that morning, leaving Jack behind, asleep, more than I could possibly ever explain to another human. Why, oh, why had I left our safe, warm bed for this?
“Great people. True soldiers for God.”
“Sounds like they are . . . fine people.”
“The kind we all aspire to be.”
The hairy man I’d sat next to earlier appeared in the doorway. “Good, you’re back in the land of the living.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“No problem, sister. I’m Brother Tom.”
I stood up, ready to shake his hand if he offered it, but he didn’t. “Cecilia.”
“Where you from, Cecilia?”
Why had I not prepared a cover story in advance? “P-P-Pampa.”
“Are you married?”
I shook my head, which brought a little dizziness back.
“No? No kids?”
“None,” I said, skipping the headshake.
“We always ask visitors this, so please don’t feel singled out, but I’m wondering—how do you feel about contributions to the church?”
I laughed, startled. “You mean, like canned goods and hand-me-downs?”
He laughed, too. “No, no. I mean money. Like tithing. Ten percent of income.”
I struggled not to telegraph my discomfort with the awkward, abrupt line of questioning. “That’s what the Bible calls for, so that’s what I’m good with.”
“And sin? With eradication of sin from the world?”
“Pardon me?”
“How far are you willing to go as a soldier for God in carrying out his wrath against sin?”
“Wow. I guess, um, I’d have to have examples or something.”
“Brother Tom,” Elise chided. “Be gentle.” She still wore the same smile she’d had on her face the entire time. “He’s always this intense, I’m afraid. Cecilia, what brings you to Mighty is His Word today?”
I took a step and pretended to stumble. “Whoa, my blood sugar must be off-the-charts low. I have a protein bar in my car. I’ve really got to get out there and take care of this before I end up fainting on your floor again.”
“We’ll walk you out,” Tom said, taking my elbow.
Elise materialized on my other side. “Be careful, sister. We’ve got you.”
The sweat was rolling down my body again, but not because of blood sugar. “Thank you so much. I do think I’ve got it, though.” I walked faster, pulling them along with me.
“Here’s our turn,” Elise said and guided me to the left.
“Oh, I see the doors now, thanks again.”
Tom pushed the door open and held it, but Elise didn’t relinquish my arm.
“Thank you,” I said to him. I hadn’t brought my purse in with me, just a key in my skirt pocket. A chill raced through me. If I had brought in my handbag, they’d have had access to my wallet with my real name. I felt pretty sure they would have looked.
“Will we see you Wednesday night?” Elise asked me.
“Um, yes, probably, maybe.”
“Good. I think we’re going to get along great.”
“Oh yes, I think so, too.”
We’d reached my car by then. I saw that its license plates were too muddy to read, and for the first time that morning, I prayed fervently and sincerely. Thank you, God. I got out my key and let myself into the car.
“Brother Tom, Sister Elise, thank you again. You’re so kind.”
“See you Wednesday night, Cecilia Hodges from Pampa.”
I drove out of the dirt parking lot like a bat out of hell.
Chapter Seventeen
Sitting at my office desk the next day, I still felt guilty for lying to Jack about where I’d gone on Sunday morning. He’d complimented me when I told him I’d signed on for a shift with Phil at the hospital so Nadine could take her boys to church. Then we’d spent the rest of the day together doing homey things, like planting snapdragons in the front flower beds and cleaning out the small, empty stable in the backyard, something you have to do occasionally whether anything lives there or not. Jack had grilled kabobs with steak for him and veggies for me. We’d ended up in bed early having what felt a lot like make-up sex, then eating popcorn and snuggling while we streamed back episodes of Longmire.
Some of my guilt over my deceit was tempered by the fact that once again Jack had things to do outside the office that he hadn’t shared with me. Snowflake and I were alone there again.
My fingers took my lonely emotions out on my keyboard. If the poor thing could bruise, it would have looked like it had been in the ring with Muhammad Ali. Even though he’d been awesome the night before, I was still mad at Jack. I was frustrated that Wallace couldn’t or wouldn’t push harder to help me with Betsy, and I was fighting mad that I hadn’t been able to see her. I’d done everything I could, with Jack and with Betsy, and if my best hadn’t been good enough, then I was at a loss. So I was back on Phil’s case, with a vengeance. Today I would focus on helping our client, helping my friend. Well, I would after I made a quick call to the number for Wilde. But definitely after that, I was all about helping Phil and Nadine.
I dialed and it rolled to voice mail immediately. It was one of those automated o
utgoing messages that just recited the number and told me to please leave a message, in a voice more robotic than Siri’s. “Mr. Wilde, my name is Emily Bernal. Please call me.” I gave him my number.
“Rats,” I said to Snowflake. She yawned at me. I wasn’t fooled by her sleepy act. She’d be a livewire the second the phone rang, so I was armed and ready with liver treats to practice the “Quiet” command.
I moved on to Phil and Nadine. Cecilia had told me that she thought Dennis and Phil planned to go into business together. It wasn’t much, but it was something new to try. I typed their names into Google together and got a slew of hits, all relating to Dennis’s death. Not helpful. I added the word “business” to the search. Nothing. I searched for each of them in the Texas Secretary of State records for businesses. I didn’t get anything linking them together. I tried property records for Potter and Randall counties. Nada.
“Maybe Nadine knows more than she thinks,” I said to Snowflake.
She opened one eye, then closed it immediately.
“I know, right? I’m full of great ideas this morning.” So I called Nadine. We chatted about Phil and then I gave her an update. “I wanted you to know I met with Phil’s ex-wife. Good news: she said she doesn’t remember sleeping with Dennis.” Since I was overstating things a smidge, I crossed my fingers.
“That’s good?”
“Yes! It goes to motive, right? If she didn’t sleep with him and you didn’t, then that Millie woman heard them wrong.”
“What does Millie say?”
“I don’t know yet. She hasn’t returned my call.” I scribbled myself a note to stalk the woman if I had to. “Cecilia thought Dennis had a girlfriend. Skinny, pale, brownish-blonde hair. Ring any bells?”
“Not a one. Dennis was a slut. Phil said he was never with the same woman twice.”
“What about business ventures? Did Dennis and Phil have anything cooking together?”
“They talked big, but I’m not sure if you could call it being in business. I know they put together holding companies and stuff and had plans. Dennis was the architect of all that. Lately, Phil was focusing on Get Your Kicks with me.”
“Holding companies?”
“Yeah, you know, making companies with different names so they could do business under those names instead of their own.”
I whomped my forehead with my palm. “That’s why I couldn’t find them paired together. They’re using different names. But still, they have to have their names together somewhere. Or maybe they don’t. Maybe their original deal is just a plain Jane partnership.”
Nadine’s voice rose. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I laughed. “Never mind. But can you get me some names of those holding companies?”
“Oh man, I have no idea what they are.”
“Does he keep files?”
“He might. He doesn’t keep much at the house, but we could check. He’s got some boxes in one of those storage rental places, too. Not much space for that in his apartment.”
The door flung back open. My heart leapt hopefully. Jack? But the appearance of an acne-speckled young face followed by a praying-mantis body dashed my hopes.
“Morning, ma’am. Where would you like this box?” The man-child gestured to the box in question on a handcart he was dragging behind him.
“Good morning.” I stood. “Just put it on my desk.” I gestured toward the empty corner. To Nadine I said, “Gotta go. I’ll call you back later about Phil’s place.” We hung up.
The young man leaned down and picked the package up like it was feather light and set it on my desk. “I need you to sign for it.” He pulled a folded sheaf of papers from his back pocket and smoothed them flat in front of me. He followed it with a pen from the same hip, which he clicked and handed over.
I scanned the forms. A box from the DA’s office, referencing Phil Escalante. That was fast. Phil hadn’t even been arraigned, due to his condition. I signed a wiggly line to confirm receipt. “Thank you.”
He blinked behind thick-lensed glasses and took back the pen and papers, peeling off a duplicate page and leaving it on my desk. “Have a nice day, ma’am.” He wheeled on one long leg, pivoting like a slalom skier around a ski pole.
“You, too.” I grabbed scissors from my center desk drawer and cut the side tape, then cut the label from the box for our files. I slit the remaining tape between the box flaps and opened them to expose a lot of packing paper and a meager stack of documents.
I rifled through them. Phone records. Police report. A witness list. Autopsy records stating cause of death as asphyxiation. Emails to and from Dennis. I pulled those out and sat down, reading through them, trying to shed light on the recent relationship between Phil and Dennis. There were several, even one talking about Phil’s acquittal and celebration party, but there was nothing to bolster the state’s argument about conflict between them relating to women or anything else. For that matter, there was nothing suspicious on its face between Dennis and anyone else. Mostly, the emails were correspondence about his business. When I pulled together a file on Dennis the week before, I included in it: Wilhaul Distribution Services. No website. The phone number listed was his cell. The Dun & Bradstreet record was a nonstarter. In the emails I saw people confirming receipt, and I saw people confirming pickup, but none of the emails indicated what, exactly. They were innocuous, short on detail.
But Nadine said that Dennis had forwarded an email to Phil, so there had to be one in there somewhere. I started back at the beginning of the stack. To and from, the emails between them documented a friendship and nothing else. No forwards, not even of dirty pictures or inappropriate political jokes.
I texted Nadine: You’re sure Phil said Dennis had forwarded an email to him?
I returned to reading emails between the two men, but almost immediately her reply came through: 100% sure.
But there were no emails forwarded from Dennis to Phil. Either Nadine heard it wrong, or it was missing. And if it was missing, ADA Stafford had some explaining to do. “What in Hades is going on here?” I said aloud. I pondered for a few moments, then pushed speed dial for the DA’s office.
“Melinda Stafford, please,” I said to the monotone receptionist who answered the phone.
“Hold.”
Elevator music replaced her voice.
Someone other than Melinda had recorded the message. “You’ve reached the voice mail of Assistant District Attorney Melinda Stafford. Please leave a message with your name, phone number, and the case to which your call regards and someone will return your call.” Beep.
I decided not to show my hand on voice mail—I needed her to call me back. “Melinda, this is Emily Bernal about Phil Escalante.” I left our office number. “I got the discovery documents you messengered over, and I’m calling to confirm where you obtained them from. Specifically, I am wondering if these represent computer records from Phil, Dennis, or both.” I couldn’t remember if they’d removed Phil’s hard drive or copied it when they searched his place a week before, and Jack wasn’t here to ask. “Thank you.”
I hung up and smiled, but it was a grim one. Where was the forwarded email? Lost? Deleted? Withheld? If it was withheld, that would be a violation of the rules by Melinda. I filed it with my growing list of her possible misdeeds and called Nadine. I wasn’t going to sit around and wait on an answer from Melinda, which might never come, and that I didn’t necessarily trust if it did.
When Nadine answered I said, “Can you get me into Phil’s, pronto?”
Chapter Eighteen
Nadine slid her key into the lock at Phil’s apartment, where I’d met her after dropping a pouty Snowflake at home in the backyard. “I haven’t been in here since before Phil was arrested. He’s not the world’s best housekeeper.” She pushed the door open.
“No worries.” I preceded her in, fumbling for the switches inside the door. I found them, and the room flooded with light.
Phil’s bachelor pad looked like a to
rnado had hit it. Papers were strewn everywhere, drawers hung half-open, closet doors were ajar. Papers and clothing obscured his furniture. About all I could see of the apartment itself was stainless steel appliances, silvery-gray cabinet doors and black granite kitchen countertops. The walls were a bright white with three large canvases on which someone—Phil? an artist?—had splashed red and black paint.
Nadine gathered an armload of papers. “This isn’t right. Phil isn’t this big a slob.”
“Maybe it was from the search.”
“No, it couldn’t be. He cleaned the mess up before I came over that afternoon. Then he was arrested that night.”
I held my hands up shoulder-high. “Do you think Phil has any gloves? I don’t want to mess up a crime scene, in case we want to report it.”
“Ski gloves, maybe.” She stuffed the papers she was holding into a deep drawer in a desk alcove next to the kitchen. “But I have some dishwashing gloves. From sanitizing this place when we first started dating.” She walked into the kitchen and dug in the cabinet under the sink. She straightened and popped first one, then a second bright yellow glove at me. I squished my hands into them and immediately felt like Martha Stewart.
There was a loud crash from somewhere in the apartment.
I lowered my voice. “Does Phil have any pets?”
“No.” Nadine backed toward the door, and her voice was a raspy whisper.
I pulled my baby Glock from my purse and stuffed the yellow gloves in their place. “Wait here.”
“Shouldn’t we call the cops?”
“I don’t think the cops are Phil’s best friends right now.”
“Okay, well, maybe we should leave, then?”
I nodded. “I’ll meet you outside in just a sec.”
“Emily! I meant both of us, now.” She fell in behind me. “I’m not leaving you in here alone.”
We crept through the living room and down the short hall. We passed a doorway to a bathroom, which was dark. Too close. The sound had come from farther down the hall. We took another step, and I wiggled my fingers to rearrange my grip on my gun. I exhaled then extended the pistol into the last doorway opening on the hall, bracing through my core.
Hell to Pay (What Doesn’t Kill You, #7): An Emily Romantic Mystery Page 17
