by T. E. Woods
It could be deadly.
“I can’t answer that.”
Stanwick stood. She stared down at him. “Then take me to your source. I’ll ask my own questions.”
Chapter 38
Sydney delivered Rick a stare that could crack a cinder block. “Is this enough for you? Can you admit now that Clay had nothing to do with Miranda’s murder?” She turned to the two women sitting on her hotel bed. “Have you called Madison yet? I’m sure Detective Welke would appreciate knowing he can stop chasing dead ends. He’s the lead on this case.” She nodded toward Rick. “This guy’s only the gumshoe sent to gather background.”
The older agent, the one Rick introduced as Special Agent Stanwick, gave her a placating smile. “Please do not interpret our interest in ImEx as an indicator that our investigation absolves any murder suspect Madison may be looking at.”
“So, it’s just a coincidence you two are here? You ran into Rick in the bar, struck up a conversation, and he decided it might be a kick for me to meet a couple of FBI agents?”
“No,” Stanwick answered steadily. “Detective Sheffield was pursuing his own investigation. During our course of making certain he didn’t inadvertently interfere with ours, we crossed paths. He led us to believe you may be able to help us.”
“And that’s why you needed my driver’s license?” Sydney gestured toward the younger agent who had her laptop resting on her knees. “Agent Delgrasso scanned it into something. What? A national database?”
“We need to know who we’re talking to.”
Sydney shook her head and threw another glare toward Rick, who sat at the small desk opposite the bed. She’d left Natalie at the Hunter’s Lodge and driven straight back to the hotel. Rick had texted her that he’d be in the bar. She hadn’t expected to see him waiting for her in the lobby, flanked by two stern-faced women. When the elder one suggested they all go up to Sydney’s room for a chat, refusing didn’t seem an option.
“Here it is.” Agent Delgrasso scanned her computer screen, then handed it to Stanwick. Sydney leaned against the bureau, waiting while the agent took her time scrolling through the screens. When she was finished, she handed the laptop back to Delgrasso. Then she smiled at Sydney.
“I’m impressed,” she said. “That was quite an escapade you had last fall. Brought a murderer in single-handedly.” Her face softened. “Your dad would have been proud, I’m sure.”
Sydney bit her lower lip in a combination of anger and frustration. “I’m not the type of woman you can soften up with sympathy and kind words. You’ve checked me out. You’re still here, so I assume you’ve decided I’m worth the risk. I’m more apt to give you what you need if you’re straight with me. What’s going on and how do I fit in?”
Stanwick scooted away from her partner, making room between them on the bed. “Come sit, Sydney.”
It took less than five minutes to bring her up to speed about the contraband shipments to the rogue nation.
“It was Miranda,” Sydney announced when Stanwick finished her recap of the investigation. “Someone involved with the ImEx shipments killed her.”
Rick spoke directly to the agents. “Sydney’s boyfriend is Clay Hawthorne. He’s the man all eyes are looking at for the murder of Miranda Greer.”
“You have a strong case?” Delgrasso asked him.
“Hawthorne’s the father of Miranda’s only child. Raised him on his own—”
“After Miranda abandoned them,” Sydney interrupted.
Rick continued. “Miranda comes to town after all these years. Makes nice with her son.” He tossed a glance toward Sydney. “Gets romantic with Hawthorne.”
“Nothing happened!” Sydney insisted.
“Hawthorne and Miranda had a shouting match on December 27. Witnesses said they could hear them yelling through the hotel walls. We have a text sent from Hawthorne’s phone luring Miranda to a silo. Some kids found her there the next day, swinging from a rafter. Hawthorne’s got no alibi for the time.”
“Clay had nothing to do with Miranda’s murder!” Sydney glared at Rick as she stood and crossed to a chair opposite the bed.
Agent Stanwick’s tone was patient. “Sounds like there was no love lost between you and Miranda. That might color your view of her.”
“I have proof!”
“What proof?” Stanwick asked.
“Miranda had two women at ImEx working on the project. Shiree Evans is one. The other is…” Sydney closed her eyes to concentrate. She tapped her hand against her leg as though the very movement might jog the other name loose. “Wanda…no…Winnie! Winnie Mae! Winnie Mae works in shipping!”
Delgrasso typed as Sydney spoke, entering their conversation into her laptop.
“Shiree told me Miranda had them listing the number of containers on- and off-loaded to certain ships. Shiree assumed someone was stealing from the company, but that wasn’t the case. More containers were off-loaded than originally shipped.”
“Those must have been the contraband containers,” Rick said. “Miranda could have been tracking them.”
Stanwick didn’t react to his assumption. Delgrasso kept typing.
“Did Shiree know what was inside those containers?” Stanwick asked.
“I doubt it. She doesn’t strike me as someone who’d put up with anything less than legit going on.”
“She tell you what Miranda did with the lists she and Winnie Mae put together?”
“No. Miranda shut the project down. Had everything related to it sent to her in Madison.”
“Shiree didn’t wonder about it?”
“Miranda was her mentor. She followed her blindly. And she may have been too focused on her bonus. Shiree said Miranda gave each of the women five hundred dollars and brand-new computers for their hard work.”
Delgrasso’s fingers came to a halt. “New computers?”
“Yeah. Shiree liked the big monitors. What about it?”
“New computers come with brand-new hard drives,” Stanwick explained. “Whatever lists they put together would be on the old drives.”
Rick frowned. “Miranda was covering her tracks.”
Stanwick considered his observation. “Did Shiree say Miranda mentioned any names? Anyone else who might be involved?”
“No. I had the impression this was a special project involving only Shiree and Winnie Mae.”
Stanwick turned to Delgrasso. “Call up the Myers file.”
Delgrasso entered commands into her laptop. “Got it.” She handed the computer to Stanwick, who nodded at the screen before she turned it toward Sydney.
“You ever encounter this man?”
Sydney studied the full-color photo of a handsome, older man. Silver hair. Tanned skin. Smiling from the computer monitor with perfect teeth.
“That’s Denton Fulcraft,” Sydney said. “He’s the bishop of the church it seems everyone at ImEx is involved with. Well, not Natalie. But Alden York’s one of the church’s biggest donors. The bishop himself told me that. Shiree’s devoted to Fulcraft’s teachings. And Miranda was in Madison to work on church expansion.” Sydney looked up at Stanwick. “He found me out.”
“Found you out?”
“I’d gone to ImEx looking for anything that might point me in the direction of who might have killed Miranda. I introduced myself to Shiree. Told her I’m an old friend of Miranda’s from back in Montana. Next thing I know I’m in Alden York’s office. We talk for a bit. Then he tells me I need to meet his daughter. He invites me to dinner that night.”
“At his home?” Stanwick asked.
“Yes. Fulcraft was there, too. York wanted me to meet him. Said I should know about the church that was so important to Miranda.”
“What happened?”
“Fulcraft pulled me aside. He’d done some digging on me.” Sydney turned t
oward Delgrasso. “Probably found out the same stuff you just did. He realized I’d lied about knowing Miranda all those years ago. Figured me for a grifter out to get her hands on whatever poor Mr. York might be willing to give to the mourning friend of his beloved Miranda. Waltzed me right out the front door. Threatened to tell Mr. York everything if I didn’t leave.”
“Did he?” Delgrasso asked. “Tell York anything, I mean.”
“No. He told the family I took suddenly ill.”
“You’re sure that’s what he told them?”
“I talked to Natalie today. She was worried about how I was feeling. If she thought something was fishy, she sure didn’t let on. You know, everyone I’ve spoken to tells me how close Miranda and Fulcraft were. You think they were in this embargo thing together?”
Stanwick handed the laptop back to Delgrasso. “Denton J. Fulcraft is the name he’s been using for the past thirty years. His birth certificate shows his parents named him Myron. Myron Myers. Grew up in the foothills of West Virginia. Only child. As far as we can piece together, his mother, Polly, was the daughter of a local shoe shop owner. She would have been considered part of the social elite in their small town. Myron’s father was one Sherman Bothus Myers. Came to Polly’s town selling Bibles door to door. Myron got his good looks from him. Polly was pregnant in a matter of weeks. Her parents forced a wedding. Sherman stuck around for a few years, then ran off with a local school teacher, taking a week’s worth of shoe shop receipts with him. He died in prison when he was fifty-three years old. Got himself stabbed in the shower. Far as we know young Myron had no contact with his father after he abandoned Polly.”
“How did Myron Myers become Denton Fulcraft?” Sydney asked.
“Let’s just say Myron didn’t thrive in the absence of a father figure,” Stanwick explained. “His first arrest was at age eleven. Promised an elderly neighbor he’d take her eggs to market and sell them for her. He pocketed the money. Swore the old lady was a liar. His mother reimbursed the stolen money and charges were dropped. But one crime led to another. Pretty soon Myron’s mother couldn’t bail him out anymore, and he ended up in a state correctional facility when he was fifteen. Stayed there until he was eighteen. He enjoyed four months of freedom before he robbed a liquor store and made his escape in the owner’s Cadillac. That cost him three years in the state penitentiary. When he was paroled, he went to court and changed his name. Said he’d found Jesus, had a plan, and needed to start his life over. Made his way to Detroit. Started preaching on a street corner. Wasn’t long before he had himself a little storefront church catering to the folks who felt like life had handed them the short end of the stick. Preached about how God had a plan for everyone to get rich.”
“Sounds like old Myron found a safer way to rob folks,” Rick observed.
Stanwick nodded. “His accounts certainly grew once he hitched up with Alden York. ImEx employs a lot of people in this town. And most ImEx employees are members of the Church of Today.”
“That’s why he had me checked out.” Sydney’s voice rose with her anticipation of what this all could mean for clearing Clay. “He didn’t want me too near his goose laying all those golden eggs.”
“Then why didn’t he expose you?” Stanwick was frowning in thought. “Why the ruse that you’d taken ill?”
“Maybe one con knows another,” Rick suggested. “Maybe Fulcraft’s thinking he can use Syd in some way.”
Stanwick didn’t offer her opinion. “ImEx ships carried contraband to an embargoed country. Someone needed to be high enough in the organizational chart to make that happen. Fulcraft sits on ImEx’s board. Alden York held a seat on the board of Fulcraft’s church until recently. He gave it up last year. Hand-picked his successor.”
“Let me guess,” Sydney said. “Miranda Greer.”
Delgrasso snapped her laptop closed.
Rick headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Sydney asked.
“Down to the lobby. To see if my old room’s still available.”
“Then we’ll figure our plan to find out how Miranda’s murder fits into this shipping thing?” Sydney asked.
“No!” Three voices responded as one.
“You heard the agents,” Rick asserted. “This shipping thing involves money. Money enough that people kill to protect it. Not to mention a country so vile fifteen nations have vowed to keep it from buying weapons. If you bump into whoever’s behind this, there’s nothing to stop them from killing you. I won’t have you anywhere near this. I want you on the next plane back to Madison.”
“You have no say in what I do,” Sydney insisted.
“Could be I do.” Agent Stanwick spoke before Rick could respond. “Sheffield here is right. I can’t guarantee your safety if you continue involvement with this case.”
“I’m not asking for guarantees.”
Stanwick shrugged. “Then let me put it another way. I won’t have a civilian compromising the investigation I’ve spent the last year working.”
“Is that a threat?” Sydney asked.
“Not unless you need it to be,” Stanwick answered. “Go home, Sydney. Delgrasso and I thank you for your lead regarding Shiree and Winnie Mae. But if you get in the way of our working this case…well…let’s say you’re gonna wish you hadn’t.”
Chapter 39
Sydney pulled her rented Chrysler 300 into the visitor’s lot of the worldwide headquarters of the Church of Today. She counted herself lucky the church offered services every day of the week. What she hadn’t expected was the number of cars in the lot.
If there are this many here for a Friday morning service, she thought, how many people does Fulcraft pull in on a Sunday?
She finally found a spot fifty yards from the church’s main entrance and stepped clear of tiny rivers of melting snow that inched across the parking lot as she walked toward the main entrance.
Denton J. Fulcraft had done all right for himself. The church sat surrounded by vast open areas. Sydney imagined immaculately trimmed lawns sleeping under the blanket of white. Its architecture stood apart from the traditional buildings of Ann Arbor. The Church of Today was sleek and modern. A central spire of pale concrete accented with columns of ice-blue glass soared at least four stories into the heavens. Each side tapered down to two-story wings, giving the impression of a giant bird coming in for a gentle landing. Four deep platforms served as stairs lifting her to the wide façade of glass doors.
“Good morning, Sister. Welcome to the Lord’s house.” Her greeter was a portly middle-aged man who looked like he’d be far more comfortable in jeans and a work shirt than the too-tight navy blue suit he was wearing. He handed her a photocopied church bulletin and asked if she wanted to sign the visitor’s book. New faces must have been easily spotted in this congregation.
“No thanks. I’m just here to enjoy the service.” Sydney put on her friendliest smile, walked past him, and took a seat in the first empty pew she came to.
The space was large, but the ceiling, covered entirely with polished hickory, gave it a warmth that belied its enormity. Pews of the same wood were upholstered in pale blue brocade. The floor where the congregation sat was concrete; near-black and polished enough to reflect one’s shoes. The pews were arrayed in a fan, facing an altar on a raised dais. Three wing-backed chairs and a clean-line hickory table were centered on it. The setting could have easily been mistaken for a photo shoot for the New York Times style magazine, if it weren’t for the oversized leather-bound Bible between two candlesticks. Concrete columns alternating with the same ice-blue glass she saw on the exterior formed the backdrop.
Sydney estimated the crowd to be around a hundred or so, mostly white, but with ample enough representation from the African American, Latin, and Asian communities to underscore this was a place that welcomed all. The congregants were mostly adults, which seemed right to Sydney
given that it was a school day. What children there were seemed not yet ready for kindergarten. The adults were in groups of three or four and everyone appeared to be chatting amiably. Many took notice of Sydney, smiling and nodding her way before re-joining his or her conversation. More worshippers arrived and were quickly assimilated into the various groups as the ten o’clock hour approached. By the time hidden stereo speakers began offering contemporary Christian hymns to mark the beginning of the service, Sydney estimated the crowd had nearly doubled in size.
At precisely ten o’clock the recorded music became livelier. The crowd rose to its feet and began clapping and singing. That song was followed by an even more boisterous selection, which inspired the congregants to raise their hands and shout the occasional hallelujah. The third song, the liveliest yet, signaled the worshippers to turn as one away from the altar. It seemed to Sydney for one breathtaking moment they were focused on her. In a heartbeat, however, the true object of their attention was made clear. From the rear of the church, less than five feet from her back-row seat, Bishop Denton J. Fulcraft emerged. He was dressed in a gray, natural silk suit, white shirt, and black tie. His silver hair had been blown dry, styled, and sprayed with something that made it glow in the spotlight trained on him. He stood, Bible in one hand and a white handkerchief in the other, absorbing the crowd’s thunderous applause. Then he turned slightly and Sydney saw him take a sharp inhale when he saw her. He nodded his recognition, then began his progress down the aisle.
Fulcraft looked different than when she’d seen him at Alden York’s home. There, he’d been polite and precise. Poised and calm, even as he warned her to stay away. Here, in his element, he worked his physical prowess to full advantage. His long arms and legs moved with a dancer’s fluid grace as he reached into the still-singing crowd to shake the hands offered to him at every step. He patted the children’s heads and bowed gallantly to the women with choreographed ease. Smiled and pointed to congregants who stood deeper in the aisles than his arms could reach. Every woman who appeared to be over the age of seventy got a long bear hug.
