Dark, puffy circles rimmed his eyes. But the lines were not from age. His bags came from tormented nights, from staring at the ceiling fan and remembering a friend. From thinking, What a waste.
“Mr. Grove,” he said, “the family’s been waiting for you.”
Some things never change. Ferrell’s formal address made me uncomfortable. Under any other circumstances, I would have reminded him to call me Grove. Now wasn’t the time. I shook his hand, looked him in the eyes, and walked inside the double-wide foyer with fourteen-foot ceilings. “You were together a long time.”
“Mr. Palmer was a good man.”
Yesterday morning, Claire had asked me to drop by “Daddy’s house” the minute I arrived. “JoJo and I will be there.”
I expected to find the two of them, alone with their grief and members of the staff. But a modest crowd had already arrived. The who’s who of Charleston were gathering to extend their condolences long before the seven-thirty wake that evening.
Jim and Lita Devereaux were there. So was Gabby Calhoun, who hated her nickname but everybody called her Gabby anyway. I saw Bull Pinckney, Missy Heyward and her husband, whose name I couldn’t remember. It was probably Rutledge, but I always confused the guy with Bat Ravenel. The Pritchard sisters were there, identical twins. So were Prawler Condon, Sunny Harken, and Monsignor Manigault. All the faces and unique Charleston names—I knew these people from Cathedral or around town, but we no longer stayed in touch. It felt like I had stepped back ten years.
“Grove O’Rourke, is that you?” called a woman from across the room.
It was JoJo, svelte in trim black pants and a matching top. I would have said Armani, but Annie tells me I think everything is Armani and that most of our older friends wear St. John. JoJo was taller than I remembered. Maybe it was the heels. And her hair was lighter than the last time I saw her. Maybe it was the highlights, but again I’m getting into Annie’s territory. She looked fresh off a movie screen: flawless tan, perfect white teeth, and a figure that had grown more provocative on the cusp of forty. Only her moist brown eyes betrayed the reason we had all gathered.
JoJo squeezed Bull’s shoulder and walked toward me, stopping to instruct Ferrell where to put two dozen roses that had just arrived. “Give me five minutes,” she said, resting her hand on his, “and get Rose on the phone. I want to go over tomorrow’s menu with her one last time.”
I half hugged JoJo hello, formal and awkward the way O’Rourke men have been greeting women for generations. The fact was, I didn’t know JoJo all that well. I felt more comfortable hanging back and letting her take the lead. She had moved to Charleston from San Diego, and she became Palmer’s star broker about the time I graduated from Harvard Business School. As their relationship evolved, she phased out of his real estate interests and into the Palmetto Foundation. JoJo and Palmer had married five years ago, and the hug was me erring on the side of caution. We had spent only a handful of evenings together in New York City.
JoJo didn’t hold back. She threw her whole body into the embrace. Squeezed me hard. Her storied dachshund, Holly, appeared from nowhere and started to bark. I think from jealousy.
When we finally broke, she cupped my face with her hands and said, “I’m so glad you’re here. It means everything to me.”
The words surprised me. With her touch, tone, and teary eyes, Palmer’s wife conveyed intimacy way beyond the depth of our friendship. “You know I owe Palmer everything.”
“He often talked about getting you back to Charleston.”
JoJo straightened my jacket, stepped back, and looked me once over. “Don’t they feed you in New York City?”
I came up empty on the small talk and shrugged.
“You need to spend some quality time with a fork, Grove. After the funeral tomorrow, I’m feeding half the peninsula back here. And I won’t be happy until you pack on ten pounds.”
I know the happy-face act, how to pretend everything’s wonderful when you’re bowled over and ready to throw up your grits and a lion’s share of grief. Been there. Done that.
JoJo had gone into funeral entertainment mode. She was rallying with friends and staving off her pain. After the tears were shed, after everybody said, “I’m so sorry,” or asked, “How may I help?” after they finished their drinks and paid their respects—she would sit alone in Palmer’s big house with nobody but her dog and her despair. The heartache would eat her marrow like myeloma. Nobody ever cheats grief from getting its way.
“Miss JoJo,” interrupted Ferrell. “The caterers are on the phone for you.”
“Oh, right. Tell Rose,” she replied, winking at me, “we need three dozen more of those shrimp kebabs. And more of that red snapper she serves with cilantro sauce.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Let’s find Claire,” JoJo said, tugging my hand, squeezing and touching her way through the gathering that was growing bigger by the minute.
Roses were arriving left and right. Everybody, it seemed, wanted to talk with Palmer’s widow. Or they wanted to catch up with me. A woman whom I hadn’t seen since high school said, “Let’s grab a drink after the wake.” JoJo was on a mission, though, and insisted we find her stepdaughter.
More of a “stepsister,” given their age difference.
“I need to talk to both of you,” she said, speaking to me, but somehow connecting with everyone in the room.
“Lead the way.”
We found Claire staring at the portrait of Palmer over the fireplace, a Warhol no less. She wore a black top and pleated charcoal skirt, the close shades her signature style. She turned, and it was like we had never left my wife and daughter’s funeral. No hint of aging. No advance of time. Her skin soft in the afternoon light. Claire still possessed that vulnerable look—buffed, elegant, the expression that asked, “Will you take care of me?”
“Hey, you.” I hugged her with my awkward O’Rourke hello.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
JoJo rubbed both our backs and said, “I spoke to Huitt this morning. He asked if we could all meet at his office on Thursday.”
“Why me?” The request for my presence seemed odd. Huitt Young was one of Palmer’s lawyers. I suspected he was the executor, because the two men had been friends since they attended Bishop England together.
“Huitt insisted,” JoJo confirmed.
“Do you know why?” I asked.
“Just be there,” she said. “Oh, there’s Gordie. Gotta go.”
“Gordie?” I asked, once JoJo was gone.
“One of dad’s roommates from college.” With that we stood there, alone with our memories of Palmer and each other.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
Back home, everybody called him “Bong.” Not that he was a druggie. And not that he abstained. Through the years, Bong had tried everything at least once. There was nothing better than “black hash,” opium mixed with hashish, especially when made from the really good shit that’s impossible to find outside Myanmar.
Those days were behind him. He was a businessman. He had no time to get Marley’d. And the truth was, his nickname predated all the sucking, snorting, and shooting up. His parents called him Bong as a toddler because he loved doorbells and was always mimicking their sound.
“Bing bong.”
From inside his Chevy, a white nondescript rental, Bong stared at an art deco building across the street. ANACOSTIA was posted on the facade in bold, cursive, billboard-sized letters. And underneath, a signpost marked the streets. He was standing at the intersection of Martin Luther King Avenue and Good Hope Road.
“Good Hope” my ass, he thought.
Bong knew a thing or two about poverty. He had endured the worst, seen it, touched it, smelled it, heard it, and yes, tasted it. As a teenager, he lived in a barrio perched on stilts over a river clogged with excrement. There was nothing worse than watching a dead neighbor float facedown and ride the intestine-brown water to wherever. Anacostia was better
than the slums back home. But the place was a pit no matter what The Washington Post wrote:
“Historic district.”
“Home to a growing enclave of artists.”
“Safer because Marion Barry is no longer the mayor.”
Bullshit.
To Bong’s way of thinking, no self-respecting sewer rat would be caught dead in this shit hole of flaking paint and run-down buildings. Southeastern D.C. reminded him of home, of growing up in squalor and making do on what the blowflies ignored. The district also reminded him of prison. Only here, the iron bars kept people out instead of locking them in.
He drove east a block and turned south, the area more residential now. All the air conditioners were hanging out the second-floor windows, maybe for sleeping in the bedrooms, or maybe because thieves could rip window units from ground-floor sashes. Two more turns, three minutes to park, a short walk around the block, and he was staring at Sacred Heart.
The church made him proud. The grainy stucco exterior, a ruddy tan washed out by design, was in mint condition. No cracks anywhere. The light blue trim was pristine. There were no hints of the flaking paint that plagued the rest of Anacostia.
Nothing but the best for Father Mike.
For a moment Bong savored his handiwork. The sign out front, his sign, read SACRED HEART, ROMAN CATHOLIC PARISH. The seconds drifted by, a few cars too, until he remembered there was a job to do. No time for nostalgia. He was a businessman after all.
Sleeves rolled up, Bong was carrying a lunch bag in his right hand. He was hungry and craved potato chips, something salty to tide him over. There was no food inside the brown bag, though, and it sure as hell wasn’t time to eat. He’d stop at an Outback Steakhouse later, probably the one outside Richmond off I-95 heading south.
Bong bent over and placed his bag on the sidewalk. The aerosol can inside clinked on the redbrick sidewalk, the only hint of a more prosperous time in Anacostia. He pushed down his sleeves, covering up the tattoo of a frowning sun with eight spider legs. This mark wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted Father Mike to see.
With the spider-sun hidden behind pink oxford cotton, Bong bounded up the steps leading to Sacred Heart. Once inside the dark and cavernous room, he filled his lungs with the familiar air. What was it that made all Catholic churches smell the same? No matter the continent, it seemed like every church piped in the scent of old books and burning candles from the Vatican. Bong reminded himself to focus.
Nothing but the best for Father Mike.
Almost on cue, the hoary old priest appeared. Father Michael Rossi was wearing a long black cassock and walked down the center aisle toward Bong. The pews to the right and left were all empty, no Mass for several more hours.
“You’re kind of casual,” he said, noting Bong’s khaki pants and oxford shirt, the brown paper bag.
“Lots of running around today,” explained Bong, shifting the sack and shaking the priest’s hand.
“What couldn’t wait?”
“You need to hear my confession.”
“Okay.” The old priest, his eyes somewhat confused, gestured toward the confessional.
“I prefer face-to-face.” Bong nodded at the pews.
“Me too. There’s something about getting on your knees that makes people go into grocery-list mode, don’t you think?”
Father Mike slipped past Bong and sat on one of the long wooden pews. The younger man followed and pulled a twenty-ounce can of Great Stuff Big Gap Filler from his bag. It was the spray insulation used for tough jobs, the sealant that would expand and plug cracks greater than one inch wide. He undid the yellow top and fixed the long straw to the can.
“What’s that for?” asked Father Mike.
“A little work before I leave.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“You know what they say. ‘Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.’”
“Yes,” the priest said, looking at the can, his face dimpled with uncertainty. “Let’s get started.”
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been—”
“We’re long past the formalities,” Father Mike interrupted.
“I suppose you’re right.” Bong’s eyes glowed with discomfort.
“Go ahead. It’s okay.”
“I’ve killed a man, Father.”
“Who?” Father Mike’s jaw hung slack for the first time in fifty years of hearing confessions. “Who’d you kill?”
“You.”
Bong lunged at the priest. With his left hand, he grabbed the old man’s forehead and slammed skull and brains hard against the high back of their pew. One lightning motion. A sickening crack. And the sound of pain echoed through the church.
“Ugh.”
That grunt was the opening Bong needed. He pinned Father Mike’s head down and shoved the Great Stuff straw into the old man’s gaping mouth. He pulled the trigger on the aerosol assembly, which hissed from the discharge. “I fucking warned you to keep your mouth shut, old man.”
Twenty ounces of Great Stuff emptied from inside the can, twenty ounces that expand into 420 lineal feet. The priest could not gag. There was no room inside his esophagus for anything to escape as the foam swelled on contact. It grew bigger and bigger.
Father Mike writhed. His eyes bulged. His feet kicked. His throat burst at the seams. And suddenly the spasms stopped, save one final flinch of his left leg. The smell of urine wafted through the air.
Bong checked around the cavernous hall one last time. Nobody was there. Nobody saw. He pulled the straw from the dead man’s mouth, packed the can into his bag. He rose, headed for the door, and before stepping into the daylight, touched his forehead with holy water from the marble urn with ornate marble carvings.
Nothing but the best for Father Mike.
CHAPTER NINE
MPDC FIRST DISTRICT SUBSTATION
THURSDAY
“Jimmy Hoffa might be buried here.” Murphy hoisted a cardboard box from his cluttered desk with both hands. “Let’s grab a conference room.”
“Lead the way.” Agent Izzy Torres swept her arm with a flourish. “After you.”
She liked Murphy. He was old-school, had a lovely voice for a guy. Better yet, the detective was respectful. He never called her “Dickless Tracy.” Or “Agent Arriba,” which was a nickname she hated. Through the years, she had heard just about everything from the D.C. police force.
Torres was one of nine children, five boys and four girls. She was the first of her siblings to drive, the first to get married and have babies. She was the first to attend both college and graduate school. She was also the first to abandon her profession, because like most attorneys she hated the practice of law.
Sitting around an office had been bad enough. But the constant pressure to goose billable hours was a nonstarter. She refused to pad the numbers, which had been a problem with the partners at her firm. Torres once told her younger brother about the FBI, “I found my people.”
Through eleven years with the Bureau, she had seen plenty. Meth heads. Her share of gore. Some things would never be comfortable. But the savage murder of an elderly priest, Father Michael Rossi, rivaled the worst of her past investigations.
“Any witnesses, Murph?”
“You know Anacostia. Everybody clams up.”
“But a priest, for crying out loud. You’d think somebody would grow a pair.”
“Why the interest, Izzy?”
“Father Rossi was part of an ongoing investigation.”
Less is more, she thought.
“You gotta give me something.” Murphy dumped the cardboard box on the conference room table. “The chief rides my ass every time you Feds get involved.”
“Tell him we’ve been watching Rossi for some time. That we won’t intrude on your homicide. That I’ll share anything I can.” Torres pointed to the contents in the box and asked, “May I?”
“Knock yourself out,” he grumbled, not happy with her reply.
“Any theories about th
e weapon?”
“Yeah. Some fuck knows ballistics don’t work on spray foam.”
Torres pulled a cell phone from the box. Father Rossi’s mobile was sealed in an evidence bag. She scrutinized it through the plastic, holding the contents up to the light. “You have the call log?”
“Next to Jimmy Hoffa,” Murphy confirmed. “I’m worried about this one.”
“Why’s that?”
“The Catholic Church gets enough bad press as it is.” The detective shook his head in dismay.
“You’re thinking sex revenge?”
“What else can it be?” Murphy was fishing. “Nothing’s missing best we can tell.”
Torres knew the detective’s game, two arms of law enforcement asking questions until somebody gave in. She paused a moment, taking time to craft her words, allowing silence to create an awkward divide. Her boss had demanded absolute secrecy.
“This case is a huge PR problem for the Church.” Torres placed the mobile phone, bag and all, on the table. “But our interest has nothing to do with sexual predators. That’s all I can say for now.”
Murphy gestured for the FBI agent to sit on one of the conference room chairs. The two stared at each other, uncomfortable and uncooperative. They could have lingered in silence another ten seconds.
“Sex crimes aren’t your thing anyway,” the detective noted in resignation.
As he spoke Father Rossi’s cell phone rang, and an out-of-state number popped up on the LCD display. Torres reached into her jacket pocket, searching for the pad and pen she always carried.
“Answer the phone,” Murphy demanded.
Second ring.
“No.” Torres looked like a statue. Immobile. She made no effort to reach for the evidence bag with the ringing phone. “We get the number and do the research first.”
Third ring.
“They’re probably calling from a disposable phone. Answer it.”
Fourth ring.
“That’s a coin toss, Murph. I’d rather go in prepared.”
The Trust Page 5
