Valley of Shadows

by Steven Cooper

  “Could be that it belongs to an ancient dynasty, or a monastic order, or a medieval land baron,” she says. “Or maybe a king.”

  Mills tightens his lips inward to stifle a laugh. But his cheeks are yearning. And the smile he cannot hide. “This is Indiana Jones’s daughter,” he finally says, pointing to Powell. “Indiana Jan!”

  Myers howls. Preston snickers.

  “Just wait,” Powell insists, “I’ll find a match and you won’t be laughing.”

  Next Mills turns to Ken Preston who, convinced that Viveca Canning’s killer was after the Dali for the key to open the chest, is on a quest to find the painting.

  “I’ve been talking to all kinds of authorities on stolen art,” he tells the group. “They’ve all been helpful and are putting BOLOs through their own channels, not that I fully understand what those channels are. But the art world is interconnected through many different ways, and the protection of masterpieces is an industry and a network all its own.”

  “Sounds like quite the rabbit hole,” Mills tells him.

  “It is. But, assuming my theory is right about the key, whoever has the painting never made it to the vault,” he says. “I don’t know why. But we made it first.”

  “Actually, we made it second,” Mills reminds him. “I’m guessing whoever broke into the gallery is the same perp, or is associated with the same perp, who has the painting. If you’re right about the key to the chest being connected to the Dali, then whoever stole the Dali was trying to break into the vault to get to the chest.”

  “I’m with you,” Preston tells him. “But what a fucking mess.”

  “Agreed,” Mills says. “Powell, when you’re done with your own epic research, please help Preston with his.”

  Then he leaves the conference room and signs the skeleton key out of the evidence room.

  Ivy’s sluggish on her walk this morning. She’s had it with the 100-plus-degree heat. All she wants to do is sit on the tile floor and sleep, or jump into the pool and bathe, and Gus can’t blame her. “I get it, girl,” he tells her. “We’ll make this a short one.”

  She looks up at him with gratitude all over her face, as if she understood what he said.

  He should have walked her around six, like most of the dog owners in the neighborhood, but he slept in and she slept in and she doesn’t easily budge from the cold tile. People driving by are accusatory in their stares. Normally they smile warmly, melted as they are by the sight of the beautiful golden retriever. But this morning they’re hateful, looking at Gus as if he’s abusing the dog by bringing her out in this heat. As if he’s committing an act of animal cruelty. He doesn’t need the looks. He knows how hot it is.

  But, actually, the morning did not feel warm at all. Gus can’t put his finger on it. He can’t quite intuit, but ever since he spoke to Alex this morning he’s sensed a dark chill. Despite the blazing sky, Gus sees a horizon swirling with dark clouds. Then he stands at the edge of a black tunnel. The coolness seeps into his skin, settles in his bones, before he even steps into the tunnel. He doesn’t hear a message. It’s as though a vision is warning him about another vision. He can’t remember if this has ever happened. He’s a bad psychic that way. He doesn’t take notes. He should take notes. He should do a lot of things that real psychics do but he doesn’t. He returns to the house with Ivy and shrugs this whole thing off the second he hears a knock at the front door.

  “Come in,” he tells Alex. “How about some hot coffee to cool you down?”

  “Absolutely.” He’s holding a book and a box.

  “Gifts?” Gus asks.

  Alex just taps Gus’s shoulder and steers him into the family room. They sit. Ivy jaunts from her square of tiles and sticks her face in Alex’s lap. “Hey, girl,” he says, and gives her neck a vigorous scratch until she loses interest and retreats.

  Alex hands the book to Gus and says, “It came from Viveca Canning’s personal library. We got it from her daughter.”

  “From the library in that house? From the crime scene?”

  “Yeah. Same house. Copper Palace.”

  “I might have to go back there. But I’ll hopefully get what I need through the book. The Secret Garden. I’ve never read it. Have you?”

  “No. Is that a problem?”

  “Quite the contrary. Neither of us has any preconceived notions or expectations. The best way.”

  “Great. Now stop stalling. Get to work.”

  “I take Visa and MasterCard.”

  Mills laughs a hearty laugh with traces of “fuck you” in its contours.

  Gus flips through the pages, runs his hands across the prose, his fingers stopping occasionally to trace a letter or a word. The spirit within him shakes its head, stops him, and reminds him it’s not about this story; it’s about her story. The book is just the conduit. So, he closes his eyes, as he often does when sifting the earth for grains of truth, and he searches. He sees patches of color. Brilliant greens first, then azure blue, and the diamond necklace of a mountain city at night. He sees a woman. She, too, is bejeweled. But then, like an ill-timed engine in traffic, he stalls. He can’t move, can’t push forward. That black tunnel again. No way in, no way out. He can only exit through his eyes, and so he opens them and says, “Sorry, man. I’m not getting anything. Not yet.”

  “But I saw your mouth moving around like you were talking,” Alex tells him.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And your eyes. I could tell they were searching for something.”

  “They were,” Gus says. “But they haven’t found something yet. Can I hold on to it? The book?”

  “Yes. It’s not evidence. Just a personal item the victim’s daughter gave us. You think it’s a dead end?”

  “No. Not at all,” Gus replies. “But I just feel rushed. I’m going to have to get ready for work. Let me try again tonight. I’m just not getting anything now . . .”

  “No prob, man. Keep it for a few days.”

  Gus puts the book aside. “What’s in the box?”

  Alex recounts the story of the gallery, the Canning vault, and the ancient chest with the key locked inside. “But if you’re feeling rushed, I don’t want to get started with the key.”

  “Can you leave it with me?”

  “Not if I want to keep my job. It’s evidence.”

  “Let me have a look.”

  Alex hands him a pair of latex gloves, and then, once Gus has his hands snugly inside them, Alex hands him the evidence box.

  First Gus balances the box on his fingertips just to see how strongly a vibe might present. If he can get a vibe without even opening the evidence box, that bodes beautifully for a connection. He senses a minor tremble, barely noticeable on his Richter scale, but it’s there, like a buzz, like anticipation. Carefully he removes the lid and reaches inside. The box balancing on his knees, he grasps the key in one hand and raises it to his forehead. He doesn’t know why. This is not a ritual, not a routine. Not a performance. There is no standard practice, but something about the key informs him to bring it to his forehead and run it across his skin from temple to temple. Immediately, Gus understands this as a dangerous act. He has no idea why. But it’s as if he’d been coerced, as if that one act of raising the key to his skull was symbolic of a fatal trap, a complete loss of free will. It happened so fast. And he puts the key down just as fast.

  “I have no clue what just happened,” he tells Alex.

  “Me neither, man. It was over as quick as it started. But it looked like you were praying.”

  Gus nods, for no other reason than to give himself some space to consider. But he doesn’t know what to consider. He’ll have to handle the key again. This time he consciously fights the urge to bring it to his head or to even let it graze his skin. He just holds it in midair. “This thing,” he tells Alex, “really wants to make contact with me. I can’t explain why yet. But we’re fighting each other. Whatever it is, it has a strong power. Over some people, but not everyone. I don’t know what th
at means, so don’t ask. I’m believing this is linked to her religion. I’m trying not to impose my own bias, but that’s what I think.”

  “Bias?”

  “I was at that church, Alex. The vibe about that place and those people was so strong. You must have felt it. You don’t have to be a psychic to pick up on these things.”

  “Like what? That it’s a cult?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Do you think the key is linked to the cult?”

  “I don’t know if it’s linked to the cult-aspect of her church, or just the religious aspect, whatever that is,” Gus tells him. “This is very complicated and I can see many, many layers to interpret.”

  “Well it wouldn’t be such a great leap to connect the key with the church,” Alex says. “Viveca Canning lived and breathed the church. If there’s something we don’t understand about her life, it’s probably connected to her church.”

  “I can’t say that yet. But I am getting a vague link to religion. Can we try this again another day? I can swing by headquarters if you can’t bring it back here.”

  Gus lowers the key to the box, covers it with the lid. The chill leaves his body, except for some residue at the surface of his skin; there’s something unsettled in the atmosphere, like a distant storm. It’s not about the key. The lid of the box has made sure of that for now. It’s not the key. It’s Alex. It’s been about Alex for most of the morning. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Me?”

  Gus nods and says, “Yes, you. I can tell in my gut something’s wrong.”

  “Is this a vision or a hunch?”

  “I know you enough.”

  “Oh.”

  Gus smiles. It’s been a while since the two of them have done anything alone together that isn’t work-related. In April or May they went rafting. They double-dated with Kelly and Billie about a month before that. Gus can’t remember the details, but the three of them, without Billie, went to a Coyotes game around Christmas time. Gus isn’t much for team sports, but Arizona won, so that was good. Kelly enjoyed it the most.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Gus asks him. “Have you been sick? Hiding something so it won’t impede the investigation?”

  Alex looks at him as if Gus has the emoji of stupidity stamped on his forehead. Then he squints and says, “Pardon the fuck out of me, Gus, but no. I’m fine. I’m hiding nothing.”

  “Just asking. How about Kelly? Is she okay?”

  The silence is concussive. For both of them. Gus can tell. He can see the invisible shockwave.

  “I’m not sure,” Alex says finally.

  “Yes,” Gus whispers. “I was getting that. She’s sick? Tell me . . .” “It’s her . . .”

  Gus nods. Alex can’t acknowledge the word. “Breast,” Gus says. “Jesus . . .”

  “Just a good guess,” Gus tells him. “But I did sense something was going on with you. I think it’s you in this black tunnel I’ve been seeing.” Alex looks away, exhales deeply. “Wow. That describes it exactly,” he says. “Do you have a diagnosis for her?”

  Gus smiles. “I don’t have the medical diagnosis for her, no. But I’ll work on a spiritual prognosis for her, if that’s what you mean.”

  Alex gets up. “I mean whatever you mean, buddy. We’ll take whatever insight you can give.”

  Gus follows him to the door, the box in his hand. “No problem. Let’s get Kelly over here. I want to see her. Meanwhile, I’ll work on The Secret Garden.”

  He hands Alex the box.

  “I’ll have you over to headquarters to do more with the key,” Alex tells him. “Thanks. For all of the above.”

  Jan Powell’s Raiders of the Lost Key has not yielded anything new in the past few hours. Neither has Preston’s infiltration of the art world. But Morton Myers has a smile on his face. He looks like a happy, farting baby. “Wait ’til you guys hear this,” he says. “Viveca’s computer is a treasure tove.”

  “Trove,” Preston tells him.

  “Trove?” he asks.

  “Treasure trove,” Preston says, gritting his teeth. “Spill it.”

  They’re in Mills’s office. Myers gets up and walks to the window, leans there. “Well, we know the victim had booked a one-way ticket to Tahiti, right? But I just found another itinerary tied to hers. She wasn’t traveling alone.”

  Mills spins in his chair so he’s facing Myers and says, “You have a name of this other traveler?”

  “I found an email to Viveca Canning from someone named Francesca Norwood,” Myers answers. He removes a piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolds it. “Let me read it. ‘Hi doll, this is a copy of my itinerary confirming we’re on the same flight. Can’t wait. We deserve this.’”

  “That’s Gleason Norwood’s wife,” Mills says.

  “Was she going one-way too?” Preston asks him.

  “Not sure,” Myers says. “This is a one-way itinerary. But she could easily have a separate reservation coming home.”

  “But why?” Powell asks. “Why would the two of them be taking off and not coming home?”

  Mills sits back, folds his arms across his chest. “Let’s remember that one of them is dead and she isn’t going anywhere at all. The other one has the answers, people. I think that’s obvious.”

  It’s time to pay a visit to Francesca Norwood. Mills seems to be the only one in the room dreading another trip to the Church of Angels Rising. The rest of the squad are already on their feet, nearly coming to blows to be first out the door.

  24

  The receptionist at C-ARC, the same woman who presided there before, tells them Francesca Norwood’s show is on hiatus until early October.

  “Show?” Mills asks.

  “She has her own TV show on the church network,” the woman explains. “But it doesn’t resume production until the fall. I double as one of her cohosts.” She scans the visitors as if she’s mugging for the paparazzi.

  “Where is she in the meantime?” Mills asks.

  Her starlet smile disintegrates. “I can’t give out that information.” Mills flashes his badge. “Remember us? Police.”

  She hops off her stool and disappears down the hallway to the left. It’s several minutes before she returns with Gleason Norwood at her side.

  “Honored to see you again, folks,” he says, his smile a forgery. “What can we do for you today?”

  “We’re looking for your wife,” Mills says.

  “My wife?”

  “Yes. Can you reach her for us? We have some questions . . .”

  The preacher shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you. She’s in Switzerland.”

  “What’s she doing there?” Powell asks.

  “Vacation.”

  “Separately?” Powell persists.

  “Now you’re getting personal,” he says, his wide smile thinning. “So?” Mills asks him.

  “A preacher preaches. We don’t get much vacation. My wife has family near Lucerne.”

  “Please provide us with a phone number for her,” Mills tells him.

  “Fine,” he says. “Anything you need to solve the case. Viveca cannot truly rest until you do.”

  Norwood pulls out a business card and writes his wife’s number on the back.

  “I’d like to discuss your church doctrine if I might,” Mills says.

  “What about it?”

  “I’d like to know who originated the theory of elevations and the system of realms . . .”

  Mills catches the momentary panic in the man’s eyes, the rapid-fire blinking and, just as quickly, the effort to recover the snake-oil serenity on his face. “How would you know about elevations and realms?”

  “I’ve been reading about them.”

  “That’s impossible,” Norwood declares. “Our texts are for church members only.”

  Mills offers a friendly snicker. “C’mon, you surely don’t think that everything that happens here stays here.”

  The receptionist clears her throat. All heads turn in he
r direction. She reminds the pastor he’s scheduled for a conference call. “It’s in five minutes,” she says. “I’d hate for you to be late.”

  “People,” Norwood says to his guests, “I’m afraid I must dash. I’m sorry. But about the doctrine, some other time. How’s that sound?”

  Mills nods and leads the others outside. “If that guy has a conference call in five minutes, I have God, himself, on speed dial.”

  “Herself,” Powell says. “God herself.”

  Mills half smiles, half grimaces and dials Francesca Norwood’s phone number. She doesn’t answer. He doesn’t leave a message. They pile into his car and, as they’re pulling out of the parking space, Mills turns his face to the building and says, “My skin crawls in that place. I don’t know what it is. It’s not churchy and spooky. It’s like oppression disguised as sunlight.”

  “Go with that,” Preston tells him. “Good hunch.”

  Jake Woods marches in without a knock on the door or a rap on the glass. He sits with a sigh. But Mills understands the difference between an antagonistic sigh and a collaborative sigh; this is a collaborative sigh. Jake Woods needs help, needs answers, says the media is calling all day every day. Of course they are. It’s not that reporters actually care who killed Viveca Canning; they just want to be sure no one else finds out first. Some may actually be driven by curiosity, but most are driven by fear of losing their jobs if they get beat on stories. And then there are those whose raises depend on how many stories they break; those types are insufferable.

  “All I’m going to say is we’re following up on multiple leads,” Woods tells him.

  “How do you define ‘multiple’?”

  “More than one.”

  “OK. You’re fine.”

  “Are you getting any tips at all?” Woods asks.

  “Nothing actionable,” Mills replies. “But I’m working a tight circle around Canning. Her family, her friends, her church.”

  “Yeah, speaking of that, we’ve heard from Gleason Norwood.” “Oh really?”

  “Says you’ve been nosing around the church a lot.”

  “Only during regular business hours. Once by invitation. It’s all a legit part of a homicide investigation.”