by Mike Omer
Zoe frowned in confusion. “I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t me. There’s a detailed article here outlining your involvement. Hang on . . .” A short pause followed, and then O’Donnell read aloud. “Sources close to the investigation report that the renowned profiler Zoe Bentley and the FBI were consulted regarding the case. Bentley helped the Chicago Police Department before, in the Strangling Undertaker case, and played a crucial part in his—”
“I didn’t tell anyone about this. What about the guy who saw me at the station yesterday? Maybe he leaked it?”
“He didn’t even know who you were and didn’t care. Besides, I had a journalist ask me about you yesterday afternoon. Told me he knew you.”
Zoe’s heart sank. “What was his name?”
“It was something stupid. Like . . . Nick Brick. No . . . it was Jimmy Kimmy—”
“Harry Barry?”
“That’s the guy. He wanted to know what Zoe Bentley said about the case, and I said I couldn’t divulge any information and asked how he knew you were involved. And he said that he knew you. You shouldn’t have told him anything; I don’t care if you’re buddies. We agreed—”
“He’s not my buddy, and I didn’t talk to him. You got played.” Zoe wanted to punch something. She’d forgotten that among the two and a half million people in Chicago, there was one Harry Barry. To her chagrin, he was writing a book about her. She’d even given him a lot of the material herself. And now he’d tricked Detective O’Donnell into admitting Zoe was involved in this investigation as well. Damn it, that meant Glover knew as well. He’d be more careful, possibly more dangerous.
“What do you mean, I got played?” O’Donnell’s voice shifted. The anger was still there, but it lacked a target.
“He was fishing. He had no idea I was involved until you told him.”
“Shit. But how did he—”
“Harry Barry is a pain in the ass,” Zoe said, annoyed. “Listen, I’ll call you back later—we’ll decide how to handle this.”
“Okay.”
Zoe hung up and checked the Chicago Daily Gazette’s website on her phone. She found the article easily enough; it was a classic H. Barry headline: Renowned Profiler Advises Police in Pastor’s Daughter’s Murder. Trust Harry to mention Zoe, the church, and the murder in one sentence. She tapped the link and skimmed the contents, irritated to see her picture above Glover’s. The least he could do was put Glover first. That was the important part.
“Mancuso won’t be pleased,” Tatum said, looking over her shoulder at the phone. “And O’Donnell’s boss probably won’t be thrilled either.”
“Well, it’s done,” Zoe muttered. “I’m more worried about Glover’s reaction. This might make him more erratic.”
“Well, he might end up making a mistake.”
“Yeah.” Zoe didn’t feel convinced. She scrolled the article up and down, alternating between her own picture and Glover’s.
Tatum plucked the phone from her hand. “Come on,” he said. “No point in worrying about this. Let’s go check out the church.”
The air wasn’t much warmer inside the empty church. To the right of the entrance was a bulletin board, a large portrait photo of Catherine Lamb pinned in the middle. Above it was the inscription In Loving Memory, in a curly delicate font, and below the picture, in the same font, Catherine Lamb 1991–2016. Dozens of pictures were pinned around it, the details hard to make out in the dim light. Against the wall under the bulletin board was a table holding a large wreath. Around it lay numerous bouquets, lit candles, and handwritten notes.
Zoe examined the photos on the board. All of them were of Catherine with other people, presumably belonging to the congregation. In some they were standing together, smiling at the camera, while in others, the photographer had caught them in various activities. Painting a wall, Catherine holding a large brush, specks of white paint on her face. Tending to a weedy garden, Catherine on her hands and knees, dirt up to her elbows, talking to a young teenager who worked by her side. In a large kitchen, Catherine smiling at a woman who was tending to a large pot. The photos had obviously been chosen because Catherine looked attractive in them, and whoever had chosen them had paid little attention to the other subjects. In many photos, the people around her were blurry, or blinking, or occasionally just captured with a weird face conversing in midsentence. It didn’t matter, because this was about Catherine. But it gave the entire collage a strange effect. As if Catherine was sharper, more real, more alive than the others.
“Church looks empty now, but the candles have been lit recently,” Tatum said, looking at the table. “Maybe they did some sort of memorial for her earlier this morning, before people went to work.”
He was right. The flowers were fresh too. White lilies and carnations dominated the table, and Zoe got the sense that the majority had been supplied by the same shop. Maybe one of the congregation members was a florist.
Another board, which had a monthly schedule and a few other notices, hung next to Catherine’s shrine. A list of handwritten names was posted on it, and inspecting it more closely, Zoe realized they were volunteers who listed themselves to cook for Pastor Lamb in the difficult days ahead. There was a notice about a picnic that had been canceled because of Catherine’s death and another notice about a postponed collection for the homeless. Scanning the monthly schedule, Zoe saw a weekly “senior street painting” event every Tuesday and an event for donating clothes for a women’s shelter.
She could feel a deep sense of community in this church.
“Glover would have been drawn to this place like a moth to a porch light,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Tatum asked, looking around him.
“Well . . . he lived in Maynard for years. A small town.” She thought back to her childhood. “Everyone on our street knew each other by name, and you couldn’t step out of the house without meeting someone you knew. I used to love it. And then, as a teenager, I hated it.” She smiled despite herself.
“It was the same in Wickenburg, I guess,” Tatum said.
She remembered that there had always been random pieces of light gossip flying around. She could almost hear her mother’s conversations with their neighbors. So-and-so’s daughter came from Alaska to visit—why did she move there in the first place? It’s so cold. Did you hear about the thing at the barbershop last week? They’re still cleaning up the foam. Mrs. Godfry, the third-grade teacher, is sick again; those poor kids should have a proper teacher. Tidbits of familiarity and kinship.
“It was a real community,” she said. “Everyone was part of the Maynard tribe. And Glover loved it. He was always superfriendly with everyone. Happy to chat, to pass along things he’d heard.”
“What, like gossip?”
“Or national news. And sometimes he’d make up lies, thread them into the truth, to make the conversation more interesting. To make himself more interesting.” As a child, she’d just accepted it as who he was. Now she knew better. Psychopaths were often great at imitation, watching the people around them, figuring out what worked and what didn’t. What made people like you more.
Tatum saw where she was going with this. “And then he gets to Chicago. And it’s not the same.”
“Right. A fast city, with too many people. At first, maybe that’s what he was looking for. A place to hide, to blend in with the crowd. But after a while he began missing the casual talks, the chummy hellos.”
“He didn’t get it at work either,” Tatum said.
“No, he didn’t.” They’d been to the office he’d worked at. People working in separate cubicles, a huge tech company, everyone in his department constantly on the phone with angry customers. “And then he sees this place. This church’s community, brimming with a sense of kinship. He probably passed by them once or twice—a congregation picnic or a group of them standing outside the church, talking. And that was it. He saw his prey.”
Zoe stepped away from the board, paced between the pews,
looking around her. Glover would have come here on Sundays, when it was fullest—more people to meet. More people to see him there, the pious Christian. First just showing his face, then maybe joining their conversations, their activities, volunteering here and there. Becoming the “good man” Patrick Carpenter had mentioned.
People would crowd this space, listening to the pastor, and Glover would be there as well, watching around him, passing the time by checking out the younger women, fantasizing. Where would Catherine be sitting? In plain sight? How many times had he leisurely spent his morning glancing at her, imagining her naked, a tie wrapped around her throat?
And there was someone else here. Unsub beta. Zoe chewed her lip. Someone else who’d developed an obsession with Catherine. Maybe wondering how her blood tasted.
Churches and crosses didn’t keep you safe from vampires in the real world. At least not from this one.
How had he and Glover met? What made them see that they shared a common dark interest? This wasn’t a normal church community chat. I thought the sermon today was powerful. What about you? I wasn’t really listening; I was fantasizing about killing the woman sitting in front of me. Oh, same here.
Somehow, Glover had found him. She needed to know how.
“Zoe,” Tatum said. “Check this out.”
He pointed at one of the photos. Zoe returned and studied it.
One face, blurry, out of focus, hardly noticeable.
Glover.
He was talking to someone who stood just outside the frame of the photo. Zoe leaned forward, frowning, trying to glean info from the photo, but found nothing. A picture of Catherine and others from the congregation at a picnic, all of them laughing and talking, ignoring the camera. Catherine held both hands up, demonstrating something to a man she was conversing with. Albert Lamb sat by her side, listening to her, his face serene. Glover at the corner.
She was reaching for the photo when the church door opened. She turned around to see a man looking at them, holding a bouquet of red roses. He had curly brown hair and thick lips.
“Hello,” he said, his voice light and easygoing.
“Hello,” Tatum said back.
“Are you two searching for someone?”
“We were just looking around.”
He stepped closer and frowned. He cleared his throat. “We’ve had a few people just looking around lately. Are you two detectives as well?”
Tatum glanced at Zoe, and she shrugged.
Turning back to the man, he took out his badge. “Special Agent Gray.”
“Oh. I’m Allen Swenson,” he said. “Is this about Catherine?”
“Yes. Did you know her well?”
“Well, I’ve been going to this church for twelve years, so I talked to her several times. We ran a charity event together once. She was a sweet woman.”
“Are those flowers for her shrine?” Zoe asked.
He licked his lips, seeming confused, then glanced down at the rose bouquet in his hand, as if just remembering them. “Yes. I missed the memorial this morning, but I figured I’d drop by and put these here.”
He went over to the table and gently placed the bouquet beside another. Then he turned to look at Zoe. “What’s your name?”
“Mr. Swenson,” Tatum interjected. “Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?”
There was a slight pause. “No, go ahead; I’ll be glad to help.”
“When did you hear about Catherine’s death?”
“On Sunday morning. I came over for the service and met a few of the congregation members. They told me.”
“Was there a service on Sunday?”
“No. The pastor wasn’t here, and neither was Patrick.”
“Patrick?”
“Patrick Carpenter. He sometimes does the service, if Pastor Lamb can’t make it.” Swenson cleared his throat again. “Is there any progress in the investigation?”
“We’re not at liberty to say,” Tatum answered. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in the week leading up to Catherine Lamb’s death?”
“I wasn’t really around. I mostly come to the Sunday services.”
“When was the last time you saw Catherine?”
“Well . . . she wasn’t at church on the previous Sunday. I guess that is pretty unusual. I did spot her on the street when I drove by the church about a week and a half ago.”
“How did she seem?”
“Okay, I guess. I was talking with a friend, so I didn’t really pay attention, but I waved, and she saw me and waved back.”
“Anything else?”
“No, like I said, I was driving. I didn’t stop to chat.”
“Can you think of anyone in the congregation who was particularly close to Catherine?”
“A lot of people. She organized a lot of the church’s activities.”
“Anyone particularly close?” Zoe asked.
He seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Well, she and Patrick were a bit close. But I guess it was because they were both really invested in the community. Last few weeks they weren’t as close, though. I thought maybe they had a falling-out.”
“What gave you that idea?”
“Just small stuff. They used to sit next to each other during the service, but the last two times I noticed they sat apart. And they didn’t talk too much.”
Zoe and Tatum waited for more, letting the silence stretch. Swenson’s eyes kept darting around, but he didn’t say anything else.
“Do you know this man?” Zoe tapped the photo, pointing at Glover.
He frowned, looking closely. “Oh, yes, I saw him around. Uh . . . Moore, right?”
“He called himself Daniel Moore,” Tatum said.
Swenson nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. Yeah. I’ve seen him.”
“Ever talk to him?”
“Maybe once or twice. Just casual talk.”
“Did you notice him talking to anyone else?”
He frowned. “Is he the guy who did it?”
“We just want to talk to him,” Tatum said. “Notice him talking to anyone in particular?”
He thought about it. “No. Just seen him around. He was a regular.”
“Since when?”
“I’m not sure.” Swenson took a step back. “Listen, I’d love to help, but I need to go to work. Do you have a business card or something?”
Tatum handed him his card. Swenson pocketed it and gave Zoe a long look. Then he turned and left.
“He knew Glover,” Zoe said. “It wasn’t just a familiar face.”
“Definitely not,” Tatum said.
Zoe took another close look at the photos, searching for Glover. Catherine’s father, the pastor, was in a few of course, always wearing a somber expression. Patrick Carpenter appeared in seven of the pictures; his wife, Leonor, in five. Leonor was talking or smiling at someone in all of the pictures. Always interacting. Patrick, on the other hand, seemed more still. Thoughtful. Swenson was in two pictures as well. In one of them, it was just him and Catherine, outside the church, sitting on one of the wooden benches, talking.
Tatum took out his phone and snapped a couple of photos of the entire setup and a close-up of the picture with Rod Glover. “Let’s go talk to Albert Lamb and hear what he has to say about Daniel Moore.”
CHAPTER 21
Bill managed to get Chelsey ready for school and drive her there through a fog of turmoil and panic. He didn’t think she’d noticed, but it was impossible to know for sure. She could be frighteningly perceptive. He’d told her Mommy had to go to work early that morning, a lie that instantly injected guilt into the hurricane of emotions roiling inside him. When she got out of the car and waved, he waved back, a smile plastered on his face. She turned around, and he drove off, stopped a block later, stepped out of the car, and threw up.
Now, he sat back in the car and breathed, trying to get a grip. He couldn’t drive like this. The fact that he’d driven Chelsey to school in this condition suddenly seemed irresponsible and downright
stupid.
He tried Hen’s phone again, like he’d been doing the entire morning, and it was still offline. He had three missed calls from Gina and a text from her asking him to update her as soon as he knew something.
The police were looking for her right now. Whatever had happened, they’d figure it out.
Unless the police were somehow responsible.
It was a sudden, reflexive thought. As soon as it emerged, he began thinking about wrongful shootings, cooked-up charges, police brutality. Maybe Officer Ellis and his partner already knew where Hen was when they’d shown up. Maybe they were just going through the motions.
He was helpless, unsure how to continue. He googled on his phone, What to do with missing person.
The first result was actually helpful. He could do quite a lot. He could give more information to the police. He could call all the hospitals in Chicago. He could visit local jails. Call all of his wife’s friends. Post on social media. He could print flyers. He found out there was something named the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System.
Now he felt even worse. He had so much to do, and he didn’t know where to start. And he had to be home by noon to make lunch for Chelsey.
He could start by driving to the train station. See if Hen’s car was there. It would help him figure out when she’d gone missing. It would help the police.
It was difficult to perform simple acts like driving. He forced himself because of Chelsey, but he was standing at the edge of a precipice, a dark chasm just inches away. And everything he did could make him stumble and fall. It took him much longer than it should have to reach the station’s parking lot.
But now that he was there, things became easier. All he had to do was drive between the rows of parked vehicles, looking for Hen’s car. He found something relaxing in giving himself away to this one easy task that required his full concentration. He was methodical, starting at the southwest side of the parking lot, zigzagging his way through the lanes slowly.
He’d gone through four lanes when something caught his eye at the far side of the parking lot. A squad car, its lights still flickering. He changed course, driving toward it, and saw something that chilled him to the core. A yellow tape, cordoning off a section of the parking lot. And beyond the tape, Hen’s car.
