"You'd think I would, but I have been cursed with the worst affliction a pastor can have—I'm horrible with names. I do remember hearing about the young woman he... he did away with. She was found in a bank parking lot less than a mile from our original building, and it was our youth group meeting that night. The police came with questions, but sadly, we couldn't help the black boy. Our meeting ended long before the girl was killed, as I recall."
"You visited him in prison, Pastor Rankin," I said. "I've visited myself, and it's not something you forget. Can you tell me about that?"
"Tell you what we spoke of? That would be wrong, even if I could recall our conversation. Confidentiality is sacred. But I can offer you this by way of explanation. The gospel of St. Matthew teaches us that both the righteous and the sinners will be judged according to six requirements: giving food to the hungry, providing drink to the thirsty, showing hospitality to the stranger, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and visiting prisoners. By rendering these acts of compassion to the least of our brothers, we perform them for Christ Himself. It was my sacred duty to visit him."
"To sum up—and correct me if I'm wrong—the visit was just part of the job?" I'm not good at hiding my opinions, and if it made this guy like me just a little less, be less fixated on my face, I was all for cynicism.
His gaze shifted to a heavy oak lectern where a massive Bible sat open, the red satin bookmark dangling. He started flicking at the corner of my business card with a fingernail, his other hand balled into a tight fist. " 'Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them.' Hebrews 13:3. I sense your distrust, a certain distaste, and I am sorry for that. Your spirit is admirable, however. Like you, I perform my duties and am glad to do so. If it helps your cause, the black boy and I prayed together, but he told me nothing about his crime... nor did I ask."
"He may have spent years in jail for a murder he didn't commit. Will your duty to God help me find the truth? Perhaps free an innocent man?"
He smiled, folded his hands in front of him. "God has guided you here, brought your precious light, and I would never refuse you anything if only I could remember more. I simply can't."
But despite his calm tone, I noticed his face had reddened. Maybe he had a blood pressure problem— or my light had given him a sunburn.
"What would help you remember?" I asked. "Pictures of Lawrence after his arrest? I could bring one."
"You simply do not understand, Abby Rose." His sanctuary voice had reappeared, his loud voice. Great for a Sunday service, a little much for an office. Obviously the guy was coming unglued—which, now that I thought about it, might not be a bad thing. Maybe he'd let loose with something unexpected.
"Think hard, Pastor. Tell me what Lawrence said to you in Huntsville. Tell me about the night of the murder. Help me learn the names of the kids he hung out with. Tell me—"
"Stop." Rankin covered his face with his hands. "You don't understand."
All of a sudden he was crying big old crocodile tears. If I wanted to drive this man crazy, it would be a short trip. "What is it that I don't understand, Pastor?"
He took a deep breath to compose himself. "1987 was the worst year of my life, Abby Rose. We had to deal with tragic events that had nothing to do with the black boy's troubles."
I wasn't sure I felt comfortable asking what those events were, and turns out I didn't have to.
He said, "We lost our daughter that year. The pain is fresh even today and supersedes any memories of prison visits or youth counseling or anything else from back then."
"I'm really sorry, but even though it was a horrible time—"
The door opened and I smelled an overpowering perfume before I saw the woman. "Andrew, I heard you—oh, my heavens. I knew something was wrong."
She rushed to Rankin's side, bent and held his face. "What's happened?" She looked my way. "What's going on?"
"I'm a private investigator and I came to ask a few questions about a case I'm working—one that dates back to 1987. I seem to have dredged up some bad memories, and for that I apologize."
"We lost Sara that year," the woman said softly, rubbing tears off her husband's cheeks.
"I really had no intention of upsetting the pastor."
She straightened, tugging at the short purple jacket that matched her skirt. She was shapely, and though I could tell she was in her fifties, she had aged well.
"I'm sure you had no idea about our child," she said. "How could you possibly know?"
Rankin said, "She came about Lawrence—you remember the black boy? But all of a sudden my thoughts leaped to Sara and—"
"Shh, Andrew. It's okay," said his wife. She looked at me. "Perhaps you should leave for now. Call me later. I'll try to help you, but right now, my husband needs me for reasons I don't need to explain."
"Certainly." I stood. "Sorry to have caused a problem." I was happy to go, because if I heard him say "the black boy" one more time, I might have had to slug a man of God, tears or no tears.
Mrs. Rankin smiled sadly. "Forgive me... forgive us. When you lose a child, the pain never goes away." She rested a hand on her husband's cheek again. "Andrew is a very sensitive man; so strong for others, but when it comes to Sara, well..."
"I'll ask for you when I call, Mrs. Rankin," I said.
She came around the desk, extended her hand and then rested her other over mine when we shook. "It's Noreen. And you're?"
"Abby."
"Abby Rose," said the pastor, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He blew his nose. "Isn't that a beautiful name? Perfect for a spirited, glowing young woman. I have never before seen light surround someone like it does you, Abby Rose."
Mrs. Rankin glanced at her husband, and though she tried to mask her confusion, she failed. "Andrew, what are you talking about?"
"You can't see it? Maybe Sara has returned, resides in Abby Rose and—no, no. That's not right. I'm a little dizzy, Noreen. Where are my pills?"
Oh, yes. Find the pills right away, I thought.
"Please excuse us, Abby." She smiled, showing off bleached, perfect teeth to match her smooth, lovely skin—the kind you can only get from plenty of pampering. She was concerned, however, and I didn't blame her.
I picked up my purse and left, closing the door as softly as I could. That whole interview had been bizarre, and what had I learned? Zip. I was about to head back in the direction I'd come in when I saw a sign pointing the opposite way that read CHURCH LIBRARY. I decided this little visit wasn't over yet. The library in the church I'd attended as a child kept a history of everything, so maybe this one did, too.
When I entered, I was immediately reminded of the Hearst Castle library. There were shiny, walnut floorto-ceiling shelves, a ladder on a slide to reach items on the top, thick pale peach carpet and soft overstuffed chairs where you could sit and read. Above me was a stained glass dome that, if I'd been paying attention, I could have probably seen from the parking lot. Guess I'd been too dazzled by gold roofs.
The library was magnificent and peaceful. But I hadn't come here for peace. I closed the door behind me and began scouring the shelves. I soon found what I was looking for in books that had been bound in identical leather volumes with gold engraved numbers—all the saved copies of newsletters, prayer lists, articles about special members of their congregation, church trip journals. I even got to climb that cool ladder. A few minutes later I found the years I wanted—'86 and '87. The volume with an '86 newsletter had a picture of a very young Pastor Rankin and his wife flanking their youth group.
I climbed down and laid open the book on a study table and took out my phone. I'd only clicked off one picture before the door opened.
It was Mrs. Rankin. She flashed her brilliant smile again and definitely looked more relaxed than when I'd left her. "I thought you'd gone, but I'm so glad you found the library. Isn't it wonderful?"
"The whole building is amazing, but I think this room is my favorite."
"Did you find anything
helpful?" she asked.
I closed the book. "A photo of Lawrence. Funny how he hasn't changed all that much since he was sent to Huntsville."
"You've seen him recently?"
"Yes."
"He's the one who hired you, then?"
"No, not Lawrence." I wasn't sure she needed to know about Will. Not right now, anyway.
"You're keeping a confidence," she said. "That's something we understand very well here. I have prayed for Lawrence often over the years and am so glad he has an advocate. This is a sign God doesn't want us to forget what happened." She stepped toward me, still smiling, her diamond stud earrings blinking in the sunlight coming through the tall velvetdraped window behind me. "Did he seem in good health when you visited?"
"As far as I could tell."
"He always said he didn't kill that girl, and frankly, I believed him. Told the police as much. Even though he was a very competitive young man, an athlete, you know, he had a soft spirituality about him. We were so lucky to have known him."
I came around the study table to stand between two armchairs. "But you haven't gone to see him?"
"Andrew went to the prison, then I tried, but Lawrence struck everyone from his visitor list quite early on."
"I didn't know that. By the way, is the pastor feeling better?" I was feeling a tad guilty about playing up to folks I didn't exactly like.
"He is better. You had no way of knowing what an emotional man he is, always has been. He's off to practice his sermon, so no harm done."
"Would you have time for a few questions now rather than later?"
She lowered onto the edge of a chair. "If Lawrence needs our help, of course. Though I'm not sure what I can offer."
I sat opposite her. "You met with the young people in his group every week, right?"
She nodded.
"Did Lawrence have a special attachment to anyone?"
Noreen Rankin smiled knowingly. "You mean was there a teenage romance going on? I can't speak to that, but you know adolescents. They wouldn't share that information with me. During our meetings we focused on our purpose, which was for those young people to become generous, God-loving adults who'd become assets to their church home. We read the Bible, we discussed the Bible. Anything that went on between them that didn't involve God stayed outside of our meetings."
"I was hoping that since Lawrence was the only African-American in your group at the time, maybe you could recall a little more about him than the others."
"I wish that were so, but Andrew and I both had such a difficult time that year. We thought surely Sara would be safe on that mission trip and—" She bit her lip, took a deep breath. "Anyway, perhaps if you can get in touch with someone in Lawrence's group, they could better help you."
"If I knew who they were. I need more information. Can I spend a little more time in here?"
She licked her glossed lips, thought for a second. "Our library is open to everyone, but we do have our church historical society meeting here in about... " She checked the thin silver watch on her wrist. "Oh, my goodness. They'll be here any second and B.J. hasn't set up the chairs. Would you mind returning? Say, tomorrow?"
I stood. "Sure. Thanks so much for your help. Let me put this book away before I go."
"B.J. will take care of it." She gave me another one of her clutching handshakes and gleaming smiles. She really was attractive and warm and all the things you'd expect of a pastor's wife, but she reminded me too much of Aunt Caroline and her rich friends. I was not feeling the love, but then maybe that was because I was so focused on getting what I needed.
At least I have one picture, I thought, as I walked out to the parking lot. With my luck, the library would probably be ransacked tonight and every single thing related to Lawrence Washington would be gone when I came back.
When I started to pull out onto the freeway feeder road, a church van was just driving in. The woman made a wide turn and nearly hit my front fender. She offered an apologetic wave as she steered right and drove into the lot. I noticed in the rearview mirror that the van was wheelchair-equipped, and I thought of Thaddeus. He could use wheelchair-equipped anything, and I might have to do something about it.
19
On my way home, I decided I had to face Joelle with the news about the break-in and the stolen files. This wasn't something I could do over the phone, and now was as bad a time as any. I called first to make sure she was home, and she sounded so excited to hear from me, I felt even more guilty about losing the files. I also made a call to Will's mother and updated her, told her I had spoken to Will and what I had learned so far. Mrs. Knight's concern was for Will and how he was handling this news, but she told me she was still behind him one hundred percent. If he wanted me to continue my work, then that's what I should do. Her commitment shored me up for the unpleasant task ahead.
I drove on to Joelle Simpson's, and she welcomed me wearing baggy jeans and an oversize cotton shirt. If she paid a little attention to her appearance—kept her hair dyed, wore clothes that fit—Joelle would be a pretty woman. Perhaps in her mind she was still married to Frank and being frumpy was a way to protect her relationship with her dead husband by keeping any interested male at bay.
If dressing down didn't work, a house filled with grief-filled photographs sure could scare suitors away. This time a shiver climbed my spine as I walked that hallway to her living room and passed those haunting photographs. She offered iced tea and I refused. I needed to get this over with.
Once we were seated, her on the couch and me in a worn recliner that I realized too late had probably belonged to Frank, I said, "I hate to tell you this, but someone stole the file you loaned me."
She tilted her head, her face expressionless. "Really?"
"Yes. I feel so stupid for not taking better care of it. I should have locked it up or something before—"
"But that's wonderful." She smiled.
I was so stunned by her response I couldn't speak for a second. "You don't have a sarcastic bone in your body, so I assume you're serious."
"Don't you see, Abby? That means Frank was right. Lawrence Washington was innocent. Why else would someone want that file? This would have meant so much to Frank."
She might be making a leap in logic—or more like faith—but it did make sense, in a way. "I'm relieved you're not mad about me losing the files."
"They were stolen, not lost. That's a huge difference."
Will had said the same thing, and as the weight of guilt lifted from my shoulders, I smiled. "You don't have to make me feel better."
"I'm not, Abby. What would I do with the file if you brought it back? Believe me, I have plenty more things in this house that need to go. I feel like I can't move on until I've finished what Frank so desperately wanted after he retired. Even in death, if he helps to right one wrong, then his obsession with those old cases was worth it. I believe you are an angel sent to help him rest in peace."
First golden lights and now I was an angel? What was I missing when I looked in the mirror? "You are one of the kindest people I've ever met, Joelle. Thank you. Was there anything else Frank kept besides the files? Because even though I only had one real run-through on the information, I've learned he might have missed something—and that doesn't seem like him." I was thinking of the girlfriend angle that Frank apparently had failed to uncover.
She sat back against the cushions. "As I'm sure you've figured out, Frank wasn't the most organized soul in the universe. Maybe we should check the attic? Before he went back to San Francisco after the funeral, our son hauled plenty of boxes up there. I'm not sure what was in them and I don't go up to the attic. Pull-down stairs are hard to climb when you get past fifty."
So I was the one who climbed the pull-down stairs, my second climb in search of evidence today. It was hot and dirty up there, and I was dressed in a skirt and blouse. Not exactly attic attire. At least I hadn't been stupid enough to wear hose.
I removed my clogs to better navigate plywood and bea
ms, and started my search. I found lots of old soccer and baseball equipment, a three-speed bike, a disassembled crib and plenty of clothes in plastic bags. I bypassed bolts of material, an old sewing machine, photography magazines, stacked police journals and Christmas ornaments while balancing my way to the cardboard file boxes I'd spotted in a far corner. The boxes weren't marked, but that was to be expected from Frank. The first few I opened held slides and photos damaged by years in the heat of a Houston attic. Nothing police-related. Looked like the beginning attempts at Frank's photography hobby.
I moved these aside and opened the last box. When I did, I discovered my trip to this corner had been worth it. Inside were evidence envelopes from HPD. The first one made me wince when I looked inside. It was marked "Rape-Murder, Jane Doe #2" and held a box cutter. I decided not to check any of the others unless they were marked AMANDA MASON. Close to the bottom of the box I did find that Mason envelope, and inside was a bullet.
Yes. Pay dirt.
I'd been resting on my already sore knees and nearly slipped in my haste to get up, but I finally navigated my way back to the ladder, grabbed my clogs and was soon in the nice, cool hallway.
"Got something," I said, holding up the envelope.
Joelle smiled and pulled me by the hand toward the kitchen. "You need a drink. You're so flushed."
After I gulped down a huge glass of water, I thanked Joelle, left, and called Jeff from the car.
"I am drowning in reports. Glad to hear your voice," he said.
"Can I come see you? It's important."
"You've got something?"
"I do. You may think I'm crazy but—"
"I know you're crazy, but that's what you do the best and I happen to like it."
I smiled, thinking about the pastor. I could show Jeff "crazy" he might not like so much. "I'll be there as fast as I can," I said.
"Without a tail, I hope? Because someone has been stuck to you like a bad smell lately."
"Don't remind me." I hung up, but his reminder made me pay more attention to my driving than I usually do, alert for that tail. I didn't notice anyone, though.
Dead Giveaway yrm-3 Page 16
