“He’s your ex-husband, mom,” Joshua said quietly.
“Whatever.” Carol folded her arms and looked at Berenger. “So, I suspect you’ll want to talk to me about the case?”
“As a matter of fact—”
“You know, I don’t have to do that,” she said. “I talked to my lawyer this morning when I heard you’d been retained by the defense. He said I’m under no obligation to talk to private investigators.”
“That’s right, Carol, you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. But seeing as how we’ve known each other a long time—”
“Save the speech, Spike. I’ll talk to you. It’s against my better judgement but I’ll do it.”
Berenger nodded at her son. “I’d like to make an appointment to talk with Joshua as well.”
Joshua shrugged. “I don’t mind.” Carol looked at him and he added, “If mom doesn’t.”
Berenger tried to smile without giving away his true feelings. For a young man well over twenty-one-years-old, Joshua Duncan certainly wasn’t in control of his own life.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be in touch. It’s good to see you again, Carol.”
“Yeah, I wish it had been under more pleasant circumstances. Come on, Joshua, let’s get out of here.” She took her son by the arm and strode out the door.
Berenger lingered to shake hands with Derek Patterson and say he would be in touch, and then he took the elevator to the building lobby. He walked out onto Sixth Avenue and noticed the large black limousine parked at the curb in front of the building. Al Patton stood on the sidewalk, his hulking physique leaning down and speaking to the driver. Berenger waited a moment so he could talk to Patton and heard the door open behind him. Reverend Theo and Brenda Twist came outside. Berenger was surprised to see Brenda open the back door of the limo and get in. Patton ended his conversation with the limo driver and greeted Theo. While the two men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, Berenger got a look at the driver, another bald fellow that resembled Bruce Willis on a bad day. The Reverend said goodbye to Patton, nodded at Berenger in a “How are you, today?” friendly gesture, and then got into the limo beside Brenda. As the car pulled out into the busy avenue and sped away, Berenger noticed that the vanity license plate read, “FLAME.”
Patton moved toward Berenger and said, “How are you, Spike?”
“Fine, Al.” The two men shook hands. They had known each other for years but maintained a cool, professional relationship with each other. Berenger gestured at the departing limo. “Is that Flame’s limousine?”
“Uh huh,” Patton said. “Flame’s driver works for the Messengers now that Flame is dead.”
“And they’re using Flame’s personal car? For Messenger business?”
“Actually, Flame would have wanted them to,” Patton said. “He often lent Mister Black and the limo to Reverend Theo. That’s how Ron got the new position.”
“What’s the driver’s name?”
“Black. Ron Black. He’s been with Flame for, what, five or six years. I think he was with the Messengers before that. It’s how he got hooked up with Flame.”
“I see. What did you think of the proceedings upstairs?”
Patton shrugged. “It’s pretty much what I expected. I knew Flame wouldn’t leave me anything. Why should he? I must say I’m pretty surprised by the gift to the Messengers.”
“I think everyone was thrown by that.”
“Yeah. I don’t know, Spike. Flame was pretty mixed up these last few years. He was throwing his career away, what can I tell you? Look, I have to run. I’m late for another appointment.”
“Sure, Al. Listen, I’d like to talk to you about all this. You know I’m working for Adrian?”
“Yeah, I heard. Sure, Spike, give me a call at the office. I’ll talk to you.” Patton held out his arm and flagged an approaching taxi.
“Great. See you later, Al.”
He watched as Patton got in the cab and it sped away. Berenger began to walk uptown when his cell phone rang.
“Berenger,” he answered.
“Mister Berenger?” A woman’s voice.
“Yes?”
“This is Betty Samuels at Franklin Village.”
Berenger felt a shot of adrenaline. Was it bad news? Betty Samuels was the director of the assisted living facility in Hempstead, Long Island, where his mother currently resided. “Yeah?”
“Don’t be alarmed, everything’s fine with your mother. But we need to talk again about what we discussed before. About your mother moving.”
“What happened?”
“Well, she had another episode. She waited until the receptionist wasn’t looking and she walked right out the front door. No one realized she had left until a half-hour later, when it was time for dinner. We looked all over the building and finally John—you know John, one of the attendants?”
“Yes.”
“He went outside to look for her. He found her two blocks away, wandering aimlessly. She was lost and confused.”
“Oh dear.”
“It’s okay now. John brought her back and one of the nurses gave her a sedative. But I’m sure you can appreciate that’s a very serious situation. We simply can’t be responsible for her if she’s going to do that.”
“I understand.”
“When can you come out and talk about this? I think it’s time we move her into the Neighborhood.”
Berenger winced. The Neighborhood was the special locked wing reserved for patients suffering from dementia and Alzheimer’s.
“You think it’s come to that?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
Berenger looked at his watch. “Okay, I—uhm, I’ll drive out there this evening. Is that all right?”
“Sure. I’ll be here until nine o’clock tonight.”
“I’ll try to be there between seven and eight.”
Berenger put away the phone and continued walking uptown, where he could catch a crosstown bus to his apartment.
News like that called for a stiff glass of vodka and ice.
8
Jesus is Just Alright
(performed by The Doobie Brothers)
Suzanne Prescott emerged from the Times Square IRT subway-station at the 44th Street exit and walked west. The nine-to-five work force had been let out for rush hour and the area was packed with people. Perhaps the most populated tourist attraction in the city, Times Square and the theatre district was a mass of humanity twenty-four/seven. Once upon a time Suzanne had hated coming to the area because it had been such a cesspool of sleaze. In the nineties, though, New York’s mayor cleaned it up and now it was so family-oriented that Walt Disney would have been proud. The sex shops, “live nude girls” peep shows, and drug trade was for the most part relegated to points outside of Manhattan, leaving Times Square a haven for visitors.
That didn’t mean the area was no longer dangerous. Con artists and opportunists of every kind, hookers, and thieves could still strike the naïve and unsuspecting traveler. Street-smart New Yorkers, though, rarely encountered such vermin, and Suzanne was definitely savvy when it came to navigating around the city. One of the most valuable things that Master Chen taught her during her five-year stay in the Far East was a highly developed sense of awareness. She liked to call it her “spider sense,” named after her favorite comic book superhero’s ability. While Suzanne’s intuition certainly didn’t equal that of Spider-Man’s, she seemed to have a knack for detecting danger before it reared its ugly head.
It’s too bad her insight never worked when it came to her love life, but that was another story and she didn’t like to dwell on it.
Suzanne made her way toward Eighth Avenue and on to Ninth, noting that the crowds diminished as she went westward. Hell’s Kitchen, as the area was commonly called, was a lower-class neighborhood that happened to border the elite theatre district. Suzanne thought the moniker was a misnomer, for the people she had encountered in Hell’s Kitchen had been among the friendlie
st in all of New York. There was probably a fair share of drug addicts, pushers, gangs, and bad-guys in the neighborhood, but Suzanne had never encountered them. As a matter of fact, there was a pizza joint at Ninth Avenue and 44th Street she liked to frequent and she was tempted to do so now. But she had a job to do so she kept walking toward Tenth, where the Messengers’ church and offices were located.
It was once a traditional church but the building was now painted an earthy green, a color that stuck out in the otherwise drab neighborhood. A glass display case protected a marquis scripted by plastic white letters that could be rearranged according to the organization’s plans for the week. Today it read “The Messengers – A Church for the Enlightened Soul – Tonight’s Message: Are You An Apostle? – 7:30 p.m. – Reverend Theo, Director.”
Suzanne ascended the stoop’s four steps and opened the large wooden door. The interior smelled musty and old, like most of the buildings in the area, but it was clean and well lit. A rack full of Messengers literature was prominently situated in front of the office, which was separated from the lobby by a closed door. Suzanne saw an African-American woman through a sliding glass window, working at a computer. The woman looked up, smiled, and rose. She slid open the window and said, “Good afternoon. How may I help you?”
“Oh, I’m just here to look around. I saw your building and I was just curious,” Suzanne replied.
“Well then, we welcome you,” the woman said. “I’ll come right out.” She closed the window and unlocked the office door. She appeared and stood beside the rack of literature. Suzanne guessed the woman was in her forties. She was slightly overweight, wore glasses, and was dressed in the type of loose black dress that Suzanne imagined elderly church ladies in the South might wear. In fact, the woman’s speech had a Southern drawl to it.
“I’m Juliet Ramsey,” the woman said. She held out her hand and Suzanne shook it. Reverend Theo’s wife, Suzanne recalled.
“My name is Suzanne. Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.” The woman picked out two or three pamphlets from the rack and handed them to Suzanne. “Here are a few pieces of our literature. They’ll tell you a little bit about us and what our mission is.”
“What denomination are you?” Suzanne asked. “I mean, you are a Christian church, right?”
“Oh, Lord, yes, we’re a Christian church. But we’re our own denomination. There’s no one like us on the planet. I think you’ll find us a unique congregation. We are blessed with a reverend that’s in daily communication with Jesus and all the other Holy Ghosts.”
“Ghosts, as in plural?”
“Oh, yes, there are several. Our reverend talks to them daily.”
Suzanne couldn’t help raising her eyebrows. “Is that Reverend Theo?”
“Yes. Have you heard of our reverend?”
“I saw his name on the sign outside.”
“Oh, of course. Our good reverend comes from Jamaica. He and I founded the Messengers—oh, it’s going on fifteen years ago or so. Our congregation is one-hundred and thirty strong and climbing.”
“A hundred and thirty?” Suzanne asked. “That’s not very many, is it?”
Mrs. Ramsey continued to smile warmly. “We’re continually growing. The difference between our congregation and those of others is that our members remain with us once they’ve joined. If you go down the street to another church, you’ll find that the membership fluctuates. We’re one big loyal family and we like it that way.”
“How on earth do you manage to finance yourselves? Surely the dues from the membership can’t possibly support the organization.”
“We don’t call them dues, child. They’re offerings. Not only that, offerings are purely voluntary. We don’t require our members to contribute anything. But they all do. We raise money through other activities, though. Fundraising is an integral part of religion these days, I’m afraid!” She laughed a little.
The front door opened and an imposing black man entered, followed by an attractive Caucasian woman whom Suzanne recognized as Brenda Twist.
“Hello dear,” the reverend said to his wife. He smiled at Suzanne and said, “Hello.”
“Hi,” Suzanne replied.
“I was just telling this young lady about the Messengers,” Mrs. Ramsey said. “Suzanne, this is Reverend Theo.”
The reverend shook her hand and said, “I’m pleased to meet you. What brings you to our happy home today?”
“Oh, I was just walking by, saw the building, and was curious,” Suzanne said. “I’m kind of a church junkie. I like the architecture. I made a goal several years ago to visit every church in Manhattan. I don’t think I’ve made it through half of them yet!”
“I would think you haven’t,” the reverend said. He grinned from ear to ear and Suzanne noted that the man exuded an intoxicating charm. “You should come to our service tonight. The only way to really find out what we’re all about is to experience us.”
“Thank you, I might do that,” Suzanne said.
The reverend turned to Brenda Twist and said, “Brenda, perhaps you’d like to give this young lady a tour? I need to make some phone calls in the office.”
“I’d be delighted,” Brenda said. She smiled sweetly at Suzanne.
Reverend Theo addressed Suzanne again and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you. I do hope I’ll see you again.” He gave a slight bow and went into the office.
His wife said, “I’ll leave you in Brenda’s good hands, child. Have a nice day.”
“Thank you,” Suzanne said. Mrs. Ramsey followed her husband and shut the door.
Brenda held out her hand and said, “I’m Brenda Twist.”
Suzanne shook it and said, “Suzanne Prescott.”
“Let’s go inside the sanctuary, shall we?”
As they walked through the double doors, Suzanne asked, “And what, may I ask, is your function at the church? Are you an employee?”
“Yes, I’ve been with the Messengers for about eight years. I guess you could say I’m the reverend’s executive assistant, if such a title is applicable in a religious institution.” Suzanne noted that Brenda was dressed demurely as if she had just come from or was on her way to Sunday School—a black skirt that covered her knees, flat shoes, a white blouse, and a scarf around her neck—and she was carrying a Bible. Suzanne wondered if she had been at the reading of the will that afternoon. She may have met Spike.
The sanctuary was small, simply because it was in a narrow brownstone on the West Side of Manhattan. Two sections of six pews occupied the floor. The altar at the front appeared to be fairly typical, except that the iconography surrounding it was strikingly gruesome. Nailed to the crucifix behind the altar was an extremely bloody effigy of Christ—something Suzanne thought was more at home in medieval passion plays. The expression of pain and suffering on Jesus’ face was unnaturally lifelike and the blood seemed to be freshly wet. Also unusual for most Christian churches, the two thieves that had been crucified along with Christ were also present, mounted on opposing sides of the central cross. They, too, were depicted in a graphically brutal fashion.
Suzanne looked around the entire sanctuary and noted that the walls were also decorated with particularly unnerving sculptures and paintings. These portrayed the saints and apostles that met violent deaths. One of them—she thought he was Peter—was nailed to the cross upside down.
“Ewww,” she muttered involuntarily.
“Powerful images, aren’t they?” Brenda asked.
“Uh, yeah.”
“We believe in touching one’s emotions with the Lord’s word. Most people don’t realize how great our Lord’s suffering really was. Or the sacrifices made by his apostles. The Messengers believe in enlightenment. That’s our primary goal. To enlighten those who don’t believe, or to strengthen the faith of those that already do. Enlightenment is the key to Heaven.”
Suzanne felt a shiver run up her spine. The place was truly creepy and Brenda Twist reminded her of one of the pod peo
ple from Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
“Interesting,” was all that Suzanne could say as she did her best to smile cheerfully. Then she noticed a glass case atop a pylon near the altar. It contained a metal urn. Suzanne moved closer to the case until she could read the plaque mounted on the front—Here Sit the Ashes of Flame, True and Devoted Member of The Messengers.
Suzanne was too shocked to say anything. Why in the world would they display Flame’s ashes in their sanctuary?
She turned away, attempted to smile at Brenda, and said, “Okay, what else?”
“This way, please.” Brenda led her back to the lobby and through a door marked To Chapel. “We also have a space for private meditation and reflection,” Brenda said. “Personally, I find the chapel to be extremely comforting when I’m stressed out. It’s my favorite room in the building.”
They moved through a short hallway that opened onto a landing. A dark, narrow staircase led to the basement. Brenda touched a light switch on the wall, illuminating the stairwell, and proceeded to descend the steps. Suzanne’s had a fleeting thought that she was about to enter the depths of Hell.
The “comforting” chapel was a room the size of a meat locker and was nearly as cold. It, too, was covered in violent and frightening iconography that would have given Suzanne nightmares had she chosen to remain there for any period of time. Screaming out from the walls of the chapel were paintings of Christ being flogged by Roman centurions, up close-and-personal images of the nailing, and numerous head shots suggesting just how painful that crown of thorns really was. Even the ceiling was painted with images of angels that appeared to be horrified at what was taking place on earth below them. Oddly, there were also paintings representing Eastern religions on the wall. A Hindu God—was it Krishna?—appeared to be crying as she looked upon the broken body of Christ. There was no way that Suzanne could feel any sort of serenity here.
This was Brenda Twist’s favorite spot in the building?
“Wow, this is really something,” she said to Brenda. “Now let’s see something else.”
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 7
