Salem glanced around and tried to calm his nerves. This was the kind of old neighborhood where everybody knew each other and paid close attention to strangers in unfamiliar vehicles. It was a terrible place to conduct any kind of surveillance.
He’ll see me when he comes out and wonder what the hell I’m doing here. I’ve got no cover story, no reason on earth to be here. I can’t keep driving through the neighborhood, waiting for him to leave. People will notice that in a heartbeat. This is no good. The sun’s barely up. Lord could be in there for hours, maybe the entire day.
He reached for his phone and dialed.
“Let me know as soon as you finish. I need to get out of here before people start getting curious. I’m going to park in the lot at Billy’s Bar and walk back. There are woods in back and on one side of Lord’s house. I’ll watch from there.”
Salem hung up and looked at his watch. It was just six thirty in the morning, but it already felt like one of the longest days of his life.
* * * *
The church was the typical white, wooden structure so common in the mountains and other rural areas of southern Virginia. It had probably been somebody’s home at one time.
Anderson had parked his truck a short ways down the road and approached the building on foot. A handmade wooden cross over the entrance and a small sign by the front door were the only things that identified the property as a church.
He took a quick look around. Stillness hung over the entire area.
Thank God for freezing weather, January snowstorms, and economic recessions.
There was a small graveyard in back of the church. Anderson noted the absence of flowers or footprints in the snow. God the Redeemer Pentecostal Church was apparently the kind of church people visited for an hour or two on Sunday mornings and ignored the remainder of the week. The snow-covered front walk and entrance suggested that the church didn’t have a regular caretaker for the grounds. Anderson suspected Lord performed minor repairs on the property and cut the grass during the spring and summer months. He would probably come in an hour or two early on Sunday morning to scrape the walk and vacuum the sanctuary.
In addition to the front entrance, there was a door in back of the church and one on the side. Anderson selected the back door since it wasn’t visible from the road. The lock on the door was pathetic. Less than a minute later, he stood in the kitchen.
He worked quickly, going through the drawers and cabinets and finding nothing other than utensils and two boxes of communion wafers. The refrigerator yielded similar results—several jugs of grape juice and a case of beer. Apparently, the good pastor enjoyed a cold beer after a rigorous Sunday morning of crazy talk.
The sanctuary was small, but neat. There were the usual benches with hymnal books. The church lacked an organ to accompany the congregation in their singing. The pulpit yielded nothing of value, other than notes for a sermon Lord had already given or planned to give.
Anderson flipped through the hand-written pages. The rolling, cursive writing from an earlier era was neat and easy to read. The content was angry and disturbing. He grabbed his phone and began snapping pictures. Dodd would be interested in this.
Lord’s study was an interesting place. It was obviously a converted bedroom with a full-sized private bathroom. He checked the bathroom first just to make sure there wasn’t a dead hooker sitting on the toilet or curled up in the shower stall. There was a desk in the center of the study and nothing else—no bookshelves, filing cabinets, pictures, flowers, hanging plants, or chairs for visitors. It was one of the loneliest rooms Anderson had ever seen. He wondered if Lord whiled away his Sunday afternoons here, drinking beer from the refrigerator while he stared at the walls and retreated to the darkest corners of his mind.
Anderson took a picture of the study before he left. Along with the notes from the sermon, it was the sort of image that could help Dodd put together a psychological profile of the preacher.
He searched the rest of the church quickly and found nothing. Anderson let himself out and relocked the back door. He looked around and walked toward the road with the hood on his jacket up and his head down. There was nothing he could do about his footprints. Maybe it would snow again before Sunday. Anderson removed one of his gloves and dialed a number.
“I’m done. I think I got some good stuff. I’ll meet you at Billy’s in fifteen minutes.”
Salem was waiting when he arrived.
“We’ve got a slight change of plans. I decided to swing by Lord’s place again after you called. A car was parked in front of his house, and a black woman was on the way up to his front door.”
“What did she look like?” “I didn’t get that good a look. She was probably in her mid-thirties, average height and figure. It was hard to tell much more than that. She was dressed for the weather…heavy jeans, boots, gloves, and a hooded parka.”
Anderson rubbed his jaw. “That’s a puzzler. She doesn’t sound like a hooker. It’s pretty early for that, anyway, unless Lord is planning to start his day with a murder.”
“I’m thinking she’s a maid or housekeeper,” Salem said. “Another possibility is that she’s there to type up Lord’s notes for his next sermon. This is a guy who’s nowhere to be found on the Internet. I doubt if he even has a computer. I’m wondering if he has an Adler J-Five typewriter.”
The two men looked at each other.
“The church didn’t have a computer, typewriter, or any other office equipment. If Lord is typing his sermons, he’s doing it at home.”
Salem nodded. “We need to talk to that woman.” He looked at his watch. “She went inside twelve minutes ago. If she’s just doing a simple typing job, she should be out soon. Of course, if she’s the housekeeper, it’ll be a few hours.”
“How do you want to play it?”
“I’ve spent too much time in that neighborhood already,” Salem said. “I want you to drive by the house and get a plate number and good description of the car. I think it’s a silver Honda, but I was paying more attention to the woman. I need you to call me with that information. I’m staying here in the parking lot. After you leave the neighborhood, I want you to park just up the road in the other direction. She has to go one way or the other after she leaves Lord’s house.”
Anderson nodded and headed out of the parking lot. Five minutes later, Salem’s phone buzzed.
“You’re not going to believe this. She’s coming back down the front walk. I’m going to make a turn and then follow her out to the road. Hang on.”
Salem listened to the silence.
“She’s coming your way,” Anderson said. “I’m still following her. She’s driving a silver Honda Civic with a personalized plate, CLEANER.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Salem said. “It sounds like she’s a housekeeper. Nobody can clean a house that fast.”
“She’s turning into the trailer park beside Billy’s,” Anderson said. “You should be able to see her now.”
Salem watched the car move slowly down the narrow, rutted lane and stop in front of one of the trailers. The woman unlocked the front door to the home and went inside.
Anderson pulled up next to him and stepped out of the truck. The two men walked across the lot to the trailer and knocked on the door.
She looked younger up close, probably late twenties. Her gaze was direct and confident.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Salem said. “My name’s Salem Matthews, and this is my friend John Anderson. I don’t mean to intrude, but we’d like to ask you a few questions about Davis Lord.”
The woman stepped back and motioned them inside. The home was neat and smelled clean and fresh. “Have a seat. I don’t make a habit of inviting strangers into my home, Mr. Matthews, but I know you by sight and reputation. Thank you for your service.”
Salem nodded. “You’re welcome. Anderson and I served together, Miss…”
“I’m Belinda Watts. You have questions about Davis?”
He told
her everything leading up to their decision to investigate the preacher.
“I’m awfully sorry to hear about Mr. Carson. He’s a good man. I remember shopping at Carson’s with my mama when I was a child. That was when we lived down at that end of the lake. Mr. Carson would usually toss in a free lollipop or pack of gum for me when he was bagging our groceries.”
Belinda paused and studied her hands. “I didn’t know Melissa, but Donna Tice was a friend. She lived just a couple of trailers down from here.”
“What can you tell us about Davis?” Anderson asked.
“I can tell you he’s the most miserable human being I’ve ever known,” Belinda said. “He’s full of hate and about half crazy. I visit him each week for about twenty minutes and let him preach or read the Bible to me.”
Anderson looked stunned. “Why…”
Belinda held up her hand. “I do it for the money. He pays me a hundred dollars for each visit. I clean houses for a living, and, as you can see, I’m not exactly living in the lap of luxury. The extra hundred dollars a week from Davis is important. I don’t have a husband or boyfriend to help me out.”
“I still don’t understand, Belinda,” Anderson said. “How did you connect with Lord in the first place?”
She looked back down at her hands and then raised her eyes. “He’s my father.”
Salem broke the stunned silence that followed. “Does he own a typewriter, Belinda?”
Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Yes,” she said.
Chapter 26
Callie glanced at her watch and decided to get some lunch at the Channel Marker before her two o’clock appointment at Passages with Jack Fowler. She had been avoiding the club since her breakup with Olivia. That had to change, especially if she wanted to meet new people. The Channel Marker wasn’t a gay bar or meat market, but it was a nice, safe place to connect and exchange numbers with potential dating partners. Losing Olivia still hurt, but she wasn’t ready to give up on love.
Linda was behind the bar, and Douglas was counting out money for the till.
“Well, hello, stranger,” Linda said. “It’s nice to see you back.”
Callie smiled. “It’s good to be back. I needed a little time away after Olivia left.”
Douglas handed the till to Linda and took a stool beside Callie. “Let me guess—you want the burger plate.”
“You know me too well, Douglas.”
The owner smiled. “Lunch is on me today. I’m sorry about Olivia.”
Callie shrugged. “Thanks, but it’s for the best. She’ll do great, and I’m happy here at the lake.” She looked around the club and noticed the empty stage. That was odd. “I don’t see Tommy’s drum kit or the other instruments. Don’t tell me you fired Mama’s Biscuits because Olivia left.”
The food came, and Callie bit into her burger.
“You eat while I tell you all about it,” Douglas said. “Let me start by saying I hope I never see Tommy Sale again as long as I live. What a jerk. But to answer your question, no I didn’t fire Mama’s Biscuits.”
Callie continued to eat while Douglas paused to gather his thoughts.
“A couple of days after the Skynyrd concert, Tommy asked me to open the bar early so he could hold auditions for a new singer. I blocked off the whole morning for him. Three or four girls showed up to perform. None of them could touch Olivia, of course, but one little girl named Traci was pretty hot and a decent singer. Tommy was going to offer her the job.”
“So, what happened?” Callie asked.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Douglas said. “Tommy had a plan. He was going to hire Traci and continue to look for a rhythm guitar player. He said the band would just play a little louder until they could add another guitar to fill out their sound. The next thing you know, it’s Thursday night, and Tommy doesn’t show up. Traci didn’t come in either, so he obviously never called her about the job.”
“That’s strange,” Callie said. “Why would he do something like that?”
Douglas shrugged. “I guess he cracked under the pressure. That’s the only thing I can figure. Olivia was the one who made the band what it was. We all know that. I think Tommy knew the post-Olivia version of the group would be poorly received and just decided to pack it in. I had to cancel the Thursday show since there was no singer or drummer. I called Tommy and got sent straight to voicemail. I left a message but never heard back. Danny drove over to his apartment. Tommy’s car was gone, and nobody answered when he rang the bell and knocked on the door. There’s nothing holding him here anymore. He could be anywhere. I’ve got his drums taking up space in a corner of the kitchen. I’m about ready to throw them in the dumpster.”
Callie swallowed some fries and shook her head. “Danny didn’t want to take over and keep the band going?”
“No…I asked him,” Douglas said. “He and the other guys have regular jobs and just do this for fun and extra money. They don’t have the time to look for and audition singers, drummers, and rhythm guitar players. Danny’s a good musician…they all are. It won’t be hard for them to catch on with another group if they’re still interested in playing. Meanwhile, I’m up shit creek without a band.”
Callie drained her diet soda and got up from the bar stool. “Thanks for lunch, Douglas. I hope things work out. Mama’s Biscuits rocked this place.”
The owner nodded. “I’ve got Rebel Express coming in for a late-night audition after we close. We’ll see what happens. By the way, I have to say you look amazing, Callie. Will you go out with me if I put on a dress and some makeup?”
Callie laughed and headed for the door. “If you do that, I’ll let you sleep with me.”
“Don’t tease me,” Douglas yelled.
* * * *
Callie felt eyes following her as she walked down the hall to Jack Fowler’s office. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn the short skirt with the thigh-high leather boots, along with the dark nail polish, lipstick, and eye shadow. It made her feel like a slut. Anderson would definitely approve.
Fowler stood and greeted her with a firm handshake accompanied by an oily smile and hungry eyes that stared at her chest. Callie tried not to cringe. She took a seat and told the director her story. Fowler listened without interrupting, although his gaze kept dropping from her face to her boots and thighs.
He’s wondering if I have on underwear. Jesus, how is this creep the director of anything? Somebody needs to buy him a couple of cheeseburgers and a girlfriend.
“Anyway, that’s my tale of woe,” Callie said. “We’re doing the intervention this weekend. If it’s successful, we’ll drive him directly to a rehab facility. Passages is my first choice because it’s the closest to where I live.”
Fowler nodded. “We’re here to help. Treatment for addiction is all we do. The majority of our patients are drug addicts, but we also treat victims of alcoholism, eating disorders, and sex addiction. We have excellent staff, and our therapeutic programs are comprehensive and effective.”
Callie nodded and glanced around the office. There were no Adler J-Five typewriters or prostitutes, living or dead, in the room. “I won’t take up any more of your time. Before I make a final decision on your facility, I’d like to take a tour and meet some of the staff.”
Fowler got up and came around from behind his desk. He took her hand again and held it for an extra beat. “I’ll call the front desk and let them know. One of our staff members will be happy to show you around and introduce you to our people.”
Callie thanked him and hurried up the hall. She was glad to get away from Jack Fowler and his wandering eyes. A woman by the name of Julia Thomas greeted her with a smile. Her name tag identified her as a guest services representative.
“That’s an unusual title for a medical facility,” Callie said. “It sounds like you’re a concierge.”
Julia laughed. “You’re not far off. I wear a lot of different hats. We try to downplay the institutional aspect of Passages. Don’t get
me wrong…the counseling and therapeutic protocols are rigorous and effective, but we believe an environment that feels more like a home and less like a hospital or prison helps facilitate successful outcomes for our patients. Most of them are with us for an entire month, so we want them to be as comfortable as possible during their treatment.”
“So, you’re saying patients can come and go as they please even though this is an inpatient facility?”
Julia shook her head. “No, that’s not entirely true. Patients are not allowed to have their vehicles here, so they’re pretty much limited to the grounds. We encourage outdoor activity and have a number of walking and hiking trails. The day is normally filled with counseling sessions and other therapeutic activities the patients are expected to attend. The cafeteria has scheduled hours for meals. If someone wants breakfast at eleven or lunch at three, they’re out of luck.”
Callie couldn’t help being impressed by the facility. If a killer was walking these halls, he was doing so in comfort. “I suppose some patients don’t make it through the entire program.”
Julia nodded. “Passages has a good completion rate, but not everyone is ready to put in the work necessary to break free of addiction. They’re free to leave, with the understanding they’re welcome to return whenever they’re more prepared to address their problems.”
The cafeteria and gym were both spacious and well-appointed. Callie noted the weight training and fitness equipment and a walking track that circled a full-sized basketball court.
“Sustained aerobic exercise is part of the treatment,” Julia said. “The endorphins from the physical activity help our patients manage their withdrawal symptoms. It also re-directs them to a new activity and healthier lifestyle.”
Callie met several staff members as they continued the tour. Everyone seemed friendly and willing to answer her questions.
Pieces of January Page 16
