She read through the forensics reports. There was no mention of anything on the dash. Squinting, she stared harder; then she reached under a pile of magazines and found a magnifying glass. It was a white blob. No, shit, it was a rosary, hanging from the rearview mirror.
She paged through the file. Yeah, there it was on the report, described as dangling cross. But hell, she was a Catholic, even if she was a lapsed one: That sucker was a rosary, with all the beads.
Earl was looking over her shoulder. “Wonder if anybody in that van copped to murder during confession with their spiritual counselor,” she said.
“Might be a lead.” He took another chip. She had learned long ago that he wasn’t trying to hint, or throw out some kind of mystical clue about her case. He was very consistent with separating his business from hers—she was about justice and he was about keeping her from going to hell.
“Ham and me, we’re going to talk to Father Alan and the rest of the staff tomorrow.”
“He must be dancing a jig.”
“Who, Father Alan?” Grace asked.
“No. God.”
She frowned. “You said I never had to set foot in a Catholic church again.”
“Guess I was wrong.” He grinned at her.
She was miffed. “You said I could go to a mosque or a temple, or the desert—”
“And all that’s true. But tomorrow, you got to go to a Catholic church.”
She eyed him. “So I can solve my case?”
“So you can do the next right thing.”
“There’s a list?”
“You tell me.” He listened. “Gotta go to Montreal.”
“Montreal? That’s new.”
“Only to you.”
And Earl vanished in a blaze of glory.
“It was the right thing to do,” Rhetta said as she and Grace gazed down at the sleeping form of Jeannie Johnson.
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t let her sleep in the house,” Grace said.
“You think she might still be unstable?” Rhetta asked.
“No, man. I think she should run for mayor. My God, Rhetta, she stinks.”
“All she needs is a shower.”
Grace remembered the brochures she’d looked through at Dr. Salzman’s office. “She might have worms, Rhetta. Or hepatitis. Or twenty-six kinds of VD. Or swine flu.” Before Rhetta could respond, Grace held up a hand. “Or a really pissed-off husband she might call around four in the morning and ask him to come pick her up because she can’t live without him. You got kids, man.”
“That’s what I told her,” Ronnie said, stern-faced. Dressed in a denim jacket, plaid shirt, and jeans, he looked ready to start his day on the farm. And since it was five a.m. it was past time. The presence of a runaway wife in his manger was messing up his schedule. His arms were crossed over his chest. Brrr. Grace could feel the glacier from where she stood.
“I’ll help you move her today,” Grace said. “There’s other shelters. We’ve got a list. Meanwhile, we’ll get her out of here, take her into the department. See if maybe we can deprogram her and she gives him up.”
“Grace, she called me because she trusted me,” Rhetta protested. “You can’t take her in. She hasn’t committed any crimes.”
“She was drunk and disorderly in public,” Grace said.
“I’ll vouch for that,” Ronnie chimed in.
“That would be a huge lie and you know it.” Rhetta adjusted the blanket over Jeannie’s shoulders. “She needs to sleep it off.”
“She needs to get the hell out of here.” Grace eyed Speckles. “You’re supposed to keep a newborn calf’s quarters as germ-free as possible.”
“That’s what I said.” Ronnie picked up his pitchfork.
“How about I hang around for a while. When the shelters open, we can get her placed. She will need to shower.” Grace pinched her nose.
“After the kids go to school.” Ronnie bent over and started mucking out the nearest stall. Which contained no animals, and fresh straw. “I don’t want her in the house with them.”
“What time do they leave?” Grace asked.
“Eight.”
Three hours. Grace yawned. She hadn’t been to bed yet. “Okay, tell you what. I’ll stay with her while you guys do your chores.” She ambled over to the pen. “Hey, Speckles.” She grinned at the big-eyed calf. “She’s cute, Rhetta.”
Rhetta cleared her throat. “Watch out. There’s vomit on the straw.”
“Christ, Rhetta.” Ronnie stabbed another forkful of immaculate bedding.
Rhetta pulled a pair of work gloves off a peg, slipped them on, and gathered the dirty straw. “Well, she wouldn’t have gotten our home phone number if you hadn’t unlisted the phone.”
He froze. “I didn’t. There was some kind of mix-up—”
“You got any more coffee?” Grace chirruped. “Okay if I go in the house and get some?”
“Sure,” Rhetta said, glaring at Ronnie.
Grace headed for the house. There’d been no mix-up about the phone number; or if there had been, it wasn’t the kind of mix-up—somebody else’s mix-up—that Ronnie was trying to imply. Every gesture of his body language screamed duplicity. Maybe he was so stressed out he’d forgotten. Maybe he was trying to save a few dollars by not paying for keeping their number unlisted, and how scary was that, if they’d resorted to that level of thrift?
Taking off her muddy boots, she entered the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee, her gaze wandering over the piles of bank statements and the calculator. They’d pull it out. They always did. But she was glad she didn’t have to pay the mortgage on her place with chicken eggs.
Sipping the coffee, she yawned and cricked her neck. The kids would be up soon. Farm kids got up early. She grabbed the coffemaker’s glass carafe and found a box of shredded wheat in the cabinet. Sensible Rhetta, with her good breakfasts. Grace carried the box and the carafe back outside, got on her boots, and slipped and slid through the mud back to the barn. She could hear Ronnie and Rhetta arguing, but she could only make out the occasional word—faith and trust and broke. Big words.
“Hey,” she said, announcing herself. She stood in the doorway and the Rodriguezes drew apart. Rhetta was flushed; she looked surprised, as if she’d realized they’d been yelling, and crossed over to Jeannie to check on her. Grace gave Ronnie a little grimace as she passed him by; he answered with a frustrated sigh; and she followed Rhetta.
“Hey,” Rhetta said, “Jeannie. Sorry if we woke you up.”
Still supine, Jeannie was crying silently and running her hand along Speckles’s back. The little calf lowed and nudged at her. Next door, Mama Buttercup shifted and began to rise. Feeding time. Milking time.
“My folks. They fought a lot,” Jeannie said. “That’s why I ran away from home.”
“How old are you, really?” Grace said, and Jeannie jerked. Openmouthed, she stared at Grace, then at Rhetta.
“You said you wouldn’t get her!”
“I had to tell her,” Rhetta said. “She’s going to help me find a safe place for you.”
“If she knows where it is, it won’t be safe.” Jeannie was scrambling to get up.
“Watch the straw. Mrs. Rodriguez may have missed some of your vomit,” Grace told her. “You’re underage, aren’t you. We’ll have to remand you to a juvenile facility.”
Jeannie jerked, hard. “I am not. I’m eighteen.”
“You have to prove it,” Grace said. “Do you have a driver’s license?”
“I lost my purse,” Jeannie said.
“And her shoes and her jacket,” Rhetta added.
Grace kept on her game face. “What’s your maiden name?”
Jeannie took a deep breath. “I was a runaway but now I’m eighteen. And I don’t want my parents to know where I am.”
“If you’re eighteen, that’s up to you.”
“I’m—I was—Jeannie Arlington,” she said. “I’m from El Paso.”
“Okay,” Grace said. No
w she could check for priors, see if there were any outstanding warrants for Jeannie. Grace hadn’t found any for her dirtbag husband. A prior might get Grace onto the compound, if she worked it right.
She looked at Rhetta, who understood what she had done. Rhetta stripped off the gloves, took the carafe, and poured herself a little more coffee. Then she checked her watch.
“I’m going to let Speckles nurse,” she announced. The heck with separating them. “Jeannie, would you like to help?”
“Oh, could I?” Jeannie asked, sounding more like sixteen. Grace eyed her suspiciously.
Rhetta nodded. “Yes. Then you can help me milk the rest of the cows.”
Grace left them to it and walked over to Ronnie, who had moved on to mucking one of the horse stalls, which was legitimately gross and disgusting. “Did you know she was asleep in your barn, man?”
He shook his head as he angled a load of dirty straw into a rusty wheelbarrow.
“I would have kicked her out on her butt.”
That didn’t sound like the Ronnie she knew—he was generous to a fault—but Grace assumed Rhetta had filled him in on the case: the Sons of Oklahoma, the murders. Not a lot there to feel warm and fuzzy about.
Grace spread out the blanket Jeannie’d been sleeping on and pulled off her boots. Then she rolled herself up like a burrito. Jeannie and Rhetta milked the cows while Grace dozed. They put on the milking machines but there was also a lot of hand-milking going on, as if Rhetta couldn’t quite bear to enter the nineteenth century. Not a lot of agribusiness at the Rodriguez farm; maybe that was what was causing the financial strain. Of course, you had to have capital to buy equipment, so there was a vicious cycle at work.
After the kids left, Grace, Rhetta, and Ronnie escorted Jeannie into the house and Grace waited in the hall while she took a shower. Rhetta put Jeannie’s clothes in the washing machine and then the Rodriguezes went into their bedroom to fight some more, and Grace renewed her vows to the single life.
While the dryer ran, Rhetta made eggs, toast, and bacon for everyone. They sat at the kitchen table and Grace suffered through the blessing. Then they all dug in, not speaking. Grace watched Jeannie struggle with hunger versus hangover but she stayed out of Jeannie’s way. The fact that Hunter’s wife was so hostile toward her gave Grace hope that she was hiding something very big. Freed from the influence of her abuser, Jeannie might respond to the strongest personality around—that would be Grace. And spill, because Grace told her to.
Putting that assumption into play, she drove Jeannie to the department in her Porsche while Rhetta followed. Jeannie chewed her fingernails and stared out the window as if she were in a state of shock. Grace gave her little jobs to do—move all the fast-food bags to the back, take the price tag off Gus’s bone—watching to see how compliant she was. Although Jeannie was very anxious, she did everything Grace asked without question or complaint. Then she sat in silence, tears brimming.
Grace said, “How about some music? What do you like to listen to?”
Her comment was greeted by more silence; she slid a glance at Jeannie, who probably didn’t know. “How about country?”
Jeannie moved a little closer to outright weeping. Grace punched in KTST but turned it down low. No response from Jeannie.
And that was the way it was for the rest of the trip. When Grace and Rhetta pulled into the police lot, Jeannie hesitated until Grace got out and went around toward her door. Then Jeannie opened the door a crack, as if waiting to see if it was okay if she got out the entire way.
“Let’s go check in with Captain Perry,” Grace suggested. Rhetta stayed neutral, but Jeannie swallowed hard.
“W-why?” she asked. She turned to Rhetta. “Hunter—”
Grace knew she had to ease up. If things got too scary, Jeannie would give up and call her big, strong, wife-beating man.
She said, “Actually, Rhetta, maybe you could show Jeannie some of your cool stuff in your lab. I’ll bet there’s some donuts in the break room, too.” She checked her watch. “Shelters will start opening soon.”
“It’ll be fun,” Rhetta said brightly, eliciting a wan little smile from Jeannie. Then Grace’s best friend forever pivoted around on her cowboy heel and mouthed, Go. Away.
Grace nodded and headed for the squad room. Ham was there; so was Captain Perry. By the looks on their faces, Ham was still frosted at her and Captain Perry was loaded for bear.
“That idiotic confrontation is all over the news this morning,” the captain announced, shaking her head. “The official spin is that Oklahoma City has their criminals in hand and used the resources available to law enforcement to prove it. But I’m thinking it’ll just fan the flames of this street war we’ve got going.”
Grace raised her hand. “I second that.”
“It might take the wind out of the Sons’ sails,” Ham suggested. “Maybe that was the point.”
“Well, that’s just twisted bureaucratic thinking and the next time you want to play Superman, Detective, I’m saying no.” She gave Grace a look. “He hitched a ride when Butch’s call for backup came through Dispatch.”
“Yeah.” Grace nodded at Ham. “Thanks again, man.” Ham inclined his head.
“So, we’ve got Jeannie Johnson in the building. She ran away from Hunter last night and slept in Rhetta’s barn,” Captain Perry summarized. “And Rhetta can’t keep her and she doesn’t like you.”
“She doesn’t like cops,” Grace said.
“And we’re trying to get her into a shelter.”
“She won’t be able to get hold of Hunter—shelter rules—and he won’t be able to find her. It’s our civic duty.” Grace opened the side drawer of her desk, where she kept stacks of business cards for various agencies. It was completely filled with packages of string cheese.
She gave Ham a look. “Shit. What did you put in Butch’s desk?”
He smiled grimly. Then he said, “We have to go talk to Father Alan.”
“I’ll work with Rhetta on Jeannie Johnson,” Captain Perry said. “You know, if she changes her mind and goes back to her husband, we can’t stop her. And there’s a good chance she will.”
Grace nodded. “I’m running her through under her maiden name. Maybe we can work a deal with her if she’s got a skeleton in the closet. It might work to our advantage if she goes back to the compound and we can get a warrant.”
“Hell, why don’t we just grab a chopper and a bullhorn?” Ham asked. “The chief gets to do it.”
“Well, something tells me he’s not going to be the chief for much longer.” Captain Perry acknowledged the arrival of Bobby as he walked in, carrying a plastic bag and a cup of coffee. He put the bag in his desk and said, “What the hell was going on last night?”
“I think that’s our cue,” Grace said to Ham. He nodded. “We have a priest to interrogate,” she informed Bobby.
“Let’s have a working lunch,” Captain Perry said to the three of them. “We need a united front and I’m beginning to feel like we’re too fragmented.”
“I agree,” Ham bit off.
“Okay. Make it noon.” Captain Perry waved them off and turned to Bobby. “Now, while you were sleeping …”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
By mutual unspoken consent, Grace and Ham took his truck to go to the church. The tension was thick; Ham was still angry that she’d taken Butch with her last night, and she just wasn’t going to go there. She’d apologized even though she didn’t really think she needed to. She and Butch had run into each other, period, the end. Ham wouldn’t be half this bent out of shape if Grace had gone into that lousy stinkin’ neighborhood and gotten shot at alone. Her back was up; maybe it had something to do with observing Jeannie’s pathetic lack of independence. Now they had to go inside a blasted Catholic church.
And the lot was packed.
“Damn, is there some kind of service?” Ham asked. “Daily Mass?”
“That’s usually earlier, so people can get to work,” Grace
said.
They drove around for a while, but there were cars parked on the streets, too. They finally found a spot about eight blocks away. At least it wasn’t raining.
“There must be a service,” Ham said.
“Funeral?” Grace wondered aloud.
They went straight to the parish office. Father Alan was waiting for them in the secretary’s office.
“What’s going on?” Grace asked.
“Our community is holding a novena for Forrest,” Father Alan explained. “We’re opening up the sanctuary for an hour each morning and evening so people can pray together.”
“You pray for nine days,” Grace translated for Ham. “Rhetta did a novena for your brother.”
He smiled, his first smile of the day, at least aimed in her direction. “Yeah, that was great of her.”
“Would you like to address the congregation?” Father Alan asked them. “That would be the quickest way to find out if anyone has information for you.”
Grace nodded. “Yes, thanks.”
“I can make an office available to you afterward. People could come and talk to you, if that would be helpful.”
“Yes, it would,” Grace said.
Father Alan showed them the office, then led them into the sanctuary, which was quite lovely—white plaster walls, open beams, stained-glass Stations of the Cross. An organ was playing softly, wafting over the bowed heads of maybe a hundred people, most of them kneeling, many working their rosaries.
Grace looked at all of them, and at the cross behind the altar. She was moved that Forrest had so many supporters, glad for the possibility that some of them might have something useful to offer. Her mind switched from shoot-outs and domestic abuse to insulin and kidnappings.
“So many prayers,” Ham murmured. “Wow, you can just feel it.”
Grace tried to quiet her busy brain. Be still and know that I am God, went the scripture. She waited for a sensation as palpable as those she had experienced behind the Dumpster. There she had dodged bullets and raced through the rain to save people’s lives. That was real work. That was practical. But this? She felt nothing. She felt that it was useless. Give everyone in this room a hundred HAVE YOU SEEN FORREST notices to staple to trees and you might get some results. The only purpose this served was to make people feel better about the lack of results.
Nancy Holder Page 17
