by Tom Turner
Jackie put out her hand. “Gimme.”
“What?” Eileen said with a frown.
“I want the check back. I’ll give you one for a hundred.”
“No fucking way.”
Jackie pulled out her iPhone again. “Want me to stop payment? Look, I got zero for three from you. The freebie, I already knew. You were no help on Wendy and all you knew about Perrier was he was a ‘man of God.’ Give me that.”
Eileen opened her book, took the check out, and handed it to her.
Jackie took it, tore it up, wrote out another one for a hundred dollars, and handed it to her. “This is more than you deserve.”
Eileen slipped the check in her bra this time. “Give my regards to the padre when you find him.”
Jackie stood, nodded, walked across the porch, down the steps, and over to her car.
Eileen watched her drive away, then dialed her cell.
A man answered.
“You’d be proud of me,” said Eileen. “I just gave that tight-assed detective a photo of your friend the preacher man.”
20
Jackie called Ryder. “Turns out Perrier is a pastor,” she said.
“You gotta be kidding?”
“That’s what Eileen Mudge told me anyway. But I got a feeling she lies half the time. I’m gonna try to track the guy down anyway,” Jackie said. “Mudge gave me a photo of him. Naked. At the Casa supposedly.”
“Incredible,” Ryder was silent for a few moments. “What do you think about that?”
“I don’t really know.”
Ryder sighed. “Well, this thing is going to go wherever it goes. But hey, there’s one thing about this guy Perrier.”
“What’s that?”
“He doesn’t drink.”
Turned out, finding Perrier’s church was a long way from child’s play.
First, Jackie tried a few of her churchgoing friends. No, first, Jackie cut off the picture of ‘Perrier’ at the waist and put the bottom half— his naked body—into her case file. With any luck, she’d never have to look at it again.
When she showed her Episcopalian friend the headshot, the woman had absolutely no idea who Perrier was. Same with her United Methodist and her Baptist friends. Her Baptist friend tried to talk her into coming to church next Sunday, said how the minister gave spellbinding sermons. Guiltily, Jackie said she had pickleball then.
But when she showed the photo to her Presbyterian friend, she struck gold. “Oh, sure, that’s Dean Melrose,” her friend said. “He’s the pastor at the mega-church up in Pooler.”
“Mega-church?”
“Yes, you know,” her Presbyterian friend said, turning cynical, “five thousand people show up, rock band pumping out the Christian top forty. Bunch of born-agains waving their hands in the air, eyes closed and swaying.”
Jackie had a vague recollection of channel-surfing one Sunday morning and seeing a live service at a church like that. The band was playing music that was pretty good, she remembered.
“What’s the name of the church?” Jackie asked.
“Um, Charity Mercy Christian Church,” her friend said. “No, other way around, Mercy Charity Christian Church.”
“That’s a mouthful,” Jackie said.
“Yes, and supposedly Pastor Dean pulls down the big bucks,” the friend said. “I read somewhere it was like the ninth highest-paying job in the state or something.”
“Dean Melrose? Sounds kind of like a showbiz name.”
Her friend laughed. “Oh, trust me, honey, the man definitely is showbiz.”
Jackie thanked her cynical Presbyterian friend and hung up, then made the ten-minute drive to her office. As she got out of her car, she saw a man getting out of a small black car. He looked to be in his late forties and was a handsome man with longish dark hair and wearing a long-sleeved, green shirt and khaki pants that didn’t quite fit.
Unlike her previous experience in the parking lot, she was certain this man was not going to come over and punch her out. Particularly in broad daylight. He started walking toward her.
“Excuse me,” he said, in an accent that sounded either Spanish or Italian. “You are not Ms. Jackie Farrell, by any chance?”
Spanish, she was pretty sure.
She nodded. “Yes, I am,” she said, as the man was face to face with her.
“My name is Benedetto Giraldo,” he said. “I was given your name by a man at Mercer Island.”
Jack shook his hand. “Hello, Mr. Giraldo, how can I be of help?”
“Would it be okay to go to your office and talk?”
“Sure,” Jackie said, “just follow me.”
She had the Glock at her hip and wasn’t worried.
She walked to the front door and unlocked it, Giraldo right behind her.
They walked up the steps to the second floor and she unlocked the office door.
“Come on in,” she said, turning and smiling at Giraldo.
They walked through the small reception area to her office.
“Please, have a seat,” Jackie said.
Giraldo had his choice of a dark brown cloth chair or a light brown leather chair facing her deck. He chose the dark brown cloth one.
Jackie went around her desk and started to sit. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you like a bottle of water or something to drink?”
“No, thank you, I am fine,” he said and sat.
“So, what can I do for you, sir?” Jackie asked, sitting down.
The man leaned forward, a somber expression on his face. “I am the father of Federico Giraldo—” then it clicked: the tennis player who had been shot.
“Oh, I am so, so sorry, Mr. Giraldo,” Jackie said. “I didn’t recognize—”
“Of course, you didn’t,” Giraldo said. “Ms. Farrell, I have heard many good things about you. I don’t have much money, but I would like to hire you to find the murderer of my son.”
Jackie sighed and leaned back in her chair. “I really appreciate you coming to see me, Mr. Giraldo, but here’s the problem: My associate and I are very busy on another case and would not be able to dedicate the time necessary to work on your son’s case.”
“Please, Ms. Farrell, I will do whatever it takes to pay what you will charge me,” Giraldo spoke English not perfectly but like he spent a fair amount of time in the States.
“I can’t,” she said. “I really can’t. I just wouldn’t be able to give it the attention it deserves. Who is handling it for the Savannah-Chatham Police Department?”
“A man named Walter Newell. And his partner. I don’t know his name,” Giraldo said.
She knew Newell’s clearance of cases was nowhere near as good as Harry Bull’s.
“Please, Ms. Farrell, Federico was my only son, my only child,” he said, choking up suddenly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “I apologize, it’s just that I still can’t believe I will never see my son again.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Jackie said. “Believe me, if I could help you, I would. But we just have our hands completely full at the moment.”
Giraldo wiped his eyes, looked up and sighed. “Okay, I understand,” he said finally. “I’m just not certain Detective Newell is the man for the job.”
“The fact of the matter is,” Jackie said, “the Savannah-Chatham Police Department has more resources than we do. So, you really are in the right place.”
Giraldo was reaching into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet, then a card from it. On it was his name, phone number, and email. “If things slow down for you, would you please consider getting in touch with me?”
She assured him she would, but knew it was a long shot.
After Giraldo left, Jackie called Ashley Slade again, to see if she could find out more about Wendy.
At least Ashley didn’t touch her up for money the way Eileen Mudge had.
“Don’t you remember?” Ashley asked. “I told you this before: Wendy just kind of disappeared.”
“Yes,
I remember you saying that,” Jackie said. “But I was told you knew where she went.”
Ashley didn’t say anything for a few moments. “Look, this is what I heard, okay,” she said. “Some guy from a church around here came to the Casa once. Maybe that’s this guy Perrier. He hooked up with Wendy. The reason I didn’t tell you is because of the source.”
“Who was the source?”
“One of the other girls named Brittany,” Ashley said. “She told me Wendy went off with this guy from the church and found religion.”
“And you didn’t think that was worth telling me?”
“Brittany also told me her first day on the job that she went to Wellesley College, some fancy college s’posedly, and was a… Phi Beta something.”
“Kappa?”
“Yeah, that was it,” Ashley said. “Then another time she told me she almost made the Olympic archery team. Which was right after she was nominated for her first Emmy. You getting the idea here?”
Then it hit Jackie. This was the woman of dubious credibility who Harry Bull had described that night at Vic’s.
“Is Brittany still around, do you know?” Jackie asked.
“No, she’s long gone. Heard she went back to Hollywood to become a star… again,” Ashley snickered. “She’ll be lucky to end up in porn.”
“Did she ever tell you about Miranda blackmailing a customer?” Jackie asked.
Ashley looked surprised. “No, that’s a new one. And trust me, it never happened.”
“You don’t think—”
“I know,” Ashley said. “Miranda was a manipulator and tough as nails, but she’d never do that. Why would she? She was making a great living.”
Jackie nodded. “Going back to the church guy, you never saw or heard anything about him from anyone else?”
“No, nothing.”
“Well, thanks,” Jackie said. “If you hear anything more, please give me a call.”
“Okay,” Ashley said. “But the fourth time, I charge.”
Guess everyone one does sooner or later, Jackie mused.
21
Jackie had been thinking a lot about Harry Bull. Specifically, about Ryder’s conversation with Marty Shepherd about Harry Bull. She wondered if Bull, based on her mention of Perrier, had already gone and tracked him down and was now in the process of wrapping up the Miranda Cato murder case with a nice, big red bow.
She took out Bull’s card and dialed his number.
“Hello, Jackie,” said Bull.
“Hi, Harry. It’s Sadie Hawkins Day and I’m inviting you out for dinner tomorrow night.”
“I accept,” he said. “But I’m buying.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said. “Where would you like to go?”
“There’s a place called Cotton & Rye I like. Ever been there?”
“Yeah, it’s a good spot,” Bull said. “What time?”
“How’s eight o’clock?”
“Sure,” Bull said. “I see you’re still on Yankee time.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jackie said. “I just can’t get used to eating at five-thirty.”
“Sometimes five. Farmer’s hours.”
“That’s when I’m finishing lunch.”
“See you there,” he said. “And just for the record, Sadie Hawkins day is on November fifteenth.”
Ryder was a fast worker. She had wangled a dinner date with match.com’s Italian Stallion, Nick, for 5:30 that night. She had pushed for 6 or 6:30, but Nick said he needed to get back home for The Big Bang Theory at 7. That was somewhat reassuring, because at least it meant that the thought of him getting lucky hadn’t even entered his aging mind.
At the front door of the restaurant where Nick had suggested they meet, Ryder used her phone to look back over the photos of Nick from match. White hair, which curled up over his collar in back and thick black glasses that made him look like Aristotle Onassis. More of a Greek Stallion than an Italian one. Inside the restaurant foyer, she looked around but didn’t see him. She walked in a little further. No Nick.
Then he heard a voice behind her. “Are you Ryder?” the man asked.
He had a shaved head, no glasses, and looked to be in his early to mid-seventies.
She nodded. “Nick?”
“That’s me,” he said, thrusting out his hand. “Pleased to meetcha. Our table’s right over there.”
They went and sat down. The restaurant had the feel of a cafeteria, but people were smiling, eating, and drinking with apparent gusto, so that was a good sign.
“Hey, it is so great to meetcha,” Nick said again as he sat down. Like he couldn’t believe his luck, a hot babe one-third his age sitting across from him, larger than life.
“Great to meet you, too, Nick, but you don’t look anything like your pictures on Match. What happened to your hair?” she asked in her usual blunt way.
“Aw, I was starting to get alopecia really bad—”
“What’s that?”
Nick shook his head. “Oh, it’s when your immune system attacks hair follicles. Doc told me it’s from stress.”
“Sorry to hear that.” He reminded Ryder of her father, who was younger than Nick but was always documenting his various ailments.
“And I guess your vision must have gotten better,” she said with a wink.
He looked puzzled. Then. “Oh, you mean… yeah, I wear contacts these days. You know what they say....”
“No, what do they say?”
“Girls don’t make passes at men who wear glasses.”
She was pretty sure the saying was the other way around, but let it go.
The waiter came up to them and they ordered drinks.
Nick smiled and touched her hand. “Well, I gotta say, you look exactly like your photos,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “No, you know what, you look even better.”
“Thanks, I just took them a few days ago,” she said.
He nodded. “Yeah, mine were from a few years back.”
A few, Ryder thought. You mean, like ten? “How’d you happen to pick this place?” she asked instead. She would have figured an Italian Stallion to favor a place that had red-checked tablecloths, schmaltzy Godfather-type music, with things like picata di pollo and fra diavolo on the menu and a waiter saying, ‘Buon appetito’ every few seconds.
As best she could tell, looking at other people’s plates, Fire Street’s cuisine was Asian fusion.
The waiter came by and Nick asked for menus.
“My granddaughter told me about this place. One of her favorites spots, she said.”
“Well, it looks good.”
Okay, enough of the idle chit-chat. She had planned ahead of time to launch into their conversation with one big lie.
“So, my sister lives out on Mercer Island”—that was the only true part—“and through her I got to know Miranda Cato, who mentioned your name once. Said she met you on Match.”
Nick looked up and shook his head. “Poor Miranda, she was aces.”
An expression Ryder had never heard before, but guessed its heyday might have been back in the 1950s.
“Did you ever hear what happened to her?”
“Yeah, she got stabbed. Killed.”
“Yes, I know; I mean did you ever hear who might have done it?”
He tilted his head up. “I don’t know; it was so terrible. There’s this guy named Talmadge Bartow. You heard of him?”
“Yes, he lives out there in Mercer Island, right?”
Nick nodded as their drinks showed up. A glass of rose for Ryder and a Peroni beer for Vic.
“Guy threatened me once,” Nick said, scratching his chin.
Ryder’s eyes got big. “Talmadge Bartow did?”
Nick nodded.
“What did he say?” Ryder asked, taking a sip of her wine.
“Told me he’d kill me if I didn’t stay the hell away from Miranda,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Really? He said he’
d kill you?”
Nick nodded. “Sure did.”
“And did you believe him?” Ryder said. “I mean, I’ve never met Talmadge Bartow before but—”
“I believed him,” Nick said, lowering his voice. “He’s a guy who, I don’t know, seemed like he was kind of… desperate.”
“How old is he?” Ryder asked as the waiter approached.
“I’d guess mid-fifties or so,” Nick said, then he looked up at the waiter.
“You folks ready to order?” the waiter asked.
Ryder held up her hand. “Not quite yet,” she said. “Haven’t had a chance to look at the menu yet.”
“No problem,” the waiter said. “I’ll come back in a few minutes.”
Ryder smiled and nodded, then looked back at Nick. “So, what’s your theory? Since Bartow threatened to kill you, was he capable of killing Miranda?”
Nick nodded slowly. “I mean, sure. Guys don’t go around threatening to kill you every day of the week.”
Ryder nodded. “I hear you. But why do you think he’d want to kill Miranda?”
Nick frowned. “‘Cause Miranda was… playing the field.”
“So, you mean, he was jealous? Afraid he’d lose her?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
Ryder nodded and took another sip of her wine. “But can you see him actually breaking into her house at three in the morning and stabbing—”
“Yup,” Nick said without hesitation as he picked up the menu.
Ryder decided to change the channel. “Do you happen to know a man named Perrier, by any chance?”
Nick put down the menu, leaned closer, and eyed her hard. “Who are you anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not here looking for a guy,” Nick said. “What are you after?”
Well, in fact, she was looking for a guy.
Just not Nick the Italian Stallion.
22
Ryder wriggled out of Nick’s suddenly intense Q & A by raising her hand and flagging down the waiter. He came over and rattled off the specials. Nick’s attention shifted to the shrimp tempura and they left the conversation about Perrier behind.
