by Chris Culver
Cameron Brody, Emily and Megan Young’s older half brother, stood near the freezers with an older woman. She had a hand on his tricep, and he nodded along to everything she had to say. When he saw us, he sighed and stopped speaking. The elderly woman pulled her hand away from him and looked from him to us before excusing herself and returning to the aisles.
The minister walked toward us a second later, a concerned look on his face.
“Cameron?” I asked, once he drew near. He looked at me up and down before his gaze turned into a glare.
“Do I know you?” he asked. “Because the only people who call me Cameron are my congregants and friends. You may call me Mr. Brody or Pastor Brody. It’s a sign of respect, something lacking from the police these days.”
“I apologize, Pastor Brody,” I said, clasping my arms behind my back. “We met a long time ago. I thought you’d remember me.”
“Sorry, Detective.”
“In that case, I’m Detective Joe Court,” I said, looking to Ledgerman. “This is Detective Amy Ledgerman.”
He blinked a few times, and then his expression softened.
“Joe Court,” he said, almost under his breath. “I never expected to hear that name again.”
“Glad to hear I made an impression,” I said.
“Hard to forget a girl named Joe,” he said. He looked at me up and down again. It wasn’t a leer; it was more of an inspection. “You’ve grown up. I don’t suppose this is a social call.”
“No, it’s not,” said Ledgerman. “Do you have an office we can talk in?”
He turned and looked over his shoulder and then back to us.
“I do, but I need to make sure my friends receive the help they need first. Meet me upstairs. I’ll speak with you in the sanctuary in a few minutes.”
Ledgerman and I agreed and then followed signs to the sanctuary. None of the overhead lights were on, but plenty of sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows. Detective Ledgerman and I sat in a pew near the back. Growing up in as many foster families as I had, I had attended dozens of churches. Baptist, Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Episcopal, Presbyterian, the pews were all uncomfortable. That wasn’t the reason I had stayed away from church all these years later, but it didn’t help, either.
Cameron entered a few minutes later. He sat in the pew in front of us and turned around.
“Okay, Detectives,” he said. “My last client has left, and I’ve closed the food pantry for the next hour. I hope this is important.”
“We’re here to talk about your sisters,” said Ledgerman.
“I can’t help you much there,” he said. “I haven’t spoken to Emily in almost a decade. Joe can tell you why I haven’t spoken to Megan.”
Even as a small-town cop, I interviewed a good number of people, and I had learned a few things over the years. If the first sentence out of a witness’s mouth was a lie, everything that followed would be, too. I didn’t like being lied to.
“I give people one lie before I get pissed off,” I said, speaking before Detective Ledgerman could. “You used yours. Start over, Pastor Brody.”
He looked at me and smiled, but I couldn’t see much mirth in his eyes.
“Funny how time changes people,” he said. “You used to be polite.”
“And you didn’t used to be a liar. It’s not a trait I associate with a man of the cloth.”
He crossed his arms. “And what did I lie about, young lady?”
“Your relationship with your sisters, for starters,” I said. “How would your congregation react if they found out their pastor had let an innocent man go to prison for Megan’s death?”
He drew in a breath and looked at me. “You know what Christopher Hughes did to the girls in his house. He wasn’t innocent.”
Ledgerman looked at me askance, but I didn’t take my eyes from Cameron.
“You’re right. Hughes is a vile human being, but he didn’t kill your sister.”
He stood and shook his head.
“I don’t have to listen to this,” he said. “If you two want to talk to me again, you can call my attorney.”
“Please have a seat,” said Ledgerman, her voice soft. “We’re not here to interrogate you. We came because we have news you need to hear.”
He glared at me before sitting. “So this isn’t an interrogation. You could have surprised me.”
“When was the last time you talked to your sisters?” asked Ledgerman.
He cocked his head to the side and snorted. “I believe I’ve given you my answer. If this is all you have, you’re welcome to leave.”
“I found Emily’s body this morning in her house,” I said. “Megan died in St. Augustine yesterday. I’m sorry. I know you cared about them.”
For a second, his glare fell on me hard, but then his expression changed. He swallowed and then leaned back without saying a word.
“Emily kept a picture of the three of you in her house,” I said. “She was proud of you, I think.”
He blinked. It was like watching a dam fail in slow motion. First one tear came, and then another and then another. Ledgerman and I gave him a few minutes to compose himself. Then he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “And I’m sorry for the way I delivered the news. I wish there were easier ways.”
He held up a hand and closed his eyes. “Just tell me how they died.”
I looked at Ledgerman. She leaned forward. “Somebody killed them. We’re trying to find out why. Detective Court is working the case in St. Augustine, while I’m working in St. Louis.”
He nodded. “I can tell you why they were murdered right now. Joe can, too, I bet. I tried to get them to change. I told them they should go to college. They were smart girls. They could have done anything in the world.”
“Emily still sold drugs?” I asked. Cameron looked at me and nodded.
“Megan, too. They were a team. They tried to tell me it wasn’t dangerous because their clients were rich, but rich people do stupid things just as often as poor people do. Maybe more often because they can get away with it. They didn’t listen.”
“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt them?” asked Ledgerman.
He shook his head. “They sold weed. They weren’t out there shooting up neighborhoods. Emily and Megan were businesswomen. They owned real estate together. They bought and sold houses together. Weed was just part of what they did. They had this idea of opening marijuana dispensaries as soon as Missouri made it legal. They wanted to go legit.”
“Their clients ever threaten them?” asked Ledgerman.
Cameron chuckled. “Their clients were college professors and stockbrokers who liked to get high after work. They weren’t working with Pablo Escobar.”
“How about problems with suppliers?” I asked.
“They never talked about that end of their business,” he said. “I loved my sisters, but I’m a man of God. I tried to stay out of their business.”
It wasn’t the most helpful interview I had ever sat through, but at least we had viable leads. I doubted there were many distributors of high-quality weed in the city. Cameron may not have known who they were, but the drug enforcement officers in Detective Ledgerman’s department would.
“Is there anything else you want to tell us?” I asked. “Anything you think could help our investigation?”
Cameron hesitated but then nodded. “A guy came by about a week ago. He said he was a writer, and he was looking into Megan’s death for a potential book.”
“Oh?” asked Ledgerman, leaning forward.
“Yeah,” said Cameron, nodding. “He wasn’t a writer, though. He didn’t remember me, but he was a cop. He picked me up when I was in high school for trespassing at the Galleria Mall. I was there to buy Christmas presents for my foster mom.”
“Did he tell you his name?” I asked.
“Scott Gibson.”
“That’s helpful,” said Detect
ive Ledgerman, standing. “I’m sorry about your sisters. If you’d like to make funeral arrangements, I’ll have someone from the Medical Examiner’s Office call you here.”
“I’d appreciate that,” said Cameron. He stood. He seemed to wobble for a moment. In other circumstances, I might have questioned whether he’d had a little too much to drink. Today, though, he had the unsteady legs of the bereaved. “I’m going to take the rest of the day off. If you need me, call the church office. My assistant will put you in touch with me.”
Detective Ledgerman nodded, and the minister walked out of the sanctuary. Once we were alone, I looked at her.
“Scott Gibson,” I said. “The name familiar?”
“Yeah. Brody was wrong, though. Gibson’s not a cop, at least not anymore,” she said, already heading toward the exit. “He’s a private investigator with one of the slimiest defense attorneys in town.”
“Think he’d torture and murder a woman in her basement?” I asked, hurrying to keep up with her.
“If there was enough money involved, oh yeah.”
“Are you up for paying him a visit?” I asked.
“I’m up for kicking his teeth in,” she said. “But I’ll settle for a visit.”
If he had been the one to torture Emily and murder Megan, I would have preferred the former, too.
“Let’s go,” I said. “Maybe if we’re lucky, he’ll resist arrest and we’ll get to pepper spray him.”
“We can always hope.”
12
January 2006
Every dollar counted, and I had just made thirty-seven of them pulling a five-hour shift at the movie theater. Thirty-seven bucks didn’t seem like much money, but if I kept working fifteen hours a week for the next two years, I’d graduate from the foster care system with almost nine thousand dollars in the bank. With that much money, I could go to college part-time and work as a waitress to make ends meet. I had a plan that didn’t depend on anyone else. That was the key to everything. I controlled my fate.
Melted snow seeped through my canvas shoes, soaking my socks. When I got home, I’d have to put my shoes over the vent so they’d dry by morning, but I could deal with that.
Christopher and Diana Hughes were decent foster parents, if by negligence more than practice. Diana worked all the time, and Christopher stayed out of my way. Sometimes, I caught him watching me, but it was nothing compared to the way some men at the movie theater undressed me with their eyes. I was fifteen, and even I recognized them undressing me with their eyes. Christopher at least kept his tongue in his mouth.
Things had worked out well since moving into Christopher and Diana’s house. Emily was still a bitch, but she cleaned up after herself, and we ignored each other. Plus, she sold weed to kids at school, so she always had some with her, which was nice for a roommate. I didn’t smoke much, but I had fun when I did. Life had turned out well, but some days I wished Christopher and Diana lived closer to the bus stop.
I trudged through the neighborhood. It was a little after eleven, so I had plenty of time to reach the house before curfew. The neighborhood had lights on every corner, so the only dark spots were those between houses, and I hadn’t seen a single person since leaving the bus. I always kept a can of pepper spray on my key chain in case I ran into somebody creepy, but I had only used it once on a customer in the movie theater who tried to corner me in the bathroom. My boss had him arrested, and I got the rest of that night off.
As I walked, I imagined myself stepping into a hot shower and then falling into a soft bed. Both would feel amazing. I almost smiled despite the freezing temperature. As I turned down the driveway, I took out my cell phone and used its built-in flashlight to light my way. The living room looked dark, but the lights from the kitchen shone through the front windows. Somebody was still up. Emily almost never came home on Friday nights, which left Christopher.
Since getting the job at the movie theater, he always wanted to talk movies. I appreciated that he took an interest in his foster kids, but every muscle in my body ached. I just wanted to go in, walk upstairs, and get ready for bed. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too talkative.
I walked through the side door in the garage, hoping I could sneak in unseen.
“That you, Joe?”
I groaned under my breath as I kicked off my shoes in the mudroom.
“Yep,” I said, forcing a smile to my lips and hoping I sounded happy to see him. “Just got off work.”
“If I had known your schedule, I would have picked you up. I planned to see King Kong before it left theaters.”
I hung up my coat. “King Kong was okay, but you should see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire first. Most people liked it, and I’m not sure how much longer we’ll have it.”
As I turned, I found Christopher standing in the mudroom doorway. He wore flannel pajama pants and a thick robe, and he carried a glass full of some green liquid.
“What are you drinking?” I asked, walking past him.
“Something Diana told me to drink,” he said. “It’s full of antioxidants, and it’s supposed to lower my risk of colon cancer. It tastes like death. You want to try it?”
I laughed, walked into the kitchen, and then sighed at the mess.
“You’re not selling it,” I said, glancing at him as he followed me into the room. “Diana’ll kill you if you don’t clean this up.”
He waved my concern away as he put his drink on the counter beside the microwave. “She’s gone until Sunday night. Drove to her mom’s house.”
“Well, enjoy your death-flavored drink,” I said. “I need to go to bed.”
“See you tomorrow.”
I started toward the front staircase to go up when Christopher called out again.
“Do you like living here?”
I turned before I reached the front entryway. “Yeah. You and Diana are great.”
“Good,” he said. “You and I don’t talk. That’s okay, but I like to know the girls who live here. Sometimes it seems like you avoid me.”
“We talk about movies,” I said, hating that I sounded defensive.
“I guess we do,” he said. He almost sounded crestfallen. “Okay. If you need anything, I’ll be around. You can talk to Diana, too. My parents weren’t around when I was growing up, and I remember what it’s like. Anyway, good night. If my drink kills me, I’ve enjoyed knowing you.”
“Is your drink that bad?”
“It’s awful,” he said. “I can’t lie. If I didn’t think it would save my life one day, I wouldn’t even consider touching it.”
I hesitated and then joined him in the kitchen.
“It can’t be that bad,” I said, holding out my hand. “Your wife gave you the recipe, and she still likes you.”
“So she says,” he said, sliding the drink across the granite countertop to my outstretched hand. “She sells this stuff in her health store in Ladue. Try it and tell me whether you think it could be healthy.”
I didn’t know Diana had a store, but I laughed and then picked it up. It smelled fruity, but I detected something strong beneath that. I furrowed my brow.
“Is there alcohol in here?”
“A little rum,” he said. “I improved her recipe.”
“I am your fifteen-year-old foster child. You shouldn’t be giving me rum, you know.”
“Don’t most dads let their kids have a first sip of beer at fifteen or sixteen?”
I shrugged. “My mother said my father was Joe Montana. I never got to meet him.”
Christopher leaned against the counter behind him and got a distant look in his eye. “I never met either of my parents. I used to tell people my dad was Neil Armstrong and my mom was Elizabeth Taylor.”
“If you lie to somebody, you might as well lie big,” I said, lifting the glass and raising my eyebrows before taking a sip. It was fantastic. It tasted sweet and fruity and tropical all at once with a subtle kick of rum. I didn’t drink a lot, but this was the best drink I’d ever had. I almost sm
acked my lips.
“You seem to like that,” he said.
“It’s wonderful,” I said, putting the glass on the counter. “It’s like a kiwi smoothie, but better.”
“I hate kiwi,” he said.
“That explains it,” I said. “You’ve got terrible taste.”
He leaned over and picked up the glass. “I’ll toss this unless you want it.”
I hesitated for a moment. As I walked home, I had planned to take a shower and head to bed, but a refreshing tropical drink sounded nice.
“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”
“It’s all yours, sweetheart,” he said, chuckling as he left and walked toward the family room. I took the drink and followed him.
“You want to watch a movie?”
“Sure,” I said.
We started a comedy about a guy who tried to win back his girlfriend during a zombie uprising. I had seen it before, but it was even funnier with a little rum in me. About halfway through my drink, my head began to feel light. He had put more rum in there than I expected.
As I finished the drink, he looked at me. My vision was a little blurry.
“I’m glad we could hang out, but I think I need to get to bed,” I said. My body felt heavy.
“Okay,” said Christopher. “Good night.”
I tried standing, but my legs didn’t feel right. I couldn’t move. Christopher paused the movie and looked at me.
“Hope you don’t mind, but I figured we could watch it later,” he said. I tried to say something, but my tongue and mouth wouldn’t work. He smiled and then looked up and down my body. It wasn’t the look any forty-year-old man should have ever given a fifteen-year-old girl. Even drunk I recognized that. “You’re beautiful. I’m glad you liked my drink.”