Mills rises slowly. “Look, there’s no need for this to get contentious. We came here to ask questions, not to search the house. If that were the case, we would have had a search warrant in hand. But now, since we’re here, it just seemed a reasonable request to make. I apologize if offense was taken.”
“I didn’t kill her,” the woman says.
“Thank you for your time. The lemonade was delicious,” Mills tells her. “Especially on a day like today.”
He can see the tears filling her eyes.
Preston stands and walks to the wall of glass. Staring out at the pool and the valley beyond, he says, “The view is a work of art itself. On permanent display. Where do you store your collection, Mrs. Bickford?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I mean, do you store your pieces off-site, like in a gallery, as your sister-in-law did?”
Not a single tear has spilled. She raises her chin and says, “My lawyer’s name is Carson Huntley. He can answer those kinds of questions.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Mills says. He half-turns to leave, then conjures up some drama of his own. “There used to be a cave up here, Mrs. Bickford. What happened to it when you built the house?”
She looks at him, confused. Then she folds her arms across her chest, the snaking together of her limbs alone an invitation to them to go fuck themselves. “I know all about the protests, Detective. Nobody wanted us to build here. Old story.”
“It’s not that, ma’am,” Mills says. “I just wondered whatever happened to the cave.”
She smiles. “We were clever. We built the house into the mountain and annexed the cave.”
“Annexed the cave?” Preston asks.
“Yes. We attached the house and preserved the cave,” she says gleefully. “It’s our wine cellar. Didn’t you read about it in all the magazines?”
“Oh,” Mills says. “We found a dead body in there a few years ago.”
“A what?” she cries.
“Dead body,” Mills repeats. “Didn’t you read about it in all the newspapers? See it on TV?”
“Let’s go,” Preston says. “Thanks for your time,” he tells the woman, who stands there stiffened, chilled. The glee on her beautifully bronzed face gives way to a ghostly white.
9
Gus slept well. He dreamed of surfing and dolphins. That’s usually a sign that everything’s fine. That’s what he’s taken it to mean over the years, this reoccurring dream of the ocean and his frequent companions. He’s still getting his Phoenix feet back, still absorbing some of the culture shock he gets when he comes home from Seattle, this visit somewhat more complicated because of its implications, finality, and all that, but somehow it was also a voyage into outer space, into the true unknown, because despite Gus’s gifts, he cannot fathom his father’s whereabouts. He can’t see that. Though his gut does tell him that Warren Parker has boarded some kind of vessel that’s sailing toward the gaseous neighborhood of our constellations. His father was a difficult, uncompromising man, but Gus doesn’t think the man’s character was so flawed that Warren Parker might be denied entry into his religiously informed version of Heaven. That’s all Gus knows. Gus doesn’t think of Heaven as a place. He thinks of it as a state of mind, here and thereafter.
The LA visit with Billie feels like a blur, but a blur that still prickles his skin. He gets up, makes coffee. He has about an hour and a half to get to work. He considers doing a load of laundry, but as he assesses the pile the phone rings.
It’s his new client. The woman who came yesterday.
“I’m sorry to bother you so early, Mr. Parker.”
“No worries. I’m up and about. And you can call me Gus.”
“I haven’t been completely honest with you, Gus.”
“Haven’t you?”
A silence. Then, a stuttering, “I’m sorry.”
There’s another hyphen of silence, in which Gus waits for her to compose her story, because this is what the call is all about. He knows this. He sees her through the phone struggling but adroit, reticent but strident. The contrasts are her morning workout. That’s what he gathers in her vibe-inducing silence until she speaks again. “I’m sorry,” she reprises. “I’m in the business of truth. Truth is my currency. All this nonsense lately about fake news is ridiculous. If you’re a real reporter, and I am, you are the truth of your stories. And I’m the truth of mine.” “Did you lie to me, Ms. Jones?”
“No,” she replies. “But I omitted some information. Do you have any time today?”
“I’m sorry but I’m working a full shift at my day job.”
“Tonight?”
He apologizes again. “Probably not. What about tomorrow? I only work until three. I can see you at four.”
“Okay,” she says. “And I’m the one who’s sorry, Gus.”
Heading to work later he contemplates all the sorrys of the morning. We live in a world full of apologies. So many regrets. There’s the half-empty glass of mistakes. And there’s the half-full glass of forgiveness. And if you’re lucky you live closer to forgiveness on the spectrum. He wonders if he can call this a retroactive epiphany. Something about that trip to Seattle, about finally traversing the line between then and now. There’s a severance, for better or worse, and he knows, as he drives toward the expanse of the morning sky, that with severance comes the tugging of reconciliation, like an undertow. And that’s fine. Just fine. He aims for the exit ramp, hits the blinker, checks his rearview mirror. Staring back at him in the mirror is the face of Aaliyah Jones. In her eyes she’s haunted. The oval of her mouth articulates a fear Gus can’t comprehend.
Kelly got out of bed this morning carrying an inordinate weight of misery on her shoulders. Mills could see it on her face, in her trudging gait, those deserted eyes. This is the first day of a case she dreads. She’s defending Trey Robert Shinner, the valley’s serial thief, trespasser, stalker, vandal, drunk, ghoul. The forty-two-year-old man is infamous for his petty crimes and his colorful rantings that sound like demented poetry. As a child, Shinner suffered a brain injury of unknown origins and has been a ward of the state ever since. He bounces from one halfway house to another, haunting neighborhoods in Metro Phoenix like a clown who escaped Stephen King’s bottom drawer. Trey Robert Shinner is funny/scary, harmful/harmless, a man, a child, and now he’s on trial for stealing cars at the ballpark, particularly Jeeps and pickups, and joyriding off road in the desert. He posed nude in the stolen vehicles and, for whatever reason, sent the photos to the addresses on the auto registration. This is the first time Kelly’s been assigned to a Shinner case. She had not even made opening arguments and she looked weakened; Mills tried to give her a transfusion of vigor this morning by holding her extra close, promising to cook dinner, promising to do the laundry, to book her into a fancy spa when the trial is done. She smiled and left.
“Oh Jesus, Shinner. What a freaking mess,” Jan Powell says. “Why can’t they get him off the streets once and for all?”
“Petty crimes.”
“Probation violations.”
“The judges don’t want to do it because of his diminished capacity.” “Then why don’t they commit him?”
“Because they have no balls, I guess.”
They’re driving up to Hawkeye Ridge to meet with Jillian Canning. Mills has warned Powell about the reception they’ll get from Aunt Phoebe, but Powell just shrugged off the apprehension. “Did you know they built a house up there on the ledge?” he asks her.
“Yeah, I heard,” Powell says.
“If you haven’t been up here for a while you won’t believe how much of the mountain is fenced off for construction.”
Powell nods. “We can’t fight all the battles, Alex.”
Mills has never liked the resignation of human nature. But he doesn’t say anything. Not another word until they’re parked up the steep driveway, until they’re at the front door and Jasmine is standing there with her doleful eyes and placid smile. “Hello, Detectiv
e.”
“We have an appointment with Jillian,” he tells her.
“She’s expecting you.”
Jillian Canning meets them in a room that appears to be only a room, not a replica of Phoebe’s seafaring lifestyle. They’re surrounded by adobe walls, potted cacti, and other desert flora. Native American art hangs from the wall; some of its creatures, their faces turned away or hiding, seem almost embarrassed by the Canning-Bickford wealth. The leather sofas have earthy hides. They sit.
“I don’t know what I can tell you,” Jillian says. “I live far away. I didn’t know much about my mother’s daily life.”
A preemptive strike, Mills notes to himself. Jillian Canning is very quick to distance herself from the crime scene. He studies her. He sees the redness in her eyes and the puffiness that surrounds them. She’s not crying now, presumably because she’s all cried out. Her auburn hair is pulled back tight into a ponytail. She’s wearing a t-shirt and wide pants that tighten at the ankle; they look like pjs or the bottom half of a belly dancer’s ensemble, colorful, with a pattern of elephants spiraling in all directions. He smiles.
“That’s fine,” he assures her. “What was your relationship like with your mother?”
She lowers her head, studies her hands. “It was getting better.”
“Better?” Powell asks.
“Yeah. We weren’t close for a long time. I don’t know if my brother told you, I’m gay.”
“He did,” Mills says. “And your mother didn’t approve of your lifestyle?”
“It’s not a lifestyle, Detective Mills,” she tells him. “Unless you’re born with a lifestyle.”
Powell laughs.
“Oh no, I’m sorry,” Mills says. “I guess I’m not that great with the terminology. But I get it. Of course. I hope you’ll excuse me.”
The woman nods and smiles. “No offense taken, but yes, it was a source of tension in the family. But my relationship with my mother was definitely improving after my father died.”
“Can you imagine anyone wanting to harm your mother?” Mills asks her.
She hesitates, either considering or avoiding the question. Then she shakes her head and says, “No. I’ve been going over scenarios in my head all night, but nothing makes sense.”
“Do you think she would have told you if she were concerned or afraid, now that you two were getting closer?” Powell asks.
“I don’t know,” the woman replies, gazing just a bit deeper into Powell’s eyes than she had into Mills’s. As if they’re exchanging a secret code. “You should really talk to her pastor. They were very close. I’m sure my mother would have told him if she’d been threatened by anyone or felt unsafe.”
“Your mother obviously was a very religious woman,” Mills says.
“She did a lot for her church,” Jillian says almost with no inflection. “She’s on the board of directors. Was, I mean.”
“Can we get the name of your mom’s pastor?” Powell asks.
“Gleason Norwood.”
“Wait,” Mills says, then clears his throat. “Gleason Norwood? That Gleason Norwood?”
A crinkle of confusion curls up Jillian Canning’s face. “Uh, yes,” she says, stretching the words. “I thought my brother mentioned it to you.”
“No, he didn’t,” Mills says. “And I don’t believe I asked. I remember a reference to the Church of Angels Rising, but I guess I didn’t make the connection.”
Gleason Norwood has made himself memorable for so many reasons, in so many ways, most of them controversial. His shadow looms large over the valley, as if he were a governor, a titan of business, or a king. As the founder and head pastor of the Church of Angels Rising, he’s all three and then some. He sports a catatonic smile and million dollar teeth that are as synonymous with the church as any scripture. He’s got a sixty million dollar cathedral and an equally rich TV ministry. He’s everywhere for the faithful and nowhere to be found by mostly everyone else, including the IRS and the Arizona Republic, particularly Sally Tobin, who has been after him for decades. Now it occurs to Mills that the church was tagged in a few of Viveca’s social media posts.
“So, are you a member of the church as well?” Mills asks her daughter.
The woman scoffs and says, “No. I was raised in the church, but when it was clear they couldn’t cure me I was asked to leave.”
“Cure you?” Powell asks.
“Get the lesbian out of me, like an exorcism.”
“There are rumors that once you leave Church of Angels Rising you’re pretty much cut off,” Mills says. “True?”
“Absolutely,” Jillian says. “My parents were forced to erase me. That’s what they call it, ‘erasing.’ My father did it perfectly. He never spoke to me again. But not my mother. She could never fully let go. And that became a huge, really huge conflict in their marriage. He went to his grave with it.”
“Five years ago, your brother said?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“And how did he die?” Mills asks.
“Heart attack. He dropped dead one night after a dinner party, or something, with friends.”
Jillian Canning folds her arms across her chest, hugging herself or hugging a memory, bracing herself for some kind of hurt, it seems. She’s doe-eyed and suddenly not a woman, but a girl, a bit lost and a bit frightened. He wants to reach for her and say that she was never wrong, that she’s been through enough, but what the hell does he know? Somehow, at a place in his career when he should be comfortably jaded, he’s more often caught in a cloying web of compassion. Empathy overwhelms him and he gets a glaring reminder that being a cop has always meant rescuing strangers in one way or another, and that, yes, he inherited the righteousness of his father, the legendary county attorney who died young battling every demon of the valley. Lyle Mills fought ferociously for justice, his passion ticking away, ticking all day, ticking at home through family dinner, late into the night in his library, ticking through trials, through victories and tumultuous defeats, ticking until it finally exploded.
Jillian Canning fidgets in the silence. Powell clears her throat.
“Well, I think that’s enough for today,” Mills says. “How long will you be in Phoenix?”
She smiles bitterly. “I don’t know. We have to make arrangements for the funeral. We probably have to go sit with the lawyers and figure out what to do with the house. Like I said, I don’t know. There’s so much to take care of.”
“Of course there is,” Mills says. “But would you mind if we checked in with you again? I think we’ll probably have more questions.”
“That’s fine,” Jillian tells him. “Do you have any idea when my mother will be turned over to us? You know, her body?”
Mills hesitates but says, “I would think in a few days, no more than a week. I can check with the Office of the Medical Examiner, if you’d like.”
She stands. “If you could, that would be great. You know how to reach me.”
Mills assures her he does.
On the way back to headquarters, Mills senses his father’s presence with him, in the front seat, appropriating Powell’s space. He sees the valley differently on this drive. It’s not a grid of streets and avenues and intersections. It’s not block after block of commerce and concrete buildings and strip malls and gas stations. The whole valley is in front of them. It’s all a panorama. And they’re chasing phantoms.
10
“Guess who I’m going to visit today?” Mills asks his wife the following morning when they convene in the kitchen, post showers, over coffee.
She gives him a sleepy smile and says, “Too early for trick questions. Who?”
“Gleason Norwood.”
“Who?”
“Gleason Norwood. You know, Church of Angels Rising.”
With an eye roll she says, “Oh, God. Why?”
“He was a good friend to my victim. From what I’m learning, they were confidants.”
“Was she a member? Or do I even have to
ask?”
He holds his cup in midair. “Oh, yes she was. On the board of directors, or something like that.”
Kelly seems to mull this over, or mull something over, maybe just the day that lies ahead. Then, her voice percolating with sarcasm, she says, “I want you to be careful, Alex. It’s a cult. I’d hate to see you brainwashed.”
He laughs, sips, and says, “No chance of that, hon. I’m already brainwashed by the church of Kelly Mills.”
“Oh, how sweet,” she tells him. “After court today I have a quick doctor’s appointment, then I’m all yours. And by ‘all yours,’ I mean, let’s have sex. A lot of sex. All night.”
He almost spits out his coffee. “On a school night?”
“One of the perks of having our kid away at college.”
True. It’s a perk. Trevor’s at University of Arizona on a football scholarship. Despite his arrest a few years ago for selling pot, a twisted mess that tugged alternately at the parental coils of fury and forgiveness, maybe even love and hate, Trevor turned out to be an amazing kid. More amazing now that his parents can have sex with abandon, not that as a couple they’re up to it so much, but they talk about it a lot. As if talking about it keeps the craving alive. And how can you not crave her? At forty-six, she’s a creature who defies age. She defies everything. She captures you with her gleaming eyes. She pulls you in with her lips. She holds you to her hips and she’s gravitational. She redefines the universe for him every day. When it comes to her, Mills is a sucker for hyperbole.
When Mills rolls into headquarters he’s intercepted in the hallway outside his office by Jan Powell, who tells him she’s secured a search warrant for Viveca Canning’s house. It’s a necessary formality for them to legally search and seize beyond what’s in plain sight.
“And I got a call from the lab,” Powell tells him. “They have prints that don’t belong to our victim.”
“Fresh?”
“It would seem so.”
They drift into his office, followed almost immediately by Sergeant Jake Woods, who stops the door from closing. He’s crisp and cologned, his shirt so heavily starched it crunches when he moves. “No pressure,” he says, which always means pressure, “but Hurley’s been inquiring . . .”
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