“In a safe deposit box,” he says with a scoff.
“You’re going to need to give us access so we can take appropriate inventory,” Mills says.
Bennett Canning laughs again. “What? You think I’m selling them? How could you be so cold?” Then he sniffles, like he’s on the edge of tears, and clears his throat. Mills can’t tell whether he’s witnessing bullshit artistry as it unfolds, or whether the kid is just in over his slicked-back head. “Those jewels were her treasures! Our treasures! Part of the family fortune. I couldn’t just leave them there. I wasn’t so worried about your people pocketing a brooch or two as I was scared that someone would break into the house and steal everything . . .” “Break into the house?” Preston asks.
“Everyone knows she’s dead,” Bennett says. “And any criminal with half a brain has to know that the house might be unoccupied and full of valuables. I mean, come on, think about it from my perspective. You can’t say this wouldn’t have occurred to you.”
Mills looks at him. He says nothing, but he just looks at the guy who’s sitting here in the lap of his parents’ luxury, his whole fucking house a designer man cave, uttering lamentations about brooches and treasures and fortunes. It’s a fucking soap opera. He shifts his gaze away from Bennett Canning and toward the built-in bookcases across the room that house macho novels of espionage and shadow governments. Big, thick, bestselling thrillers of international intrigue. Not a classic among the collection. Without looking at Bennett, Mills says, “Your mother has some very valuable books in her library. Why didn’t you take them?”
“Like what?”
“Leather bound editions of the classics, some first editions. And there’s at least two shelves of ancient texts behind glass. What about those?”
“Yeah, she said she had some expensive books. You know, collectibles, I guess. But they’re not my thing. And who would steal books, anyway?”
Mills laughs. “You’re right. Who would steal books? Nobody reads anymore,” he says, mocking the kid. “You disturbed a crime scene.”
“So arrest me,” Bennett says, folding his arms across his chest.
“Don’t tempt me,” Mills says. He sees a sixteen-year-old Trevor in this twenty-nine-year-old asswipe. Apparently, money stunts your growth.
Preston gets up, walks to the bookcases, removes a book, and turns back. He’s holding Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, which, if asked, Mills would concede is a classic in its own right. “You read this?” Preston asks Bennett. “You like Le Carré?”
“I don’t know,” Bennett says with a shrug.
“You don’t know if you read it?” Mills asks. “Le Carré is a master!”
“Or is this whole book collection just an image thing for you?” Preston persists.
“I answered your questions about the jewelry,” Bennett says. “My book collection is irrelevant. If you have any more questions you can talk to my attorney. His name is Darren Styles, in Central Phoenix.”
The guy stands up, as if he’s prompting them to leave, but Mills stays planted on the couch. Preston returns to the couch and sits as well. You work with someone long enough, you learn how to choreograph on the fly, and this choreography seems to infuriate Bennett Canning, who throws his arms out wide and cups the air. His face turns a raging crimson. “I said you could call my lawyer if you have any more questions.” His voice is crisp, imploring.
The men say nothing. They stare at him.
“What the fuck do you want from me?”
The men look at each other, then at him again. But they remain silent.
“Oh my God,” Bennett cries. “Don’t I have the right to ask you to leave?”
“Please sit down, Bennett,” Mills says finally. “Please. We won’t be a bother much longer. I promise.”
Bennett complies, returns to his recliner. “Just tell me what you want.”
“Look,” Preston says. “We’re here to help. We know it doesn’t seem that way but, ultimately, we’re the best friends you can have right now.”
Bennett scoffs.
“I’m serious,” Preston insists. “We’re going to nail whoever did this to your mother. That’s our job. Sure, we’re intrusive, and we’re pests. We know that. But you want us to be intrusive and you want us to be pests, because that’s the only way we’re going to bring the killer or killers to justice.”
“Wait,” the kid says. “You think there could be more than one killer?”
“I was speaking rhetorically,” Preston says. “Anything’s possible.”
Bennett exhales an enormous sigh, as if, maybe, he’s reconciled to the cops being in his face.
“What was your relationship with your mother like?” Mills asks him.
The guy shrugs and says, “I don’t know. What do you mean?”
“Were you close?” Mills asks.
“I guess . . . I mean, she was a good woman and a good mother and obviously,” he says, waving his hands around, “very generous.”
“Obviously,” Mills says. “Did you know she left everything to the church?”
Bennett hesitates. He fidgets. Then he curls his lip and says, “How did you know that?”
Mills explains that his team has started combing through Viveca’s computer, that they found the will.
“For real?” Bennett asks, a warble of doubt in his throat. “I mean, it was a running joke in the family, but . . . are you sure?”
“As sure as the will itself,” Mills tells him.
“It may not be her final will,” Bennett says. “That’s definitely something you should talk to the lawyer about.”
“We plan to,” Preston assures him.
The kid puts his head in his hands. And Mills allows him the gathering of grief and confusion, a particularly daunting mix of emotions. There might even be remorse. Mills can’t be sure. There’s a part of Bennett Canning that always remains aloof, as if the detachment is a learned skill, something to master. But these silences are important. They’re always important. Sometimes they yield nothing, but oftentimes they drag up a wide net of details. Silence makes some people nervous. Nervous is good. Nervous people talk.
Bennett, however, is not talking. He’s breathing heavy, but he’s not saying a word. Mills can hear the guy’s sniffling again and suspects that, now, the grief is authentic, not for show. “So you were unaware that your mother had left her money to the church?” he asks.
Bennett doesn’t look up. But he shakes his head. “I was not aware,” he says.
“Does this upset you?” Preston asks.
“What do you think?” Finally, Bennett shows his face. “It was her choice to do what she wanted with the money, but I don’t know why she wouldn’t take care of my sister and me. It’s confusing.”
“I’m sure it is,” Mills tells him. “Do you think she was brainwashed?”
“Huh? Brainwashed?”
“Yeah. By someone at the church? Or threatened? It’s a rather large bequest,” Mills says.
The kid nods absently. Then he asks, “How much do you know about the church?”
“Only what we’ve read in the paper, seen on TV,” Mills says. “Some people call it a cult.”
Bennett laughs. It’s a big belly laugh followed by a “sheesh!” “What’s so funny?” Preston asks him.
“The whole cult thing. I’ve been a member of the church all my life, guys. It’s not a cult,” he says. “Yes, we’ve all heard the whispers around town and such, but the truth is we’re just private people worshipping in a private, humble way.”
Now Mills is close to a belly laugh and a “sheesh!” but he tightens his core and restrains himself. “Yeah, well, with a cathedral that ginormous, it’s hard for a megachurch to stay humble. Don’t you think?” “We attract many people to our faith,” he says, his voice cool, the rest of him aloof again. “We’ve grown to accommodate the faithful.” “When you say ‘we,’ are you suggesting you have some kind of leadership role in the church?” Preston asks.
; “No,” he replies. “It’s a form of speech. My mom was on the board of directors for many years. She would say ‘we’ all the time.”
“What role do you play in the church?” Preston persists.
“I hope to be an elder someday. But I’m really not at liberty to talk about church business. The Church of Angels Rising rarely does interviews.”
Mills clears his throat. “This isn’t an interview, Bennett. This is an investigation.”
“Then maybe you should talk to Gleason Norwood.”
“We did,” Mills tells him.
“You did?”
“Yes,” Mills replies. “You sound surprised.”
“You think maybe he should have warned you?” Preston asks. “Warned me? What do you mean?”
“Never mind,” Preston tells him. “It does strike me odd because from what we know of your mother, she doesn’t seem to fit the profile of a cult member . . .”
Bennett stands again, abruptly. “It’s not a cult. I don’t like the implication, gentlemen. In fact, it was never her idea to join the church. All my life I was told it was my father’s plan. Or rather, demand. He’s the one who brought us to the church and insisted we worship there. My dad was kind of a nutcase, but not my mother.”
“A nutcase with a brain for making money,” Mills says, getting up.
“A lot of wealthy, powerful people are psychopaths,” Bennett says.
“We’re aware,” Preston tells him, then rises as well.
As the men drift to the front door, Mills turns to the young scion-of-nothing and says, “One more question, Bennett. Were your parents separated before your father’s death?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. That’s all. I wasn’t sure what kind of stress might have led to his heart attack.”
“I have no idea. I didn’t ask questions. I’m not even sure it was stress.”
“Thanks for your time,” Mills says.
Bennett Canning says nothing. He shakes his head, disgusted, lips tightening and curling inward. A stray wad of slicked hair comes loose and dangles over his forehead. His posture collapses. The kid’s on the verge of tears. He’ll completely buckle once the door is closed. That’s a privacy Mills can afford him. And so he ushers Preston out quickly, giving Bennett the right to grieve in his own space. Besides, Mills has to make a call.
He’s in the car Googling “Darren Styles, Attorney, Phoenix,” when his phone rings. It’s Gus Parker.
“Gus Parker!”
“Hey, Alex.”
“How the fuck are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“We’re in your neighborhood! You must be psychic!”
Gus laughs. “Yeah, that’s what they tell me.”
Mills lowers his shades and cranks the A/C. “Hey, I’m sorry we couldn’t make it to Seattle for the funeral, man.”
“I told you it wasn’t necessary, Alex.”
“Yeah, I know. But still,” Mills says as clumsy as a shy date. “Hey, you free for dinner tonight?”
“I get off work at 5:30.”
“Rosita’s Place? 6:30?”
“Sure,” Gus says. “But this isn’t just a social call. I have some business to discuss.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I have someone who wants to meet you.”
“I’m happily married,” Mills says, fawning over his own humor. “Right. Never seen a happier couple,” Gus tells him. “But this isn’t a hookup, dude. Just someone who might know something about an investigation you’re working on.”
“I’m intrigued,” Mills admits. “The Viveca Canning case?”
Gus replies affirmatively.
“Intrigued, Dr. Psycho, but I got some important calls to make now,” Mills tells him. “Can we pick this up at Rosita’s?”
“Sure,” Gus says. “See ya’ later.”
As soon as Mills is off the phone, Preston hands him his tablet with the home page of Styles, Styles, Styles, and Berman loaded on the screen. Mills calls, can’t reach any of the Styleses, or the Berman, for that matter, so he leaves a message for Darren Styles with a polite receptionist who says she’ll do her very best (not just her best) to get Mr. Styles the message by the end of the day.
13
They know Gus by name here. All the waitresses in their puffed out uniforms, gliding by with mountains of food balanced on their shoulders, all of them bend in and smile, which feels like a kiss, feels like an embrace, feels like love, their faces mothering and accommodating. “Hello!” one cries, bumping the table. “Nice to see you again, Gus. How are you, my friend?”
“Just fine.”
Another approaches. “Oh, hijo, you’re back! You good, baby?” “Very good. Thanks.”
The air carries the crispy fried grease right to his nose. Delicious. But he knows better. But still, delicious. He recognizes all of them, the waitresses, they’ve been here forever, which might explain why this place feels like someone’s house, not a restaurant, and why from the roadside it looks like a dive in a dive neighborhood, but inside it’s your Aunt Rosita’s kitchen. He admires the woodwork of the tables and chairs. Thick, pale carvings, built for a hearty meal.
“Gusto! My baby! You alone?” It’s Irena, a sixty-something-year-old original with a wide face and huge oval eyes. Almost wrinkle free, her golden skin sheens from a busy night. Like most of the other servers, she wears her hair pulled back. She speaks in what Gus calls a Mexicali accent. A little Mexico, a little Southern California. A border town voice. Not uncommon in the Southwest.
“No, I’m expecting two others.”
She strokes his shoulder. “Your detective friend, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Good. You want your margarita.”
“Sure,” he says, and just then he sees Alex and Kelly passing by the front window. In a moment, they’re in the lobby and Gus waves them over. He gets up and gives Alex a brotherly hug. Kelly kisses him hard on the cheek.
“We’ve missed you,” she says.
“Likewise,” he tells her. They all sit and Gus looks at his detective friend and sees that Alex is looking good. Happy, healthy, busy, devoted. There’s something about this couple, Gus thinks. Their admiration for each other is obvious; they talk about it all the time. They’re demonstrative. But there’s something that doesn’t say a word, that doesn’t have a gesture, which simply resides between them. It’s nothing new. It’s a vibe Gus gets when he’s with them. Maybe it’s an aura-for-two he sees. But he senses a powerful, completely magnetic devotion between them.
Irena returns with his drink. Alex and Kelly order the same for themselves.
“I’m enlisting you on the Viveca Canning case,” Alex tells him. “Unofficially.”
“As opposed to . . .”
“You just need to stay under the radar,” Mills explains. “You’ve impressed my sergeant. He thinks you’re kind of amazing and kind of crazy, which is pretty much what everyone thinks, especially when you get it right. Are you available, say, Monday morning?”
Gus nods. “As you know, I prefer to fly under the radar, so, yeah, I’m happy to help, so long as you don’t mention me in your interviews with the press.”
“I hope to hell not to be doing interviews,” Alex tells him. “You know I avoid the media like the plague.”
“Then I don’t suppose you’ll be too thrilled with the news I bring tonight.”
The rest of the margaritas arrive, and they all hoist for a toast and clink. “Here’s to old friends, new cases, and a sergeant who pretty much lets me do what I want,” says Alex.
They order their dinner. As soon as Irena retreats into the kitchen,
Gus leans forward, plants urgency in his eyes. “I told you I have someone who wants to meet you,” he says. “Someone who might have information on the case. She’s a news reporter.”
Alex shakes his head and scowls. “You’re right. I’m not thrilled.”
“She’s a TV reporter.”
; “Even worse.”
“No,” Gus says more sternly than he had intended, “it’s not like that. She’s for real. None of that beauty queen nonsense. I got a very good vibe from her.”
“What kind of vibe?” Alex asks him.
“Solid. Truth. And, I don’t know, some kind of mystery.”
“You have me intrigued,” Kelly says.
The dinner arrives with a bit of fanfare thanks to the sizzle of Alex’s fajitas. They dig in, not a fried meal between them. Spanish music plays faintly. Noisy families indulge all around them, most of them immersed in boisterous Spanish conversation. A few of the children shriek, but they’re gorgeous to Gus, those eyes, those smiles. He wouldn’t admit it here, maybe only to Billie, but the children break his heart.
“I don’t know why you never adopted,” Kelly says.
“Is it that obvious?” Gus asks, feeling his cheeks blush.
“Yeah,” Kelly replies. “Anytime I see you around children.”
“Even now—” Alex says.
“Even now,” Kelly interrupts. “Years after we learned about your sperm count.”
Gus turns to Alex and, at the very moment the music stops playing, says, “She knows about my sperm count?”
Then, looking up and surveying the room, Gus sees the entire restaurant staring back at him.
Kelly squeezes his knee.
Alex instantly erupts in a heap of laughter. He’s clutching his stomach. There are tears in his eyes. He won’t stop laughing.
“I think I should go,” Gus whispers.
Kelly pulls him close, her arm nudging his shoulder. “Oh, I am so sorry, Gus. I’m so sorry. I mean, we tell each other everything, Alex and I, always have. I had no idea it was still a fresh wound for you. I would never—”
“I wouldn’t call it a fresh wound.”
The music resumes.
“Great timing,” Gus says.
“Finish your dinner,” Kelly tells him. “You’re not going anywhere. You think these people never heard of, you know, your issue before. It’s a fact of life.”
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