It’s 8:19.
That was one slow conveyor. So slow he has to skip the drive-thru and drive straight to headquarters, where he pours himself a cup of police-issued caffeine sludge. He makes a beeline to his desk now, suddenly aware, even without his notes, that the day is chock-full. He senses there won’t be enough hours. He flips through his legal pad (he still is a hard copy guy, not enamored of digital to-do lists), and the first item is a reminder to call Francesca Norwood. It has to be seven or eight hours later in Switzerland. She answers on the fourth ring. Mills introduces himself.
“My husband said you’d be calling.”
“Warned you?”
“He gave me a heads up, Detective. Anything wrong with that?” “No. Sorry. This is not an adversarial call at all. In fact, I’m calling because I need your help—if you could find it in your generosity to help.”
The woman seems to purr into the phone. After the purr, there’s a lighter tone in her voice when she says, “Of course. Viveca’s death has me absolutely lost in grief, you know?”
“Yes.”
“She was an angel. A great lady. A great churchwoman. A great friend . . .”
“Is that why you were planning an exotic trip with her? One way?” Dead silence. Deadlier the longer it lasts.
“Mrs. Norwood?”
Sniffling, then, “How do you know about that?”
“We know. We seized a lot of information off of Viveca’s computer in the course of this homicide investigation.”
“Oh my God,” she moans. “I . . . I—”
“You don’t know what to say? You don’t know how much to say?” “But I thought this call wasn’t going to be adversarial.”
“It wasn’t. And it isn’t,” Mills insists. “I’m sorry if you’re surprised by my line of questioning, but there’s really no devious intent here. In the course of any investigation, if we see an anomaly, we look into that anomaly. Your trip with Viveca to the South Pacific seems like an anomaly to us.”
He hears her weeping. “I can’t,” she says. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t. If my husband ever finds out, he’ll kill me.”
“Kill you?”
“Or worse.”
“I’m not sure I understand . . .”
“Please, please, please,” the woman begs. “I’ve said enough.”
Mills puts her on speakerphone and rubs his temples. “How close were you to Viveca?”
“You know we were planning a trip together. So that should tell you something.”
“I do know that,” Mills says. “But I don’t know why you two were going one way or why she had invested in real estate in French Polynesia. Unless the two of you were moving there, and that confuses me.”
“It was a one-way ticket, Detective. But it doesn’t mean I wasn’t coming back.”
“Were you?”
“Look, I really have to go.”
Mills breaks a pencil in half. “Ma’am, please. If you care about your friend, about letting her soul really rest at peace . . . if your church members believe in such a thing . . . please reconsider helping me out here. Please. Your husband doesn’t have to know.”
Mills recognizes the silence that comes next. It’s the silence of consideration. Of weighing the odds. A few moments later, Francesca Norwood says, “My husband will find out. But give me your number. I’ll call you right back.”
“No, you won’t. But that’s okay. I understand.”
“No,” she insists. “I will. Give me your number. I need to use a different phone.”
Mills concedes to her wishes and, to his surprise, his phone rings a moment later.
“Can you meet me?” the woman asks.
“I can’t come to Switzerland, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m not in Switzerland,” she says.
“When did you get back?” he asks her.
“I never left.”
“Well, your husband is under the assumption that you’re in Switzerland, ma’am.”
“My husband is under a lot of assumptions, and that’s okay. I’m here in the valley.”
Mills feels an eyebrow arch. “Hiding?”
“I’m at the Desert Charm,” she says. “In Paradise Valley. Can you meet me?”
“I know where it is. We can be there in about an hour or so. Just a few things to take care of here . . .”
“We?”
“One of my investigators and I.”
“Come alone.”
“But—”
“Come alone or no meeting,” she insists. “I’m not comfortable with too many people. They’ll buzz you in from the lobby.”
“I know the drill. See you soon.”
First, Mills meets with the squad, gives them an update on Francesca Norwood and Aaliyah Jones. Powell says she’ll follow up on the reporter. The general consensus about Mrs. Norwood is surprised, but not surprised. The squad now seems to share a healthy skepticism of the Church of Angels Rising.
“The reporter was trying to interview our victim before the murder,” Mills reminds them. “Myers, I want you to search and pull any email correspondence between the two of them from Viveca’s computer.”
Myers says, “No prob.”
Mills asks Preston to follow up with the lab. “Check on the prints from the gallery,” he says. “I haven’t heard a thing.”
“It’s been less than a week, Alex,” Preston says.
“A week that might as well be a month. And, I know, the lab’s probably backlogged.”
Preston says he’ll check. Then Mills tells the group he’ll send a text when he’s ready to reconvene.
He’s on his way to take a leak when he gets a text message from Gus.
Whatever that means.
Not long after the piss, Gus arrives and explains. “This was not a random act of violence,” he says to Mills. “I realize you know that, but I also got a very strong vibe that Viveca was running from something or someone. That she was hiding something. I don’t know why.”
“The key I showed you? Was she hiding that?”
“Of course. But why? That’s what’s got me stumped. I probably need to hold the book and the key together,” Gus suggests to him. “Then I’d know for sure.”
Mills tells him he doesn’t have time to get the key out of evidence now, but they can meet again later.
“And there was something about the husband . . .” Gus says. “What about him?”
“All I could tell is that his death was irregular,” Gus replies. “I think there’s more to it. The vibe says he paid for something with his life.”
Mills smiles. “I’d believe anything at this point,” he remarks with some sarcasm. “But, like I said, I got to run. I’m heading out to speak to the preacher’s wife. Turns out she’s in hiding.”
“This is getting complicated,” Gus says. His statement seems more inward than outward.
“I talked to her on the phone. She was cagey and didn’t really answer my questions,” Mills tells him. “But she agreed to meet.”
“Take me with you.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? I’ll take my own car.”
Mills laughs. “Transportation is not the issue. I promised to come alone. It was a condition of her meeting with me.”
Gus shakes his head vigorously. “No. No. I must come, Alex. I have to come and search for vibes. I think she’s key. This is important.” “You’re telling me?” Mills actually takes a pint of umbrage at his buddy’s insistence. Feels like overreach, maybe.
“Where’s she hiding?”
Mills puts his head in his hands. “Always off the record, right Gus? No one should know this.”
Gus gets up, sits at the edge of Mills’s desk, and bears down on him. “I think you know how insulting your question is, right Alex? You and I practically exist off the record.”
Mills
shakes his head, looks up. “Yeah, sorry.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m fucking distracted.”
“I can see that,” Gus says. “I can also see, and I’m getting a tremendous vibe right now, a vision of a rope, Alex. I see that you’re very close to untying a very significant knot in the case.”
“A rope?”
“Yeah. It was here, now it’s gone. But it was a message. You’ll be fine. All these people are connected. I know it. You know it. Soon everyone will know it.”
Mills, still looking up, searches the psychic’s eyes. In there, somewhere, is the anatomy of Gus’s visions. Unfathomable, but it’s there. Maybe the guy has an extra retina. Maybe that’s how Gus’s superhuman visions get to his brain. They have their own highway.
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
Mills reflexively withdraws his gaze. “Oh, sorry man. Sure, you can come. But you’ll follow and wait outside. Let me set the stage and make her comfortable,” he tells Gus. “And if I can make her comfortable, and if she agrees, I’ll text you to come in.”
“In the meantime, I’ll see if I get any vibes from the outside. We’ll make it work,” Gus assures him.
“She’s at the Desert Charm.”
“I was just there with Billie.”
“I know.”
For a split second, Mills sees something pass across Gus’s face, like the face people get when they take a wrong turn.
Maybe staring into Gus’s eyes was the wrong thing to do. Now Mills thinks he’s picking up on vibes. But there’s no way a power like Gus’s could transfer from eye to eye. He would laugh at himself, but his heart weighs heavily; there’s no laughter in there. Only worry for Kelly. And the Canning case. Mostly Kelly. Almost entirely Kelly. At the Desert Charm, safely ensconced in her bungalow, Francesca Norwood asks if the meeting can be off the record.
“You don’t have to give an official statement yet,” Mills tells her. “But I’ll be asking you if certain things you tell me can be stated on-the-record for the purposes of determining your credibility. You can lead me anywhere you want, Mrs. Norwood, on or off the record. Just don’t lead me down a path of lies.”
“I’m not interested in doing that,” she says. “Please have a seat.”
They sit in the living room, which looks out to a private courtyard overrun by bougainvillea. Mills hears the splashing of the fountain out there, the incessant chirping of the birds. They’re at opposite ends of a coffee table, their chairs facing a fireplace that’s accented by copper tile and, thankfully, not burning on this 108-degree day. Mills twists his chair so he’s facing more of the woman and less of the hearth. She bears a creamy white complexion and dark eye makeup, the contrast apparently premeditated. Mills had checked out her website, the one that supports her TV show on the church network, and she looks a lot tamer here in front of him. A lot tamer than those images of her online with the cyclonic wig and the forest of eyelashes. She sits here not encased in the robes of a monarch, but in what some would call a smart blazer and slacks. She has the same million-dollar dentistry as her husband.
“What do you want to tell me that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?” Mills asks her.
“You were asking me about Tahiti,” she says. “About the trip with Viveca.”
Mills nods. “Yes. It was a surprise to see you both going there one way. I was hoping for an explanation.”
She hesitates, turns her face away, and studies something on the wall. “My divorce,” she says before turning back. “My divorce is the explanation.” Then, looking squarely at Mills, she says, “And that is completely off the record. The church cannot know. The public cannot know.”
The words come rolling at him like elegant grenades.
“Divorce,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting to hear that.”
She sucks in her cheeks, then exhales. “We’re not ready to go public. It will tear the church apart. We have a plan.”
“So, your husband, he knows about your intentions to divorce?” “He does.”
“Do you have children?”
“Only one. Gabriel,” she says. “But he’s been banished.” “Banished? Like, exiled?”
“Most religions would call it excommunicated,” the woman explains. “We say banished.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Wow,” Mills says. “Your own son. Your only child.”
She lifts her chin, narrows her eyes. She sniffles and says, “It has not been easy.”
“Your husband has taken a harder line than you.”
“Toward Gabriel, yes.”
“Is that the reason for the divorce?”
“One of many.”
Mills leans forward, his hands folded between his knees. “Where’s your son now? What’s he doing in his exile?”
A tear rolls down her cheek. She brushes it away. “He lives in the valley. I’m not supposed to give him money, but I do. I control part of the business, so I have access, of course.”
“But he’s an untouchable, and you’ve erased him?”
She sobs now, her hands covering her face. He yields to her misery, her torment, whatever it is that destroys her right here in her bungalow at the ultraexclusive Desert Charm. Her body is heaving, wracking. He’s been this close to grief and torment before. He’s seen witnesses break down. He has sat across the room from the grieving. He’s comforted, he’s grabbed a hand, and he’s offered a mild hug. Yet he’s not tempted to do any of that now. Her only child. Banished. Something ain’t right with these people, with that church. Mills fences himself off from her emotion.
She coughs and says, “It’s true. Technically he’s untouchable. And technically I’ve erased him. How do you even know about that?”
He looks at her through a diamond in the chain-link fence and says, “I have sources.”
“People talk,” she says.
“Why Tahiti?”
“Viveca was buying property there.”
Mills shakes his head. “No. I mean why were you going to Tahiti. Were you agreeing to exile?”
She laughs, her mood apparently recovering. “No. I was not. I had a one-way ticket because I would be gone for an extended period of time. That much we planned,” she explains.
“To avoid a messy, public divorce?”
“And to explain my absence from the church,” Francesca says. “People would be told I had gone off to the South Pacific to break ground on a new cathedral. My husband is all about image, Detective, and this avoids the embarrassment of a divorce and the horrifying scandal it would cause. But I was not forbidden from coming back to Phoenix.” Now Mills wants to laugh. A horrifying scandal! “But if you’re getting a divorce, that’s public record. People are bound to find out.”
“I didn’t say we were getting a legal divorce. Gleason and I are agreeing to terms. To a contract that only our lawyers will know about.” Mills just sits there looking at her. He tries scrunching his face, narrowing his eyes, shifting in his chair, anything to articulate, without opening his mouth, that he has no idea what the fuck this woman is talking about. Because that’s how it would come out. What a fucking marriage of snake oil. Con artistry so exquisite it belongs in a gallery. “You said there were other reasons for your divorce, er, contract . . .” “Right. And those are too personal.”
“And irrelevant to my case?” Mills asks. “Because if they’re relevant, you should share.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Does your agreement with your husband call for you to leave the church?”
“I’m not sure I want to answer that on the record.”
“Why not?”
“My religion is personal.”
“I respect that,” Mills tells her. “But this indefinite excursion to Tahiti with Viveca, does it not have implications for your role in the church?”
“No comment.”
“Because you don’t want me to ask you why or how
you’d leave the church.”
“You’re very smart, Detective.”
But she clearly thinks she’s smarter. He resists the urge to squirm. He does this by turning the tables on Francesca Norwood, by finding a way to make her squirm in her elegant way. “What sin did your son commit to get himself banished from the church?”
She goes dour and sour. A shadow passes over her face. She tosses the shade his way. “We don’t really use the word sin,” she says. “Offense?”
“He stole a million dollars from a church fund.”
Mills laughs.
“It’s not funny,” she scolds him.
“I realize. And I’m sorry. But you say you’re still giving him money. I would think a million dollars would last a kid a while.”
“We recovered almost all of it,” she says. “And no one but the board of directors knew. He wasn’t as much banished from the church as he was banished from the family. But the board of directors did, in fact, draw up papers formalizing the banishment.”
“And church members never knew . . .”
“They figured it out after a while,” she concedes. “The terms of his banishment forbid him from entering church property.”
“I suppose you never reported his theft to the police.”
She smiles. “We did not.”
Mills mulls this over, kind of luxuriates in the silence. He’s insistent on it to the extent that it keeps her uneasy and it gives him time to process. On one hand, he doesn’t want to get lost in the weeds of church business, however intriguing those weeds might be; on the other hand, his gut tells him there’s a skeletal connection between the church and Viveca’s murder, that somewhere in the bones of the church resides the marrow of her death. This is not a new revelation. It’s an ongoing revelation that produces more questions than answers. But the weeds. So many weeds. Gus Parker! The name goes off like an alarm. That’s what he has Gus for, and Gus is sitting nearby in his car. He had nearly forgotten Gus. How to make a mental pivot a verbal pivot? Aw, fuck it. “What do you think of psychics, Mrs. Norwood?” “I’m sorry?”
“Psychics. Would your church approve?”
The shake of her head conveys confusion. “I don’t think we’ve ever taken up the issue. Are psychics guided by a particular theology?” Mills shrugs. “I don’t know.”
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