Again, the room comes to a hush. In the void, Mills’s suspicion coalesces. He knows the answer to the next question, but he asks anyway to prompt it on the record. “Why would you want to be reinstated in a church that banished you?”
Handcuffed as he is, the guy gets up and walks to the window; he rattles his forehead against the glass. “I’m broke, man. My mom pays for my house. But I got no money. Which might explain the drugs you found . . .”
He’s all sniffles. Sniffles of cocaine and despair.
“Your fall from grace,” Mills says.
“If you insist on clichés, yeah,” Norwood says. “My dad offered me a full salary if I came back. I couldn’t turn it down.”
“And now you see all that money slipping away. You see the church slipping way. So, that’s why you’re cooperating with us,” Mills says.
“He said if I got Viveca out of the way and personally handed him the key, he’d deposit a million dollars in my bank account,” the kid explains.
“Tempting,” Mills says.
“You should get my father,” Gabriel says.
With that statement, Mills understands the situation as not only criminal, not only tragic, but just fucking sad, a whole ward of self-inflicted injury.
“You’re selling out your dad pretty fast,” he says to the kid.
“Look what he did to me.”
“You’re the victim?”
“In part,” Gabriel says. “But I’m aware of my role. And the roles of others.”
Mills approaches him, asks him to sit. Once Gabriel is on the couch again, Mills pulls up a chair opposite him. “There are others?” Gabriel laughs bitterly. “Of course there are. My father doesn’t do the dirty work.”
“I’m assuming if you name names, the county attorney will be more inclined to offer a deal.”
“Tucker Charles.”
“Who?”
“He’s on the Board of Directors.”
“Right,” Mills says. “I met him. What about him?”
“He’s responsible for the death of Clark Canning.”
“Seriously? Who doesn’t the church murder? And how is that an act of faith?”
“Ha ha! Detective, you’re hilarious. This isn’t about faith. It’s about money and power and what they’ll do to protect it. Tucker poisoned Clark Canning after my father found out that Clark had stolen that key. They figured with Clark dead, the key would never be found.” “They didn’t figure on Clark telling Viveca?”
“My father told Clark he’d kill him if Viveca found out about the key,” Gabriel says. “But then he had him killed anyway, just as a precaution.”
“And he knew he had to kill Viveca once she sent him that email,” Mills surmises.
“He knew someone had to kill Viveca,” Gabriel says. “And that’s all I want to say for now. I won’t answer any more questions. I’d like a lawyer.”
As far as Mills is concerned, Gabriel Norwood has answered plenty of questions, but now come the jurisdictional issues. He and Liv Chang agree to have Gabriel taken to Phoenix police headquarters to be processed for the more serious charges of murder, conspiracy to commit, and whatever else fits the crime. Chang will also arrest him here on the break-in charges but will postpone the process of booking until Gabriel’s disposition is reached in Phoenix. All will be referred to the county attorney, so for now it’s simply procedure.
Back in Phoenix, Gabriel gets chatty again. Mills loves chatty but, at this point, his head is throbbing with too much information, too many dots connected for one day, too many personalities implicated, too much of humanity, of the people here on this planet with no sense of truth: there’s gravity, you stay on the ground, you do not rise above others, you do not rule them, you do not harm them, you do not betray them. It’s been a long day. Tomorrow will be longer. This case isn’t over. In a way, it’s just begun. Funny how the walls of the valley sometimes make you feel safe and protected, and sometimes they make you feel like they’re closing in. They’re sitting in the interrogation room, videotape rolling, waiting for Gabriel’s lawyer. Preston and Powell are already preparing to go before a judge to get a warrant to search the church.
“How long before this makes the news and Bennett and Jillian find out?” Gabriel asks.
“I don’t know, Gabriel. I don’t run the news.”
“But I’m sure this will be released to the media. You know, my arrest will be announced . . .”
“I have as little to do with the media as possible,” Mills tells him. “It’s not my job.”
“Sensational case,” the kid says.
“You want to be a media star?” Mills asks. “Is that it?”
Gabriel sulks. “No. That’s not it. As soon as the news breaks, my dad will probably take off.”
That’s not going to happen. Mills will put surveillance on Gleason Norwood and will try to keep the arrest of Gabriel under the radar for at least the next twelve hours. He rubs his chin, takes a visual journey back to the house in Copper Palace. “Was it common knowledge that the Cannings’ had hid the key behind the Dali?”
Norwood’s son curls his lip and shakes his head. “No. That would be stupid.”
“So, how did you find it?”
“I’m not proud of this, but I put a gun to her head. You’d be surprised how easily people cooperate with a gun to their head.”
Mills has to clench his fist in order to restrain the backside of his hand from smacking this piece of shit upside the head. “Are you proud of killing her?”
“No comment.”
“There’s something confusing to me, Gabriel. Why did you take the Dali? You could have just removed the key and left the painting where it was. I mean, you not only gave us a lead, you put it right there on exhibit by leaving an empty space on the wall.”
The suspect shakes his head. “Because I’m an idiot. All right? They had the key stuck there with so much tape, like a whole wad of it, or Krazy Glue, or something, and I couldn’t get the key off the back without destroying something. So, I was like, I have to get out of this house . . . so, I took it.”
“How come we don’t see your car going through the visitor’s lane at her subdivision?” Mills asks him.
“Because I wasn’t in my car,” he replies. “I Ubered over there. Told Viveca I needed to see her about something urgent. Then I borrowed her car to go home. It’s parked in the big garage behind the church in case you can get a warrant.”
Mills leans back, clears his throat, and says, “Now, tell us about Aaliyah Jones . . .”
“Who?”
“We don’t have time for you to be coy, Gabriel. We need to know what happened to her.”
The guys flips his hands upward. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Aaliyah Jones, the reporter,” Mills thunders. “She was investigating the church and now she’s missing.”
“Oh her,” Gabriel says.
“Yeah, her.”
“I have no idea what happened with her.”
“And now you’re trying my patience, Mr. Norwood,” Mills says. “And now he’ll say nothing else in the matter until we have a chance to talk alone,” declares a man in one of those fancy designer suits and expensive hair weaves. He strides in as if he’s striding into a Law & Order courtroom, the double doors held open for his arrival by two deputies. Unfortunately for him, there is only a single door to the interrogation room and no deputies to exaggerate the flourish of his entrance.
He says his name is Kelton Summers, Attorney-at-Law. He says it just like that, the full suffix and everything. He, at least for now, will serve as Gabriel Norwood’s lawyer.
Mills is already on to the next thing. Kelly undergoes surgery tomorrow. It will be the second assault against the cancer. It will take the cancer by surprise. The surgery will be a declaration of war. So, he assumes, will be the raid on the Church of Angels Rising.
Just when he thought he had had enough of lawyers, he goes home and finds Kelly who, wit
h one simple smile and peck on the cheek, redeems all the other lawyers on the planet—if that’s possible. She’s sitting on the couch, her feet up on the coffee table. “We won,” she says. “Trey Robert Shinner: Not guilty on all counts.”
“Amazing,” Mills says. “I didn’t know the verdict came down.” “About four o’clock.”
He’s still leaning over her on the couch and says, “I was locked in an interrogation room. Wish I could have been there to celebrate.”
She winces. “There’s nothing to celebrate.”
“Of course there is. You won. You’re one of the few lawyers to keep this goon out of jail.”
She sighs deeply. “That’s not something to be proud of,” she says. “In a way, that makes me responsible for the next crime he commits. And you know he will commit another.”
He sits beside her, rubs her shoulder. “That’s not your problem, Kelly. You’ve been doing this long enough to know that.”
“At least the verdict came down before the surgery,” she mutters. “Not a moment to spare . . .”
She turns her face to his, kisses him. Their lips touch at the ridges, they graze each other softly there, lingering just for a moment, but long enough to give Mills a lump in his throat, and to remind him that love is often this simple.
38
Billie calls it a surprise. Gus isn’t so sure.
She’s calling from Sky Harbor, says she’s just landed and will limo over to the Desert Charm. “Why don’t I just come pick you up?” he asks.
“The limo will save time. Besides, I thought you might have a client.”
“I did,” he says. “About an hour ago. What brings you back to Phoenix?”
“I told you,” she flirts. “I just wanted to surprise you.”
“I’m surprised. I think.”
“Besides, Miranda is back here and we have more work to do on the tour. She can’t stay with me in LA full-time.”
“Right.”
“Can you come by tonight? I’ll order room service.”
He tells her “sure,” and they’re off the phone. Gus scratches at his scruffy chin. He didn’t get many breakthrough vibes with his client earlier—it was a woman thinking about changing careers, from what to what he can’t remember, maybe sous chef to firefighter; it was something ironic—but he’s getting vibes now. He doesn’t recognize them, doesn’t understand them, but they prick at his skin, faintly at first, and then, like the march of pins to a cushion.
He walks out to the pool. Ivy follows. He dives in and stays under as long as his lungs will allow. This is Zen, here at the bottom, his arms crossed over his chest, his breathing acquiescent. This is Zen, floating but not floating, the silence of water, the absence of a tide, no pull of the moon. So he loiters there in his vessel of solitude until he hears the frenzied barking of Ivy crashing through the depth between them. He opens his eyes. Through the wobbly water he can see her frantic at the edge of the pool, her big golden face leaning over the edge, looking for Gus. He soars to the surface with a straight-line push off the bottom. She’s still barking when he breaks the surface, still barking when he pulls himself from the pool. Still barking when he towels himself off and hugs her close.
He showers, changes, heads to the Desert Charm. Billie opens the door in a white gossamer blouse, untucked, and a flowing pair of linen pants, the color of burlap. A lightning bolt pendant hangs from her neck. She smells musky when he leans in and kisses her. “Gus, come in,” she says.
He follows her to the living room. She stretches out on the couch. He sits at her side, squeezing in. “You tired?” he asks.
“I’m always tired. Exhausted.”
“I guess telling you to slow down is pointless.”
“Pointless.”
“But you are stopping over in Tahiti on the tour.”
“Yeah,” she says, no more soliciting him to come.
Someone has to break the ice. It might as well be him. He’s feeling chilly enough. “How was your visit with Cameron?”
She smiles. “Oh great! That old guy! After all these years he’s still the same old pain in the ass. But I guess you could say he’s mellowed a little. Enough to join the band, that is.”
“What do you mean?”
She pulls herself up a bit. “Just for the Down Under tour,” she says. “He’ll replace Glen ’cause Glen has a conflict.”
Glen is Billie’s bass player.
“So, that’s it. All decided?”
She laughs. “Between Cam and me, yes. But then there’s the agents and managers and lawyers.”
“What about boyfriends and girlfriends?” Gus asks. He’s not laughing. He’s not smiling. He’s not pouting. He’s just looking at her with a thin expression.
“You mean, you, right?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“That’s one of the reasons I came to Phoenix. I thought we should talk about it.”
He nods. “We’re talking about it.”
The pinpricks are back. He’s the cushion.
“It’s not what it looks like, Gus,” she tells him. “We’re not getting back together.”
“But you’re not necessarily staying apart,” he says. “How long is this tour between Australia and New Zealand? A month?”
“Three and a half weeks, so yeah, a month,” she says. “And that’s kind of what Cam’s visit to LA was all about. You know, if we could be in the same house for forty-eight hours and not kill each other, we could probably survive a few weeks overseas.”
“Probably.”
“And you’d still be welcome to come along, the whole time, if you wanted,” she insists. “But I know you have priorities here.” “Responsibilities.”
The earth seems to shift below his feet. There’s a tremor.
“Did you feel that?” he asks her.
“What?”
“The ground move . . .”
She laughs again. “C’mon, we don’t have earthquakes here.”
He tilts his chin and narrows his eyes. “Maybe you brought one with you from LA.”
“Oh my God, I love that! Can I use it in a song? So dramatic!”
He puts his head in his hands and rubs his eyes. “Sure, use it. I don’t think you’ll forget it.”
She grabs his arm. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. I think I’m getting some strong vibes. The tremor was just the beginning.”
He stands and crosses the room. He leans against a window looking out to the splash pool in the courtyard. He can’t see his reflection in the pool from here, but he imagines his reflection in the pool, and that’s all he needs to see. The rest is crystalline. They’re in separate hemispheres, on either side of the equator. They’re on opposite sides of the international date line. Just finding each other’s longitude and latitude is daunting, and they haven’t even left home. They’re here. In the same room. Something shakes inside him, the rattle of an uninvited epiphany, perhaps, or instant grief, like the sudden news of death.
“I was supposed to be coming to LA this weekend, but you don’t want me there,” he says, still peering through the window. “You want me here. This is the weekend we’re breaking up, right?”
He hears her gasp. “Don’t say it like that.”
“You gasp at what it sounds like? What do you think it’s supposed to sound like, Billie?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think I do. You think it can’t be happening unless it happens in a lyric,” he says, turning to her.
She gets up. She walks to him her arms extended, a helpless waif. A helpless waif has never been so powerful. “You sound hurt, Gus. I’m sorry. I thought we could spend a few days and talk about it. But who am I to compete with your psychic vibes? I should have known you’d pick up on something before we even ordered dinner. Should we?” “Should we what?”
“Order dinner?”
He looks at her, shakes his head. “Whatever, Billie. I don’t care.” She grabs him b
y the shoulders and rubs him there, then pulls him closer into an embrace. “I’m too old for this,” she whispers in his ear. “I’m too old to go down this road much longer.”
“What road?”
“I’ve never been married. I will never marry. It’s too late for me to learn how to do that. And trust me, I have no clue. There’s a whole line of casualties behind you, Gus . . .”
“But when you love someone,” he hears himself say.
“But this has nothing to do with love . . .”
“Oh, yes it does,” he tells her.
She shakes her head, pushes her hair behind her neck. “I’m not saying I don’t love you. I do. I do love you, Gus. Whatever pain I cause you, I promise I will cause myself double. I just know that life gives you as much freedom as you want. Some want less than others. Some want more. I don’t think it’s possible for me to ever have enough. The universe is too big. I need the freedom to inhabit the universe.”
Ok.
So.
Hmmm.
He looks at her. He stares into her eyes, seeking what, he doesn’t know. There had always been solace there. But now he’s looking for something broken. Like a shattered bulb, a short circuit, a fucking broken mirror, anything. Maybe he hopes to find confirmation of their denouement.
Instead he sees Aaliyah Jones staring back at him.
“Aaliyah . . .” he says.
“What did you call me?” Billie asks him.
“Huh?”
Again, the other woman in her eyes. It has to be Aaliyah Jones.
“You said Aaliyah. Who’s that?” Billie asks. “What does that mean?”
He apologizes, explains he’s in a bit of a trance, asks for her indulgence. Aaliyah, strong but tormented, will not look away. She will not budge. She will not depart Billie’s eyes. Trapped there, like a spirit, like a possession, Aaliyah tells Gus she’s in prison. This does not surprise Gus. This should not surprise anyone. It’s a good thing she’s alive, but she’s obviously being held against her will. Gus can’t see where she is. He tries to ask her. He begs, “Where are you? Do you have any idea?”
Valley of Shadows Page 36