by P J Parrish
Anthony’s red-rimmed eyes shot to her, but he said nothing.
“But you were still pushing him?” Louis asked.
“I was trying to persuade, not push,” Anthony said. “I assure you that, in the end, I would have accepted whatever his final decision may have been.”
“But now the decision is yours,” Louis said.
Anthony stared at Louis, clear indignation in his eyes. “My father was the soul and heart of our church,” he said softly. “I gain nothing by killing him, not even the six million dollars. The television people wanted the Reverend Jonas Prince. I don’t think they will want me.”
“You’re not so silver-throated, I take it,” Emily said.
There was an odd mixture of anger and embarrassment in Anthony’s eyes. He was still holding the white towel and he began to carefully fold it.
“No one could match my father’s charisma and innate divinity,” he said. “But I will pray for the strength and ability now to step into his shoes and fulfill his mission. I have no doubt, with God’s help, that I will succeed. Maybe not on television, but I will continue to lead the congregation.”
“There’s no one else?” Emily asked. “No other family?”
“No,” he said. “My mother passed when I was young and my younger brother, Nathan, died in a boating accident when he was twelve. For most of my life, it’s been only my father and me. I was always the heir to his mission. I’ve accepted that.”
“Accepted?” Emily asked.
Anthony was quiet. He seemed to be staring at something on the far wall but there was nothing there that Louis could see.
“Sometimes a child can feel pressure to follow in a father’s footsteps,” Emily said. “Especially a powerful father.”
“I knew from a very early age that helping to spread God’s word would be my purpose in life,” Anthony said. “But it wasn’t just my father. It was the Holy Father who compelled me.”
Anthony set the towel on the desk, folded in a perfect square. “Are we finished? I would really like to go see my father now,” he said.
“Just a few more questions,” Louis said. “Do you know anyone who would want to kill your father?”
“Of course not, I—” Anthony stopped himself.
Louis waited, pen poised over his binder.
“There is one man,” Anthony said slowly. “His name is Walter Bushman. He’s an atheist activist in Detroit.”
“Your father had trouble with him?” Louis asked.
“Yes. Three months ago, he started a harassment campaign against my father. I’m sure it was to boost the ratings of his radio show. He demanded my father publicly debate him on the air about the existence of God. My father, of course, refused to even be in the same room with the man, but Bushman just wouldn’t stop. He wrote articles and took out newspaper ads calling my father a coward. We tried to ignore him, but eventually our own council began pressuring my father to respond to Bushman. My father’s response came in the form of a sermon, on live TV on a Sunday morning. He called out Bushman by name.”
Anthony smiled slightly at the memory.
“It was the Reverend Jonas Prince at his best,” he said. “He called Bushman a soulless philistine whose inflated sense of self simply would not allow him to accept the idea of anything or anyone greater than he. I believe the sermon was what prompted Glory Days to want to take us nationwide.”
“And it put Mr. Bushman in his place?” Louis asked.
“I assume so,” Anthony said. “We never heard from him again.”
Louis wrote Bushman’s name in his binder. It seemed a long shot that Jonas Prince was the victim of a religious feud, but anything was possible. As Emily had said, religious fanatics had no patent on crazy.
“May I please go see my father now?”
Pained impatience edged Anthony’s voice and Louis didn’t blame him. Steele was simply doing his job, trying to keep his crime scene as sterile as possible. But to prevent the man’s only son—an ordained minister—to see his dead father and say whatever he needed to say over the body seemed unusually cold hearted.
“I’ll check for you,” Emily said. She pulled her radio from her belt and moved away from the desk. Louis looked back at Anthony. He was drinking water again.
“One more question, Reverend Prince,” Louis said. “Your father was dressed in robe and stole.”
“Yes. He always wears a robe and stole for services.”
“Don’t most Methodist ministers wear suits?” Louis asked.
“My father wasn’t like most ministers,” Anthony said. “He felt God should be exalted in every way humanly possible, that there should be a grandiosity in worship. His vestments, as old-fashioned as some think they were, were his way of glorifying his message.”
“And the stole,” Louis said. “Is there a significance to the embroidered design on the front?”
Anthony was quiet, but Louis saw something pass quickly across his eyes. Surprise? Or was he just trying to remember something?
“No, it was just an old design,” Anthony said. “It has no significance.”
Emily had stepped forward, stuffing the radio back in her belt. “I can take you downstairs now,” she said.
Anthony quickly moved to a closet, got out his suit jacket and slipped it on. He was knotting his tie as he followed Emily out of the office.
When Louis heard their footsteps fade, he moved closer to the desk. He didn’t have a warrant to search, which meant he couldn’t open drawers or closets, only observe whatever was in plain view.
A stack of letters lay in the in-box. Like everything in the office, the letters were in a neat pile, so Louis could read only the top letterhead—Ministries of Light. It was a letter about a lecture Anthony was scheduled to give next month.
He hesitated, but the PI in him couldn’t resist.
He used his pen to nudge the top letter so the next two letterheads were visible. Michigan Conference 1991 of the Methodist Church, and something called the Fresh Start.
Emily’s voice came from Louis’s radio, almost a whisper. “Prince wants you out of his office, now.”
Louis acknowledged her with a 10-4 and went to the door. He stopped to close the door behind him and that’s when he saw it.
A faint shadow on the far wall, a rectangle about three-by-four-feet, just a shade darker than the beige wall. Louis moved closer. There was a picture hanger above it.
Someone had taken down a picture. A pretty good-sized one that had hung there long enough for the sun to have bleached the wall around it.
The closet door was still ajar. Louis went to it and moved it open with his shoulder. There it was, a framed portrait of Jonas Prince. Anthony must have taken it down.
The question was—had it been removed out of grief or something else?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Back downstairs, Louis took his time returning to the sanctuary. He walked slowly, wandering down hallways, taking time to look for any strange marks on the walls, floors or doors. He was searching for the place where Jonas Prince had been murdered, knowing it probably wasn’t far from the sanctuary, but all the surfaces looked pristine, doors were locked, and there was no evidence of struggle. His breath rose in a steady stream of cold vapor as he walked, a sign that Steele still hadn’t ordered the heat turned back on.
His radio crackled. “Louis?”
He jerked it from his belt to answer Emily. “Yeah?”
“Where are you? Steele wants us back at the altar.”
“I’m on my way. Where’s Anthony?”
“I brought him down to view his father. He broke down pretty bad when he saw him, and Cam had to almost carry him out to the lobby. Then he got ahold of himself and asked how long we were going to leave him like that. I told him it was going to be a while. Then he said he was going home.”
“And you said?”
“Like hell you are.” Emily chuckled. “No, I told him we’d appreciate it if he stayed in case we had more quest
ions. He said he would wait up in his office, that he had calls to make.”
“I haven’t seen him up here,” Louis said, starting down the stairs. “Tell a uniform to watch his car. I just want to know if he leaves and where he goes.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“Any word on a search warrant yet?”
“Yeah, Steele just got it.”
“Good.” Louis clicked off and stuffed the radio back in his belt. He decided to take a different hallway back to the sanctuary, but a walk down yet another long white hall yielded nothing but locked doors. As he neared the sanctuary, he saw a door that stood ajar. There was a small sign on it: DRESSING ROOM. PRIVATE.
Louis pushed the door open and went in. It was a small room, maybe ten-by-ten, with a stained-glass window and wall of wood-paneled closets. The only furnishings were a wooden bench, a full-length mirror, and a valet chair draped with a blue, pinstriped jacket that matched the trousers worn by Jonas Prince. Another open door led to a small bathroom.
One of the closet doors was open, and Louis started his search there. It held a worn gray cardigan sweater, a wrinkled raincoat, a pair of chinos, and a plaid shirt. The sweater gave off a strong, earthy smell—like it had been stored in an old cedar closet. There was a pair of worn, brown Hush Puppies on the floor of the closet.
Louis guessed that Jonas Prince had probably come to the church dressed in these street clothes and changed into his suit and dress shoes before putting on his robe for the Wednesday evening service.
Louis opened the second closet. It held more robes, a rainbow of colors. On the inside of the door was a rack, draped with six stoles and several gold-tasseled cords. Each stole had a different embroidered pattern, one with a crown of thorns and a chalice, another with a star of Bethlehem, a third with two gold bands and white candles.
Louis understood now—Jonas Prince had a collection of stoles for every occasion from Easter and Christmas to a wedding ceremony.
He looked down. The floor was white tile. He dropped to his knees and lowered his head to the floor, looking for black scuffmarks. Even if Jonas Prince had been too feeble to put up much of a fight, his survival instincts would have made him kick as the breath was squeezed from his body.
And kick the Reverend had.
There were several dark marks on the white tile.
Louis looked up at the sign on the door. PRIVATE. This was where the reverend had been strangled. A room everyone knew he would go to, yet a place few people were allowed to enter. But Anthony Prince had probably been in here countless times, maybe helping his father dress for services. And Jonas would have had no reason to not welcome his son in.
Anthony claimed he had left the church right after the service, gone to dinner, then went right home.
Louis rose, remembering what Emily had said. Four minutes was a long time to look someone in the eye as you strangle him.
But maybe four minutes was all the time Anthony had needed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The crime scene techs had just began to crawl through Jonas Prince’s dressing room, when Steele came up to Louis’s side at the door.
“A state car is waiting for you,” Steele said.
“Where am I going?” Louis said.
“The Chop House to verify Prince’s alibi.” Steele watched the techs for a moment then walked away.
Not one word, Louis thought, no thanks, no praise for finding the room where the murder was likely committed and saving the CSU guys a lot of wasted time and effort.
Louis bypassed the sanctuary as he made his way back out doors. A deputy handed off the keys to the Explorer parked in the circular drive and Louis got in. It was near noon when he pulled up in front of the Chop House in downtown Grand Rapids. The restaurant occupied the ground floor of a refurbished red brick building, its double bronze doors shielded by a black awning. The big front window, swaged by drapes, looked dark. There were no cars in the adjacent parking lot, and the sign on the door told Louis that the place was open five to eleven p.m.
He went to the front window and peered inside. He could see people moving around and he tapped on the glass. A young man in a white shirt, black vest and slacks looked up and came forward slowly. Louis held up his badge up to the glass.
A click of a lock, one of the bronze doors swung open and the man let him inside.
“Is your boss here?” Louis asked.
“Yes, sir. I’ll get him.”
The kid hustled away, and Louis moved deeper into the restaurant. The lights were up, but he imagined that, at dinnertime, a gold glow gave a luxurious sheen to the apricot-colored sheers, the dark-paneled walls and the gleaming wood bar. The far wall was lined with Picasso knock-offs and he counted no less than four wine racks tucked in the corner. A faint but not unpleasant smell of musty hay and cedar told him there was a cigar lounge nearby.
A man appeared from a backroom and came toward Louis, rolling down his shirt sleeves as he walked.
“I’m Miles Beauchamp,” he said. “How may I help you, officer?”
“I need to ask you about a customer you may have had last night,” Louis said. “Were you here?”
“Yes. From six until closing at eleven.”
“Do you know Reverend Anthony Prince?”
“Of course. We all know him. He’s been coming in for at least five years.”
“Was he in last night?”
Beauchamp nodded, his eyes filling with questions. “He comes in for dinner every Wednesday night.”
Louis opened his binder and started taking notes. “Do you recall when he arrived and when he left?”
“He came in around eight, and he left sometime after ten. I greeted him at his table, as I always do, and told him I would see him later in the cigar lounge.” He paused. “But come to think of it, he didn’t go into the lounge like he usually does.”
“How did he seem?” Louis asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What was his mood? Upset? Preoccupied? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Beauchamp paused, thinking. “Well, he seemed quiet. He didn’t finish his meal, and I asked him if there was something wrong with his steak, but he said he was fine. And he asked me to bring him a fourth drink.”
“What does he drink?”
“Hendricks martini.” Beauchamp leaned closer, a small smile on his lips. “Just between you and me, I always thought that a bit strange, a minister who drinks gin. But I suppose even a man of God needs to wash away his troubles now and then.” The smile faded. “But I’ve never seen him order more than three.”
Louis nodded. “Was he alone?”
“He’s always alone.”
“Always?” Louis asked. “In five years, you never saw him with anyone? Not his wife or maybe his father?”
“No, his wife never comes in,” Beauchamp said. “I met his father once, maybe three years back, when Mr. Prince brought his father here for a birthday dinner.” He paused, frowning slightly. “I remember the older gentleman made a point of telling me that he liked his regular restaurant much more.”
“Did he say which restaurant?”
Beauchamp raised his chin slightly. “Yes, that place out on Reeds Lake. Rose’s, I think it’s called.”
Louis wrote the name in his book.
“Can I ask why you’re asking about the reverend?” Beauchamp asked.
Word of the elder Prince’s death had not yet made the streets and Louis didn’t want this man’s statement colored with emotions or assumptions.
“I can’t really say at this time,” Louis said. “Could I please see a copy of his bill?”
“Certainly.”
When Beauchamp left, Louis walked to the doors of the cigar lounge, peeked inside, then stopped at the maître d’s stand to check out the menu. Steak au poivre, beef Wellington, Australian lamb chops. And not a price to be seen.
Beauchamp returned and handed Louis a check. Anthony Prince had ordered a bone-in strip steak, extra rare w
ith a side of sautéed spinach. Stapled to the back was a small cash register receipt time-stamped to show Prince had paid his bill in cash at ten-twelve.
Louis dug in his pocket for a business card. “Thank you, Mr. Beauchamp. If you remember anything else unusual about last night, I’d appreciate a call.”
Louis went to the door. It was locked and, as he was looking around for a latch, the young man reappeared. He unlocked the door and held it open. As Louis started to step outside, the waiter touched his arm.
“You were asking about Reverend Prince?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
The man looked back toward the dining room, then turned back to Louis. “Know him and hate him,” he said. “We all hate him. He’s like anal about his routine. The same table, the same martini, the same food, the same lousy twelve percent tip. But if his steak isn’t bleeding out or we forget and put two olives in his drink, he stiffs us for the whole dinner.”
Bitter service people. Great sources of information.
“Were you working last night?”
“Yeah. I’ve worked the Wednesday through Saturday shift for years.”
“Did you notice anything different about Reverend Prince last night?”
The waiter hesitated, his eyes moving again toward the dining room. “I don’t know if I should say.”
“Just between you and me,” Louis said.
The waiter nodded toward the glass doors. “Well, you know it was cold and rainy last night,” he said. “Around the time Reverend Prince was getting his coat on, it started really coming down. I started to ask him if he wanted to borrow an umbrella or have someone get his car from the lot—we don’t have a valet—but before I could, he went outside on his own.”
“And?”
“He stepped out from under the awning and just stood here in the rain, like he was taking a freakin’ shower or something.”
“For how long?”
“At least a minute,” the waiter said. “I finally had to get to work and when I looked back, he was gone.”
Louis looked to the sidewalk, picturing what the waiter had described. Anthony Prince had said he spent his Wednesday nights alone to meditate but standing in a freezing rain was a strange way to do it.