by Julie Cave
“Your name was found in her cell phone,” said Elise. “The call log shows that you were in communication with the victim on a regular basis. What was the nature of your relationship with her?”
“I was concerned with her well-being,” said Mr. Whitehall. “I check on her every few days to make sure she’s okay. You must know by now that she was a heavy heroin user. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear of her death at any time.”
“Her death from what?”
“Well, an overdose,” said the pastor, his light red flush turning rosy. “Or simply her body giving up. She’s been using drugs for many years.”
“So you’ve known her for a long time?” Elise pounced.
Mr. Whitehall seemed to realize he’d given away more information than he’d wanted to. “I think it’s obvious to anyone that she’s been using drugs for a long time,” he said, evenly. “But sure, I’ve known her for a while.”
“And how exactly did you know her?”
He stiffened and ducked his head. The silence stretched into awkwardness.
“Mr. Whitehall?”
“We went to college together, a long time ago.”
“Really? Where was that?”
“At UC San Diego.”
“Do you know a person named Lola Albright?”
There was a tiny pause. “Uh . . . no, I don’t believe so.” His eyes were wide and looked straight into Elise’s, unblinking. However, his hands danced on his knees, picking and smoothing, tapping and flicking.
“She was also in frequent contact with Malia,” explained Elise.
The pastor shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t think I know her.”
Dinah stared at him. He was lying, and not doing a good job hiding it. His hands continued to skip and dart on his lap.
Elise glanced at Dinah and sighed. “Mr. Whitehall, where were you on Monday?”
“All day?” he asked. “I was at work, with various different people. I can give you my schedule. Or you can ask my secretary for it. She has the details.”
Elise nodded and stood up. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Whitehall. I have no doubt I’ll be back with more questions.”
“Yes, Detective, I understand.”
He walked her to the front door. As she ducked through the doorjamb, Whitehall said, “There is something else I’d like to say.”
“Yes?”
Mr. Whitehall drew himself up and Dinah saw in that moment the tall, handsome man whom his congregation liked so much. “I didn’t kill her, Detective.”
Dinah looked into his eyes searchingly, looking for deceit. She didn’t find any, but that meant nothing if Whitehall had managed to convince himself that this was the truth.
As she walked to the car with Elise, she had to admit that it was incongruous to think that the pastor of Ten Mile Hollow First Baptist Church could be involved in murder. Most small-town murderers here were hardly criminal masterminds. But equally, it was not inconceivable. How many community leaders like pastors and politicians had covered up bad behavior to protect their careers? There was a plethora of examples of those who had done terrible things to cover up their shame.
Did that extend to the pastor of Ten Mile Hollow First Baptist Church?
Chapter 5
At some point during the night the rain turned to sleet, and it made Dinah’s midnight run rather uncomfortable. Still, she kept running, her mind processing the things they knew so far about the case. Her instinct told her that Angus Whitehall was telling the truth about not killing Malia Shaw, but lying about virtually everything else. It made her wonder why. She slowed down to a walk, pulled out her earphones, and called Aaron.
Aaron Sinclair was an FBI agent who specialized in explosives. She’d met him several months ago, and the chemistry between them had flared immediately. But Dinah had been a recently recovered alcoholic and a new Christian, and a romantic relationship was something she just couldn’t contemplate. They’d settled into friendship instead, taking it very slowly.
He was currently in Oregon, investigating a series of bombings thought to be perpetrated by eco-terrorists. So far they’d damaged two slaughterhouses and a pig farm.
“Hey, I’ve been wondering how you were doing,” Aaron’s warm voice answered.
Dinah felt a simultaneous thrill of hearing his voice and a warmth at the comfort she felt talking to him. “Sorry it’s so late,” she said.
Aaron laughed. “I expect nothing less from you. Have you been running?”
“Yeah, just on my way back to the house now. How is Oregon?”
“Cold,” he said. “But we’re getting closer to our targets, I think. How is Virginia?”
“Also cold.” Dinah filled him in on the generalities of the case. Aaron listened without interrupting. Dinah loved that he didn’t interrupt.
He was silent for a few moments after she’d finished. “Sounds interesting,” he said. “There’s some kind of history that needs to be explored. Something that happened 20 years ago.”
“You’re right,” agreed Dinah. She paused. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” said Aaron. “Thanks for calling me.”
“I better get some sleep now,” said Dinah. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
Back at Elise’s house, thoroughly soaked and cold, she had a hot shower and went to bed, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
She woke at six-thirty and had eggs and coffee for breakfast with Elise and Chloe. The teenager was particularly quiet this morning, Dinah noted. Who understood the creature that is an adolescent girl?
At the sheriff’s office, Elise’s phone rang. She listened for a moment and then put it on speaker and motioned for Dinah to listen.
“Hi, it’s Dr. Walker,” the voice of the medical examiner said, cheerily. “Sorry it took some time to get back to you.”
“That’s fine, Doctor,” said Elise.
“I took the liberty of waiting for the analysis of the crime scene to come through, as well as of the body. I had the results expedited for you,” continued Dr. Walker.
“Great,” said Elise, raising her eyebrows at Dinah. Here was the opportunity to accelerate the case. Dinah leaned forward in anticipation.
“So, crime scene first. You can imagine how difficult it was to wade through the detritus in the apartment, most of it irrelevant to the case,” said Dr. Walker. “But anyway, we persisted. We found some good fingerprints in and around the front door, and the system told us that they belong to Simon Wakowski, a guy with a drug record as long as I am tall, from what I can gather.”
“No surprises there,” said Elise. “He was her drug dealer; we haven’t ruled him out as a possible suspect.”
“Right. Well, the only other items of interest we found that didn’t belong to Malia Shaw were some short black strands of hair,” said Dr. Walker. “Probably male. There weren’t any hits on the system.”
Elise didn’t say anything, but Dinah knew they would both be thinking the same thing: Angus Whitehall’s hair was short and black.
“Did you find anything on her body?” she asked.
The doctor sighed. “I have no good news, I’m afraid. I would say the woman was murdered quickly and efficiently. Strangulation leaves no mess, no marks. There is no weapon to trace.”
“Oh,” said Elise, disappointed.
“But I don’t come to you completely empty-handed,” said Dr. Walker. “The fake IDs you found in Malia’s apartment yielded some results. I sent them over to the local FBI field office. Apparently, fake documents often contain some certain methods of manufacture that help us to identify where they came from. The FBI people were pretty certain the documents were made by a local outfit who is also known to launder money and sell weapons illegally, among other things. The agent told me that if you wish to speak to this outfit in Richmond, that they’ll accompany you and assist you.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Elise. “We’re both FBI alumni. I’m sure one of us will be able to smooth
the path there.” She smiled at Dinah.
Unless they know about how I was kicked out of the FBI in disgrace, thought Dinah. They may not be so happy to talk to me then.
“That’s all I’ve got for you, Detective. I hope it was in some way helpful.”
“Of course,” said Elise. “You never know what will pan out.” She hung up. “I sent you an email,” she said to Dinah. “Malia Shaw’s bank statements. Do you want to go over them and tell me what you think?”
“Sure,” said Dinah. “I may need a second cup of coffee though.”
“Feel free to drink the acid we’ve got here,” smiled Elise.
Dinah poured herself a cup of said acid and sat down at the desk she was using. The bank statements were not complex or hard to read.
It was immediately obvious that most of Malia’s life had revolved around cash. There were very few entries in her bank statements, but what was there was telling.
There was no money from either a workplace or the government being deposited into the account, which didn’t surprise Dinah. There was no evidence that Malia Shaw had had a job or collected welfare payments. Yet there were regular deposits of cash arriving in her account, every two weeks or so; five hundred dollars a fortnight. Not much to most people, Dinah noted, but a fortune to someone who was interested in shooting the money directly into her veins.
An uncomfortable thought arose: what had Malia Shaw done in return for the money? Did she have an arrangement with somebody that got her killed? She knew from bitter experience that there were no limits to what people would do for gratification.
Though paying the money into her bank account was supremely stupid, a client who could afford that kind of money surely knew cash deposited into a bank account could be traced.
A light bulb flicked on in her mind. Perhaps this was the client’s first foray into the forbidden. Perhaps although he led an exemplary life on the surface, he was hiding a dark secret. Like Angus Whitehall? He was a pastor who had lied to the police. Could he have fallen victim to his own desires, only to resent the toll his secret life was taking? What if Malia Shaw had tried to get more money from him, tried to blackmail him? It would destroy his entire life — his marriage, his job, and his reputation. Perhaps under the fear of losing it all, he had taken Malia’s life to ensure his own wouldn’t be disrupted in any way.
He wouldn’t be the first person in his position to succumb to temptation.
Dinah recorded her observations in her notebook. They would run a trace on where the bank account deposits had come from, and this would answer a great number of questions.
Is it you, Angus Whitehall? What have you done?
****
The next morning, Elise woke Dinah and Chloe to suggest that they go out for breakfast. Lewis had only just gotten home from a double shift and was exhausted.
“I’ll take you to my favorite café,” whispered Elise.
They left the house quietly and Elise drove the car like it was a rocket ship to Main Street. It was her favorite cafe because the coffee was strong and hot and the eggs perfectly cooked. “I don’t have any other requirements,” she joked.
Elise was right though — Dinah enjoyed the breakfast of eggs, toast, and coffee.
Chloe ordered scrambled eggs and spent an hour pushing them around her plate. “What’s going on at school today?” Elise asked her.
Chloe looked up, jolted from what seemed like deep thought. “Oh . . . the usual,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “I suppose I’d better go. See you.”
“Have a great day. Love you!” said Elise.
“Love you too.” Chloe said in a flat voice, and trudged to the door.
Elise watched her go with a frown on her face but said nothing. Dinah waited while she ordered another pot of coffee.
“So,” Elise said. “The client list that Simon the drug dealer gave us. I’d like to double check his movements on the day Malia Shaw died, see if his alibi checks out.”
“Okay,” agreed Dinah.
Elise read out the names. “Do you remember when drug addiction was a problem for a distinct few?”
Dinah sighed. She’d been a cop too long — and she knew well from personal experience — to think that heroin and cocaine weren’t just the drug of choice for social outcasts. The list Elise was holding in her hand contained the names of a teacher, a lawyer, a banker, and a mother. The long tentacles of addiction had an insidious reach into many homes and families across the nation.
Fortified with three cups of hot coffee and a hearty breakfast, Dinah and Elise got to work. Elise drove to one of the middle-class neighborhoods where the cars were new, the lawns lovingly cared for, and the houses large and comfortable. Melissa Lopez lived here with her husband and three children, and apparently bought a steady supply of cocaine from Simon. A woman with frosted tips in her hair and artfully done makeup answered the door. She was in her late thirties. Behind her, a swell of noise broke over them with an ear-shattering crescendo.
Dinah looked into her eyes and saw a bone-deep tiredness.
“Hello, I’m Detective Elise Jones with the Sheriff’s Office and this is Dinah Harris, a consultant working with me. I need a few minutes of your time.” Elise held up her badge to identify herself.
The woman’s eyes flashed but she smiled and said, “Of course. Come in.”
The noise got louder as Dinah walked in. The three children were shouting, screaming, and playing at full volume; two in a room that looked like a playroom and was completely trashed, and the youngest one running up and down the hallway shrieking, wearing only a diaper.
“Sorry about the noise,” said Melissa Lopez. “I wish they came with a volume button.” She barked a laugh that was utterly without mirth.
Dinah smiled. “They look young.”
“Yeah. Three kids under three. Bad idea, trust me.”
Melissa started clearing breakfast dishes from the kitchen table. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thanks,” said Elise. “I just want to ask you if you know a Simon Wakowski.”
Melissa tried to remain casual, but Dinah saw her throat move as the other woman swallowed. She continued stacking bowls with exaggerated concentration. “No, why?”
“Are you sure?” Elise asked. She produced Simon’s mug shot and gave it to Melissa. “Perhaps this will jog your memory?”
Melissa Lopez studied the photo carefully. Dinah watched her, and saw the other woman was thinking very hard.
“No,” Melissa said, eventually. “I don’t know him.”
“Simon Wakowski has said that he knows you,” said Elise. “In fact, he alleges that you buy cocaine from him.”
Melissa couldn’t stop the red flush that spread up her throat as she struggled to keep a neutral look on her face. “That’s absurd! I don’t know why he would tell you that.”
Elise leaned forward. “Let me be very blunt with you, Mrs. Lopez. I’m not here to bust you over the cocaine. I’m investigating a murder, and all I want to know is whether you saw Simon Wakowski last Monday. If you are helpful, I’ll overlook the drugs. If you choose to be difficult, I can look around here, see if I can find some drugs, haul you down to the station, give your husband a call, and let him know what’s happening.”
“No!” gasped Melissa, almost dropping the bowls to the floor. She put them back down on the table. There was a silence as she tried to work out what to tell the detective. Finally, she said: “I’m not admitting to anything. But I saw Simon last Monday.”
“What time?”
“About eight thirty in the morning.”
“Where?”
“Here. We have a . . . system. He dresses in a courier’s uniform and delivers packages, so the neighbors don’t get nosy.”
“So he’s here for a couple of minutes?”
“Yeah.”
“And it’s always Simon? He doesn’t send someone else?”
“No, it’s always Simon. I don’t trust anyone else.”
&n
bsp; “How long was he here for?”
“No longer than five minutes. It’s a simple exchange.”
Elise nodded and stood up. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Lopez. Listen, you should know that if something happens to your kids while you’re high, the state will take your kids away from you. If you cause an accident while you’re high, you’ll go to jail for a very long time. You might want to think about kicking this habit before you destroy someone else’s life.”
Melissa’s eyes filled with tears. “I know, Detective. I know. But my kids . . . they’re so hard. I can’t cope with them. They’re so . . . noisy and demanding! I just need . . . I need some help to get through the day.”
Dinah felt compassion for the woman, but she had seen too many similar scenarios turn deadly. A mother who left kids in the bath to take another hit of coke and returned to drowned children. A mother who left the gas on in a heroin haze and suffocated everyone in her house, herself included. A father who left his children in the car while he tried to score more meth, oblivious to the rapidly rising and searing heat inside that eventually killed his kids. And what of herself? She had screamed at her son to shut up and half an hour later he was dead. Dinah shivered.
Elise remained impassive. “Just think about what I’ve said. Thanks for your help.”
A sudden shriek ripped through the dull roar coming from the other room and Melissa jumped to her feet.
“We’ll see ourselves out,” said Elise. “You go to your children.”
They picked their way back across the toy-strewn lawn and climbed back into the car. Neither woman spoke.
The next address belonged to one of the town’s bankers, Tim Aubusson. He was in his office, and welcomed Elise and Dinah inside warmly. The morning was still early enough that the bank was virtually deserted. Three bank tellers were counting their money, bored.
“How can I help you, Detective?” Tim Aubusson asked.
Elise slid the mug shot of Simon Wakowski across the desk. “I’m wondering if you know this man, Simon Wakowski?”
Aubusson adopted a curious expression. “No, sorry, I don’t.”