Grave Doubt (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 5)

by Michael Allegretto

  “These pictures are of Matthew Styles, not me,” he said calmly, giving it one more try. “I’m not responsible for what Matthew does in his spare time. Nor is the church.”

  “I think Styles will disagree. When the story hits the papers about a high church official consorting with a mafia capo, the members of your flock will come after Styles with stones and lit torches. Do you think he’ll quietly disappear?”

  Reed said nothing. His mouth was a thin white line.

  “Of course,” I said, “you know Styles better than I do. But I can guess what he’ll do—try to save himself by turning against you. He’ll point out that you’re the man in charge. And whatever he did, he was only obeying your orders.”

  Reed swallowed with some difficulty.

  “The news media will be on you like leeches,” I said. “You and World Flock and Joseph Scolla. One way or another, the truth will come out. And my guess is, it won’t be pretty. You’ll be finished. Unless …” I paused to make him ask.

  He did, in a small voice. “Unless what?”

  “Unless you break the story. I have a feeling that Scolla, and possibly Styles, maneuvered you into World Flock. If that’s true, you may be able to hang on to your church. You went through something like this years ago, as I recall, made your confession, shed a few tears on TV, and pretty soon you were back in business.”

  “How could you possibly guarantee that I—”

  “I can’t guarantee anything,” I said, cutting him off. “I’m merely pointing out your two options. One, you voluntarily come forward with the truth, well rehearsed and standing tall. Or two, you get dragged forward by the press, with Styles pushing you from behind.” I gave him a moment to think about it. “But whichever option you choose, you have to do it before the story and those photos appear in the Phoenix newspapers.”

  He cleared his throat. “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Unless this man hears from you today.” I handed him a slip of paper with Hal Zimmerman’s name and number. “But I need to know right now. Otherwise, I’ll wait around here for Styles and let him explain those photos to me. And then to the press.”

  “And if I tell you?”

  “Then I’m gone.”

  Reed hesitated. But I knew he’d already made up his mind. He began sliding the photos, one by one, into the Manila envelope. Then he put the envelope in his middle desk drawer and locked it. He sat back in his chair, hands across his belly, palms pressed together, fingers pointing outward, as if he were ready to pray.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” I said. “Starting with World Flock.”

  29

  REED TOLD ME THAT it started six years ago when, he was “lured into temptation” during a trip to Tucson. He’d gone there to minister to the residents of the church’s retirement community, and he’d been introduced to a new file clerk named Jennifer.

  “She was young and beautiful,” Reed said sadly. “And I fell from grace with her.”

  Which might not have been so bad, except that they did their falling at The Palms, the resort hotel secretly owned and operated by Joseph Scolla. Most of the suites had video cameras hidden behind two-way mirrors. Before Reed knew it, he was being blackmailed.

  “I should have suspected from the beginning that Matthew Styles was involved,” Reed said.

  “Why?”

  “He’s the one who’d hired Jennifer as a clerk.”

  “I see.”

  “But I was too distressed by the existence of those video tapes to think logically. They showed Jennifer and me in… well, let’s just say that Jennifer was an adventuresome lover and the tapes were quite explicit.” His face hardened. “Later, of course, I grew suspicious of Matthew. He worked hard to convince me to bow to Scolla’s demands. And when I did, he made sure things ran smoothly. For Scolla.”

  “What were the demands?”

  Reed shrugged. “World Flock. The video tapes of me and Jennifer would be made public unless I sanctioned World Flock. More than that, I had to sell the idea to the church council. Although, that wasn’t too difficult, because the idea was a noble one—World Flock would be a clearing house for relief aid. Donations would be sent to the church earmarked for World Flock, then transferred to Tucson and distributed to underdeveloped countries.”

  “But it was all a phony.”

  “No,” Reed said loudly. He took a breath and let it out. “Not completely. There were legitimate donations, and all of that money found its way to the needy. But …” He stared down at his hands, then folded them together. “But the bulk of the money that came through had nothing to do with the church. It belonged to the Mafia.”

  “You were laundering drug money?”

  Reed gave me a distressed look. “Drugs, gambling, prostitution, I don’t know where it all came from. I didn’t want to know. It was delivered to the church as cash donations. Once a month it was flown down to Tucson on the church plane. After that, the money was ‘paid’ to bogus construction companies, which supposedly were building hospitals and orphanages.”

  He raised his eyes to mine. “I’ve tried every day to justify it in my mind. The church is not dealing in drugs or gambling or prostitution. We are not contributing to the profits of organized crime. And World Flock is doing some good.” He winced and looked away. “But every day for six years I’ve felt as if I were sinking deeper into a pit. And I’ve been afraid to climb out… because of the video tapes. If they were ever released, well …” He looked at me and spread his hands. “The church would suffer great shame.”

  “You mean you would suffer shame.”

  He said nothing.

  “How did Styles and Scolla get together in the first place?”

  Reed sighed and said, “A few years before all this began, Matthew spent a lot of time in Tucson, overseeing construction of the retirement village. The main contractor was a company owned by Scolla. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time. But I believe that’s when Matthew and Scolla met and discussed the creation of World Flock.” He smiled without mirth. “Naturally, Matthew still likes to pretend that he’s working for me, not Scolla. But he lives too well for the modest salary he receives from the church.”

  “Unlike yourself.”

  “I own nothing,” Reed said passionately. “My house, my cars, everything—it all belongs to the church.”

  “Sure. Tell me, how did Martin Blyleven get involved?”

  Reed’s face flushed. “I never liked that shifty little bas—” He took a calming breath. “Styles hired him. Our chief accountant, Bill McPhee, was asking too many questions. In other words, he was too honest. Matthew told me that Blyleven could be trusted because Blyleven was married to his sister.”

  “I see. So once a month Blyleven carried cash from Denver to Tucson.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why not deposit the money in a Denver bank and transfer it by wire?”

  “Because that’s not what Scolla wanted. According to Matthew, Scolla has strong ties to a bank in Arizona. That’s where he wants the cash deposited—in an account set up for World Flock. By having it pass first through the church in Denver, it puts one more buffer between him and the money.”

  “Who chose Blyleven as the courier?”

  “Matthew. He made the first few deliveries himself, but after that he had Blyleven do it. The courier would be met at the airport and taken to Scolla’s home, where the money would be counted. Scolla already knew exactly how much had been ‘donated’ to the church in Denver. God help the courier if the amounts didn’t tally. That made Matthew very nervous. It’s why he wanted someone else—Blyleven—to deliver the money.”

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  “It varied.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  Reed squirmed in his seat. “Around two million. Sometimes more.”

  “And this was every month?”

  He
nodded and looked away. “It still is.”

  “How much was Blyleven carrying on his last trip?”

  “Three million, one hundred and seventy thousand. According to Styles and Scolla.”

  We sat for a few minutes in silence. Reed was staring down at his notes, wondering if he should stick to his original sermon. And I was wondering how Blyleven could go through three million dollars in four years.

  “You and Scolla both put a lot of trust in Blyleven,” I said. “And in Foster, too, for that matter. They could have flown off with the money any month they chose to.”

  Reed shook his head and smiled crookedly. “Foster was never a concern. He didn’t know what was going on.”

  “And Blyleven?”

  Reed looked pained. “Scolla had a meeting with Blyleven before his first trip. He promised Blyleven that if he ever stole from him, he would not only kill him, he would also kill his wife and daughter. Scolla said if they ran, he’d hunt them down like animals.”

  But Blyleven had run, abandoning his family.

  “What did Scolla do after the plane blew up?”

  “He was certain it had been done to cover up the theft of his money. He came to Denver. He threatened me. Right here in the church.” Reed’s face was flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment, I couldn’t tell. “He accused me and Matthew of scheming against him. He had his thugs watching us and our families. And, I’m certain, the families of Blyleven and Foster. They were looking for the slightest sign that any of us had suddenly struck it rich or were preparing to run away. Of course, we were all blameless.” He shrugged. “Weeks passed, and then months. Scolla had to accept the fact that the money was gone and Blyleven was dead, blown to bits. And that no one would ever know for sure what had happened.”

  “Scolla must have been suspicious when Blyleven’s body couldn’t be positively identified.”

  “Sure he was. Everyone was. But there was no way that the body could not be Blyleven.”

  “No money was recovered at the crash site. That must have told all of you something.”

  Reed shrugged. “With Blyleven and Foster both dead, we could see only two possibilities. One, a federal investigator had found the briefcase and decided to keep it for himself. Or two, the case is still out there somewhere, a crusty old leather bag stuffed with millions, lying in a cactus patch, waiting for a desert rat to stumble over it.”

  “So Scolla gave up on Blyleven and the money.”

  “He had to.” Reed paused. “Until you came around acting as if Blyleven might be alive. Styles called Scolla and told him.”

  And Scolla sent Manny.

  “What do you think Scolla will do when you come forward with all of this?”

  Reed swallowed, looking ill. “He’ll no doubt release the video tapes.”

  “Is that all?”

  His face twisted. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “What I mean is, do you think he might try to hurt you? Physically.”

  Reed stared at me for a moment, considering the possibility. Then he shook his head. “No. Why should he? He’ll simply find another way to launder his money. Attempting to harm me physically would gain him nothing. I think the video tapes will be sufficient revenge for him.”

  I thought so, too. Of course, there was still Styles. I said as much.

  Reed’s face set in hard lines. “I can handle Matthew Styles.”

  “Are you certain? I mean, for all these years he’s—”

  “That was then, Mr. Lomax, and this is now. He may have exercised some power over me when he was holding hands with Joseph Scolla. But Scolla will abandon him the moment I stand up and confess, of that I have no doubt.” Reed’s voice began to fill the room. “I created World Rock to do God’s work, and Matthew Styles consorted with gangsters to defile it. They held my few indiscretions, my sins of the flesh, over my head like the sword of Damocles. But now I am ready to strip away the lies that have covered World Flock like a veil. I am ready to atone for my sins. And Matthew Styles must atone for his. Let us both be judged—by the congregation. And by God.”

  “That should play well in the press.”

  Franklin Reed nearly smiled. “You’d better believe it.”

  30

  I WENT HOME TO change out of my church clothes. A cop car was parked at the curb.

  There were a pair of uniforms standing in the front hall talking to Mrs. Finch. When she saw me walk in, she pointed a gnarly finger my way.

  “That’s him,” she said. “And if he’s in any sort of trouble, I want to know about it. I won’t have troublemakers in my house!” She went into her apartment and slammed the door behind her.

  “Are you Jacob Lomax?” the black cop asked.

  He was the older of the two. I say older, although they were both younger than I—big guys with patient faces. The younger one had blond hair and a square jaw and looked like a college jock.

  “That’s me.”

  “Lieutenant Dalrymple wants to talk to you.”

  Dalrymple was no friend of mine. “He knows where I live,” I said.

  “If you won’t come voluntarily, we’re supposed to arrest you.”

  “For what?”

  “Suspicion of murder.”

  I rode to police headquarters in the back of the cruiser and followed the two cops up the elevator to the homicide unit. Dalrymple was at his desk, reading reports. He was a beefy man with short pale hair and a wide freckled face. A thin white scar ran from his right ear, through his sideburn, and halfway across his muscled cheek. I’d been with him when he’d gotten it, years ago.

  He told me to sit down and the two cops to take off.

  We did.

  “When’s the last time you saw Jack Granger?” Dalrymple asked, not bothering to look up at me.

  “Who?”

  Now he did raise his eyes, giving me a stare that could burn away facial hair.

  “Don’t act stupid,” he said. “You were in here last Tuesday filing robbery charges against three suspects. Detective Flannery showed you mug shots, and you identified one of them. Jack Granger.”

  “Oh, right. Him.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “I’m trying to remember. Why do you ask?”

  He kept staring at me. I swear I could feel a few stray whiskers ignite. Then he pawed through papers, dug out a photo, and flipped it on the desktop before me.

  “That’s why.”

  The photo showed Jack Granger sitting in a kitchen chair. Thankfully, his arms hung down at his sides—they weren’t taped behind him the way I’d left him. His head was back and his mouth was open, as if he were surprised by what he saw on the ceiling. There was a round black hole in the center of his forehead.

  “He was alive the last time I saw him,” I said.

  Dalrymple grunted. “What about this guy? Was he alive, too?”

  He handed me another photograph, this one taken in what looked like Granger’s living room. A large man was lying belly down on the floor. His head was turned to one side, surrounded by a dark stain on the carpet. There was a ragged hole in his face, just below the hairline. Shot from behind.

  I could only guess what had happened. Jack had told Manny about my visit, and Manny had decided that his two hirelings were more trouble than they were worth. He’d killed Jack, then invited Wedge over and waited for him behind the front door.

  “His name is Wedge. One of Granger’s pals.”

  “His real name is Arthur Pool,” Dalrymple said, taking the picture away from me. “We’ve got a sheet on him. He and Granger were both shot with a nine millimeter. We didn’t find the shell casings, so the shooter was probably a pro.” He smiled without mirth. “You own a nine millimeter, don’t you?”

  “Nope. Only revolvers. Call me old-fashioned.”

  Dalrymple shrugged, and his shoulders moved under his shirt like a pair of bulldogs. “So you picked up a nine somewhere and ditched it after you popped Granger and Pool.”

&nb
sp; “Come on, Dalrymple. You don’t believe that for a minute.”

  He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Why not? They broke into your home and knocked you around, didn’t they? And we both know what kind of guy you are. You wouldn’t let something like that pass. So you came down here and conned Detective Flannery into showing you where Granger lived.”

  That much was true. I said nothing.

  Dalrymple said, “Yesterday a neighbor kid peeked through the kitchen window, saw Granger, told his mother, and she called the cops. The coroner says Granger and Pool were killed sometime between Wednesday afternoon and Thursday morning. In other words, the day after you talked to Flannery.” He leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk, crumpling a few papers underneath. “Fairly goddamn suspicious, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “You’re probably right. I probably killed them both because they pissed me off.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I want something out of you besides smart-ass remarks, or I’ll book you for obstructing justice and lose the paperwork for a few days while your lawyer tries to bail you out.”

  I had no reason to doubt him.

  “The guy you want is Anthony Mancusso.”

  Dalrymple looked smug, as if he’d frightened me into talking. But it wasn’t him I was afraid of. It was Mancusso.

  “Who’s he?”

  “He was with Granger and Wedge at my apartment. His friends call him Manny. He’s a hit man, sent here from Tucson by a mob boss named Joseph Scolla. Check with the feds or the Arizona cops. I’m sure they can tell you all about him.”

  “What did they want with you?”

  “It wasn’t me they were after. It was someone named Blyleven, who supposedly stole money from Scolla. Mancusso thought I knew where Blyleven was. I don’t.”

  “Who’s Blyleven?”

  I probably should have told him everything right then and there. This case had gone beyond the limits of my original contract with Roger and Vivian Armis. Still, I felt obligated to apprise them before I opened up to the cops. And Dalrymple hadn’t exactly given me time to do so.

  So I told him, “I haven’t got the slightest idea. That’s why I tracked down Granger, to get some answers. But all he could tell me is what I’ve just told you.”