“Hello?”
“Hi, Captain Turner, this is Detective Johnson. We have a major change of plans.”
All business—Captain Turner versus an informal Linda. Her stomach sank. He sounded as if the undercover operation were being scratched. She braced herself for his news. “What kind of changes?”
He breathed heavily. “Hope I’m not calling too late; but in the last fourteen days, crimes have been committed that are directly related to our investigation.”
Linda reached for the glass of water on her nightstand, her insides twisting into tight bunches of anxiety.
“Two women, one of whom was threatening legal action against The Road to Calvary, were found shot to death. That was on the fourteenth. A week later, a Calvary employee was found with severe antifreeze poisoning.”
Still clutching the water glass, Linda asked, “Is he okay?”
Malachi’s voice was grave. “He ingested a lot of antifreeze; all the food in his refrigerator had been tainted. If he’d not been found promptly, there’s a good chance he’d be dead, too. As it is, he’ll have permanent health issues.”
Linda groaned in sadness and sympathy. “I am so sorry. What can I do?”
“I need you in St. Louis as soon as possible. It’s essential we get a person on the inside. I realize this alters Chief Langston’s timeline, and we’re not ready—but we can’t wait.”
Linda bit her bottom lip. “I’ll talk to the chief. Give me a couple of days.”
45
FRIDAY, JULY 4, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI DOWNTOWN PRECINCT
Malachi and his team wanted Linda to be on set for the Sunday morning service. They had been questioning her on various details of her new persona for hours until it slid off her tongue as though it had been a part of her life for years.
Situated in an airless interview room, Malachi wanted one last run. “Ms. Sinclair, tell me about yourself. What brings you to St. Louis?”
Linda threw back her shoulders, inhaling deeply. “I moved to St. Louis after a messy divorce. It was final in February of this year in Illinois.”
Malachi crossed his arms, his expression that of a cop listening for any inconsistencies in her answers. “Where did you live in Illinois?”
“The town of Geneva, a quaint historical village considered an outer suburb of Chicago. I worked as a plant specialist for Gethsemane Garden Center on Clark Street in Chicago proper.”
Malachi’s partner, Phil Burt, launched the next question. “I see you’ve got some pretty swell digs in the Marquette Building on Broadway in a tenth floor corner condo. You made out well in your divorce. What did your ex do for a living?”
She composed her thoughts and met Phil’s gaze. “He’s a psychiatrist at Cook County Hospital, Dr. Ray Mohan. I got a substantial settlement in the divorce.”
“Where did you meet Dr. Mohan?” Malachi quizzed her, his brown eyes intense.
“We were college sweethearts at the University of Illinois. I was at the College of Agriculture, studying horticulture, and he was at the College of Medicine.”
Phil asked Linda a question that still made her stop and carefully recall each digit. “What’s your home phone number?”
She grimaced. “How about my social security number; I definitely remember that.”
“You’ve got to know your phone number. Yes, you’re new in town, but it needs to trip off your tongue like you’ve had it for years,” Phil said, tapping his pencil. The smell of his cheap Brut cologne wafted under Linda’s nose. How does his wife stand it?
She focused, feeling as though she was taxing every single brain cell. She slowly recalled the number and, for good measure, rattled off her social as well.
“Keep practicing that phone number,” Phil said.
Malachi observed her closely. “About your appearance—do you want to change it even further than just glasses?
“No. Glasses alter my appearance quite a bit. I’m styling my hair differently and dressing in far pricier clothes than I’m used to.”
The detectives took turns lobbing questions—everything from Linda Sinclair’s birth date, mother’s middle name, where she grew up, to the mundane details of her favorite color and baseball team. She passed them all.
It was her turn to ask a question. “Where will the surveillance team be?”
“We’ll be in a van, up the street, listening in,” Phil said.
Linda’s brow creased. “The service starts at eleven o’clock, correct?”
“Yep, but with the crowds they’ve been drawing, you’ll want to get there early and familiarize yourself with the layout,” Malachi answered.
He pushed a stack of legal documents, a set of house and car keys, and electronic devices on the table. “That brings us again to backup and surveillance,” Malachi said. He picked up a box off the table and handed it to her. “This is your earpiece. You’ll want to wear it the next couple of days and get comfortable.”
Linda opened the box, noting the earpiece was for the right. It felt odd, the sensation of her ear plugged with water.
Malachi asked another question. “Where’s the parking garage we’ll meet up in for updates?”
Linda leaned back in her chair, watching both officers. “Three blocks north of the Marquette Building. Lower level, underground parking.”
Phil stroked his mustache. “Malachi hasn’t asked you this yet, so I will. What are the names of the two employees at The Road to Calvary we are working with and briefly describe them?”
Linda caught a breath. “Jeff Jones is Malachi’s army buddy from the Gulf War. He’s physically fit, has short cropped hair, and is the camera operator. Buck Neal is their stage director and IT guru. He wears a mullet and has a pierced ear. Both men are aware I’m coming, and the code for urgent is either Jeff or Buck wearing a red plastic bracelet.”
“Good. I also need to give you these,” Malachi said, handing her two cell phones. “You may not have seen one of these, but this is a burner cell, popular among drug dealers. It’s a secure line and is the phone you call Phil or me on. Keep it in a safe place. This second one is your personal cell with GPS. Keep it on you always, so we can track you. They’re marked—red for burner, green for personal.” He showed the bottoms of the phones.
Linda looked over the multiple piles. “Even though we’re rushed, it feels great to start. I realize we have limited time; but when I become Linda Sinclair, all I have to do is remember Gregory Hansen and those children to make this a success.”
46
SUNDAY, JULY 6, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI THE ROAD TO CALVARY BUILDING
Linda pulled into The Road to Calvary parking lot at 10:15 a.m. It was already three-quarters full. She cut the engine, observing throngs streaming into what appeared to be an industrial warehouse.
“Can you hear me?” she said.
Malachi’s voice filled her head. “Loud and clear. We’ll check the reception once you’re inside. Take your time. Introduce yourself and get comfortable with the surroundings. Good luck.”
Linda had carefully considered her new persona’s appearance. Her glasses and a loose updo gave her a bookish appearance, still attractive but nonthreatening to someone like Susannah.
The humidity seared her lungs as she walked across the parking lot. She shook hands with greeters at the entrance and searched the crowd for an empty seat. There was no sign of the Reverend Ray, his wife, or the guy with the mullet. From behind a camera, she spotted a buff male with a near buzz cut. She breathed more easily as she spotted a lone chair at the end of a row.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked an obese middle-aged couple.
“Oh no,” the large woman answered. “Happy to have you join us.”
“Thank you.”
The woman’s husband leaned across his wife, addressing Linda. “Are you a new member? We’ve been growing so fast, it’s hard to keep track of the regulars and who’s new. We’re the Carlsons, Bob and Billie.”
Linda smiled, happy at her good
fortune, striking up a conversation with parishioners on her first try. She extended her hand. “I’m Linda Sinclair, and I’m new, both to St. Louis and The Road to Calvary.”
“Welcome,” Billie said, shaking her hand firmly. “The Reverend Williams and his wife, Susannah, are wonderful people. You can definitely feel God’s presence here.”
“St. Louis is a great city,” Bob said. “You’ll have to visit the Riverfront.”
“I have a lovely view of it from my condo,” Linda replied modestly. “I love to walk on the paths there in the morning,” she lied. Her residence wouldn’t be ready for a week.
“Oh, that is so nice.” Billie said. “Can I ask what brought you to our fine city?”
“Billie!” Bob voiced irritation. “That’s none of our business.”
“It’s quite all right.” Linda said. “A divorce, unfortunately. I felt St. Louis was a good place to begin my life anew.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Billie soothed. “Were you married long?”
Billie’s question sent Linda’s mind racing. After all the prep, the length of Linda’s marriage had never been discussed. Quick calculations were worked out in her frenzied brain. “We were college sweethearts and were married fifteen years.”
“That’s no short period,” Billie said, and Bob nodded sympathetically.
Perfect, Linda thought. My first visit and I not only meet members, but nosy ones, who might just direct me to Mrs. Williams.
Someone yelled, “Two minutes to air!” The stragglers found seats, and the room fell into silence.
The choir walked out onto the stage and sang the first hymn, the words flashing up on a screen behind the stage. Ray and Susannah came to center stage, holding hands.
Linda’s trained eye zeroed in on Susannah’s presence. She played the devoted wife, holding Ray’s microphone when he handed it off, doting attentively during his sermon, motioning for the congregation to rise during the prayer of deliverance. Near the end, Susannah implored the congregation for donations.
“As most of you know, we are already a quarter of the way toward our capital campaign goal, which is great and glorious news. But we can do better.”
Linda watched Susannah make deliberate eye contact with each segment of the audience.
“As a special gift from us to you, receive Scriptures of Encouragement from the Reverend Ray when you contribute to the Growing in Christ Campaign.”
Linda glanced around the studio, noticing the audience’s rapt attention on Susannah.
“Even if you’ve already donated, won’t you pick up the phone, write that check, or use a credit card? This is your church, and all the wonderful works we do are possible because of your support. Help us continue our mission to preach and live the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
When the final prayer was said, the crowd flowed toward the doors and queued up to shake Ray and Susannah’s hands, like bees trying to get to the hive. Linda stayed with her new acquaintances as they quizzed her on her past, and she asked the couple questions in return. Bob brought Linda forward for the personal introduction she had hoped for.
“Reverend Ray and Mrs. Williams, this is our friend, Linda Sinclair. She’s just moved to town, recently divorced, and is looking for a church. Billie and I told her she couldn’t find a better one.”
Linda exchanged pleasantries, shaking both Ray and Susannah’s hands, but didn’t hear a word Ray said. At the comments “just moved to town” and “recently divorced,” Susannah decisively grasped Linda’s forearm.
“I’ve been in the same position and know what you’re going through. If there’s anything I can do to help, please call me.”
Smiling warmly, Linda said, “I would love to talk with someone who’s had the same experience. Maybe we could get coffee sometime.”
“I’d love to,” Susannah replied. She grabbed a program from a table and asked for a pen. She scribbled a number—with her left hand. “Here’s my home phone. I’d love to chat.”
She’s Pamela Watts. Linda forced her brightest smile. “I’ll give you a call next week.”
47
WEDNESDAY, JULY 9, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI LINDA’S CONDO
Linda was torn between seeming too anxious to contact Susannah, her need to bring justice to the Hansen family, and the limited time to accomplish their goal. Deep breath. Take your shot and ask her to meet. There isn’t much time.
She inhaled and called. Susannah was very enthusiastic, suggesting lunch the next day and proposing a restaurant. “I can pick you up,” Susannah offered, but Linda wasn’t quite yet ready to be alone with the killer of at least six. That simple number sent a prickly chill up her spine, as she politely declined.
“Thanks for the generous offer, but I have some errands to run first. Give me the address, and I’ll meet you.”
THURSDAY, JULY 10, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI DOWNTOWN CAFÉ
Their meeting place, a small café not far from her hotel, allowed Linda the chance to walk. She arrived ahead of Susannah, dressed in white slacks and a linen jacket over a turquoise shell. She looked polished, but casual. Linda caught her reflection in a window and observed that the glasses and having her hair up made her resemble a staid librarian. Up the city block, she spotted the nondescript van in which Malachi and Phil had set up surveillance.
Linda went into the empty ladies’ room. Casually checking her makeup, she said, “How do I sound?”
Malachi’s voice filled her right ear. “Great. As though you’re here in the van.”
She walked to the hostess stand, explaining she was waiting for a guest.
Susannah arrived a few minutes late. “I hope you haven’t been here long,” she apologized.
“I just got here myself. Thanks so much for agreeing to talk with me,” Linda said, slipping out of her linen jacket. “It is warm out there today.”
“I hope you don’t hate the heat,” Susannah offered sympathetically. “St. Louis summers can be hot and humid. Took me a while to get used to it.”
They settled into a booth, and Linda seized on Susannah’s comment. “You’re not a native?”
“No. Like you, I moved here after my divorce to start over. Must be the Gateway Arch with all its promise. St. Louis appealed to me as the right place to live.”
Linda pretended to peruse the menu, while carefully making mental notes of everything Susannah said. “Where are you from originally?”
Susannah paused, looking over the top. “I’m from North Dakota. My dad worked in the oil fields, and Mom was a housewife. Things were good until the 1980s when the oil boom went bust. But let’s talk about you!”
That’s a new spin, Linda thought, confident that Malachi and Phil were recording every word. She decided not to push Susannah on personal details so quickly, asking for luncheon suggestions instead.
Susannah related some favorites, and they ordered iced tea and salads. She was quickly probing Linda on her personal life.
“Your divorce—how are you doing? Is it final yet?”
Oh, yes, my divorce. “I’m doing pretty well, now that I’m living in another city. I waited to move until the divorce was final; but even then, there are things, like changing my name back, that are so time consuming.”
“That’s the worst,” Susannah agreed. “There are so many different documents that you forget have your old married name on them and need to be revised. If you get married again, you have to do it all over.” Susannah shook her curls and sipped her tea.
“Have you and Reverend Ray been married long?” Linda asked.
“A little over three months. It’s so nice to find the love of your life after losing both your children and watching your marriage crumble because of it.”
“I am so sorry for your loss,” Linda said, reaching for her own glass. “We didn’t have children, so no custody to fight over. But losing a child, much less two, I can’t imagine the trauma you went through.”
Susannah’s eyes were wet, and she brushed away a
tear. “It was very, very difficult. But, my goodness we’re not here to talk about me. Where are you from?”
You are a fiend—using your children’s deaths, children you most likely murdered, to garner sympathy. Linda maintained a poker face. She regarded Susannah while eyeing a tiny scar above her lip where a mole—exactly like the one Darryl Patterson had mentioned—could have been removed, and smiled even if she didn’t have an unobstructed view to her right ear. Still, this was more proof. “We, I mean, I’m from Illinois. I grew up there, as did my ex-husband.”
“What did your husband do?” she asked, taking another sip of tea.
“He was a psychiatrist at Cook County Hospital in Chicago. He still is.”
Susannah was impressed. “A doctor! Where did you meet?”
Linda knew Susannah would ask questions, but she wanted to get back to talking about her. “We met in college at the University of Illinois. He was in med school, and I was studying agronomy and horticulture.”
Susannah swirled the tea in her glass. “Are you an avid gardener? I love working in mine and being outside with God and nature.”
“Living in a high-rise doesn’t allow for much gardening, but I worked at a large nursery for years.”
A middle-aged waitress came bearing the spinach-cranberry salads, and Linda was pleased the conversation reverted to the mundane for a few minutes. She needed a minute to contemplate her next move.
After a few bites, Linda steered the focus back to Susannah. “The hardest thing for me is dealing with the loneliness.” Her tone was one of taking Susannah into her confidence. “Was it that way for you, too?”
Susannah finished a bite of salad. “I won’t lie—the loneliness and dealing with the loss of my kids was unbearable. At least until I met Ray. This program literally saved my life, and I thank God every single day.”
She reached out, touching the top of Linda’s hand. It felt as if electricity were spiking in her veins.
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