“Help me!”
He recognized the voice as Cindy's. “Where are you?”
“My house! Someone's been here.”
“Did you call 9-1-1?”
“Yes.”
“I'll be right over.”
He slammed down the receiver and raced out the door. Ten minutes later his Mustang screeched to a stop outside her house. She was sitting on the front porch but jumped to her feet when he got out of his car. She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. He held her tightly, feeling the shudders that rippled through her body.
A minute later he heard a car pull up. He stepped away from her and turned to see Detective Mark Walters. The detective walked up and looked him over. “Rabbi.”
“Detective.”
“I figured you'd turn up sometime today.”
Jeremiah had no idea what he meant by the remark. He glanced at Cindy, who looked pale.
“Good morning, again, Miss Preston,” Mark said.
“Again?” Jeremiah asked before he could help himself.
Mark smiled wryly. “Yes, Miss Preston and I just finished a long conversation not half an hour ago.”
“What happened?” Jeremiah asked, feeling more protective of Cindy than he would have liked.
“I'll let her fill you in later … after she fills me in on the here and now.” Jeremiah and Mark both turned toward Cindy. “I came home to change clothes before work. The front door was locked, but when I walked inside I could tell someone had broken in,” she explained.
“Did you touch anything?” Mark asked.
“The door and the phone.”
“Okay, show me.”
Cindy led the way to the front door, with Mark right behind her and Jeremiah trailing. The rabbi's thoughts churned.
Inside, books and papers had been flung about the room. The cushions had been pulled off the couch and one of them unzipped, its foam exposed. Her television, DVD player, and stereo were undisturbed.
Mark moved slowly through the living room, asking questions. Jeremiah glanced toward the kitchen and saw that the drawers were all open, but only one kitchen cabinet was ajar.
Jeremiah walked back toward Cindy's office. Her computer seemed untouched, as did her filing cabinet. The window remained closed and locked.
He continued on to Cindy's bedroom and paused in the doorway. Her end table drawer was on the bed, its contents spilled beside it. On the other side of the bed her jewelry box had been dumped. Half a dozen different cross necklaces had been placed in a pile separate from the rest, which was spread out on her comforter. The window in the room was also closed and locked.
He returned to the living room.
“—looking for something,” Mark was saying. “And, whatever it was, he didn't want you to know. That's why he only unzipped one pillow instead of shredding all three of them. It was meant to throw us off.”
“What was he looking for?” Cindy asked.
“I think I know,” Jeremiah said.
They both turned toward him, and he led them back to her bedroom. Cindy cried out and moved toward her jewelry, but Jeremiah put a hand on her shoulder to restrain her. Mark pushed past them, walked around the bed, and then saw what Jeremiah had seen.
His eyes glittered. “He doesn't know we found the Shepherd's cross.”
Jeremiah nodded. “He's hoping Cindy picked it up.”
“Which means our killer searched the scene when he realized it was missing, knew she was the first person there yesterday, and came looking for it,” Mark said.
“And whoever he was, he didn't break in here,” Jeremiah said softly.
“No. He tried to cover his tracks, but he couldn't help locking the door behind him. What kind of person does that?” Mark asked.
“Someone with an interest in the safety of the property,” Cindy said, face ashen. “Harold, my landlord.”
“Not only did he know you weren't here last night so he could break in and look through your stuff, he knew where to stage the next murder for your benefit,” Mark confirmed.
“Next murder? What are you talking about?” Jeremiah asked.
“Your girlfriend can fill you in later.”
Out of the corner of his eye Jeremiah saw Cindy turn crimson. He kept his cool and just stared at Mark.
“I'm not his girlfriend,” Cindy spit out.
Mark held Jeremiah's gaze for a moment before turning back to her. “What's important now is that we go find Harold and ask him a few questions.”
“But he's such a nice man,” Cindy protested weakly.
“Some of the worst people you've ever met masquerade as the nicest,” Mark said.
“Could you please call me and tell me what happens?” she asked. “I'm not going to feel safe until this murderer is caught.”
Mark gave a noncommittal shrug and then turned to the door. Jeremiah moved, inserting himself casually between the detective and the exit. “She needs to know if you have a suspect in custody,” he said softly.
“Calm down, Rabbi. I'll give her a call later today.”
“Thank you,” Jeremiah said. He moved so the detective could leave.
Mark nodded. “Don't touch anything. In fact, the two of you need to leave now. Forensics will be here in a few minutes to sweep for prints.” He pulled his cell phone from his belt and left.
Cindy collapsed onto one of the chairs at her kitchen table. Jeremiah stood for a moment, listening as Mark talked to another officer.
“Yeah, break-in. Looks like the killer was trying to get that cross back. No. She thinks it could be her landlord. Yeah, Harold Grey. Yeah. Meet me there. It's time we asked Mr. Grey some questions.”
Jeremiah and Cindy left the house a minute later. She looked up at him with tired eyes.
“How did you sleep?” he asked.
“Great until the police came to my room,” she said.
“Yeah, about that—”
“Condensed version?”
“No, I want to hear the whole thing.”
When Mark met Paul outside Harold Grey's home, he hoped they could put an end to the killing spree. A man in his early sixties answered the door.
“Harold Grey?” Paul asked.
“Yes.”
“Sir, we're detectives,” Mark informed him, flashing his badge. “Do you mind if we come in and ask you a couple of questions?”
“Not at all,” he said and ushered them inside. They took seats in the living room, and Mark took a moment to study the man before him. He didn't seem like a serial killer, but appearances could be deceiving. And with the stakes as high as they were, they couldn't risk letting the killer go free.
“A body was found at First Shepherd yesterday,” Mark said.
Harold nodded. “I heard. Terrible business.”
“Where were you Sunday evening?” Mark asked.
“At a play in Los Angeles with my wife. We're season ticket holders.”
“And what time did you leave?” Paul jumped in.
“A couple of minutes after ten.”
“Can you prove that?” Paul pushed.
Harold nodded. “Why? Wait, I'm not a suspect, am I?”
“We're talking to everyone who had access to the sanctuary,” Mark said, unwilling to divulge more than that. They would check out Grey's story, but he had a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Harold Grey wasn't their guy. Still, they had to be sure.
“You're a Shepherd at the church, is that true?” Mark asked.
“Yes,” Harold said, looking puzzled.
“Do you mind showing us the cross?”
Harold pulled it out from underneath his shirt and then slipped the chain over his head and handed it to them. Mark took it and stared at it for several seconds.
“Sir, it is my understanding that there is no way to tell the Shepherd's crosses apart,” Mark said at last.
“Ordinarily that's true, but I can assure you this cross is mine.”
“How?” Paul asked.
“Turn it over,” Harold instructed.
When he did Mark saw the engraving and read aloud. “The First Shepherd of First Shepherd.”
Harold beamed. “When they started up the program five years ago, I was the first volunteer to go through the training. They gave me that cross special because of it.”
Reluctantly, Mark returned it. He exchanged a grim glance with Paul. They were back to square one.
Cindy hunched over her keyboard at work. She was beyond caring if anyone caught her surfing the Web when she should be working. She typed in the name “Ryan Bellig” in the search box on Google and held her breath, expecting thousands of entries to come up. A second later the search came back with just under a hundred hits, most of them with highlighted words like “tragedy,” “violent death,” and “latest in a string of grisly murders.” She clicked on the latter one and followed the link to a newspaper article that was three years old.
On the left hand side she saw a picture of a man in a dark suit, a tear rolling down his cheek. She stopped and stared. It was the man from the sanctuary floor, when he was still alive. His eyes were filled with pain but so wondrously alive. Her eyes dropped to the caption beneath the photograph: Ryan Bellig at the funeral of his wife and daughter, the latest victims of the Passion Week Killer.
Passion Week Killer! She was staring so intently that she didn't see Danielle walk up to her desk until the other woman put a hand on her shoulder. Cindy jumped. It's not good to zone out like that; it's not safe.
“Are you okay?” Danielle asked in the voice she usually reserved for the children.
Cindy started to say she was fine, but stopped. It wasn't true, and she was in no mood to pretend. “Actually, I'm not okay at all.”
Danielle's eyes widened. “I know this has been a trying time for us all.”
“More for me than for most,” Cindy said.
Danielle patted her shoulder, her watery blue eyes perplexed. “Maybe you should consider speaking with someone to help you feel better.”
“What will help is to catch this psychopath,” Cindy said, through gritted teeth. “Then maybe I can sleep at home without people trying to break in.”
“Someone broke into your house?” Danielle looked shocked.
“Yes.”
“But why?”
Cindy was about to tell her about the cross but stopped short. If Harold wasn't the killer, then she didn't want to alert the killer to the fact that she knew what he was looking for. One thing was for certain at First Shepherd. If you wanted the whole church to know something, the fastest way was to tell Danielle.
“I don't know, but there have been more murders,” Cindy said. At least that wasn't confidential.
“How terrible!”
“Yes,” Cindy said, relieved that someone else was giving it the weight it deserved.
“I really do think you should see someone.”
“I don't need to talk to a shrink or a pastor or a therapist because I've seen people killed,” Cindy growled. Seen people killed. She took a deep breath. But she hadn't seen anyone killed, not in a long, long time. She had just seen the bodies. Big difference. Easy there. I'm not fifteen, and Danielle's not my mother.
“I'll manage,” Cindy forced out and somehow managed a small smile. She had been crazy to think she could tell someone how she really felt. “Is there something I can help you with, Danielle?”
The children's minister brightened and handed her a piece of paper. “Here's what the kids are doing for Easter services.”
Cindy took the paper and felt rage building inside her. “Geanie is the one who needs this, not me.”
“I figured you could just give it to Geanie for me.”
Cindy thought about shoving it back in her face. Danielle had come through the back door and had walked right past Geanie's desk in order to get to Cindy. It was no secret that the two disliked each other. Geanie usually managed to stay professional, but Danielle wouldn't even acknowledge Geanie's presence in the room, let alone talk to her. Cindy turned pointedly and stared at Geanie who just rolled her eyes and shrugged.
“Sure, I can give it to her,” Cindy said, stifling the urge to turn the piece of paper into an airplane.
“Thanks, dear, and you make sure and see someone about those problems of yours.”
Danielle turned and sailed out of the office, head held high and humming to herself.
“Would you like to bring it to me, or shall I come to you?” Geanie asked.
“Tell you what,” Cindy said. She crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it at Geanie's head.
The other girl caught it and laughed. “Nice one.”
Cindy shared a brief smile with her before returning to the computer, eager to know more about the Passion Week Killer.
7
MARK WALKED INTO THE CHURCH AT FIRST SHEPHERD AND MADE A BEE- line for Cindy's desk. She stared intently at her computer screen and didn't seem to notice when he stopped in front of her. He waited a moment and then cleared his throat.
“I'm surprised to see you here.”
She jumped and turned to look at him with startled eyes. “Detective! Sorry, just lost in thought.”
“So I noticed.”
“I couldn't stay home, not with so much to do here and everything how it is there.”
He shrugged. He didn't really care what her motivation was.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Yesterday I asked your pastor to pull together a list of all the church's Shepherds for me. I'm here to pick it up. I also need to ask him a few questions.”
She raised one eyebrow and picked up the phone. “Roy, Detective Walters is here to see you. He also wants to know if you have the Shepherd list available for him. Okay, I'll send him in.”
She hung up the phone. “I'll have a list with names and addresses ready for you by the time you're done with your meeting.”
“Thanks. I assume that means he didn't have it ready?”
She rolled her eyes. “I assume the fact that you need it means Harold's not the killer?”
“We can't rule anyone out for sure at this point, but I'm fairly certain it's not him.”
She slumped. “I'm relieved and also really frightened now.”
“I think that's a pretty normal response. So, where I can find the pastor?”
“Roy's office is right over there. Go on in,” she said, pointing to a door in the far wall.
A moment later he walked into the head pastor's office. It was a cozy room lined with bookshelves. A black leather sofa sat against one wall. Mark chose one of the matching chairs in front of Roy's desk. He guessed the pastor to be about sixty, with tanned skin and close-cropped grey hair. Probably a golfer. The pastor's smile revealed bright, white teeth. A bleach job.
“Good to see you again,” Roy said, extending his hand.
Mark shook it. “Most people feel they can go a lifetime without seeing me again.”
Roy looked confused for a moment and then the smile returned to his face. “Sorry, habit. So, what can I do for you? You wanted a list of the Shepherds, right? I'll see what I can do about getting that to you.”
“Don't worry about it,” Mark said.
“Okay.”
“I'd like to ask you a few questions, though.”
“Go ahead.”
“Is there any event in the Bible during Easter week that could be symbolized by the presence of the dead man in your sanctuary?”
“For starters, it wasn't called Easter week back then, of course.”
Mark wondered if hitting a pastor would buy him a ticket on the express train to hell. He forced a smile. “Of course not, but you get my meaning.”
“Well, I just want to be precise.”
“I'm looking for something a little less precise and a little more symbolic.”
“Dangerous ground to traverse, indeed,” Roy said, forming his fingers into a steeple. “Take the whole 'eye for an eye' debate. Is it literal; is it fi
gurative? The problems that can be had, the headaches, over a lack of precision.”
“Are you serious?”
“Very serious.” Roy met his eyes.
Mark cleared his throat. “Okay, then, could you tell me what the next event in Easter week is, traditionally, as we understand it, not necessarily in actuality.”
“I don't know what you mean,” Roy said.
Mark stared at him. Could the pastor really be that dense? Or was he just one of those guys who never liked to be nailed down and so never made any clear statements? He had dealt with that type before, and he didn't have the time or patience to deal with Roy. He stood abruptly. “Thanks for your time, pastor.”
“Anytime. Glad to help.” Roy smiled with those bleached-white teeth.
The detective resisted the urge to slam the door behind him. Back in the main office Cindy held a paper aloft without even turning around to see him.
“That was fast.” Mark moved to take it from her.
“You want something done around a church, you just have to know the right people to ask,” she said with a smile.
“So, this is all the Shepherds?”
“Yes. Although it's still hard to think it could be one of them.”
“The one thing I've learned as a police officer is that nobody really knows anybody else.”
“That's depressing.”
“That's the truth.”
He looked up from the list and studied her for a moment. “How much do you know about the Bible?” he asked.
She laughed and gestured to her surroundings. “What do you think?”
“I think you avoided the question.”
“Okay, fair enough. I'd say I have an average level of knowledge given my position and background.”
“I'll pretend for a moment that your answer is more real than your last one,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Can I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Sure.”
He glanced around. Another woman sat at a desk a few feet away, one fist twisted in her hair and the other propping up her chin while she read. Somebody else was using the copier behind the partition. “Can we talk somewhere a little more private?”
The Lord is My Shepherd Page 7