The Grace Painter (The Grace Series Book 1)

by Mark Romang

  Schofield’s platinum eyebrows lifted. “Your colleague didn’t hold back. Sounds like he fully indoctrinated you on the exploits of the Savareesis.”

  Annie shook her head sheepishly. “Mobsters fascinate me. I like to research crime families. I’ve even toyed with the notion of writing a book on famous mob bosses,” she admitted, confessing her most treasured ambition for the first time.

  “Hold off on the book.”

  Annie felt her face redden. “Why?”

  “Your research should have included the city trash hauling contracts Nico Savareesi acquired through extortion,” Schofield chided.

  “Of course, how could I forget,” Annie lamented. “But wasn’t Nico Savareesi indicted on charges of stock manipulation?” she asked, confident she’d righted herself.

  “That’s correct. The Savareesis infiltrated a number of investment firms and artificially inflated the value of micro-cap stocks, then sold them for incredible profits. They bilked nearly fifty million from investors by bribing and threatening brokers.”

  “I’m guessing that Brian Delani played a part in the demise of the Savareesi crime family,” Annie hypothesized. “Am I right?”

  “Now who’s interrupting?” Schofield jabbed.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m just teasing. But to answer your question…yes, Delani not only had a part in toppling Nico Savareesi’s crime organization, he had the starring role.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Annie said softly, her mind already racing ahead to fill in the blanks.

  “Garrison Investments was a firm the feds long suspected of being bullied by Savareesi goons. Phone taps and other listening devices eventually confirmed their suspicions. A decision was made to place an undercover police officer into Garrison Investments to gather evidence that even the dumbest jury wouldn’t ignore.”

  Schofield paused dramatically. “The Justice Department selected Brian Delani. He took a crash course in investing over a six-week period, was issued a securities license, and then went to work at Garrison Investments, where he quickly became one of Savareesi’s favorite brokers. He offered no resistance and did whatever Nico Savareesi asked him to do.

  “Did Matthew London know what his former partner was up to?” Annie asked.

  Schofield shook his head. “Didn’t have a clue. But very few people at the nineteenth precinct were aware of Delani’s new assignment. His activities were kept very quiet. And it had to be that way. Back then people who crossed the Savareesis usually ended up floating face down in the Hudson.”

  Annie pinched the bridge of her nose. “So do you think the assignment got to Delani? Is that what sent him off the deep end and caused him to murder his family?”

  Schofield shook his head. “After a grand jury indicted Nico Savareesi, his brothers, and several other acquaintances, a Savareesi goon followed Barbara Delani to work one day and severely beat her in a parking garage. Brian Delani got scared and demanded that he and his family be placed into WITSEC--the Witness Security Program--as soon as the case went to trial and he’d finished giving his testimony.”

  Annie groaned. The fog all at once lifted from the mystery. She shook her head disbelievingly. “This is incredible. What you’re telling me, Gabe, is that Delani didn’t kill his wife and child, or himself. It was simply a charade pulled off by the U.S. Marshall Service.”

  Schofield nodded soberly. “Nothing more than an audacious hoax. And it gets worse. Brian Delani demanded open caskets at their funeral. Wax corpses had to be made up. They were so exact in detail I had to look twice. Unfortunately, nobody let Matt in on the charade. But then nobody suspected he would disappear off the face of the Earth just a few weeks later.”

  Annie buried her face in her hands. The Justice Department took London’s life, his dreams and ambitions, and everything he held dear and hurled them over a jagged cliff. She lifted her head and cast Schofield a sidelong glance. “And to this day, London is blaming himself for something that never really happened.”

  “Yes, I would suspect he is,” Schofield said. “And more importantly, I would venture Matt is still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  “But why did the Delanis have to fake their deaths if they were entering WITSEC? That’s the part I don’t understand.”

  “Because at the time quite a few mob informers in the program were turning up dead. WITSEC had been compromised, and Brian Delani wanted guaranteed assurance that his family would be safe. Matthew London was the poor sap needed to witness their staged deaths.”

  Annie rubbed her bloodshot eyes. “I have to find him, Gabe. He has to know the truth. It’s not fair he’s left out in the dark.”

  “But do you honestly think Matthew is still alive?”

  Annie shrugged. “The search for his body was called off after three weeks. The town of Copeland even held a memorial service for him. But something tells me he’s still out there somewhere. I think he simply recognized a perfect opportunity to vanish again.”

  Annie handed the Yorkie back to Schofield, and then stood up. “I can’t thank you enough, Gabe, for all your help. I feel like I know Matthew a little better now. And if there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask. You have my address and phone numbers. Don’t be shy.”

  A rugged smile creased Gabriel Schofield’s lantern jaw. “If you do find Matt, bring him to Queens sometime. I’d love to see him. He’s one of my favorites,” Schofield said as he walked her to the door.

  “I’ll do my best to find him,” Annie promised as she opened the door to the frigid New York air. “But it might take a while. You know as well as I do how a missing persons case can drag out.”

  Schofield gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze. “You take all the time you need, Annie. Just don’t give up. If Matt’s out there you’ll find him. I know you will.”

  Chapter 52

  Copeland, Louisiana

  Why can’t you just come out into the open? If you only knew how much I hate playing hide and seek, Annie thought as she walked along the town square of Copeland, Louisiana. Her parting statement to Gabriel Schofield about how a missing persons case can drag out proved prophetic. Two months had elapsed since her enlightening conversation with Schofield and she was still no closer to finding Matthew London. His trail had grown glacier cold, and her only lead disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

  Shortly after returning home from New York, she began an exhaustive search for London. And believing that the ex-hostage negotiator would once again travel to a faraway place to start fresh began her hunt for clues at major travel hubs: airports, train stations, bus stations, rental car agencies, and even taxi services. Using her FBI credentials to gain access, she patiently scanned recent departure and arrival lists of every airport, train station, and bus station situated along the eastern seaboard, including the Gulf States and Texas. Unfortunately, her search drew a big fat blank. Neither a Jon Rafter nor a Matthew London had flown on a plane, rode on a bus, train, plane, or rented a car since the last day he had been seen alive.

  Disappointed but undeterred, she next began a long and comprehensive journey on the internet using information brokers like LexisNexis and ChoicePoint to scan global electronic databases containing addresses, phone number listings, and driver license numbers. Leaving no stones unturned, she perused DMV records and phone discs, ran a surname check on MetroNet, and used TransUnion to run a credit header. She even checked voter registrations at hundreds of election boards, and hunting and fishing license rolls at fish and game departments. But like before, she failed to score any usable information. The only things that popped up on her monitor were London’s apartment in New York and the plantation house in Copeland he stayed at under his Jon Rafter moniker.

  The man had a knack for laying low. Living debt-free helped his vanishing act tremendously. Apparently, once Matthew London became Jon Rafter, all credit card usage stopped immediately. He used cash to pay for his rent and groceries, an
d his Spartan lifestyle left no room for phone service, landline or cellular. Internet provider? Forget about it. He even used wood to heat and cook, forgoing the luxury of modern electricity for everything but his antique refrigerator. And the electric service was listed under Rose Whitcomb, ensuring he couldn’t be traced. From Annie’s perspective, Rafter lived in an early 1900s time warp.

  She would have likely given up and considered him dead had she not turned off her laptop computer and returned to old-school detective work. The big break came when she talked to a Cessna pilot at the Harry P. Williams Memorial Airport in Patterson.

  She actually talked to quite a few pilots at the small airport, showing them the photograph of Matthew London she’d found while snooping around the plantation house. None of the pilots remembered seeing him, but one had a crop duster friend who recently flew a man with a similar appearance to Ohio. As the pilot told it, a man limped up to the tiny hangar the crop duster operated out of and offered a large sum of cash for a flight to Ohio.

  Thrilled to finally have a lead, she talked to the man who owned the crop dusting service. She showed him London’s photograph, and the pilot confirmed that he had flown London in his antique Boing Stearman biplane to a small airport in rural Ohio. But that’s where the trail died a sudden death.

  She didn’t know why London would choose Ohio as a destination. He didn’t have any blood relatives living in the Buckeye State. In fact, the only next of kin she could trace to London was an estranged uncle living in New Jersey. Annie had paid the man a visit before her meeting with Gabriel Schofield. The banished uncle relayed to her that he hadn’t seen Matthew in more than thirty years. He also told her that Matthew was an only child, and that his parents had died in a house fire shortly after he graduated from high school. Interesting background information, but nothing that could really help her cause.

  So here she found herself, gumshoeing in the sleepy hamlet of Copeland, Louisiana, hoping today would bring her a little closer to finding London. Copeland felt like a second home to her. She’d become somewhat of a town celebrity. The locals went out of their way to make her feel welcome, and were practically lining up to tell her their favorite Rafter story.

  Many of the anecdotes were heartwarming, especially the ones told to her by the residents living in the Grayson Manor Senior Center. London had a big heart for people who couldn’t help themselves, and she could personally bear witness to his kindhearted benevolence. She hadn’t forgotten how gently he’d cared for her wounds the night Henri Boudreaux tried to kill her with a ball bat.

  As she strolled down a sidewalk she reminisced. So much had changed since that fateful night. The status quo of her protected life had been altered forever. For starters, she had her surname legally changed back to McAllister. Then a few days ago her attorney called to tell her the ransom money was legally hers. Lastly, she requested an unpaid and unspecified leave of absence from the Bureau. Tracking down London required an incredible amount of time and demanded her full attention.

  Money no longer worried her. She didn’t need her paltry FBI salary anymore. She’d joined the ranks of millionaires, and honestly didn’t know if she would ever go back to work.

  Arresting Sebastian had thoroughly quenched her thirst for revenge, and she suspected she would never again achieve such satisfaction as the day she handcuffed Sebastian Boudreaux. But that didn’t stop Newton Laskey from calling her cell phone every other day to ask her when she’d be back.

  She felt bad for giving Newton the runaround, but couldn’t yet give him the hard and fast answer he desired. For the first time in her life she had unlimited options, and was seriously considering buying an antebellum home and converting it into a bed and breakfast.

  That had been a dream of hers for a long time, and now she had the bankroll to make it happen. But first things first, she had to one way or another find Matthew London and close this chapter in her life. The search for him had turned into an obsession. Her every waking thought centered on London. He’s driving me mad, she thought, stark raving mad.

  “Hello, Annie. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

  Annie looked up and saw Helen Fitch smiling at her. Helen owned a pie and coffee shop on the town square. She was also the undisputed town gossip queen. “Hi, Helen. It is indeed a beautiful morning.” A brilliant flaxen ball kissed the February sky with unseasonable warmth. Annie wore jeans and a short-sleeved sweater and felt comfortable.

  “Who are you going to talk to today, Annie?”

  Annie smiled. “I’m on my way to see Pastor Brooks. He’s someone I haven’t yet talked to about Jon.”

  Helen nodded, then grabbed Annie’s wrist and pulled her closer. “Tell me the truth, Annie,” she whispered. “Why is Jon faking his death? Is he in some sort of trouble with the law?”

  A nervous laugh tumbled out Annie’s mouth. “I’m pretty confident that Jon isn’t a fugitive, Helen. And to tell you the truth, I’m not sure why he’s disappeared like he has. My guess is he wants to remain anonymous. Taking credit for saving me and Gabby would go against his humble nature.” This was the standard answer she gave everyone who asked. An evasive answer to be sure, but she supposed there was some truth in the rehearsed statement.

  “An unsung hero. That’s a rare thing in this age.”

  “Yes, Helen, Jon is a hero. The whole town should take pride in him.”

  “Oh, we are proud, Annie. At the last city council meeting people talked about naming a street after him.”

  Annie shook her head. “Jon would hate that.”

  Helen suddenly looked at her watch. “I wish I could talk with you more, Annie. But I have to get back to the shop. I hope your visit with Malachi Brooks goes well.”

  “I’m sure it will, Helen.”

  “Come by the shop when you’re done. I have a new cheesecake I want you to try. It’s just divine,” Fitch crowed as she walked off.

  “Sounds wonderful, Helen. I’ll do that.” Grateful to be rid of the loose-lipped woman, Annie resumed her walk to the Baptist church Malachi Brooks shepherded. She took a left and walked two blocks down a cobblestone sidewalk, passing several refurbished Victorian homes and even a traditional Acadian cottage. First Baptist Church of Copeland sat at the corners of Halloday and Crenshaw.

  The two-hundred-year-old church glistened in the sun. Its fresh white paint complimented the vivid brilliance cast by the facility’s eight stained glass windows. A small parking lot surrounded the church on three sides. But on this day only the Buick belonging to Pastor Brooks sat in the lot.

  Annie walked up the front steps and pulled on the door. The door opened and she stepped inside a small foyer. Cinnamon-scented candles and musty, antique woodwork tickled her nostrils. She looked all around, unsure where she’d find Pastor Brooks. And then she looked up and saw the painting, and her breath caught in her throat.

  How did I miss it when I came in? On the wall facing her, a magnificent rendering of the crucified Christ stared down at her. Her spine crackled with static electricity as she gazed at the mural. She had no doubts as to who painted the religious masterpiece. His stylistic signature emanated from every brushstroke.

  Annie stood there immobilized. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the lifelike mural. Rafter had captured the scene perfectly. The agony on Jesus’ face was heart-wrenching. The thorns in the crown he wore looked almost two-inches in length. The lethal barbs punctured his scalp and forehead, causing blood to stream down his face and onto his naked torso.

  Annie shivered. She found the mural gruesome. Couldn’t there have been an easier way to save the world, one that didn’t involve so much blood? And wasn’t there another means of execution that didn’t involve having your wrists and feet nailed to a cross with seven-inch spikes?

  She felt shame for knowing so little about the Christian faith. Someday she would have to purchase a Bible and read the Gospels. Someday.

  Feeling grossly hypocritical, she managed to divert her gaze by wiping at the t
ears in her eyes. The mural affected her on a visceral level, and she felt extremely unsettled as she walked on shaky legs through a tall doorway and into the sanctuary.

  Two sections of lacquered maple pews intersected a short center aisle that led to the pulpit. The overhead lights in the sanctuary were off, but morning sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, transforming dust particles into brilliant beams of variegated color.

  Annie spotted an elderly man arranging hymnals in the pews. She assumed he was Pastor Brooks. She walked up to the minister. Her mouth felt dry and her heart pounded faster than normal. What is wrong with me? She wondered.

  Pastor Brooks detected her presence and looked up. He smiled warmly at her. “You must be, Annie,” he said softly. Not much taller than a horse jockey, Malachi Brooks had a kindly face and sparkling blue eyes that peered out from behind wire-rimmed bifocals. Wooly hair as white as freshly fallen snow crowned his head.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Pastor Brooks. I got tied up a bit with Helen Fitch and couldn’t get away from her.”

  A grin broke out on Brooks’ pudgy face. “I fully understand. Helen’s a champion talker. I just wish she had something worthwhile to say.” Brooks walked out from the pew he worked in and joined her. “Let’s go to my office to talk. It’s more comfortable there.”

  Annie followed Brooks toward a side door near the choir loft. Another spectacular mural decorated the wall above the baptistery. This mural depicted Jesus ascending to Heaven. Unlike the mural in the foyer, Annie found comfort in this painting. Looking at this one didn’t cause her to wince.

  “Exquisite, isn’t it? Jon painted it, along with the one in the foyer,” Brooks said, stopping to ogle the mural. “I can never get over how real Jesus looks. Sometimes I kneel in the baptistery and pray underneath the mural with my hands on his robes.”