by Joseph Flynn
Some made it and some didn’t, but he did. Who was to say that Lauren’s prayers hadn’t helped? If they had, he certainly was grateful for all the extra time he’d been granted with the two people he loved most in the world.
In that spirit, and with nobody looking, Oliver quickly played the supplicant himself. He asked that the Lord keep his family safe and well. And asked that the Lord give Oliver and his wife a daughter. And if it wasn’t asking too much, let him catch the bas — the person or persons responsible for nailing Isaac Cardwell to that lightning-struck tree.
The deputy chief’s communion with the Almighty was interrupted when he felt someone looking at him. Which made him open his eyes, surprising him that he’d closed them in the first place.
“I’m sorry. Did I disturb you?”
It was the minister across the way. He’d finished with his own prayers.
“No, no,” the deputy chief assured him. “Must have dozed a little, that’s all.”
“Oh, I thought … well, never mind. I’m Reverend John Brantley, the pastor of St. Mark’s.”
“Oliver Gosden, deputy chief of police.” Oliver crossed the aisle and shook hands with Brantley. “I’m afraid I’m here on official business. Is there somewhere we could talk?”
“Of course. Let’s step outside. Follow me, please.”
The pastor led the deputy chief through the sacristy and out the back door of the church.
“What a lovely evening,” Brantley said, smiling. “How may I help you?”
Oliver thought the man’s expression was almost beatific. He’d just renewed his faith. Then he’d stepped outside into one of nature’s better neighborhoods. And now a cop was going to ruin the man’s day.
Well, it wasn’t as though he had any choice in the matter.
“Pastor Brantley, do you know who Isaac Cardwell was?”
“Yes, of course.”
The man’s smile disappeared, but there was still a sense of serenity in his eyes.
“Did he ever come to your church?”
“Yes, he did. On three or four occasions. He introduced himself to me on his first visit. He impressed me as a very fine man.”
“Did you talk much with him?”
“Usually just for a few minute. Social protocol, you know. But once I invited him into my parsonage and we spoke for almost an hour.”
“What did you talk about, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“We talked about the challenges we faced in our respective ministries. And … “ Brantley paused, plainly trying to decide if he would be breaching a trust to go on.
“Please, Pastor, help me. I’m trying to find the man’s killer.”
Brantley nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m not sure that it will help you, but he told me he was trying to save a particular soul. And he was in some anguish that he might fail.”
“Did he say whose soul?”
The pastor shook his head.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Oliver wanted to know.
“He stopped in to pray the night before he died.”
“Do you remember the time?”
“It was shortly before sunset. I lock up the church just after dark.”
“Do you know where he went from here?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Was there anyone else in the church who might have seen where he went?” Oliver had a small lead here and he didn’t want to let it peter out.
“There was one other person at the back of the church while Reverend Cardwell and I were up front?”
“Do you know that person’s name?”
“I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid this person wasn’t much more than a blur. I think it was a white man, but even that would be guesswork. I have cataracts, you see. I’m scheduled for surgery next week.”
Now, Oliver noticed there wasn’t only a sense of peace in the man’s eyes, there was a milky haze symptomatic of his condition.
“I wish I could be of more help,” Brantley said. “Reverend Cardwell touched my life only briefly, but I feel I’m the better for having met him. I’ve heard all the news reports, of course, and I think of what his final moments must have been like quite often. I wonder if at the end …
The old man’s voice trailed off.
Oliver said, “Pastor, from everything I heard, if anybody’s gone to Jesus, it’s Isaac Cardwell.”
John Brantley nodded. “Oh, certainly. Of that, I have no doubt. No, I was wondering if at the end Reverend Cardwell asked God to forgive his executioner, just as Jesus did. I rather think that he might have.”
The pastor excused himself and found his way back into his church.
That idea had never occurred to the deputy chief: Forgive the guy who nailed you up? Not him. He never took his Bible lessons that seriously.
But when Oliver walked to the parking lot from the rear of the church, he noticed the sun shining off something golden, something under the bushes not ten feet from his patrol unit. He walked over, squatted, and peered at the source of the reflection.
A pair of wire frame glasses.
Isaac Cardwell’s glasses were missing and hadn’t been found. Until now. Oliver would bet his pension that those glasses had belonged to the slain minister. And he’d never have seen them if he hadn’t come out of the church the back way. And if the sun hadn’t been shining at just the right angle.
Hadn’t he just asked — prayed — for help in finding the killer? And now he’d found the spot where Isaac Cardwell probably got bashed on the head, at least the first time. It was enough to make a man stop and think. But not for too long, at least not right then.
Oliver radioed the chief and Officer Benny Marx, the crime scene specialist.
Under the illumination of a bank of portable high-wattage lights, Officer Marx found blood spatter, too. Not a lot of blood had been spilled, but enough to dot the sidewalk that bordered the parking area and several leaves on the bushes near where the glasses lay. Officer Marx should have no trouble collecting samples to be compared with specimens taken from Cardwell’s body.
The gold wire frame glasses were photographed in place and then carefully bagged.
“This is where he got it,” Oliver told Ron. “No doubt about it. This white guy at the back of the church followed him in, and then he ambushed him when he came out. Cardwell probably parked his car about where I put my unit, and maybe when he went to open his door, bang. Killer pops him a good one to the back of the head, and Cardwell’s glasses go flying. It’s almost dark and the perp has his plans to crucify the man so he doesn’t take the time to get down on his hands and knees to find the glasses he knocked off.”
The deputy chief looked to see how the scenario played out for his boss.
“Pastor Brantley said his vision was pretty bad, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. He’s got cataracts he’s getting fixed next week. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Nothing with what happened out here in the parking lot. I’m with you on that. But what I was thinking, this white man he saw, it might have been a real light-skinned black guy.”
Oliver’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me?”
“No,” Ron said, and seeing what was plain on the deputy chief’s face, he added, “and I’m not subscribing to the Klan Weekly again, either. Remind me to tell you tomorrow about a guy named Didi DuPree.”
“Tomorrow? What about right now?”
The chief held up the plastic evidence bag containing the gold wire-frame glasses.
“It’s my turn to talk to Mahalia Cardwell. She should be able to identify these for us.”
Chapter 27
Ron called Mahalia Cardwell’s suite from the lobby of the Hyatt. He invited her down to have a cup of tea with him. He told the old lady that they might have a lead in her grandson’s killing, and he needed her help pursuing it.
She agreed to join him, but said it would take her ten minutes to get ready. The chief buttonholed the assistan
t manager and told him he could use his assistance. Two minutes later, Ron slipped into the hotel restaurant, where he’d meet Mahalia Cardwell, through the kitchen entrance. He stepped directly to a table that had just been screened off by the restaurant staff from the rest of the dining area. This had been accomplished by repositioning several large potted plants.
Ron knew that if people hadn’t been out on the town this evening because they were anxious about the mountain lion attacks, they wouldn’t be going out tonight, either. That meant the large media contingent lodged at the Hyatt was most likely dining and drinking, rather than sitting in their rooms studying the offerings of the Gideons. He didn’t want to be seen talking to Mahalia Cardwell; he certainly didn’t want the snoops from the press to see the glasses they’d found.
The chief instinctively felt Isaac Cardwell’s killer was still in town, but that certainly didn’t mean he couldn’t be scared off if the media alerted him that the cops were closing in. He probably should have just talked to the old lady in her suite, but with his reputation he was leery of being alone with Mahalia Cardwell in a private setting. The old lady didn’t like him; she’d made that plain. He did want to afford her the opportunity to fling some more mud on him if he made her really angry.
A few minutes later, Mahalia Cardwell appeared, also through the kitchen door. Ron’s strategy would have worked neatly except for one thing. The old lady had brought Ben Dexter with her.
The chief stood, careful to conceal the evidence bag with his body.
“Making me come through the kitchen like that,” Mahalia Cardwell complained, “I thought I was going to have to start earning my keep.”
“I believe the mayor told you that your stay is on him,” Ron replied.
“And if it wasn’t, I’d be happy to cover it,” Dexter said with a smile. “Good evening, Chief Ketchum. I was interviewing Mrs. Cardwell when you called, and she invited me to come along. I didn’t know, however, we’d have the pleasure of engaging in your little subterfuge.” He gestured at the wall of potted plants. “Is all this to spare you from the prying eyes of my colleagues?”
Dexter was only partially successful in masking the appearance of how vastly amused he was. Ron wanted to pistol-whip the sonofabitch. But he knew some wishes were never to be granted. So he ignored the reporter.
“Mrs. Cardwell, I’m sorry if I’ve called on you at a bad time. And I meant no offense by asking you to walk through the kitchen. The information I have for you is of a very sensitive nature, and has to be kept confidential. Perhaps you could call me tomorrow when you have the time to speak privately.”
Mahalia Cardwell’s eyes were shrewd. “You’re not going talk to me in front of Mr. Dexter?”
“No, I’m not.”
She turned to Dexter, and she was succinct. “Please leave us.”
For just that one instant, Ron could have kissed Mahalia Cardwell. The way Dexter’s doggy little smirk turned to ashes was a memory that he would cherish for the rest of his life.
“But we have an agreement,” the reporter asserted.
“Not now.” The old lady seated herself, symbolizing her change of allegiance.
That left the two men on their feet, but Dexter didn’t have a leg to stand on. He saw the hard expression on Ron’s face and knew it would be counterproductive, at a minimum, to continue the debate. He tried killing both the chief and the old lady with a look. When that didn’t work, he turned on his heel and stormed off.
A waiter came and took their order for tea and, at Ron’s request, summoned the maitre d’. Ron asked that his meeting with Mrs. Cardwell be kept free of eavesdropping from the press, and the kitchen and serving staff should be alerted that reporters and/or photographers might try to eavesdrop. The chief was assured that he’d have complete privacy.
After they were served and the waiter had gone, Ron handed Mahalia Cardwell the evidence bag. He said, “Please don’t open the bag, but will you please look at these glasses and tell me if they belonged to your grandson?”
The old lady took the bag wordlessly, and the grief brought by recognition softened her stern features. She turned the glasses to look at them from several angles, as if she were remembering the face on which they’d once rested. Then she handed the bag back and nodded.
“They’re my baby’s.”
She dried the tears that were beginning to well in her eyes. Ron allowed her a moment of silence and she regained her composure — and her usual fierce visage.
“Mrs. Cardwell,” Ron said, “it’s very important to the success of this investigation that you not mention the specifics of anything I show you or repeat to the press anything we talk about. If you do so, the killer may run.”
“Where’s Jimmy Thunder going to run to?” she demanded. “Everybody all over this country knows his face.”
Ron rubbed his chin as he met Mahalia Cardwell’s harsh gaze. “Mrs. Cardwell, I will tell you that I consider Reverend Thunder a suspect in the killing of his son.”
“Suspect? He did it.”
Ron paused to look for the right reply.
“Your heart may tell you that. That might be what you want to see proved. But I have to look for evidence, and follow wherever it may lead. That’s the only way I can do my job. That’s the only way you’ll ever get the justice you want.”
“Oh, I’ll have my justice, Mr. Chief of Police. Either you’ll give it to me or God will.”
That turned Ron to the other topic he wanted to discuss.
“Mrs. Cardwell, did you spend anytime outside your suite today? Have you walked around town?”
“I can’t go outside without all those people sticking their cameras in my face. I even have my meals sent in. That’s why I was talking to Mr Dexter. I recognized him from TV. I figured if I talk to him the others will leave me alone.”
“Have you watched the news?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know about the two mountain lion attacks?”
“I heard about that.”
“Do you know that attempts are being made to link those attacks to what people are calling your curse on the town of Goldstrike?”
“I saw Dexter asking your mayor about it. He said he don’t believe it.”
“I don’t either. But I have reason to think an increasing number of people in town are finding the idea credible.”
“Must mean some folks have themselves guilty consciences.”
“What it means,” Ron said bluntly, “is that your words could be leading to an increasingly dangerous situation. One that could cause trouble in which innocent people might get hurt.”
Mahalia Cardwell was unmoved.
“At least you didn’t say my people. Colored folks. I’ve seen one or two around here. And don’t you talk to me about innocent, either. Never has a child been born that’s more innocent than my baby was.”
Ron changed directions, but kept the tone in his voice as hard as the old lady’s.
“Okay. You’re not worried about anyone else, white or black. All you want is your grandson’s killer.”
“That’s just about right. Makes me as mean as anybody else, doesn’t it? Were you expecting better?” Mahalia Cardwell jutted her jaw defiantly.
“Maybe I was, from the woman who said she’d raised such a good man.” Ron saw his remark cut Mahalia Cardwell deeply, but right then he didn’t give a damn. “Here’s something for you to think about. I’ve got a small police department. We already have our hands full. We get any more problems, it’s going to be a drag on our efforts to catch Isaac’s killer. Maybe your curse will turn around and bite you. You keep that in mind.”
But letting his temper get the better of him was a mistake. Mahalia Cardwell got up and left in a bigger huff than Ben Dexter had.
Ron didn’t think it would do a whole lot of good to chase after her and ask her to recant her statement calling down the wrath of God on Goldstrike.
She’d probably repeat it, with embellishments, to the delight o
f the lurking media.
Chapter 28
When the chief got back to his office, he found Corrie Knox asleep in his chair. She had her feet up on his desk, and sneakers on her feet. As much as he liked basketball, he wasn’t in the mood to play right now.
Not even with her.
He stepped around his desk and was about to jostle her shoulder when he saw the sheet of paper on his desk. It was covered with the writing of a precise feminine hand. When he saw the subject matter, he knew the slumbering Warden Knox was the author.
Safety Tips Regarding Mountain Lions
• Never hike alone.
• Always carry a sturdy branch or walking stick.
• Leave your pets at home.
• Always clean up after cooking outdoors.
• Always store food away from tent.
• Always keep small children close at hand.
• Pick up children immediately if you see a lion.
• Never move toward a lion.
• Never run.
• Hold your position or back off slowly.
• Never turn your back or crouch.
• Make yourself look as big as possible.
• Be threatening: Wave arms, shout, throw sticks and stones.
• If all else fails, fight back with your fists and feet.
Fight back with your fists? Ron had to wonder about that one. He’d have to ask Warden Knox if mountain lions were known for having glass jaws. He looked at her and thought once again what a terrific looking woman she was. Not beautiful or even pretty. She had too much character, too much strength for either of those labels to apply. But she had a face you’d never get tired of looking at. At least, he wouldn’t.
Just then her eyes fluttered open.
She held his gaze and said, “I fall asleep in your office, I guess you’ve got a right to stare. You come to any conclusions?”
“I can’t decide if you look twelve or thirteen.”
She laughed, a surprisingly deep sound that seem to come from all the way down in her belly. “Oh, no. I’m real old. In fact, I’ve been worried about the birthday I’ve got coming up.”