I nodded. I had seen the newspaper story in a coffee shop near my apartment and made a mental note of the murders at the time. Oddly enough, that mention occurred the day the paper ran a big front-page headline about the burgeoning Jessup sex scandal.
“Both of those men worked behind the scenes for Reverend Jessup’s campaign,” Tony said. “The murders were never solved, but the threats against his campaign and his family continued during the subsequent chain of events . . . .” Tony looked at Rodney as if he needed permission to continue.
“It’s all right,” Rodney said. “It was a scandal. It knocked me out of the race and ruined everything I hold dear in life—except my bank account.”
“You’ve become strangely materialistic, Reverend, since we last met,” I said. “In Manchester, you were much holier-than-thou.”
“Money is all I have left,” Rodney said. “Nothing was ever proven when I was crucified in the press, yet the innuendo and the murder of Stephen Cross were enough to ruin my political career.”
Rodney had no compunction about dredging up crap that made me boil. “You conveniently seem to forget the business card you dropped at the Hercules Theater.”
I had to hand it to Jessup. Maybe it was the wine, or he knew the position I was in—ass in the air—but he remained calm.
“A business card found by a reporter with my thumb print on it. How novel. I’ve done thousands of interviews. How am I supposed to remember a meeting with a small-time newspaperman in New Haven years before my campaign began? Life is full of lost memories and coincidences. And setups.”
“Are you suggesting that Stephen set you up?” I was ready to go for his throat.
“Please,” Tony said, becoming the voice of reason. “We’re not accomplishing anything. Let’s get back to the facts.”
Rodney and I stared at each other warily, while Tony waited until I cooled off.
“Things were fine for a while after Reverend Jessup withdrew from the campaign,” Tony said. “But within the past couple of months the threats have escalated—vandalism outside the property, late-night phone calls—untraceable, of course. Some pretty disturbing stuff.”
“What kind of vandalism?” I asked.
Rodney sighed and took a gulp of wine.
“Blood on the entrance gate,” Tony said. “A fetus left in a bag on the driveway.”
“Human?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” Rodney said. “We’re not dealing with murder on this property, and I want no part of that.”
“Both were from a pig,” Tony said.
I munched a bit of salad. The fresh greens and vegetables were good, but I didn’t feel hungry. This lunch was too much like consorting with the enemy.
“Security cameras?” I asked Tony.
“Around the perimeter of the property, but the perp knew enough about cameras to know their range and color capabilities. All the cameras caught was a dark, unidentifiable blur.”
“Any clues from the bag or fetus?”
“Store bought,” Tony said. “Nothing that couldn’t be found in any hardware or butcher shop.”
Rodney pointed his fork at me. “But there have also been letters threatening my life, mailed from New York City.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Reverend,” I said. “If I’d wanted revenge it would have happened a long time ago.”
“I never suspected you,” Rodney said. “You’re oddly moral for a homosexual. A strong sense of duty and friendship can be an asset, or a liability, depending on the man. I don’t believe you are a killer.”
“Only when pushed,” I said. “I also have a strong sense of self-preservation.”
“Carol and the children have left the house,” Rodney said. “Both Tony and I felt they would be safer if they were elsewhere. Of course, it creates a huge hardship for our family.”
Abby appeared to my right and took away the half-eaten salads. She asked me if I would like chicken or fish for the entrée. I was in the mood for fish.
“I guess that brings us to suspects,” I said. “Who wants to kill you, Reverend? And why?”
I thought Rodney was going to choke on his wine. He snorted and then came up for air. “Let’s see.” His blue eyes darkened in a contained fury. “Everyone in the Council for Religious Advancement, about every member of the Beacon of God Churches, all the big donors to my presidential campaign, every homosexual in Boston . . . shall I go on?”
“You’ve made your point,” I said. I cast a glance at Tony who seemed as disgusted by his employer’s display as I was. “I’m talking about real suspects—not everyone who thinks you’re an asshole.”
Rodney’s eyes flashed. “Some people still respect me. Fortunately, my wife and children are among those.”
“So Tony,” I said. “What have you come up with?”
Tony shifted in his seat. “I’ve worked probably a hundred leads, but nothing’s panned out. Someone has it in for Reverend Jessup, and I believe he or she is dangerous.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Could be a woman. Women have been known to carry a grudge.”
Abby appeared with lunch. My appetite had picked up somewhat, so I ate what I could stomach. It was a hell of a lot easier looking at Tony than the white fish laid out on my plate. By the time dessert came, I had him undressed in my head. If Tony was strapped to my bed, naked, would he look anything like my fantasy? We dropped the detective talk for a bit, while Rodney rhapsodized about his love affair with Virginia, his church, and his family, in that order.
When we got back to business, I asked, “How is your relationship with Carol?”
“My wife and I are on the best of terms,” he said, “and I’d prefer if you’d keep her out of this.”
“Nothing’s off limits, Reverend,” I countered. “Which brings up a question. Why did you hire me? You hinted at the reason the night you camped out in front of my apartment, but I wasn’t up for company.”
“Because you’re not a member of law enforcement. I hired you for the same reason I presume Stephen Cross did. You’re smart and you know the street. You may be able to sniff something out that our friend Tony might not.”
“Stephen didn’t hire me,” I said. “I worked for Stephen because . . . we were good friends. But you’re right, I can sometimes see things cops can’t. I have a certain way of looking at things.” I gazed at Tony. “In fact, I never liked cops.”
Tony smiled and said, “I’m the one who found you for Reverend Jessup.”
I smiled back and Tony’s eyes twinkled. “Congratulations on your initiative. I think we’re going to enjoy working together.”
“It was easy, really,” Tony said.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket and leaned back in his chair. His pecs strained against his white shirt. His nipples made perfect round circles underneath the fabric. His service revolver reared its shiny black butt from under his left armpit.
I smiled back. “Easy. I like that word. Here in the South, living should be easy.”
Tony nodded.
I wondered how easy he was.
CHAPTER
FIVE
RODNEY, TONY, AND I SPENT THE DAY DISCUSSING leads. Frankly, nothing struck me, except the disturbing fact that Rodney, for a man of God, had made a lot of enemies. They were of all kinds, too—political, social, and religious. I couldn’t discount dissension within his ranks. I remembered the plump woman in New Hampshire who wanted so desperately to get a glimpse of Jessup when he made his presidential announcement. She had told me about an unidentified woman who had thrown herself years ago at Jessup in a New Orleans hotel room. The good reverend had the woman removed from the conference. I’m sure she was banished from his sight forever, hiding her head in shame like some biblical harlot, cleansed of her demons by Rodney, like countless others.
After dinner, I was getting antsy and even a bit claustrophobic in the big house. Tony stifled a few yawns and made leaving noises. I had been up early for the flight and the day was beginning to
catch up with me.
Rodney talked away about old times and slouched in his leather wing chair, a victim of too many scotch and sodas at dinner. He offered to take us to breakfast at a Buena Vista restaurant so Abby could have a respite from the kitchen. That, of course, presumed that he’d be sober enough to drive by then.
Tony shook my hand and said good night. He said he would meet us at the restaurant. I was sorry to see him leave. I’d hoped that he was staying with Jessup also and that we had adjoining suites or at least rooms across the hall from each other. But my fantasy was shot to hell. I assumed Abby was in the house somewhere or had slipped home after the last of Rodney’s cocktails.
My bag had disappeared sometime after lunch, but I wasn’t too worried. It showed up in the room Jessup led me to in the right wing of the house, nearest the kitchen and dining room. My guest bedroom was plush by any standard. The fabrics were soft and luxurious. The curtained windows looked out on the back lawn, which was illuminated by security lights. The grass still looked healthy and green even for November. A large four-poster bed called to me. There was a gigantic TV on a walnut dresser. The bathroom contained a whirlpool tub and the usual standard items. Everything was perfect. Too perfect.
Rodney said he’d wake me up at seven a.m. He closed the door and I locked it. I pulled the drapes, stripped, and stepped into the whirlpool tub. I soaked for about thirty minutes in the hot, bubbling water until I was limp all over. I dried myself with one of the plush towels and looked in the mirror. A small ridge was forming around my waist and I didn’t like it. The fat probably was coming from all the free dinners I got at Han’s. I pinched the fleshy band hoping it was under an inch. Barely. My face looked flushed from the bath and I was happy to be rid of the ponytail, which I’d cut about six months before. The crew cut suited me. I was going through this self-indulgent exercise for Tony’s sake. I wanted to make sure I was presentable—naked. I was about as good as I could get at my age, just under thirty-five.
I crawled into bed and slept soundly. Usually, I slept with one eye open, but tonight, the trip, the drive, and the exhausting day with Rodney overtook me.
The hand pulling down the blanket woke me up. I jolted awake, turned, and grabbed at the wrist over my back. I hadn’t heard a thing when the door opened.
It was Rodney.
I pushed him away. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I just wanted to talk,” he said.
The l in talk disappeared in a boozy slur. The acrid stench of consumed scotch wafted from his breath.
I lifted myself up in bed. The covers fell away revealing my chest and stomach. I never wore pajamas. “We can talk at breakfast.” I could have easily pounced and thrown him from the room. Mostly, I felt sorry for him, having had my own run-ins with addiction.
He tried to walk toward me but stumbled, landing in a fit of laughter at the foot of my bed. He was wearing a thin white robe, which revealed more than I wanted to see from my employer. He curled his legs up and covered himself.
“Okay, Rodney, what’s up? Why the nocturnal visit?” I looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was after two.
“I wanted to say hi.” He waved at me.
He was truly smashed. I had dealt with similar situations before. The best tactic was to let the drunk have his say until he passed out or let him talk himself out until I could escort him back to his room. That was the best course of action. Another option would have been to take advantage of him. Many a drunken visit from “straight” men—Christ, was I drunk last night syndrome—came about from excessive alcohol consumption. However, the fact that many women and quite a few men had thrown themselves at Rodney did not make him attractive to me. He was still reprehensible in my book. I was somewhat flattered, though, to get the chance, from a celebrity fuck perspective.
“You didn’t really come to say hi,” I said. “What do you want?”
He smiled and his head bobbed like those toys some idiots paste on the dashboards of their cars.
“Do you think I’m attractive?”
What to answer? No, and he’d be a blubbering mess. Yes, and he’d be all over me.
“Personally, I think you’re attractive to many people, but I think we’re just friends.” I lied about the friends part, but Rodney wouldn’t remember the conversation anyway.
“Stephen Cross found me attractive.”
I leaned back against the pillow, stunned at his admission.
“Are you telling me that you and Stephen had sex?”
He nodded in his drunken way.
“So, you lied to everyone. What else have you lied about?”
“A lot of things,” he said and started to blubber. “God doesn’t like me anymore.”
“You’re drunk, Rodney. Tell me the truth. What else haven’t you told me?”
“A lot of people hate me. I hate myself sometimes, when I’ve had too much to drink.”
I steeled myself, but asked the question, “Did you have Stephen killed?”
He shook his head violently and crawled toward me. “No! No! You know that. But I think I know who did.”
The conversation was turning on itself and getting weirder by the minute.
“We all know who killed Stephen. I found the murderer. Remember?”
He put his right hand on my left knee and collapsed in a heap between my legs. I was getting really uncomfortable. His proximity to the family jewels broke me out in a sweat.
“Hey boss,” I said. “I can have you strung up on sexual harassment charges. Why don’t you back off?”
“You don’t like me, do you?”
I decided to play along. “I think you’re about the best person on this planet. Now, why don’t you go back to your room and go to sleep?”
“I know who killed Stephen Cross,” he said and his eyes swam in his head.
He was talking nonsense. “Rodney . . . ” It was too late. His head dropped between my legs and his eyes closed. “Shit,” I said under my breath. “Alone in the house with a pervert.” If he had been the right kind of pervert, my mood would have been better.
I extricated my legs from beneath his body and crawled out of bed. I didn’t care that I was naked. Rodney was too drunk to care or remember. I put one of my four pillows on the floor, maneuvered him off the bed, and covered him with the heavy bedspread. Soon, he was snoring away and I slipped back under the blankets.
Sometime during the night, Rodney crept out of my room. I didn’t hear anything until he knocked precisely at seven. He stuck his head around the door and wished me a good morning, as if nothing had happened. He said he would meet me in an hour in the living room. I drew the curtains back. Low gray clouds spit cold rain, diffusing the light. The day reminded me of drizzly mornings in Boston or New York. The wind cut through me on those days—always a sign of colder weather ahead.
I showered and put on jeans and a black sweatshirt. I grabbed my leather jacket, which I had carried on the plane, and headed to the living room.
Rodney was sitting in front of the television watching network news. He was wearing tan chinos and a white shirt. A blue sweater was slung over his arm.
“Good morning,” I said cheerfully. My smile stretched across my face. “How are we feeling today?” I wanted the glee in my voice to cover him like honey.
He turned to me and with a voice as flat as western Kansas said, “I’m sorry about last night, Mr. Harper. I have to watch myself sometimes. As you may have gathered, I like to drink. This habit seems to have gotten a bit worse since the whole Stephen Cross affair.”
“Acknowledgment is the first step on the road to recovery,” I said.
He smirked and said, “You do have a knack for pissing people off, don’t you?”
“Only those I love. Do you mind if I have a seat or do we need to get going?”
“Actually, it’s time to leave.” He looked at his watch, a gold Movado. He called out toward the kitchen. “Abby, we’ll be back in time for lunch. Please serve for
three.”
The ever-present Abby appeared in the dining room and repeated Rodney’s instructions.
Three? Things were looking up. Maybe Tony would be the invited guest again. We walked past Abby and through the expansive kitchen to a door that led to a three-car garage. The black Mercedes I had seen in New York was sheltered comfortably inside. It was buffed to a blistering shine. Next to it sat a navy-blue model of the same type. I assumed it must be Carol’s.
“Would you mind driving?” Rodney asked. “I’m feeling a bit off this morning.”
“No, not at all,” I said, relishing the opportunity to put my New York driver’s license to good use—in a Mercedes no less. The last car I had driven was the Chevy I stole in Boston when I went to meet Rodney in New Hampshire.
Rodney punched the garage opener and the extra-wide door slid up. I looked out on the large front lawn and circular driveway and thought about how surreal my world had become. I settled in the driver’s seat and Rodney took his place as my passenger. He handed me the keys.
“Before we go,” I said, “I have one question.”
Rodney looked at me warily.
“You said last night you knew who killed Stephen Cross. What did you mean?”
Rodney sighed. “Sometimes I say things I shouldn’t. Sometimes I say things I don’t remember—like last night. We all know who killed Stephen Cross, but maybe there’s more to the story. After breakfast, I want you and Tony to check out something I’ve discovered near Lynchburg.”
“Okay. Let’s get rolling.”
I backed the car out of the garage and Rodney pushed a button on the remote and the door glided down. I turned left on the circular drive, wound past the portico, and proceeded down the long drive to the gate. Another remote push and the gate opened. I stopped at the road, unsure of which way to turn.
“Left,” Rodney said, sensing my indecision. “Toward town.”
I looked both ways and seeing no vehicles, pulled the Mercedes into the right lane near the tree line that bordered the road.
The glass exploded around us in violent pops.
Something warm splashed against my face and I caught sight of Rodney slumping toward the dashboard. I hit the gas pedal and leaned forward. A bullet whizzed past the back of my head and the driver’s side glass shattered. Then the tires gave away from the barrage of ammunition and the Mercedes fishtailed on the damp road.
An Absent God Page 5