“What—how—” She gave up on trying to speak. Just looking at him was manna to her soul as he practically dragged her up the stairs to the offices of the police department.
“Bellville is letting you out on my recognizance for twenty-four hours,” he explained as they went. “In other words, I’m guaranteeing to him you won’t skip town and make a run for Mexico.”
“I’ve never wanted to go to Mexico,” she said breathlessly, her hand clutched in his as he passed the various offices and bull pens and no one jumped out to stop them and send her back to that eight-by-ten room.
He pulled her into an office where a laptop computer sat, fired up and ready to go, next to the beat-up leather backpack she’d seen in the jump seat of his truck. “I need you to make a statement for me. Use the laptop.”
“Saying what?”
“I want you to tell me everything Luke Fisher has assigned to you, asked you to do, told you, or hinted at in any conversation you’ve ever had with him.”
“That could take most of our twenty-four hours.” She’d much rather go somewhere quiet with a good lock on it and spend those hours alone with Ray.
“That’s okay. Sit right here.” He pulled out a chair and planted her in it. “Take as much time as you need to give me as much detail as you can.”
She sat, but she didn’t turn to the laptop. Not yet. “You believe me.”
His hazel gaze felt like the summer sun after a cold plunge in the lake. “Of course, I believe you. He set you up. He’s the guy I’ve been doing surveillance on all this time. He’s Richard Brandon Myers.”
Claire stared at him. “The rip-off artist? Luke? What?”
“They’re one and the same. I knew he had to be up to something, but I didn’t expect he’d drag you into it. Now our job is to prove he did all the things they’ve charged you with.”
Her mind reeled. “In twenty-four hours.”
“Right. Get to work.”
So, she did. It took forever. It took all the way through the breakfast muffin and massive mocha latte he brought her from the coffee bar on Main Street. It took, in fact, the entire three hours before her counsel, Spencer Rodriguez, arrived and was brought into the office for a strategy session. They printed out the statement—all eleven single-spaced pages of it—and gave it to him to read. When he finished, he took off his gold-rimmed spectacles and gazed at the two of them. Light glinted on a head as bald as a bowling ball. He was the guy who would help clear her. Claire thought he was beautiful.
“Fisher is slick, I’ll say that for him. Do you have his statement, too?”
Ray pulled it out of his backpack and handed it to him. “I made copies.”
Rodriguez glanced at the first few sheets and shook his head. “Point for point, he takes what he told Claire and twists it tighter than a screw so that she looks like the culpable one. He’s had some practice at this, I can tell.”
“I have some background information you’ll find interesting, then.” Ray pulled a manila folder out and handed it to him. “That’s a snapshot of his last three years, as complete as I can make it. Hamilton Falls PD already has this material. We just don’t have any hard evidence to make it stick.”
“Without it, it’s her word against his.”
“We’ll get it.” Ray’s voice was grim, and Claire remembered again how intimidated he’d once made her feel. How she’d once told Dinah Traynell she wouldn’t want him coming after her. Now that force of justice, that sense of confidence, was working on her side.
For which she thanked God for about the tenth time this morning.
“We should reconvene at the end of the day and see what we’ve got,” Rodriguez said. “The terms of Claire’s release are that she stays in Hamilton Falls in your presence at all times. That shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”
“No,” Ray said.
“If it turns out to be one, call me.” Rodriguez handed him a card. “That cell number is active 24/7.” Ray pocketed the card. “What’s first on the agenda?” Rodriguez slipped the manila folder into his briefcase.
“The radio station. I have a few questions for Mr. Fisher.”
“I heard him on the air as I was driving over.”
“Good.” Ray offered Claire his hand and she slid hers into it as she rose. “Come on. We have work to do if we’re going to get you cleared by tomorrow.”
Chapter 14
HARPER’S LAW: If you assume something, it’ll come back to bite you in the butt.
Both Ray and Claire assumed that it would be business as usual at the radio station, but the first thing they found when they got to the building was that it was locked. Southern gospel music flowed happily from the exterior speakers, but the booth drapes were pulled and no one answered the door.
“I have keys.” Claire fished them out of the purse they’d retrieved from the sergeant, who had been none too happy about giving them up. They’d spent fifteen minutes at Claire’s place so she could shower and change, and now they were ready to take on Luke Fisher. Ray would have preferred to have done it alone, but when Claire unlocked the door and led the way inside, it was clear she wasn’t about to be left behind and probably had a few salient questions for Fisher herself.
She pushed open the door to the CD library and then stopped short at the glass window that looked into the DJ’s booth itself.
No one was there.
“He must be in the men’s room,” Ray said. “Back in a sec.”
But he wasn’t. Nor was he anywhere on the premises, and when they looked in the parking lot, neither the white van nor his Camry were there. Just then they heard his voice come across the speakers: “That was Ricky Skaggs and an old favorite of mine. Now, for a change of pace, coming up for Melanie and Tracy we have ZOEgirl. This is Luke Fisher, fisher of men, coming to you live from 98.5 KGHM in Hamilton Falls!”
“He must have gone out to grab a cup of coffee.” They dashed inside, but when they went into the studio it was just as empty as before.
“Now here’s a word from Hamilton Feed and Seed, where all the chicks I know do their shopping.” Luke’s voice sounded loudly throughout the studio, and then the commercial began.
“Ray, he’s put a tape in,” Claire said, horrified. Pointing at the deck, where one light flashed green and the other red, she went on, “He probably came in to relieve Toby this morning at eight, stuck tapes in both decks, and took off in the van. And Ray—” She put a hand on his sleeve. “The van doesn’t have plates yet. It’s brand new.”
“So, tracing it is going to be more difficult. Like Rodriguez says, the guy is slick. The question of the hour is, where did he go?”
“With the head start he got, he could be anywhere.”
“Maybe there’s something around here.” He began to go through everything sitting on the console. “A piece of paper. A letter. A statement. Anything.”
“Maybe. The only paper he ever used is sticky notes.”
A search of the studio and the CD library turned up a whole lot of nothing—if you didn’t count the massive dust bunny under the broadcasting console. That left the coffee room, which didn’t take long, and Claire’s office.
“It would be just like that guy to plant something in here that would incriminate you some more,” Ray said grimly, surveying the room.
“Then it’s a good thing we got here first, and not that grumpy sergeant at the jail.” She pointed at a plastic bin sitting on the floor. “Toby brought in the mail. I’ll go through it while you do my office,” she suggested. “It’s too familiar to me. I’m liable to look right over something important just because I’ve seen it twenty times.”
Ray went through her desk and credenza, then glanced up at the row of cards on the window sill. They were just as innocuous as they had been the first time. Just to be thorough, though, he read through them and the thank-you letter taped to the glass, slowly, until he got to the signature.
Richard Myers.
Surely Fisher wouldn’t have
been that stupid. Or that arrogant. “Claire, where did this letter come from?”
“One of the ministries we donated to.” She was halfway through the bin of mail, sorting it into piles. “It’s funny, isn’t it? The pastor has the same name as—” She stopped in horror. “Oh, no.”
Ray looked more closely at the letter. A little graphic of a church at the top, the address in cutesy Old English script below it. He ran his thumb over it. No engraving. It had come out of a laser printer. There was no reason for a casual observer to think anything of it. Coincidences happened all the time.
Except he didn’t believe in luck or coincidence.
“Luke said he’d been donating to them for some time,” Claire told him. “I cut them a check for ten thousand the first week I was here.”
“You sent ten thousand to a P.O. box on Luke’s say-so?”
“I had no reason not to. Then.”
His brain was moving at lightning speed. A church in Idaho. Right across the state line. Nice and safe, if you were on the run. But crossing a state line turned a little fraud into a nice big federal felony. “Let me use your phone, just in case it’s real. But I bet it’s not.”
She rolled her chair back and waved a hand at it. “Go ahead.”
He dialed Information for the Idaho exchange, and to his amazement, the church on the letterhead actually existed. For a split second, doubt flickered. No. Never assume.
“Good Shepherd Community, this is Dineen Strachan speaking.”
“Hi, Ms. Strachan. I’m calling for Pastor Myers, please.”
“You mean Pastor Torvig.”
“There’s no Richard Myers associated with your church?”
“No indeed. To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Investigator Ray Harper of the Washington Organized Crime Task Force. I had information that I could find Pastor Myers there. Maybe I have the wrong church. Is there another Good Shepherd in—” He glanced at the letterhead. “—Miller’s Ferry?”
“Investigator, there’s only one Good Shepherd anywhere.” She laughed comfortably, as if she’d made a joke. “But no, as far as churches, we’re the only one with that name.”
“Okay, let me ask you this. Did you receive a check recently for ten thousand dollars?”
The laugh this time wasn’t comfortable, it was incredulous. “Ten thousand! Not likely. The most we’d see around here is a couple of hundred. Should I be on the lookout for it?”
“If it does show up, would you mind calling me?” He gave her his cell phone number. “It was sent to your P.O. box.”
“We don’t have a P.O. box. The church has a street address and we get our mail right here.”
“Ah.” Of course, they did. “Well, keep an eye open anyway, Ms. Strachan. I appreciate your help.”
“Any time you want to send ten thousand our way, Investigator, you just feel free.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He hung up and glanced at Claire, who was pacing the length of her office between the desk and the credenza. “They didn’t get the money,” she said flatly.
“No. They don’t have a post-office box and there is no pastor named Richard Myers.”
“Oh dear. Oh dear.” Gripping her elbows in agitation, she made a fast turn. “I’ll put a stop payment on the check.” She reached for the phone and Ray put his hand on hers. Her fingers were cold under his. He gathered them in his palm and pulled her closer.
“Too bad I didn’t figure out a little sooner what he was really doing while he was spinning records for KGHM.”
“I knew he was too good to be true,” she said. “He’s been such a jerk to me lately. I can’t believe I didn’t figure out something was wrong long before this.” Claire pulled away a little, as though it would help her think. “How long did you say you’ve been chasing him?”
“At least a year. When I came to Hamilton Falls to testify, I heard him on the radio and recognized his voice.” He gave her a rueful glance. “So, yeah, I haven’t been completely up front with you about why I was hanging around. His last gig was romancing older women to get their money, and one of them had the foresight to tape him one day. At that time he was using the name Brandon Boanerges.”
“Brandon.” She sat on the edge of her desk and frowned. “Brandon. Why is that name familiar?”
“Have you seen it lately?”
“I’ve seen hundreds of names lately.” She gestured at the stack of new mail. “And I’m a little fried from being arrested and getting no sleep. But I’ll remember. I always do.”
“Meantime, this check for ten grand was shipped off to Idaho. If you had just pulled off the scam of the century and had a brand-new van paid for courtesy of your fine, churchgoing listeners, where would you be headed?”
“I’d be going to that post-office box in Idaho to cash my check,” she said.
He nodded. “That’s my girl, thinking like a criminal. Let’s hit the road.”
“Ray, I can’t.”
He stopped in the doorway and slapped the jamb. “Right. You’re on my recognizance. You can’t leave town.”
“Technically, neither can you, right?”
“I don’t have much choice. We have a joint-forces order in place, but there isn’t time to call in the cavalry. I could notify the FBI, but by the time I got them mobilized, I could be in Miller’s Ferry. It’s not that far away.”
“He’s also got a head start.”
“Well, let’s hope he plans to stop and enjoy the fruit of his labor. I can’t see a guy like that saving his pennies. He’ll probably blow the lot on radio equipment or something while he looks for another town to rip off.”
“He can’t.”
“Oh, I bet he can.”
“No, I mean he can’t cash the check and get the actual money right away. There’ll be a fifteen-day hold on it, especially if it’s a new account. Not only that, the bank might invoke the ten-thousand-dollar rule and notify the Treasury Department.”
“No kidding.” Sometimes the Feds, in their war on drugs, actually got their red tape in the right place. “I’m glad I have you for backup on this one. So, best case, he’s not going to have any money.”
“Right. And that will probably make him cranky.”
“He hasn’t shown any signs of violence, but you never know.”
“Ray, be careful.” She slid off the desk and stopped in front of him. “Please.” Her eyes were huge and frightened, and a little red around the edges from tears. Her skin had that transparent look some women got with lack of sleep, and she was pale.
She’d never seemed more beautiful to him.
“Last time we talked I wasn’t sure you’d care if I never came back,” he said with a trace of his old attitude. “Something change?”
Her head tipped forward, hiding her eyes. “If we ever get out of this, can we talk about that?”
He wasn’t going to let her off the hook that easily. “Only if I have something to look forward to.”
When she lifted her head, the beginnings of a smile flickered at the corners of her lips. “You do,” she said. “Now go and get Luke Fisher.”
* * *
THERE WAS STANDING on the edge of the precipice, and there was doing a championship swan dive right off it.
Claire figured that with those words, she’d committed herself. Nothing that she had thought to be good and right seemed to be so in reality, so maybe some of the things she’d thought were wrong weren’t so bad after all. Luke Fisher, nationally known radio evangelist and unanointed leader of the Elect, was a con artist. The police, guardians and protectors of the community, had arrested her for—what? Opening the mail, cutting checks, and sending thank-you letters?
So, if Ray wanted to come back to something more than a handshake and a vote of thanks, she was more than willing to give it to him, because he was the only thing in her life that seemed to make any sense at all. That sense of safety she’d felt with him hadn’t led her astray—on the contrary, it had b
een the one thing she could count on through this whole awful experience.
Well, the second thing. God, it was clear, was listening to the incoherent, panicked gabble her prayers had become. She was going to pin what was left of her ability to believe in things on those two, and hope they would bring her through.
Meantime, here she was, breaking the law again by being in the station without Ray to vouch for her. Well, what the cops couldn’t see they wouldn’t get upset about. She had things to do. Pulling the stack of unopened mail toward her, she picked up the phone, tucked it between her chin and shoulder, and dialed Rebecca’s number.
“Quill and Quinn.”
“Rebecca, it’s Claire.”
“My goodness! Is this the single phone call they allow you from jail?”
“No, you’ve been reading too many detective novels.”
“Are you all right, dear? Your poor mother is prostrated.”
“That’s what I was calling about. Can you let her know I’m okay? Ray Harper came back and sprang me—”
“Did he? How very romantic. I knew there was something going on between you and that boy.”
“—and I’m at KGHM, hiding out.”
“Goodness. You mean it was a real jail break?”
“No, I have a twenty-four hour pass. Rebecca, something terrible has happened.”
“What could be worse than your getting arrested?”
“Luke Fisher setting it up, that’s what. He’s a con artist. All the money we’ve been sending to his charities has actually been going straight to him under other names.” Rebecca made a choked sound. “You have to call Derrick Wilkinson and get him to stop the land deal. When Margot and I went out to the site, she declared it unbuildable. The bank isn’t going to grant the loan, and Mark McNeill and Owen have already mortgaged their houses. Derrick has to get to them and tell them to pull out of escrow before they’re stuck buying a swamp.”
“Good heavens,” Rebecca said in the hushed tones of shock. “Wait, I’m writing all of this down. Mark—Owen—escrow. All right. What else?”
It felt so good to have someone believe her that Claire was close to weeping with relief. But she bit back the urge and plowed on.
A Sounding Brass Page 20