The Psalmist

by James Lilliefors

  I wish we didn’t have to do it this way, Gilbert. You know that.

  Chapter 40

  STATE’S ATTORNEY WENDELL Stamps agreed to delay filing murder charges against Jackson Pynne until Amy Hunter met with him at three-­thirty the next afternoon. This was good and bad news for Hunter. Good because it gave her a twenty-­four-­hour window to make a case that might change his mind; bad because twenty-­four hours wasn’t enough time to do that. It would have helped, of course, if Jackson Pynne had agreed to talk with her. But Pynne was still refusing her requests for an interview. Ben Shipman had, uncharacteristically, called in sick that morning, making their work even more difficult.

  Hunter enlisted Sonny Fischer’s help to track down Pynne’s movements on Monday and early Tuesday. She wanted to create a timeline, proving that he couldn’t have killed Kwan Park or left her body at the church. But the surveillance video told a different story: Pynne’s pickup truck had crossed through the Bay Bridge toll plaza at 6:07 on Tuesday morning en route to the Eastern Shore. Meaning he could have been in Tidewater County at the time Kwan Park’s body had been placed in the church. State troopers had found his truck two days ago, in a shopping center parking lot, but no sign of his computer or any other personal items.

  Several times, Hunter tried to reach Dave Crowe, who was apparently still in Washington. She eventually left him a message saying she had important information to share about Jackson Pynne.

  It was a few minutes past five when he finally called back.

  “Just a heads-­up,” he said, by way of greeting. “Between us? We found something this morning on Mark Chandler. We think he may be the John Doe from Virginia. The mutilation, with the lips and tongue missing?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was an attorney. Represented several accounting firms, including the one that did the books for the Quik Gas franchise. He was one of the three names you gave me.”

  “Right, I know all that.”

  “Okay, but you don’t know this. We’ve searched the hard drive on one of his home computers. Over the past few weeks, he’d been diverting funds from a Delaware firm that has a pipeline to August Trumble’s charities.”

  “Really.”

  “Mmm mm. We’re talking several million dollars, all told, funneled from illegal tax returns through shell companies.” He paused. “Electronically transferred, then redistributed to four separate accounts. One of the accounts was absorbing the bulk of it.”

  Hunter turned away from her desk, letting that sink in. Funny that Crowe was talking so openly over the phone all of a sudden. “So, what are you saying—­you think Chandler was embezzling from Trumble’s corporation?”

  “I didn’t say that. This is still preliminary, Hunter. You can draw whatever conclusions you want. I’m just giving you a heads-­up.”

  Hunter had a sinking feeling. “So you’re thinking Kwan Park was one of the four accounts? That maybe she and Jackson Pynne were together embezzling from Trumble’s organization? And that’s why she was killed?”

  “We don’t know that. We don’t know who was accessing the fourth account. We know it existed, that’s all.” Crowe took a deep breath. “It’s early yet, but I think you can see where it’s heading.” After a moment he added, “I understand Jackson Pynne’s been arrested but isn’t talking?”

  “That’s right. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Sounds like they might have the right man this time,” he said.

  “Oh? Why would you say that?”

  “We’ll get into it later.”

  “When?”

  “The morning.”

  Hunter sighed. “So what’s happening with the investigation?” she asked. “Is this federal yet?”

  “The murder of Kwan Park? No. But we can talk about that in the morning. Sit on this for now.”

  “On what?”

  “On everything I’ve told you. From when we first spoke the other night.”

  “Why?”

  “We’ll talk in the morning. The case is taking a turn. That’s all I can say. I’ll be back out there in the morning and we’ll discuss it.”

  “Why can’t we—­”

  But he’d hung up. Hunter sat there, holding the phone. After a while she realized she was studying her own reflection in the window and not liking what she saw. She imagined what she’d look like in twenty-­five years, where she’d be. They were not thoughts she needed to be having right now.

  “YOU DID THE right thing, telling her,” Charlotte said. “It’s in their hands and you don’t need to worry about it.”

  “I know.” They were all in bed together, under the covers—­Charlotte, Luke, Sneakers—­the three amigos, the room lit only by a night-­light. A state cruiser was parked up the road, police keeping the cottage under surveillance. First thing in the morning they’d have alarms installed on all the doors and windows.

  “But promise me you won’t be involved anymore,” she said. “Let’s not even talk about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise.”

  “Promise.”

  She leaned on her elbow. He could sense her eyes watching in the darkness.

  “What.”

  “Say it again,” she said. “This time with feeling.”

  “Prom-­miss,” Luke said. She kissed him and then snuggled closer, getting comfortable. Moments later, Sneakers, sensing three was a crowd, burrowed out from the covers and settled in his own bed for the night.

  Charlotte had a way of making bad things disappear. It was one of her talents. As he lay in bed listening to the wind, Luke thought about the first time they’d met. She had come alone to a Methodist ser­vice in the D.C. suburbs and chatted him up in the parking lot afterward—­talking about Joseph Campbell, Madeleine Albright, Plato’s Republic, and rapper Coolio, all of which he’d somehow managed to include in his sermon. They laughed easily together in a way that—­he now knew—­wasn’t quite natural for either of them. Several weeks later they went out for dinner, and began dating. It was a respectful, lively, and platonic relationship. Then, several months in, after a dinner of yellowtail snapper at Charlotte’s house, she asked, “You didn’t bring your pj’s, by any chance?”

  “Should I have?”

  Charlotte shrugged and for the first time gave him the mischievous look that he’d come to love.

  Tonight, they fell asleep holding each other. But Luke woke several times and turned over, recalling the menacing intonations of the caller’s voice. He listened to Charlotte and Sneakers breathing in rhythm like secret jazz musicians. He lay with his hands behind his head for a long time, watching the moon through the curtain as it hung high above the marsh grasses, wishing he could just close his eyes and join them.

  Chapter 41

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 22

  RETRIEVING THE MORNING paper, Luke waved to the state police trooper parked up the road. The trooper—­a large, pleasant woman he recognized but couldn’t name—­nodded but didn’t wave back. The morning sky was bright and cloudless, the temperature probably pushing fifty degrees, the snow long gone. He heard echoes of ­people who were already at work—­hammering nails, scraping barnacles from boat-­bottoms. The world felt delicate and kind of precious this morning.

  He unfolded the paper on the kitchen table. Jackson Pynne was there on the top left-­hand side of the first page: DEVELOPER HELD ON CHARGES.

  Charlotte stood at the stove in her moose pajamas, making cheese and mushroom omelets, Sneakers at her feet, sleeping soundly. A sweeping symphonic music played from her CD box.

  On the top of the right-­hand side, Luke saw: PRAYING WOMAN CASE STILL A MYSTERY. The subhead read: FBI to Take Over Investigation.

  “The AP picked up on the story, evidently,” he said. “They’re calling her ‘Praying Woman’ now.”

  “More interesting than
mystery woman,” she said, turning down her music.

  “I guess.”

  “Next stop, the tabloids.”

  “Might be good for tourism,” Luke said.

  “Maybe.”

  She dished the omelets from the skillet onto plates, then set their breakfasts on the table, along with glasses of orange juice and a plate of wheat toast.

  “So,” Charlotte said, when she had his attention, “feeling any better?”

  “Some. I finally got back to sleep around three-­thirty, I think.”

  “Good,” she said. “We’ll be fine.”

  They ate for a while in silence. It felt funny not being able to talk about the case anymore.

  “I feel better with the trooper out there,” Luke finally said.

  “Deanna.”

  “Must get a little boring for her, though.”

  “I was going to see if she wanted some breakfast or a cup of coffee.”

  “Good idea,” Luke said. “Maybe we could send the opera singer out to entertain her.”

  “Too bad he only performs in my parents’ basement.”

  “Yes. A shame.”

  Charlotte looked at Sneakers, lying beneath her, who was snoring faintly. They finished in silence.

  HUNTER DROVE TO work thinking about the phone call and wondered what the caller’s next move might be. It was an added wrinkle: for whatever reason, someone was worried about what Jackson Pynne might say to police if he decided to talk.

  At her office she found another voice message from Theresa Kincaid, the AP reporter who’d come up with the “Praying Woman” tag for Kwan Park. Hunter ignored it and went back to the case files. Her phone rang shortly after nine-­thirty. Dave Crowe.

  “Think you could you come up to the conference room at ten-­ten?”

  “I suppose. Are you here?”

  “I’m in the building. This has to go a certain way, Hunter,” he said, his voice sounding comically officious. “ ’Kay? Just trust me on it, I’ll fill you in later. But I need you to be with me on this.”

  Hunter felt her defenses flare up, and fought the urge to challenge him. At five past ten she dutifully walked down the hallway and up the steps to the small conference room on the second floor. Wendell Stamps was already there, along with Deputy Stilfork, state’s attorney investigator Clinton Fogg, and public information officer Kirsten Sparks. Seconds after Crowe closed the door, Sheriff Clay Calvert slipped in and sat at the other end of the table. Hunter felt her neck bristle as he sat down.

  “Good morning. Thanks for coming on short notice.” Crowe gave everyone the same quick, all-­business look. “I just want to provide a brief update. As you know, the local paper is reporting that the federal government is taking over the Kwan Park investigation.” He waved a copy of the Tidewater Times and dropped it on the table. “Not true,” he said, glancing at Sheriff Calvert and then at Kirsten Sparks. Sparks seemed to be mimicking his facial expressions as he talked. “Just to bring everyone up to speed: the FBI is not taking over the Kwan Park investigation. We are offering assistance if and when it’s requested. But this is not a federal investigation. I’ve spoken with the local media and we’ll be issuing a general press advisory to that effect later today.”

  Hunter felt a flash of anger. Why didn’t you just tell me?

  “To further elaborate—­and, please, this isn’t for the media.” He winked at Sparks, who lowered her eyes and, for some reason, fought back a smile. How long has this been going on? Hunter wondered. “Two things: First, I’m satisfied this is a local crime and that the prosecutor and the local and state investigators”—­here he nodded at Sheriff Calvert, and then at Hunter—­“have that under control. Second, we are currently involved in a separate, ongoing federal case. Completely unrelated to this murder. Kwan Park, the victim here, is—­was—­also a tangential figure in the federal investigation.”

  “What sort of federal investigation?” Sheriff Calvert said gruffly, as if perceiving this as some sort of personal affront.

  “An ongoing federal fraud and racketeering investigation. I’m not at liberty to go into details.”

  “Is it related to this county in any way?” the sheriff asked.

  “No, it is not.”

  This seemed to appease Sheriff Calvert. Moments later he cleared his throat and then slipped from the room.

  “So the numbers found carved into Kwan Park’s hand are not part of any larger case, you’re saying?” Hunter asked, surprised by the attitude in her own voice.

  Crowe’s face seemed to tighten. “I don’t think they are, no.”

  Hunter’s heart was racing now.

  “Okay?” Crowe looked at each of those in the room, one at a time, his eyes sliding quickly past Hunter. “That’s all, then.”

  Stamps nodded, Hunter noticed, but in his usual understated manner. Kirsten Sparks seemed to blush as Crowe’s eyes stayed with her a little too long.

  CROWE WALKED DOWN the hall with his clipped stride, deliberately keeping a step or two ahead of Hunter.

  She followed him into her own office and closed the door, angry energies roiling inside of her. Crowe feigned a smile. He settled into her guest chair, folded his hands behind his head.

  “Why didn’t you just tell me this?” she said. “You know this is my investigation.”

  “I asked you to bear with me, Hunter. I told you I’d explain later.”

  Hunter remained standing.

  “Why is the Bureau trying to shut down the larger case? I don’t understand that.”

  “We’re not.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “We’ve got to protect our case, Amy. Nothing more than that. I’m trying to keep this going a certain way.”

  “I can see that.”

  Hunter finally sat. But she didn’t cool down.

  “Let me take a wild guess here,” she said. “The Bureau doesn’t want the embezzlement story out there because it might make Trumble seem like the victim?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And you think maybe that’s how Trumble wants this to play? That’s how he wants his story told? He wants to come off looking like a victim? Victim of Jackson Pynne and Kwan Park? And you think that story is a form of misdirection.”

  Crowe shrugged. “You’re good,” he said.

  Hunter looked out at the pine trees. “So was Kwan Park embezzling money from Trumble’s organization?” she asked. “And was Jackson Pynne part of the deal? And did they then have some sort of fight over it? Is that what you’re thinking now?”

  “It’s the $64,000 question, isn’t it? I can’t answer it yet. I’d like to ask Pynne about it. But, as you know, he won’t talk with me, or the sheriff. Or the state police. He won’t talk with anyone.”

  “Except the pastor.”

  “Right, so I hear.”

  “But, just to be clear,” Hunter said. “We do have four murders that are clearly related. Right? As we discussed the other night.”

  “I don’t know that,” he said.

  Hunter took a deep breath, wondering what else he wasn’t saying. Crowe was like two ­people—­one a player, the other a suit of armor. The difference, usually, was a ­couple of drinks.

  “Look,” he said, “you’re smarter than these ­people, Hunter. We both know that. I’ve gone into lots of little jurisdictions like this over the years where someone’s in a power play and doesn’t want to let go. The Bureau’s not getting into the middle of that here. We can’t. Let it play itself out. Just let the case go forward. If there are others, we’ll take them one at a time. That’s the way this needs to go down. There are a lot of moving parts to this thing.”

  Hunter felt a fresh surge of anger. He was getting pressure from Washington to pursue the Trumble case a certain way, she suspected. That’s what this was really about.


  “Tell me the rest, then,” she said. “Does this have something to do with your informants? Tell me what’s really going on.”

  “I will,” he said. “In time.” He sat up straighter and gave her a flinty look. “Okay?”

  Then he slapped his hands on his thighs simultaneously to punctuate the conversation, stood and walked away.

  Motherfucker, Hunter thought, watching him go.

  But she said nothing. And afterward she was glad she hadn’t. Although it had been mighty tempting.

  Chapter 42

  HUNTER SAT IN Wendell Stamps’s waiting room while he finished a phone call. Hearing him say, several times, “I want to do everything I can to help you, Everett, you know that.”

  “The Wait” was part of the state’s attorney’s style. Hunter, like everyone else, was used to it.

  She’d studied the case files that afternoon as if cramming for a final exam, but something about this still felt unwinnable. Being right wasn’t enough; she had to prove it in a convincing way, which seemed all but impossible as long as the state’s attorney wouldn’t consider linking this case to the other three.

  Finally, at 3:41, Wendell Stamps called her in. His large glass-­topped desk was polished and immaculate, as usual. He stood and nodded as she sat, but in a detached way, as if his thoughts were still with the phone call. Or maybe with his next order of business.

  “Let me just say at the outset, Amy,” he began, “that I don’t want any bad blood between us. I just think we need to move forward in the most efficient and effective manner possible. I want us all to be on the same team here.”

  Hunter nodded. He’d taken her line about being on the same team, one of Stamps’s favorite techniques. Calling her “Amy” was a calculated touch, too; it was as if they were not only teammates now, but also friends. Stamps was a shrewd prosecutor and a good judge of character. Unlike the sheriff, there was no question Stamps would be reelected in November. Sheriff Calvert was a maverick, who rubbed some ­people the wrong way and drew oddball challengers every election. The state’s attorney was even-­tempered and diplomatic, cordial with everyone. No one had bothered to run against him for his past three elections.