“Sure doesn’t seem right that religion can get you all this.”
Peyton shrugged. “I’m not sure you can call what O’Shannahan does religion. He’s subverted the purpose of faith to his own benefit.”
“Someone’s buying what he’s selling.”
“I haven’t been back to this house in six months. I didn’t think it would bring up so many memories.”
Smith bumped her with his shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah, but I can still see Rafael Peña with his gun to Marco’s head. If he’d pulled the trigger…”
“He didn’t. Marco’s fine. You got to put some of this stuff in boxes, baby girl, or you’re gonna go crazy.”
She smiled at Smith. He’d never called her that before. If anyone else had, she’d have gutted him, but with Smith it was nice. “Look, O’Shannahan is…”
“An ass.”
Peyton gave a surprised nod. “Nuff said.”
“I got this.”
“All righty then.” They climbed the stairs to the house and Peyton knocked on the door. She could hear someone moving around inside, but the door didn’t open. She knocked again.
Finally Kristin O’Shannahan, the reverend’s wife, opened the door a crack and peered out. Peyton pressed her badge to the crack.
“Inspector Brooks from the San Francisco Police Department, Mrs. O’Shannahan. We’d like to talk to your husband.”
She pulled open the door a bit more. “He’s not here.”
Peyton took in her charcoal grey pencil skirt, white button-up sweater, loafers and grey tights. Her hair was pulled back with a black headband; however, the string of pearls was gone from her neck and her face was scrubbed clean of all makeup.
“When will he be back, Mrs. O’Shannahan?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Where did he go?”
“He’s out of town.”
“Where?”
“Dallas, I think.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“A week.”
“And you don’t know when he’s coming back?”
“I’m not sure. I think it’s tomorrow or the next day.”
Peyton moved closer to the door. “Do you mind if we come in, Mrs. O’Shannahan? We’d really like to talk to you.”
“I can’t allow that, Inspector Brooks. The last time you were here, you did so much damage to our master bedroom that the whole thing had to be remodeled.”
Damage? A man died in that room. “Fine. Will you come out? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?” She was using the door as a barrier.
Peyton exchanged a look with Smith. They didn’t have a warrant, so they couldn’t force their way inside. “Won’t you come out and I’ll tell you?”
“I don’t feel that’s necessary, Inspector Brooks.”
“Fine,” Peyton acquiesced. “I’m here to ask your husband about Theresa Ravensong. Is that name familiar to you, Mrs. O’Shannahan?”
“Theresa Ravensong? Wasn’t that the poor unfortunate girl who was murdered by her ex-husband? Some rock star with a drug addiction as I heard it.”
“Well, we’re trying to figure out who murdered her. So her name is familiar to you?”
“Yes, I heard about it on TV.”
“Did your husband have anything to do with her? Know her in any way?”
“I’m certain he didn’t.”
Peyton frowned. She’d answered rather quickly. “Are you sure of that, Mrs. O’Shannahan?”
“Quite.”
“Then can you explain why I have a video tape of your husband going up an elevator in her building and exiting on her floor?”
“My husband counsels his parishioners, Inspector Brooks. If I remember right, there’s a young man in that building who is asking for help with conversion therapy.”
“Conversion therapy? He’s gay?”
She pulled her head back in surprise. “Oh, no, he’s feeling the temptation of the devil, but he’s trying to turn away from it.”
Peyton realized her mouth was hanging open. She wondered how Abe would respond to this assessment. “Your husband feels he’s qualified to counsel anyone on this matter?”
“Of course he is. My husband is a vessel for God.”
He’s a vessel for something, thought Peyton. Then she remembered what Kristin had said a moment before. “Hold on a minute. You said your husband was counseling a young man in Terry Ravensong’s building. In fact, her very floor. Is that right?”
“Right. You asked me why he was in the elevator of her building and I told you why.”
Peyton tilted her head. “But I didn’t tell you what building she lived in.”
Kristin made an airy wave of her hand. “I told you I saw it on TV.”
“And you recognized the building as one in which your husband has clients?”
“Followers.”
“Right. Doesn’t that just seem a little too convenient? He goes to the eighth floor of the building to see a young man wanting conversion therapy at around the time of a murder.”
“What are you suggesting, Inspector Brooks?”
“Did he see anything, Mrs. O’Shannahan? Hear anything?”
“I’m certain he didn’t. He’s very dedicated to his parishioners.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s focused when he’s on a job.”
Hm. Focused was an interesting way of putting it if he’d been the man studying the Bible in Terry Ravensong’s bedroom.
“Can you tell me the name of the young man he counsels on the eighth floor?”
“His counseling sessions are private.”
Of course they were.
“Can you call him and find out his name? I’d like to ask the young man if he heard or saw anything.”
“I’m not certain what my husband is doing at the moment and I would hate to interrupt something important.”
“Mrs. O’Shannahan, I have to say I’m a little surprised that you know so little about your husband’s whereabouts.”
“What do you mean?”
“You aren’t sure where he is, you aren’t sure when he’ll be back, and you’re really not certain how long he’s been gone. Why should I believe that you know what he was doing in Terry Ravensong’s building?”
“I find your tone insulting and I don’t have to answer these questions.”
Well, that about ended the conversation.
Peyton reached into her pocket and pulled out a card, passing it through the crack. “Please have him call me when he gets back into town.”
“I don’t know what you think you’re investigating, Inspector Brooks, but wasn’t the last time bad enough? You disrupted our lives and violated our house. I think you should leave us alone.”
“Violated your house? We took out a criminal, one your own husband reported.”
“But what are you after now? You have your drug-addled rock star. Let it go. You have no need to bother my husband with this.”
Let it go? What a strange thing to say.
“I can’t talk to you any more, Inspector Brooks. Have a nice day.” With that, she closed the door in Peyton’s face.
* * *
Peyton found Captain Defino waiting by Maria’s desk. She squinted at Peyton as she pulled open the precinct door and stepped into the lobby, followed by Smith. Aggravation made Peyton wish she could just slink into the break-room and grab a soda without explaining her conversation with O’Shannahan’s wife. Ravensong was running out of time and there wasn’t anything Peyton could do to save him.
“Well?”
Peyton pushed open the half-door, holding it for Smith to pass through. “He wasn’t there.”
“Where was he?”
“Dallas or maybe not.” She exchanged a look with Smith.
“What does that mean?”
Peyton leaned on the counter across from Maria’s desk. “We talked with Kristin O’Shannahan, the good reveren
d’s wife. She wasn’t really clear on where he was.”
“Or when he’d be back,” offered Smith.
Peyton held out a hand toward him.
“What do you mean she wasn’t clear?”
“She didn’t know. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. Maybe Dallas, maybe not.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“About a week.”
“Really? How convenient.”
“Isn’t it.”
Defino crossed her arms. “Now what?”
Peyton shook her head wearily. “I just don’t know. I wish there was some way to connect him to Terry Ravensong. Some proof that he knew her, that she belonged to his church or something. Kristin O’Shannahan swears he didn’t know her, that he was counseling someone else in that building, on that very floor, but she couldn’t give me a name. Without a direct connection between O’Shannahan and Terry, we’re dead in the water.”
“Maybe not,” came Devan’s voice from the captain’s office.
Peyton gave Defino a questioning look.
“He wanted an update. I was buying Ravensong time.”
Devan appeared in the doorway. As always he looked pressed and polished, not a speck of lint, not a crease, not a molecule out of place.
“What are you thinking?” asked Defino.
“Search on-line. I know he has a website. I’ll bet he has a published list of the parishioners on there.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Peyton. “Isn’t that a violation of their privacy?”
“Ego. That way he could show off how many followers he has.”
“Wouldn’t they protest him using their names that way?”
“Why? People are very big on church affiliations. They even put their religions on job applications. Give it a shot. What have you got to lose?”
Ravensong.
“He’s got a point,” said Defino.
Peyton’s gaze shot to Maria.
“I’m on it,” she said, reaching for her mouse.
Peyton crossed around her desk and leaned over her shoulder as she searched for O’Shannahan’s website. She found it within a few clicks and the website spread open across the screen. Well, O’Shannahan did, his arms encompassing one side to the other, his mouth open in a beaming smile.
“Oh lord,” breathed Peyton.
Maria scrolled the cursor across the top until she came to a drop-down menu, labeled simply Flock. As she clicked, the website shifted to a new screen where a list of names was displayed against the backdrop of a massive white church.
Peyton pointed to the alphabet across the top. “R.”
Maria scowled at her. “I see it.” She clicked the “R” drop-down.
They scanned the first page, but found nothing. Maria clicked to advance the page. At the top of the second page was Theresa Ravensong.
“I’ll be damned,” said Defino.
Peyton’s hand closed into a fist. How the hell were they going to get him? Straightening, she faced the captain. “Now what?”
“That’s enough for me to put a uniform outside his door until he comes home.”
“He’ll just lawyer up, Captain.”
Defino smiled slowly. “Then that will be cause to get a warrant and search his house now, won’t it? Officer Smith, will you make the arrangements and make sure the on-duty officers report directly to me.”
“With pleasure, Captain.”
Peyton exhaled and watched Smith walk away to arrange the stakeout.
Defino drew Peyton’s attention back to her. “I’ll let you know when I think it’s best to go question him. I really wish he’d lawyer, so I’d have probable cause to get a search warrant for his bank accounts. I’d like to get a look at his books, see where all that money comes from.”
And goes, thought Peyton, remembering the huge deposit into Terry’s account before she died.
“Take D’Angelo with you the next time. We’ve got to keep this above board.”
“Got it.”
“Good work, Brooks,” she shot over her shoulder before she disappeared inside her office.
Devan leaned on the door jamb and watched her. Peyton shifted uncomfortably. “Thank you for your help.”
“Peyton, you do know we’re on the same side, right?”
“Right.” She didn’t add that it didn’t feel that way most of the time. Why pick a fight now? “I appreciate it.”
“Be honest. You just don’t want me to have Ravensong.”
“If you get O’Shannahan, he’ll make your career. Better than Ravensong will. Fair trade.”
“You’ve got a point. The jury just might be sympathetic to your rock star, but O’Shannahan is another matter.” He chuckled. “See you in a couple of days.”
CHAPTER 15
The Marina Green is a beautiful expanse of lawn that runs along the edge of the bay from the Presidio to Fort Mason and has some of the most stunning views in all of San Francisco. Park benches line the sea wall and the crowning spectacle is the rust-red towers of the Golden Gate rising in the distance.
He took me to this spot and I knew it was our last day together. The fog had rolled in from the ocean and cut the bridge in half, stray wisps trailing through the park, curling around the benches, and billowing in chilling whiteness with each pulse of the waves.
He sat down on a bench along the sea wall and the waves crashed against the rocks below him, spray gathering in his dark hair. I wrapped my sweater tighter around me and sat down next to him. The breeze blew my hair into my eyes and I clawed it out, pushing it behind my ears.
I could see his profile. He was staring at the bridge, his arms braced on his thighs, the leather bands in place on his wrists. Sitting at the angle I was, I could see the scars, snaking down toward his forearm, thick and raised.
I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to sit. We’d spent so much time talking, so much time going over everything. There was only one thing I didn’t know, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know it any more. I wasn’t sure it mattered.
He could be so still, it warred with what he’d told me, what I knew myself. A man whose life had been filled with so much chaos shouldn’t be able to find such inner peace.
I watched the waves, fighting the sadness that rose inside of me. I hadn’t known that what started as an exciting project, interviewing a famous rock star, would become something more, but it was impossible to know so many personal things about a man and not feel something, not feel a connection.
“I’ve always found the fog depressing.”
“Then you’re looking at it wrong.”
I gave him a wry smile. “How’s that?”
He pointed to the bridge. “Look at the way the fog cuts it in two. It hides the cars and the bustle, and all you can see are the towers, supporting it, connecting everything.” He looked over his shoulder at me, dark hair sliding down his back. “It cocoons you, brings everything in, shuts out the turmoil.” He tilted his head as he listened. In the distance, I could hear the fog horns, the splash of the waves against the rocks. “The noise.”
I let myself relax, let myself see it as he did. We sat for a while, enjoying the silence.
Then his voice rippled against the stillness, vibrating in that smoky way he had. “Do you really think you can avoid asking me the one thing you haven’t?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He smiled his slow, crooked smile. “You aren’t a coward. You can’t just leave this, let it end without knowing.”
“I know enough. It makes sense, how it compounds, how each new step is really just an extension of the previous one. Like those nesting dolls, you keep adding layers until what was once a tiny thing is now monstrous.”
He shifted and faced me, laying his arm along the back of the bench. “It’s not like that at all. Pills are one thing. We take pills all the time. We take pills from the time we’re children. We associate pills with medicine, with taking away our pain. Putting something in our mouth and swallowing
it is easy, we’re not involved with it, it’s not personal.” He slowly tapped his fingers on his thigh. “What you want to know is how you go from pills to putting a needle in your arm. The needle…that’s an invasion.”
I stared at him, transfixed. I did want to know, but then again, I didn’t and the conflict was making me anxious. This is what being with him was like. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t simple, it was always fraught with doubt and anxiety. And yet he was intoxicating.
“A needle is bloody and violent and you can’t do it without knowing exactly what you’re doing.”
I sat there and fought myself. I needed to complete the story, that’s what the writer in me wanted, but I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to know the truth, I didn’t want to admit that he was responsible for it all. You could blame the business, you could blame the drug dealer, you could even blame the manager, but when all the blame was done, you had only him and he was the one who put the needle in his arm.
“Then tell me. Tell me how you get to that point where it’s even an option. How can you make that monumental leap from pills to heroin?”
His eyes had drifted away, but they came back to my face, focusing on me. “It’s not that great a leap. Not nearly as far as you think.” He tapped his fingers on his thigh again as if he were making a point. “It’s getting back that’s the problem.”
* * *
Joshua stepped into the auditorium and watched the band playing on the stage. Phil was sitting on a stool before them, listening. The singer was about seventeen, younger than Joshua now, with spiky blond hair and a voice that hadn’t quite made the complete shift to manhood.
Behind him stood a guitarist and a bassist and a guy on keyboard. The drummer didn’t look like he was more than fourteen. Joshua frowned and let the door close at his back. For the past two years, Phil had represented Blazes. He didn’t remember Phil saying he was managing anyone else.
The heels of his boots made a strange noise against the concrete of the auditorium floor, causing the singer to stop and Phil to turn around. His face registered surprise, then he shifted back to the band.
“Take five, guys,” he said, sliding off the stool.
Murder on Russian Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 3) Page 24