by Sharon Sala
“Yes, you did,” January said. “Why was Bart Scofield wrong?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carpenter said, and wondered if that was himself he heard whining. “I called to tell you to stop looking for me. You’re messing everything up.”
January could tell something was wrong with the man. His voice was shaking, his words slurring.
“Messing up what? What are you doing?”
“Saving myself,” Carpenter said. “Why can’t you understand? I’m walking in His shoes.”
“Whose shoes?”
“His,” Carpenter yelled, then began rocking where he sat, unaware that with every backward sway of his body, he was bumping the back of his head against the wall of the booth. “I have to. I have to. I can’t go back. Not there. Never there again.”
“Go where?” January asked.
“Hell. Don’t you understand? I can’t go back.”
“I don’t want to talk about hell. I want you to tell me where the other men are. Did you kill them like you killed Scofield?”
“Shut up!” Carpenter shouted. “Stop saying that! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then tell me,” January begged. “Tell me.”
Someone knocked on the door of the phone booth. Carpenter squinted his eyes and looked up. A couple of young black women were staring down at him from outside. He struggled to his feet.
“Just stop it. I’m warning you,” he mumbled, then hung up the phone and pushed his way out.
As he bumped into one of the women, he grabbed his head.
“Hey, mister, are you all right?” she asked.
Carpenter was holding on to his head with both hands, as if it would fall off his neck if he turned it loose.
“God is with me,” he said, and staggered toward his cab.
“That’s good to know,” the other girl muttered. “I been wondering where the hell He went.”
“Hush your mouth, girl. That’s blasphemy,” her friend said.
“Don’t you be throwing words at me that you can’t even spell,” the first girl responded.
It was the last thing Carpenter heard before he got in the cab and drove away.
January was shaking when she hung up the phone. She had no idea what the man who’d just called her looked like. Was he the same one she’d seen in the rain, then in the park? She didn’t know and couldn’t prove it. She didn’t even know for sure if he was the man who called himself the Sinner. Even though he’d unintentionally admitted knowing of Bart Scofield’s death, he hadn’t said enough to incriminate himself.
Still, she couldn’t ignore what had just happened. But what should she do? Tell the police? What could she tell them?
Almost immediately, she thought of Ben North. Maybe she could talk to him in an unofficial capacity. He would know whether there was anything valid in the two phone calls.
Yes. She had to do that much.
She reached for the phone, then realized she didn’t know Ben’s number, home or cell. After looking for him in the phone book with no success, she realized that her only option was to call the department and have them relay a message, which she hated to do. In her job, staying objective was imperative. Having a personal relationship with a cop, no matter how vague, could put both of them in a precarious position. Still, she couldn’t sit on the little bit of information she had about a murder investigation. Before she could talk herself out of the impulse, she picked up the phone.
It was five minutes after one in the afternoon before Ben and Rick had a chance to stop for lunch. Ben was all for grabbing something at a drive-through before following up on a lead regarding the Scofield murder. Some cab company had reported an outlaw cab had picked up one of their fares. But Rick didn’t want to eat in the car.
“Where to, then?” Ben asked, as they sat at an intersection, waiting for the light to turn green.
Rick leaned across the steering wheel, pointing to a Chinese restaurant across the way.
Ben’s stomach rolled.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he muttered.
“What? Why not?” Rick asked.
“I’ve already seen all the Chinese food I care to look at on Scofield’s body. I have no intention of eating any.”
Rick shrugged. “Oh yeah. That. Well, we can—”
“The light’s green,” Ben said.
Rick straightened up and accelerated through the intersection. “How about pizza?” he asked.
“Sure, why not?” Ben countered.
A few minutes later they were sitting in a booth, studying the menu, when Ben’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the number.
“It’s the precinct,” he said.
“So answer it,” Rick said. “Maybe you won the lottery and they’re trying to find you.”
Ben grinned. “You order the pizza while I find out what’s up.”
He got up from his seat and walked out of the dining area into a hallway leading to the bathrooms as he answered.
“This is North.”
“Detective North, you have a request to call a Miss DeLena as soon as possible.”
Ben frowned. “Concerning what?”
“The caller didn’t say, sir.”
“Yeah, okay,” Ben muttered. “Just a second while I get a pen.” He fumbled with his notebook and pen a moment before he spoke. “What’s the number?”
The number was relayed. The call ended.
A large metal something hit the floor in the kitchen beyond the double doors where he was standing. Someone yelled. Someone else cursed and slammed a door.
He could smell tomato paste and baking bread.
Some kid was poking quarters in a pinball machine at the end of the hall. Ben thought it was an odd place to put a game. What did the establishment think the patrons would do? Play a little pinball while waiting for their turn to pee?
He stared at the number he’d written down, then at the phone he was holding. What was January up to now? What possible reason could there be for him to call her as soon as possible?
“Are you waiting to go?”
Startled by the question, he turned around.
“I’m sorry. Were you speaking to me?” he asked.
The man pointed to the door to the men’s room.
“Is it locked or something? Are you waiting?”
“Oh. No. Sorry, go right ahead,” Ben said, and stepped back.
The man moved past.
Ben absently noted the shower of dandruff flakes on the man’s shoulders, then moved toward the exit. Standing here like a fool wasn’t getting him anywhere. All he had to do was dial a number, for God’s sake. So he did.
January was peeling an apple when the phone rang. She saw the caller ID, dropped the apple and knife into the sink, and grabbed the phone on the second ring.
“Hello…Ben, thank you for calling me so promptly.”
Ben was a bit taken aback that she knew it was him, wondered if she was psychic as well as sexy, then remembered caller ID.
“Yeah, well, no problem. What’s up? The message sounded serious. Is it?”
“I think so.”
The slight hesitation in her voice made her sound breathless, which threw his mind into thinking about how he could make her lose her breath—and quite possibly her mind. Then he reminded himself that he was on duty.
“What’s it about?”
“Bart Scofield’s murder.”
The smile slid off his face.
“What the hell do you know about that?”
“It’s a little complicated. I’m off today. Could you come by?”
“Give me your address,” he said. “Rick and I will come over.
“Rick? Who’s Rick?”
“My partner, Rick Meeks.”
January hesitated. She didn’t want to announce her theories to the world without something to back them up, and that had yet to surface.
“Uh…I was wondering if we could talk about this first without invo
lving anyone else, just in case I’m making a big deal out of nothing.”
He frowned. “This isn’t a fishing expedition to try and get information out of me for some story, is it?”
There was an immediate shift of anger in her voice.
“You know something, North? I’m not always about the damn story, and I’m no masochist, either. I suspect I’m already the butt of countless jokes at your precinct, and don’t bother denying it. I don’t need more grief from a bunch of doughnut butts. You can come by yourself, or not at all.”
“Doughnut butts?”
The line went dead in his ear.
“Doughnut butts?”
Before he thought, he ran a hand across his own belly. It was still flat and firm enough to brag about, should the need arise.
“Doughnut butts.”
He started to grin. By the time he got back to the booth and the meal, he was chuckling. He didn’t know what was going to happen between them, but whatever it was, it damn sure wouldn’t be boring.
“Who was that?” Meeks asked, as Ben reached for a piece of pizza and put it on his plate.
Ben started to make something up, then changed his mind. Just because he’d promised to leave his partner behind that didn’t mean he was going to lie to him.
“None other than Miss January DeLena herself,” Ben said, shaking a liberal serving of red pepper flakes over the slice.
Rick eyed the flakes, knowing the heat the pepper would add, and then grinned at Ben.
“Looking for a little action, is she?”
Ben set the bottle of pepper flakes down with a thump. The look on his face served as further punctuation.
“Shut up, Meeks. Just for once, shut up.”
Meeks shrugged, but he maintained a smirk, which Ben also resented.
“She called, saying she might have some info on the Scofield murder.”
Meeks’s smirk stopped as he let his slice of pizza drop back onto the plate.
“Holy Moses, what are we waiting for?”
“She wants to talk to me alone.”
Meeks frowned. “I hope you told her—”
“I said I would.”
Meeks’s frown deepened. “What’s that all about? Since when do we let civilians pull shit like that?”
“Look,” Ben said. “She thinks what she knows might amount to nothing, and she doesn’t trust the department not to make her out to be some big joke. She doesn’t trust us not to screw up her reputation.”
Meeks leaned back, eyeing Ben curiously.
“But she trusts you?”
Ben shrugged. “Little to none, but I guess it’s enough. It can’t hurt anything, and you’ll know everything I know as soon as the interview is over.”
“Whatever,” Meeks said. “But I’m registering a complaint.”
“Duly noted,” Ben said. “Now pass the Parmesan. I’m not going anywhere until I finish my pizza.”
It was almost three in the afternoon when Ben pulled into the parking lot of January’s apartment building. He got out with somewhat of an attitude—a “How dare you demand my presence under your terms?” set to his jaw. But by the time he was ringing her doorbell, his belly was in knots. When he heard her footsteps on the other side of the door, he jammed his hands into his pockets and thrust his chin forward. He wasn’t going to let her get under his skin again.
Then she answered the door.
“Thanks for coming,” January said, as she stepped back and motioned for Ben to come in.
She was barefoot, and wearing something loose and just sheer enough to hint at what lay beneath. The dress was the color of crushed raspberries, and he wanted nothing more than to taste the smile on her lips to see if she was as sweet as she looked.
“Well…are you going to stand out there all day?” she asked.
I probably should. But he didn’t voice the thought. Instead, he nodded and walked in.
He followed her from the small foyer into the living room.
“Sit anywhere,” she said.
He chose the largest easy chair.
There was a satisfied look on her face as she plopped down in one opposite.
“I knew you’d pick that one,” she said.
“I better not be here because you’ve suddenly decided you’re psychic,” Ben drawled.
January laughed. The sound wrapped around Ben’s heart and gave it a gentle squeeze, as if to remind him that she was already an irresistible force.
“Oh, definitely the contrary, although I have to admit that in my job, it could sure come in handy,” she said.
Ben began to relax.
“Okay…but we can both agree on the fact that you’re very astute. Yes?”
She grimaced. “I used to think so, but lately I’ve begun to doubt myself.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Talk to me, January. Tell me why I’m here.”
Her shoulders slumped, and for a moment Ben saw weakness and what appeared to be fear in her eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
“Promise you’ll hear me out before you make any judgments?”
“I promise,” he said.
She nodded, then folded her hands in her lap.
“I’m not sure where to start.”
“Start where stories always start. At the beginning.”
She grinned wryly. “Well, it was not a dark and stormy night, however…” The smile disappeared. “You’ve heard of near-death experiences, right?”
“Yes, but what—”
“You promised to hear me out first, remember?”
“Sorry. Please continue.”
“Near-death experiences have always intrigued me, so I try to follow up when I hear about one. That’s what started me down this path. Last Thanksgiving I was down at the Sisters of Mercy shelter, helping serve dinner to the homeless when I heard two men talking about this street preacher who called himself the Sinner. They said he was claiming that he’d died while in a hospital, then was resurrected, only his story had a different twist. That’s when I started looking for him.”
“What made his story different from all the others?”
“He claimed that when he died, he didn’t experience any bright light or tunnel to glory. He said he’d gone to hell.”
Ben straightened abruptly.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, but I don’t know if he is. I’ve been trying to find him for months now, but with no result. Until recently.”
“You’ve found him?”
“No. I think he’s found me.”
The expression of interest on Ben’s face turned hard.
“Have you been threatened?”
“Not exactly…Well, sort of, but not seriously.”
“Damn it, January, either he did or he didn’t. Which is it?”
She looked up, then away, staring past the dining room table to a point outside the window.
Ben could see the reflection of a vase of flowers on the table behind him in January’s eyes. Mesmerized by the sight, he wasn’t really listening when she finally answered.
“The first time he called me, I was at work. He said he heard I’d been looking for him. He told me to stop.”
Breath caught in the back of Ben’s throat. He’d never considered the thought that what she did could put her in danger.
“Did he threaten you?”
“Not really. I asked him if it was true that his near-death experience had taken him to hell.”
“He didn’t agree with you, did he?”
“He never came out and admitted it that time. What he did say was that I needed to leave him alone so he could do what he needed to do.”
“And that was…?”
“It was all very esoteric, but he kept saying something about ‘walking in his shoes,’ or ‘living as he lived,’ words to that effect.”
“Walking in whose shoes?” Ben asked.
January glanced up, gauging the expres
sion on Ben’s face as she answered.
“I think he was referring to Jesus Christ.”
“Look, January. I hate to poke a hole in your story, but there have been hundreds of crazies on the street who think they’re Jesus. Besides that, what does any of this have to do with Bart Scofield’s kidnapping and murder?”
“I’m getting to that, and you’re the one who told me to start at the beginning, so I did. Now shut up and let me finish. After that, feel free to see yourself to the door.”
Ben regretted his outburst, but it was too late to take it back.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
She rolled her eyes but resisted the urge to give him another dig.
“Anyway, as to Bart Scofield…I think the street preacher, the man who calls himself the Sinner…I think he did it.”
Ben held up his hands, then stood.
“Okay. Wait. How in hell do you get from a near-death experience in hell to kidnapping and murder? No wonder you didn’t want anyone else to hear this.”
January shot to her feet and shoved a finger into Ben’s chest.
“He called me again today. He was pissed off because I’d been down to the Sisters of Mercy shelter asking about some missing men.”
Ben’s eyes bugged. “There’s more? Missing men, I mean?”
January sighed, then threw her hands into the air.
“Oh Lord, haven’t I mentioned them before?”
“No.”
“Okay…well, here’s the deal. Street people have been going missing. In each case, the last time they were seen was getting into a cab, and the homeless don’t take cabs. Understand?”
Ben’s eyes narrowed. Now she had his attention. Scofield had last been heard from in a cab.
January didn’t wait for him to answer.
“I went to see Mother Mary Theresa. She belongs to the Sisters of Mercy and runs the shelter where I volunteer. I asked her if she’d heard about the missing men. Long story short, she had. When I heard about Scofield going missing, I wondered if he was a victim of the Sinner, too, although he was anything but homeless. Then Scofield turned up dead, and I dropped the notion that the Sinner was involved. You see, none of the other men have turned up dead…at least, I don’t think they have, although it’s careless of me to assume that, because they could be lying in some morgue now, unidentified.”