Marty was silent, and she knew he was thinking about Jolene, because she was too. They’d both lost their favorite person the day Imam Sadat had shot all nine of his wives, then turned the gun on himself. Egomaniacal types were unpredictable. Another reason to move quickly.
“Did I mention that Emma hasn’t been seen in a few months? I wonder if Blackstone is keeping some members close to home for . . . proprietary reasons.” Rox meant sexual abuse, but she wouldn’t remind her stepdad that Jolene had likely been a sex slave. If only they’d known more and acted earlier . . .
“He could be the type.” Marty’s expression was tight—angry and sad at the same time.
They both had to deal with this issue every time they took an extraction case. But Marty had taken Jolene’s death harder than she had. Jolene had been his baby, his only biological child.
“I’m fine,” he snapped, as if reading her thoughts.
“Me too.” Rox stood, unsure. Would her new brain patterns make her unsuited to the work? “I’m going to the soup kitchen. I might dress as a homeless person.”
Marty jumped up. “Or a nun. That way you could get information and see how the members react to being recruited to another group.”
Brilliant. She walked over and kissed his forehead. “Great idea. Thanks.”
He looked up at her with an unexpected joy.
Had she never expressed that kind of affection before? “We’ll save the homeless-guy gig for you, in case we need to go back.” She winked. “You’re more suited to it anyway.”
On the drive downtown, she stopped at a Party! Party! Store that carried a few costumes year-round and rented a black nun’s habit. After she paid with some of her clients’ cash, she asked, “Do you have a restroom I can use? I need to put this on now.”
The young clerk laughed. “Normally we don’t let customers use our employee bathroom, but this I want to see.”
Was he mocking her? “You should see what I had on yesterday.” She smiled and threw the heavy costume over her shoulder.
The man laughed, then led her into a small back office, where he opened a narrow door. “Here you go.” The facility was about the size of an airplane bathroom, and she didn’t know if she had enough room to change. At nearly six-foot and 170 pounds, she needed more space than most women. But this time of year, it was too warm to put the habit on over her clothes. She nodded at the clerk, stepped in, and made quick work of it, only slamming one elbow against a wall when she pulled on the detached headpiece.
The young clerk had gone back to the front counter, and she waved at him as she hurried out of the shop. A couple passing on the street raised their eyebrows. Rox smiled. Even though it made her nervous, she loved fieldwork. Too bad the agency had kept her at a desk all those years.
The soup kitchen sat on a small triangle block in an old building that had once been a restaurant. Despite its proximity to the river and downtown businesses, this area on the edge of Chinatown was a mecca for the homeless. A cluster of ragged men loitered in front of the decrepit storefront. Rox entered the property from a side street, parked behind the building, and glanced up. “Keep Portland Weird”—the city’s motto—was painted in giant letters on the back brick wall. Rox smiled. She did her part. In fact, her own peculiarities made her accepting of other people. Yet her need for order and predictability often clashed with the chaos Portland sometimes offered. The naked bike ride, for example, that hundreds participated in every year was totally unsettling, but with plenty of pre-event warning from news sources, she could avoid seeing it.
She dug out her wallet and checked Emma’s photo again in case the girl was inside. Glad for a break in the rain, she climbed from her car and walked slowly around the building and inside, rehearsing what she would say. She wished she’d taken more time, maybe printed up some fake promotional material.
The facility was larger than it looked from the outside, with twelve or so tables and seating for about fifty people. At this point in the afternoon, they were between meals, and only a handful of people were hanging out—a woman with two small children and three men, all over fifty. Or they looked that old. Being outside all day, every day, aged people’s faces, and it was often hard to tell. The mixed aromas of baking bread and week-old sweat confused her senses.
A long cafeteria-style counter separated the dining area from the kitchen, and Rox spotted a girl pulling large metal trays out of the serving area. Two more young women were at the back of the kitchen washing dishes. The woman at the counter looked up, her long ash-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Sister Helen,” Rox blurted. Stupid. Hopefully this girl didn’t know about the famous nun from that Dead Man Walking film. Rox reached out a hand. “And you are?”
“Bethany.” A deep sadness was etched into her otherwise plump young face.
“Nice to meet you, Bethany. I admire the work you do here. I’m sure it pleases God as well.”
“Sister Love’s mission is to serve others, but we’re not religious.”
Had she blown it with the nun getup? “You don’t have to be religious to do the right thing. Your heart is obviously in the right place.”
“I’m trying.” Bethany gestured at a tray of baked rolls. “Are you hungry?”
“No, but I’d like a cup of coffee if you have one. And I’d like you to join me for a moment.”
The girl’s haunted eyes widened. “Why?”
“I want to know more about Sister Love. I’m from St. Paul’s Church, and we’d like to support what you do here. It aligns with our mission to serve the needy.”
“Uh. Okay.” The girl moved to a tall silver coffee urn, filled two foam cups, and came around the counter.
Rox tried not to look disgusted by the meltable white container. She didn’t have to actually drink the coffee. They sat down at a table in front. “How old are you, Bethany?”
“Nineteen.”
“How long have you been a part of Sister Love?”
“About a year. Why?”
“Just getting to know you.” Rox noticed the girl’s dark-hazel irises. “Your eyes are beautiful. I’ve never seen a color like that before.”
Bethany smiled shyly. “They change. If I wear green, they look green. If I wear dark colors, they look kind of caramel.” At the moment, the girl wore blue nurse scrubs. Odd. Rox glanced at the kitchen and noticed the other girls were dressed in scrubs too. A uniform that stripped the members of their individuality. “You’re lucky. I’m stuck with boring brown eyes.”
Rox picked up her coffee, realized it was too hot to sip, and put it back down. “Tell me about this organization. For starters, who runs it? And how are you funded?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
Rox smiled, hoping she looked unbothered by the comment. “As I said, our church would like to support your mission, but we have to make sure your goals and methods are aligned with ours.”
“We have a simple mission to feed homeless veterans, and I think most of the funding comes from donations.” Bethany lowered her voice. “Some of the members go out in the evening to ask travelers for money.”
That sounded hinky. Rox wanted to press for more information, but she had to be careful and get the basics before the girl walked away. “So if our church decided to make a large donation, who would we contact?”
Bethany hesitated. “Our leader likes to stay in the background, but I’m sure he’d want to take your offer. You can email him. Deacon at Sister Love dot com.”
It was a start. “Do you have a personal email address, Bethany? I’d like to correspond with you.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“Because our church needs committed, caring people like you. I want to send you some information about our mission.”
“Thanks, but I’m content to stay with Sister Love. It gives my life meaning.” A wave of sadness washed over her face. “If that’s even possible.”
Another kitchen worker
walked over to the table. A chubby woman, she looked older than Bethany, maybe twenty-five, and had the thick skin and toothless jawline of someone who’d been homeless. Rox realized none of the girls were likely minors. The cult leader was careful about age of consent. Did he have sex with the members?
“Hey, Beth, we have work to do.” The other woman’s swollen hands were on her hips.
“I know. Save some for me. I’ll be up in a minute.” Bethany gave the older member a nervous glance, then turned back.
Rox reached over and patted her hand but kept quiet until the other woman walked away. “Don’t get in trouble on my behalf.”
“It’s fine. Ronnie worries too much.”
“About what?”
Bethany shrugged. “Everything. We all have baggage.”
“I can help you unload some of your troubles.” She was so off script. “I can help all of you. How many people are in the group?” She didn’t dare ask about Emma directly.
Bethany downed her coffee and stood. “I can’t tell you that, and we don’t need your help.”
Rox had to take a final shot. “If you know someone in your group who wants to make a bigger commitment and sacrifice, send her to me.” Rox started to write her burner-phone number on a napkin, but the young woman scooted away without comment.
“Thanks for chatting with me.” Rox stood too, walked to a trash can, and tossed her coffee. With a sideways glance at the back of the kitchen, she noted the third young woman’s face. Not Emma. Too bad she hadn’t learned anything about her clients’ daughter. But she would be back. Outside and out of sight, she jotted down the members’ descriptions and what little she had gathered about the group. She’d wanted to take photos, but it would have been too blatant and weird.
Before leaving, she scanned the sign on the front door. The charity served dinner until eight. After cleaning up, the crew would likely leave sometime between eight thirty and nine. Perfect. Dark enough to follow them without being spotted. If she found their home base in time, she might be able to follow the members who went out at night. She didn’t buy the soliciting-donations line. What the hell were they really up to?
CHAPTER 4
Later at home, Rox got online and learned that Sister Love had been operating for nearly three years. The Portland newspaper had done a story about it, but Deacon Blackstone had given only a single comment about his commitment to helping homeless veterans. How had the reporter reached him? The article mentioned the Sister Love soup kitchen had originally served only veterans, but they’d found it too difficult to screen and turn away the non-vets who showed up. But ex-military clients were given preferential treatment. The news piece also suggested the charity had cult-like traits, claiming the volunteers all lived together and had turned over their possessions to the founder. But there was no mention of recruitment tactics. Rox wondered where the Carsons had found their information about the charity’s online trolling. Maybe they’d assumed it from their daughter’s experience.
Another extensive search for Blackstone himself revealed almost nothing. No social media presence and nothing newsworthy. But his exclusive young-female membership made her distrust him. He had a dark secret somewhere; she just had to find it.
Maybe a bitter ex-member. If she could locate one. Sister Love hadn’t been operating long enough for anyone to age out yet, but it seemed likely that someone had left the group in the last three years. She would rent the nun costume again tomorrow and pay the soup kitchen another visit. Tonight, she would follow the members when they left and stake out their home base. Working late called for another cup of coffee.
Rox brewed a small pot, noticed the blue sky out the kitchen window, and took her coffee out to the back deck to make a few phone calls. The first was to a close friend at the CIA. While the phone rang, she wondered what she would do for background intel if Sergio ever left the agency.
He came on the line. “Hey, Rox. Give me ten seconds to send this email.” She counted while she waited.
“Sorry,” he said a few moments later. “I’m buried in paperwork.”
“Seventeen seconds. You’re losing your touch.”
He laughed, but it wasn’t his usual bellow.
“Is everything all right?”
“Mostly.” A moment of silence. “Sherry was diagnosed with breast cancer.”
What a terrible thing. A sadness overcame Rox. “I’m so sorry.”
“They caught it early, and it’s treatable, so let’s not talk about it.”
That was a relief on both.
“I can’t believe you even noticed something was wrong,” Sergio said.
It was unusual for her.
Before she could tell him about the magnetic treatments, Sergio asked, “How’s the PI business?”
“Good. I completed an extraction yesterday and got a call for another assignment on the drive home.”
“You must have really gotten the word out about your services.”
“Marty’s and my contacts in the police department helped a lot. He’s a pretty good wingman too.” Rox decided to get to the point before she ran out of small talk. “The new extraction involves a charity called Sister Love, run by a man named Deacon Blackstone. He’s an army veteran, and I’m hoping you can call your contact at the Pentagon and get me some background.”
“Sure.” He paused. “Ex-military men are usually weaponized. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Always. Physical confrontation is a last resort.”
“Good. What else do you know about Blackstone?”
“Not much. The Sister Love website doesn’t even mention his name or background. And no one seems to know where he and the members live.”
“I’ll make the call now and see what I can find.”
“Thank you. I’d love to find something I can use as leverage.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“See ya.” Rox hung up. The combination of hot coffee and late-afternoon sun had overheated her, so she went back inside to her desk. She checked her notes, then called the newspaper and asked for Jordan Ackers, the byline on the story she’d read earlier. A young-sounding woman answered. “This is Jordan.”
Should she give her real name? Not to a reporter. “This is Karina Jones, a private investigator. You wrote an article about Sister Love last year. I’m trying to reach Deacon Blackstone, and I’m hoping you can give me his phone number.”
“I don’t have it. I emailed him through their website, and he finally responded with a one-line comment.”
“Any idea of his location?”
“Nope. And believe me, I tried. The members must be sworn to secrecy, because they wouldn’t tell me anything about the founder or where they lived.”
“Did they give any hints? Such as mentioning a dorm or a house?”
“One of the girls used the word farm, so I suspect they’re in a rural setting.”
It was something. “How many girls did you talk to?”
“Just two at the soup kitchen. They both swore that all the members are eighteen or older.”
“So Blackstone is careful to avoid custody issues or statutory rape charges.”
“If he’s porking them, but they won’t talk about that either.” The reporter made a slurping sound, as if she was drinking through a straw. “What’s your interest in Blackstone?”
“I have a client who’s trying to find him.”
“Call me if you do. I’d like to write a follow-up story.” She hung up.
Was Blackstone paranoid or just incredibly private? Paranoid types made her nervous. They tended to perceive everything as a threat and respond accordingly. Rox looked at her phone. Damn. She was running late again. She sometimes put on a dress for her dates with Kyle, but not tonight. She might need to drive straight from the restaurant to the soup kitchen so she could be there when it closed. She texted Kyle, aka, Detective Wilson: I’ll meet you there. I have to work later. She would miss their post-dinner sex, but this assignment felt ur
gent. The more she learned about Blackstone, the more dangerous he seemed.
Kyle sent back an emoji frown. He would miss the sex too. Rox rolled deodorant under her arms, brushed her teeth, and headed for the door. Her phone rang with the sound of a bugle playing reveille, her ringtone for Marty. She took the call, knowing he would try again until she got back to him. “Hey, I’m headed out to meet Kyle for dinner.”
“I won’t keep you. I just want to know if you have an update on our case.”
He wasn’t officially her partner. The PI business was registered in her name only, and she employed him for special circumstances. But she discussed every case with him—because it was helpful to her and gave him something to focus on. “Not much. I visited the soup kitchen this afternoon, and I’ve got a friend at the CIA digging into Blackstone’s military career.” Rox stepped outside, locked the door, and walked to her car.
“You’re wearing pants. Are you working after your date?”
The old snoop was watching her from his front window—and was still sharp enough to connect the dots. “Yes, I’m going back to the soup kitchen.”
“Tailing one of the members?”
“Yes.”
“Let me keep you company. I’ll meet you there.”
She’d known he would say that. “It’s not necessary for both of us to probably waste our time. And if we chat, we could miss something.”
“Okay. Call me if you need help.”
“Always.” He’d taken it well. Rox waved at his front window as she backed out of the driveway. Marty was annoying, but he was the only father she’d ever known, and she loved him fiercely. He’d married her mother, Georgia, when Rox was six, and she’d bonded to him in a way that surprised everyone, including herself. Two years later, her baby sister had been born, and Georgia had named her Jolene, in keeping with the family tradition of naming females after hit songs. When Rox was thirteen, her mother had landed a role on Broadway—an opportunity of a lifetime she’d called it—and moved to New York for what was supposed to be a few months. She’d never come back, except to visit. Marty had raised her and Jolene by himself and had always treated her like his own child. She called him Marty, not Dad, because her mother had always insisted on being called Georgia. So it made sense to her brain. The terms mom and dad could be vague and confusing. Everyone had parents of some kind, and she preferred specificity.
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