Devil in the Deadline

by Walker, LynDee

  The coroner’s report lists massive blood loss due to stab wounds as the cause of death.

  I quoted Aaron about the unusual difficulty IDing the victim, especially in the age of computers and online records, added statistics for violent crime perpetrated against homeless people, and sent it to Bob for immediate posting online just in time to dash for the courthouse and snag the last seat for day one of DonnaJo’s juvenile murder trial.

  I wolfed down a sandwich at my desk as I wrote up the trial, then stuck my head into Bob’s office.

  “You have email,” I said. “And I have some stuff in the works I’m going to go check out.”

  He turned from his screen to the door, leaning back in his big leather chair. “Anything interesting?”

  “Could be.” I shrugged. “Not sure yet.”

  “Larry said he’s working on a bear of a photo restore for you.”

  “I’m anxious to see what he can do with it.”

  “As anxious as I am for you to let me in on your new lead?”

  “Let me see what I can find.”

  He turned back to his computer. “Don’t get shot.”

  “Not on purpose.” I grinned and turned for the elevator.

  Shelby rounded the corner from the break room as I punched the down button.

  “Hey, Nichelle,” she called brightly.

  I fought the natural urge to bolt and turned a smile on her.

  “Hey there,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Frustrated with this blogger. I’m following every footprint she has online, but they’re all carefully cloaked. I don’t know how anyone’s going to find out who she is.”

  “I haven’t had time to look at anything not strictly related to my copy for today. Is she getting more followers? Or pissing Aaron off more?”

  “Her followers aren’t exploding, but I’ve found several forums in my searches where people are linking to the blog and saying she’s not beholden to the PD.” She made air quotes around the last words and rolled her eyes.“She’s up to two hundred fourteen subscribers.”

  “From eighty-five a week ago?” I didn’t like the sound of that. “That’s more than double.”

  “But still a relatively small group. And a niche, if you read the comments on her site. Conspiracy nuts, mostly. She had a piece this afternoon questioning the validity of the arrest that she herself reported on for the past two days. Got a ton of comments about the cops being corrupt. One guy wrote a thesis about patsys. Compared this homeless dude they picked up to Lee Harvey Oswald.”

  I swore under my breath. Who was this person?

  Shelby arched a brow. “I kinda thought that was funny.”

  “She’s right, Shelby.” I sagged back against the wall, barely noticing that the elevator came and went without me. “The whole thing stinks to high Heaven. I interviewed that guy. Twice. He’s not a murderer.”

  “So how does she know that?”

  “She has an in at the PD. The question is who? And why hasn’t Aaron figured it out yet?” I knew the answer to the last one was simple—he had more pressing matters that needed his attention.

  If I was honest with myself, I was most annoyed that Friday had likely written the piece I would have if I didn’t care so much about keeping my good relationship with my cops. Politics and playing by the rules sucks sometimes.

  “I’ll keep trying,” she said.

  “I have work to do.”

  I told myself Friday didn’t know about Golightly.

  Myself said she just didn’t know yet.

  I’d blabbed to Aaron. Who knew who he might mention it to or where Friday was getting her information? I stifled a growl and punched the elevator button hard enough to jam my finger. Shaking my hand, I turned back to Shelby. “Keep me posted?”

  “Yup.” She turned to go back to her cube.

  “Hey, Shelby,” I called. “Thanks.”

  Her spiky black hair bobbed acknowledgement as she walked away.

  I stepped onto the elevator and leaned my head against the wall, my universe seriously askew. My mom in Richmond. To talk about my father, the faithful actor. Shelby Taylor being pleasant. Helpful. Roses from Joey. Kyle treating me almost like an equal on a case.

  Rod Serling had to be lurking behind a pillar in the Telegraph garage, but I didn’t have time to look.

  I texted Mom I’d be home by seven, pointed the car toward the interstate, and turned up the radio.

  19.

  Family

  Twenty or so oxford-clad, fresh-faced young people sat knee-to-knee in a circle on the wide emerald lawn between the main building and the houses that looked like dorms, hands clasped and heads bowed.

  I glanced down at my outfit—loose linen pants that grazed the tops of my feet, Tory Burch ballet flats, and an Indian-print cotton tunic. With three-quarter sleeves. Surely, no one could find that objectionable.

  Climbing out of the car, I surveyed the grounds. Where to begin? I hadn’t met enough people here for the confused visitor routine to fail me—yet, anyway. I set off toward the dorms with my best vacant expression in place.

  Nobody paid me any mind, only a couple of people even glancing my way as I strolled around Way of Life’s grounds in the June sunshine for half an hour.

  No Elise.

  I stopped behind the second dorm, perching on a bench and gathering my thoughts. I needed to find someone who’d talk to me, and she was my best bet. The staff didn’t like me, and a lot of the rest of these folks looked too invested in all this to be helpful.

  My eyes skipped across the grounds, lighting up when I caught sight of the teacher I’d talked to Monday. Before I could get to my feet, a petite blonde woman strolled from the back door of the classroom building to join him. He stopped and bent his head to hers, their serious faces telling me to stay away.

  I glanced at my watch. Just after two.

  Elise had been cleaning the coffee shop at about the same time Monday.

  Worth a shot.

  I walked to the far end of the main building and pulled the door open.

  The long hallway was nothing short of opulent, the walls lined with heavy red material that looked an awful lot like silk. Wood wainscoting, thick green carpet, and pressed ceiling tiles dripping with crystal chandeliers completed the picture.

  Money, money, and more money.

  I strolled to the foyer, pausing in front of the six-foot portrait of Golightly in the center of the wall opposite the door. He wore a serious expression, and about half the lines I’d seen in his face on the jumbotron Sunday. I studied the painting, my mom’s words echoing in my head. He was handsome. Had charisma by the bucketful. But it wasn’t him, because mom said she’d never seen him on TV. I glanced around, my skin prickly with apprehension at the possibility—however remote—my father was in this building.

  Not a fan of the tight feeling that brought to my chest, I returned my attention to the reverend. Flanked by two table-sized candle sconces, the oil painting was undeniably the focal point of the church’s entryway.

  “Who are we worshipping here, folks?” I murmured.

  Money. Power. Sex. All great motives for murder. Golightly was deep into at least two of them. I could guess about the third.

  I spun for the hallway that led to Way of Life’s mini-mall, contemplating the scene as I strolled toward the coffee shop. There were more people around. As long as Jenny of the disdainful glare didn’t come out of the office, I blended.

  I peeked into the narrow space, tables lining one wall and the counter stretching along the other. A three-by-four logo cross dominated the back wall, the razor points on the rays glittering in the soft overhead light. Two of the three tables were occupied by academy students.

  Elise bustled around behind the bar, her eyes cast down and away from the man at the counter. I stepped up behind him, catching a whiff of expensive cologne that matched the Bespoke suit covering his broad shoulders. He was tall, his chestnut hair precision-cut across the nape of his
neck.

  Elise handed over his coffee and he spun for the door, no evidence of payment in sight.

  Catching a glimpse of his profile, I froze.

  Simon Golightly.

  He didn’t appear to notice anyone else. Didn’t thank her for making his latte, either.

  Nice.

  I waited ’til he left and turned to the counter, trying to cover my surprise with a grin.

  “You again.” She smiled, giving me a once over. “Better. At least for fitting in around here.”

  She kept her voice so low I had to lean halfway across the counter to hear her.

  “Thanks,” I said. “For the advice the other day, I mean. I haven’t gotten nearly as many dirty looks today.”

  She nodded.

  I glanced toward the door. “That was him, right?”

  Another nod, this one joined by a downturn in her rose-colored lips. “The prophet must have his coffee,” she muttered, almost too low for me to catch it.

  The prophet?

  No.

  Seriously?

  “Can I get you something?” she asked.

  “Can you make a nonfat white mocha?”

  “Sure.” She moved to the giant coffee grinder/espresso machine, pulling levers and waiting as it hummed and hissed.

  I sipped and smiled when she handed it to me. “You’re good,” I said, reaching into my bag for cash. “How much?”

  She waved a hand. “On the house. Consider it an apology for the way the office staff treated you.”

  “Thanks.” I leaned a hip on the counter, glancing behind me. Not another customer in sight, and everyone loitering at the tables looked absorbed in something else. I turned back.

  “Why didn’t you?” I asked, keeping my voice carefully low and even.

  Her eyebrows drew together. “Pardon?”

  “You were nice to me,” I said. “Nicer than you had to be. Why?”

  “You look nice,” she said simply. “It’s the Christian thing to do.”

  “Can I—can we talk? When you’re through here? Is there a place we could have some privacy?” I put a hand in my pocket, touching my BlackBerry. Three years she’d been here, and Jasmine had only been in Richmond one. If I was close to anything, showing her the sketch would prove it, but I wanted away from the eyeballs in this building.

  She smiled. “I’m done here at four. At the far end of the property, past all the buildings, there’s a pasture. Behind the barn on the other side, there’s a feed shed. Meet me there at four-fifteen. And don’t walk straight there. Meander a little.”

  My stomach flipped, and I nodded.

  “Go with God, washed in the blood,” she said brightly, louder.

  I had to find out what that was about.

  “You, too?” I couldn’t help the question inflection. She winked. I picked up my latte and turned for the door.

  My foot froze in midair when Pink Jenny walked in, talking animatedly to a younger woman in a long lavender dress.

  I spun for the wall, bending my knees to hide my height and ducking behind the curtain of my hair. Crap hell.

  She didn’t falter in her monologue, which had something to do with the example set by Biblical women, except to bark out an order for a caramel latte.

  More hissing and burbling from the espresso machine.

  Another voice, softer, I guessed from the woman in lavender. “Thank you. How are you today?”

  “Doing well, thank yo—” A sharp intake of breath followed Elise’s stammer.

  “Oh?” That was the same disdainful tone Pink Jenny had used on me Monday. It physically hurt to not turn and stare, but I kept my back to them and my head down.

  “Doing well? You know,” she paused, reading the name tag, “Elise. You can have what you say. I will set my faith in agreement with your ‘doing well’ if that’s what you want.”

  Chairs scraped back, books snapped shut, and sneakered footsteps beat a hasty retreat. I couldn’t blame them. I didn’t chance breathing too loudly.

  “No, ma’am.” Elise’s voice was so low I had to strain to hear it. “Forgive me. I rebuke that statement and cover it in blood. What I meant is that I am blessed and highly favored of the Lord this afternoon. And you, ma’am?”

  “Blessed and highly favored of the Lord. Go with God, washed in the blood.”

  My gold-tipped flats grew roots into the marble floor, the resolve that shoved Joey out my front door Sunday night keeping me still.

  “And you as well,” Elise said.

  Two sets of footsteps receded. I stayed still.

  “All clear,” Elise said.

  I turned slowly, finding her slumped against the counter. She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe I did that. Another nasty letter for my file.”

  “You still want to chat?”

  “Do I ever,” she said. “I’ve been written up for ‘being oppressed by a spirit of rebellion’ more times than anyone else here. What else can they do to me?”

  Jasmine’s lifeless face flashed on the backs of my lids. I shook it off and smiled. “See you in a bit.”

  “Sure.” Her bright eyes were kind and smart. They held a curious gleam I’d seen a few too many times in the mirror. She wanted to know what I was doing there every bit as much as I wanted to know what was going on.

  We could help each other out, she and I. I just had to avoid trouble for forty minutes.

  I meandered to the best of my ability and still made it to the feed shed behind the big red barn with fifteen minutes to spare. They crawled slower than the last moments before a bid on twenty-dollar Louboutins could be finalized on eBay.

  Couch-sized bags of organic food supplements for the cattle lined the walls, stacked neatly in alternating columns. I brushed a finger absently over the burlap, checking my watch for the thirtieth time in a minute and a half. My insides looped into tighter knots as I considered what I knew about Way of Life.

  By itself, was any of it particularly damning? No. But all together, it set off every alarm bell my inner Lois could muster.

  A soft squeak from the double doors pulled my attention to the sunlight spilling through them.

  “Hey.” I smiled as Elise scooted through the door. “Thanks for coming to talk to me.”

  “What did you want to ask me?” She dropped a navy backpack on the straw-covered floor.

  “Well, I…” I snapped my mouth shut, turning my gaze to the bags of feed on the opposite wall. And babbling. “I’m curious. By nature. I’ve never been to a church like this one. Never met people like most of the ones here. The more I see, the more I wonder.” Every word true.

  She slid down the wall and sat by her bag, and I took a spot beside her. Pulling the BlackBerry out of my pocket, I called up the sketch and flipped the screen around.

  “Do you know this woman?” I asked.

  Her eyes popped wide, then narrowed into a squint as she reached for my phone.

  “Jasmine?” The whisper was so soft I was sure I’d imagined it. That couldn’t be her real name. Could it?

  She raised shining eyes to mine, tracing a finger along the screen.

  It could.

  “How—where did you get this? Her hair is longer, and she looks thinner, but,” Elise pulled in a hitching breath, a tear falling, “I’m pretty sure this is my friend. Where is she? She left, and they all just acted like she was never here. Never talked about her, never prayed for her. It was crazy.”

  I knew it.

  I closed my eyes, throwing a silent thank you to the Heavens and keeping myself from sprinting for Aaron only by the grace of God.

  “Leigh? Where is she?” Elise repeated, a frantic edge making her voice too high.

  I bit my lip. Crap. I’d interviewed plenty of grieving friends and family members, but I’d never had to be the bearer of news this bad.

  “She—” The rest of the sentence stuck in my throat. I cleared it and tried again. “She passed away, sweetie. I’m so sorry.”

  She nodded, he
r eyes falling shut, tears spattering the blue cotton of her uniform pants. I patted her shoulder and let her cry.

  It seemed a small eternity passed before she handed me the phone back and raised her head. Her happy blue eyes were red-rimmed and puffy with sorrow.

  “How?” she choked.

  Oh, good Heavens.

  “She. Um. Well,” I stammered, searching for the right words. “The police suspect foul play,” I said.

  “But you’re not the police?” she asked, only half-questioning.

  I returned her unblinking stare. If Joey had a friend out here who knew who I was—and knew Kyle on sight—then what the hell?

  “I’m a reporter at the Richmond Telegraph,” I said. “I’d like for that to stay between us. I’m following the story about her, and the trail I picked up led here.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Maybe you don’t need to understand everything,” I said. God knew she’d sleep better if she didn’t.

  “Why? Where was she?”

  “Living in an abandoned building in Richmond,” I said. “She had friends. They were talking about moving away.”

  She nodded, sobs taking over again.

  “Elise, I’d like to ask you some more questions,” I said. “But I don’t want to upset you more. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Another nod. “I appreciate that,” she said, looking up and dragging the back of one hand across her face. “But I get the feeling you’re trying to find out exactly what happened to her.”

  “I’d like to know who she was, too,” I said.

  “She was one of the happiest people I ever met, though goodness knows she had no reason to be. She chose it.”

  “How long was she here?”

  “Two years.” She sniffled. “Just under.”

  “Why was she here?”

  “Her parents sent her. Thought it would reform the sin out of her. She had sex with her boyfriend. She cried a lot the first month. Said her momma called her an ‘abomination.’ She changed her name. Said her parents didn’t want her, so they didn’t have any say-so in her identity. She ignored her given name for two solid months, and everyone finally started calling her Jasmine. For the vines on the porch. She liked the swing.”