The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set

by Thomas Scott

  None of Virgil’s follow-up questions for Marriott led them anywhere at all, so he pulled at another thread. “I’d like to ask you about Samuel Pate.”

  Marriott snuffed at the mention of Pate’s name. “So ask.”

  “Well,” Virgil said, “What I’d really like is your general, overall impression of the man.”

  Marriott leaned in, his forearms on the edge of the table. “Detective, we have a rather unique business model here at Sunrise. No other financial institution in the country does what we do. Now, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying—there are plenty of banks out there that lend money to churches and religious institutions all across the U.S. But we are the only one that does it exclusively.”

  “If you have a point, Mr. Marriott, so far it’s lost on me.”

  “My point is simple, Detective. We are as close as you could come to being called a private bank. We vigorously protect our assets and those of our clients. Confidentiality at our institution is held at the highest regard. I’m quite sure you understand.”

  “I’m not asking for his financials, Mr. Marriott. I’m asking for your general impression of the man.”

  Marriott looked at Virgil for a full minute before he spoke. “He doesn’t let much get in his way, I’ll say that about the man. But that’s all I’ll say.”

  Finished with Marriott, Virgil stepped out of the conference room and found Rosencrantz and Donatti seated in the reception area, two empty plates of shrimp tails on the coffee table by their knees.

  “Get what we needed?” Virgil said.

  “Right here boss,” Donatti said. “All of Pate’s financial history with the bank.” He handed him a file folder.

  “Okay, I want you guys out at the scene to help with the canvass. Ron should still be there. Widen it out as far as possible. All we’ve got so far is Sandy’s report of a white panel van of some kind. If we can get a plate, or even a partial, we’d have something solid.”

  The two men stood up and Donatti picked up their plates, looked around for a trashcan, didn’t see one, shrugged, and set them back down on the table.

  “You know,” Rosencrantz said, “If you let that Jamaican chef of yours, what’s his name, again?”

  “Robert,” Virgil said.

  “Right, right, Robert. If you get Robert some of this shrimp, and he put some of that jerk sauce on them and sort of sizzled ‘em up in a pan, you’d have something right there.”

  Donatti was nodding. “He’s right. That sauce of his is something. You’d pretty much have the crack cocaine of shrimp.”

  Virgil nodded right along with them. “Yeah, I know. I’m already on it.”

  Before he left, Virgil found Margery at her desk. “I’ve got something I want to run by you.”

  “Sure,” Margery said. “But wait, before I forget, here’s the number of the seafood place in Elkhart. They’re expecting your call.” She handed him a slip of paper with the info. “They said, and I quote, ‘as a favor to me and because you’re a new customer, they’ll move you to the front of the line.’ They’ve got a truck coming to Indy today. If you could call them soon enough, you’d be all set.”

  “Hey, that’s great. But, uh, I probably won’t have time to call them.” Virgil pulled one of his cards out of his wallet and handed it to her. “Do me a favor? Call the number on this card and ask for Robert. He’s my chef. Tell him I said to order whatever he needs, okay?”

  “Sure. That’s no problem. You said you wanted to run something by me?”

  “I do. Look, I usually don’t ask this, but you seem to have your ear to the ground around here and I was sort of hoping you could let me know if you hear of anything that might be, mmm, out of the ordinary.”

  Margery looked around, like someone might be listening. “Like what?”

  “Anything really. Something out of place, someone acting strange, uptight, saying something out of character, something they wouldn’t normally do or say. Don’t do anything about it, but call me and let me know, will you?”

  “Sure, sounds a lot like what I do already.” She gave him a little eyebrow wiggle. “And, as long as we’re trading favors, how about you do a little something for me?”

  “Maybe,” Virgil said, a little skeptical. “What is it?”

  “Oh don’t get all coppish on me.”

  “No, no. I’m not. What is it?”

  “Well, earlier I told you I was thinking about retiring and spending some time on the beach.”

  “Yeah? Boy I could tell you about some great places in Jamaica. I go every February for a month.”

  “No, no. I was wondering…your two guys?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, you know…the cute one. Is he attached or anything? I was hoping you could put a word in for me.”

  Virgil puffed out his cheeks. “Margery, I’ll be the first to admit I’m not very religious, and I mean not at all. But with God as my witness, I don’t know which one qualifies as the cute one.”

  Margery huffed a little. “You know…the tall one. What’d you call him? Rosie?”

  “He’s the cute one?”

  Margery gave him a slow blink. Twice. “Oh, honey, are you kidding me? I’d like to buy him a few of those rum punches and get him into a man thong on the beach. You might not ever see him again.”

  “Ah, Margery, come on...”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got to work with the guy. Now every time I look at him…”

  9

  Virgil could feel the day starting to slip away. He had a court appearance scheduled from a previous case in a little over two hours. He thought about calling Sandy—even picked up the phone to do it—but then tossed it back on the passenger seat of the truck. The doctor had told her to get some rest. No sense in bugging her if she was actually doing what she’d been told. His thoughts of Sandy made him think about what she’d said about the governor’s wife being out of town…how she’d been there with him at his home, at night, just the two of them…

  But the thoughts were nothing more than basic jealousy.

  So…Sandy. Virgil had been drawn to her immediately. The feeling was foreign to him. It made him feel like a dopey little schoolboy. A middle-aged dopey schoolboy. Because they were on the same unit and Virgil was her boss, the politics of it could get complicated. There were rules about those sorts of things.

  But…maybe screw the politics…and the rules.

  Virgil had never seen Samuel Pate’s residence, but he had a rough idea where his house was located. One of the television stations in town had done a feature story on Pate’s home a few months ago and Virgil remembered the story mostly because he was so amazed at the grandiosity on display from someone who’d made their fortune by instilling the fear of God into people who probably could not afford to buy a second-hand bible.

  The documents he’d collected from Franklin Dugan’s office sat on the seat next to him and Virgil thought he should at least glance at them before he spoke with Pate. He turned into a gas station just off the highway, picked up the papers and began to read. He spent the better part of an hour trying to make sense of what he saw in the documents, but after reading through them three times he discovered he had no more detailed information than what Cora had given him earlier: Samuel Pate was under investigation for insurance fraud out of Texas, he was talking publicly about running for the office of governor of the state of Indiana, and he apparently had a banker who’d been either very generous or foolhardy. Maybe both.

  When he finally turned into Pate’s drive, Virgil realized the story he’d seen on television a few months back did not do justice to the level of extravagance and excess in the man’s life. On TV Pate preached the way to heaven was to give most, if not all of your earthly belongings to God through his ministry, yet it appeared he lived his life as if the very rules he preached somehow didn’t apply to him.

  The driveway was almost a quarter mile in length and at the far end it split into two lanes. One of the lanes led arou
nd the side of the house to a five-car garage, the other to a circular turn-about in front of the three story red-bricked mansion. Virgil parked his truck just past the front door then walked up and rang the bell. When the front door opened he felt a surge of cool, conditioned air brush past, but when he saw the woman on the other side of the threshold who smiled at him and said his name aloud he was left off balance and suddenly at a loss for words.

  “Well, Virgil Jones. What on earth are you doing here? Come in, please.”

  Her accent was manufactured, acquired from her time spent in Texas, the way a person’s skin will darken after weeks or months spent outdoors in the summer sun. But Virgil knew she had always spoken with a Midwestern twang. He found the sound of her words as contrived as any meaning or sincerity they might hold.

  In high school her name had been Amanda Habern, but her married name now was Pate. Virgil had heard that a number of years ago she and Sermon Sam had married, but at the time Pate was not yet famous and Amanda was just a girl he’d known a long time ago for a very short while. Under any other circumstance he might have been surprised that she recognized or even remembered him, but Virgil and Amanda had a history of a single shared encounter, one which could have been beautiful, or at least just plain old fashion fun, but in the end was neither.

  Virgil accepted her invitation and crossed the threshold of the front door and when he did, he found himself suddenly conflicted about the nature of his visit and her eagerness to so willingly invite him into her home. He was in her house as an investigative officer of the state of Indiana and not a casual visitor or long lost high school lover from decades ago. He wondered if the warmth in her eyes and the look of fondness on her face were as manufactured as the accent of her singsong voice. Regardless of the purpose of his visit, he had to admit she was still as easy to look at now as she was twenty years ago. She wore tennis whites, and her shirt was damp with perspiration. When she closed the door the two of them endured one of those clumsy moments old lovers are often faced with when an unexpected chance encounter brings them together. She stepped forward, her arms open to hug him at the same time he put his right arm out to shake her hand. It was awkward and Virgil thought she laughed a little too quickly and perhaps a touch too long. In the end, they went with the handshake.

  They looked at each other for a moment before Virgil broke the silence. “It’s been a long time, Amanda.”

  “It has been a long time, hasn’t it?” she said. “I just put some coffee on. Why don’t you come and join me?”

  She placed her hand in the crook of his arm in an effort to lead him through the house, but Virgil held himself steady and refused to go along with her. When she felt the resistance she turned her head and Virgil saw her smile falter. “I’m here in an official capacity, Amanda. I need to speak with Samuel. Perhaps yourself as well, but I’d like to have a word with your husband first.”

  “Is this about Franklin?” she asked. “Why would you want to talk to Samuel about that?”

  Virgil made note of her referral of the victim by his first name, then answered her question. “Yes, it is about Franklin Dugan’s murder. I’m investigating on behalf of the state. It’s what I do, Amanda. Is your husband home?”

  “No, I’m afraid he is not home, Detective.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s at the church. They always tape Sunday’s broadcast a few days ahead of time then edit it down for time. I know a lot of people think it’s live, but it’s not. It’s taped. We make no secret about that, you know.”

  The defensiveness, Virgil thought, was probably a large part of her life in general so he drew no conclusions from the words she spoke or the manner in which they were delivered. “I wouldn’t know, Amanda.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything other than I am not a member of your church, and I don’t watch your televised broadcasts. How well did you know Franklin Dugan?”

  “Are you asking me that question in an official capacity? Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something?”

  “We only read you your rights if you are under arrest, which you are not. Could you please just answer the question?”

  “I could, but I choose not to. My rights are the same whether I’m under arrest or not and in this particular instance, I choose to remain silent. If you have any questions for my husband, or me, I suggest you contact our attorney. Better yet, I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you. And your boss.” She opened the front door. “It was great seeing you, Jonesy,” she said, her manufactured east Texas accent suddenly gone, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Maybe next time we see each other it won’t be in an official capacity.”

  “I seriously doubt it, Amanda. Have your husband call me as soon as he gets home.” When Virgil tried to hand her his business card she refused to take it so he laid it on the small receiving table next to the door. As soon as he set it down a gust of wind swirled through the doorway and blew the card onto the floor as if the table were no more willing to accept his contact information than the woman who stood at his side. He stepped out into the sunlight, the sound of the brass door-knocker banging against itself as the door slammed shut behind him.

  There were no misconceptions in Virgil’s mind as to whether or not Amanda Pate would tell her husband to call, so Virgil drove over to the Pate Ministry complex located on the outer edges of a shopping center on the city’s west side. The massive brick building situated in the center of the property was so nondescript it looked more like a small hospital or office building than a church. Most of the property had been paved with blacktop and dedicated to parking, and when he turned into the entrance of the complex, Virgil saw that the parking lot was completely full. He parked next to the yellow-curbed sidewalk in front of the building then set a laminated placard on the dash identifying his truck as an official state vehicle.

  A landscaper was spreading fertilizer on the grass. Parts of the sidewalk were covered with the chemical granules and they crunched under Virgil’s boots as if he were walking across a crushed shell parking lot, the kind you find in ocean side towns of the deep south. Four sets of double glass doors with reflective tint separated by square brick pillars fronted the building, and when he was less than ten feet away they all opened at once and a throng of people exited the building and made their way to the parking lot. Virgil had to stand aside and wait for the first wave of people to pass before he could get inside the building. The scene reminded him of quitting time at the factory where his grandfather had worked his entire life. His mom or his grandmother would sometimes take him along and they’d sit at the curb or on the trunk of the car and then the steam whistle would blow and the men would pour out of the factory like the inside of the building was on fire and about to explode.

  The lobby area of the church was bigger than Virgil expected. Hundreds of people clustered about in small groups, talking or laughing, and some even held hands in a circle, their eyes closed, their heads bowed in prayer as if they had to put in one more request to God before they left the building. There was a café of some sort along the eastern wall of the lobby serving coffee, tea and croissants. Small tables lined a vertical railed enclosure where people sat and talked with one another, their faces full of hope and joy as if perhaps they were the chosen few who were lucky enough to have found their heaven on earth. Next to the café was a bookstore where still more people browsed the aisles while others waited in line to pay for their literary selections. Across the lobby on the opposite wall a large area separated by red-roped stanchions contained a maze of multi-colored tube slides, the kind you see in the children’s section of fast food restaurants. Dozens of children ran and happily climbed the ladders then slid down through the tubes, their hair full of static electricity when they popped out the bottom. Virgil turned back around and looked at the doors he’d just entered feeling a little like Alice must have felt when she followed the rabbit down a hole and ended up in a mystical place that mad
e no sense to her at all.

  A number of the children and younger adults wore beaded bracelets on their wrists, the ones with WWJD on them and even Virgil knew the letters stood for What Would Jesus Do? He looked around for a few seconds and thought if Jesus were here, he would in all likelihood wait until everyone had safely left the building then burn it to the ground.

  He turned in a slow circle, looking for the office area or an information kiosk and that’s when he noticed two men approaching. They were both big and ugly. Their biceps bulged hard against their matching sport coats. Though one was slightly taller than the other, they looked almost exactly the same. Shaved heads, thick necks, bulging muscles, and arms that seemed a little too long. Mouth breathers.

  The shorter one spoke, like maybe the taller one didn’t know how. “Reverend Pate is in his office and is expecting you. Follow us please.” The smaller of the two men took two steps forward and motioned for Virgil to follow. The three of them walked through the lobby area and then down a short corridor and into the administrative office area of the complex and found Pate seated at his desk, on the phone. He motioned Virgil in with an exaggerated circular arm movement then pointed to a chair in front of his desk, then into the phone he said, “Yes, yes he’s here now. I’ll call you later.”

  After seeing the size of the lobby and its carnival-like atmosphere, Virgil was surprised that Pate’s office was no bigger than his own. It was decorated in muted tones, a contrast so stark from the rest of the building Virgil was almost more amazed by its utilitarian form and function than he was of the lobby just down the hall.

  Samuel Pate looked like a televangelist, the way some people carry the look of their profession, like an airline pilot or a doctor. His hair was pure white and he wore it combed straight back, each strand held perfectly in place by some type of product that left a reflective sheen so thick it looked like a translucent helmet. When Pate finished the phone call he smiled. His eyes held a certain light that looked both welcoming and mischievous at the same time, as if maybe the way to heaven might just be through a lesser-known back door. He wore a starched pink shirt with a white collar and tie, and the armpits of his shirt were soaked through with perspiration, although the size and shape of the stains were so uniform it looked like they may have come from a make-up artist’s spray bottle instead of his own sweat glands.