The Killing Edge

by Heather Graham

  “Perfect.”

  Luke stopped staring at the image of Myra on his monitor and called Chloe’s cell, but he was sent straight to voice mail. He immediately called her work number, but he only got a machine saying it was lunchtime and the office was closed. Frustrated, Luke told himself that he would just have to call back later, so he called Stuckey, instead, and told him what he’d discovered.

  “Myra Allen, model and now surrogate mother to some of the future’s biggest models—she belonged to the Church of the Real People?” the lieu tenant said, incredulous.

  “Didn’t you see the picture and notice the name?”

  “Hey, big shot. I’ve never actually met Myra Allen. I’ve never been to a party out at that mansion,” Stuckey told him.

  “Well, now that you know, don’t you find it pretty strange that she has ties to the Church of the Real People and Chloe’s working for her?”

  “Years ago. Looks like she got smart and left.”

  “Don’t be so quick to dismiss this. I think we could be looking at a connection between the Real People and the Colleen Rodriguez case. Let me tell you what I discovered in the Keys,” Luke said, and went on to tell Stuckey about Maria Trenton. “Those are some strange coincidences,” Stuckey admitted. “You don’t think that Myra is a murderer, do you?” he asked, his voice skeptical.

  “No, I don’t. But I do think this makes her a ‘person of interest.’ Don’t you?”

  Stuckey said, “No. I think it makes her smart. She got suckered in when she was young, but she was bright enough to get the hell out. Sometimes people find God in all the wrong places, just a part of the human need to believe.”

  “Stuckey, trust me. I believe in God. I just don’t believe God wants people to go out killing in his name, and I don’t believe he—if God has a sex—thinks the way to get to heaven is to hand over everything you’ve worked for, leave your family and join a cult.”

  “Hey, I’m on your side,” Stuckey said. “Want me to question Myra?”

  “You’ll put her on the defensive. I’ll do it.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  “Will do.”

  Luke hung up and then put a call through to Myra’s office, asking for an appointment. Her mousy secretary penciled him in for 3:00 p.m. He thought he had heard that her name was Alana, but he wasn’t positive, as neither he nor anyone around him had been introduced to the woman. He hung up and showered quickly. It was a hot day, so he took a few minutes to ponder what to wear for the meeting, something he wasn’t accustomed to doing. He eventually chose chinos and a short-sleeved tailored shirt. Miami chic, he hoped.

  He headed out and pulled up in front of the mansion a few minutes before three. He parked on the street in front of the house and walked over to the gates, where he hit the buzzer and waited for a reply. A disembodied voice asked him his name, and as soon as he gave it, the gates opened.

  Alana met him and led him back to the patio, where Myra sat at an umbrella table, a pile of sketches in front of her. She was studying them, and he saw that she was putting names on the different sheets.

  “Mr. Smith, good afternoon. Please excuse me, but we’re down to the wire here,” she said. “I’m making my last choices for the shoot. So—did you enjoy seeing the island?”

  “Very much. It’s a beautiful place,” Luke said, joining her at the table.

  “Have you decided which models you’d like to use for your catalogue?” she asked. “That will be important in our final negotiations. Naturally, the established models demand higher salaries.”

  “Naturally,” he said. “Rene, Victoria, Jeanne and Chloe,” he said.

  She smiled. “You’re not going to use Lacy?”

  “I don’t think I can afford Lacy.”

  “Jeanne is almost as pricey as Lacy.”

  “Yes, but I think I have the combination I’m looking for with those four.”

  “Then I’ll finalize agreements with them for you,” Myra told him. “Now, have you made arrangements for bringing whatever you need to the island?” She looked up as she spoke, waving a hand to summon Alana to the table. “Alana, dear, will you ask Viv to brew some coffee for Mr. Smith and me, please?” She turned to Luke and said, “Unless you’d prefer iced tea—or something stronger? It is hot today.”

  “Coffee is fine, thank you.” He watched as Alana, ever so slightly hunched over, went to arrange the coffee. The poor girl was thin enough to be a model, that was certain, but her posture was a deal breaker. “I’ll follow Chloe Marin’s recommendation,” he said to Myra. “I’ll rent a boat from Brad.”

  She nodded. “Perfect. And of course, you’ll have a lovely room at the hotel. Now, as to your photographers. Are you bringing your own, or are you using ours?”

  “Yours, please. This is my first catalogue, so I’m grateful for all the help I can get.”

  “Well, from what I’ve seen, you have an absolutely beautiful line. You should do well. Would you like my suggestions for which girls should wear which suits?”

  “I’m all for suggestions,” he said. “But I have a few ideas, too.”

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” Myra said, sitting back.

  He was grateful when just then a middle-aged woman with a friendly smile brought out a tray of coffee, which bought him time while he tried to remember what was in “his line” and how to segue into the conversation he wanted. “I’m seeing Victoria as a blond, ethereal type, showing the gauzy cover-ups. Jeanne’s the bold, in-your-face type, perfect for the rhinestone pieces. Rene will look perfect in the animal prints, and Chloe in the red, white and blue one-piece suits, ready for a dive off the high board.”

  “Sporty,” Myra agreed.

  “There’s something special about her. She’s got confidence,” Luke said, then leaned forward to speak confidentially. “Frankly, I was surprised. I mean, I gather no one talks about it, but weren’t she and Victoria and some of their friends involved in that terrible mass murder about ten years ago?”

  Myra had been looking down, making notes. Now her hand went still, and he saw color flood her face.

  “Yes,” she finally said, but she didn’t elaborate.

  “But they’re all right now? I like both of them very much. Victoria’s worked for Bryson forever, right? And Chloe, too, on a part-time basis? Without any problems?” He did his best to sound sincerely worried about his models, as if making sure he wasn’t going to stress them into breaking down.

  Myra looked up at him at last. “Both Victoria and Chloe are completely stable and professional. Victoria has been with Bryson for nine years, and Chloe’s been working with us on and off for almost as long. Victoria teaches and does local theater on the side, and Chloe has a private psychology practice and helps the local police on occasion, and both of them could do double the modeling work if they wanted to. Neither of them even needs to work for a living, but they enjoy what they do and don’t want to stop.”

  “Oh, right. I think I heard that Victoria is an heiress…?”

  “She and her cousin Brad stand to inherit Preston Enterprises, and they both have trust funds in the meantime.”

  “And Chloe?”

  “Her parents were killed when she was very young. There was a settlement, and her uncle managed her assets for her quite successfully. She’s quite an amazing young woman, to have overcome what she has.”

  He liked the way Myra defended her flock, with dignity. She gave information without turning it gossipy.

  “The Church of the Real People,” he murmured reflectively, shaking his head.

  Myra’s pencil snapped, and she didn’t look up for several long seconds. When she did, she was pale, but she tried to speak casually. “I don’t think they exist anymore.”

  “Yeah, they do. I don’t remember what I was looking at—the newspaper, maybe? Or one of those local flyers? Anyway, they’re having some kind of a potluck supper tomorrow night,” he said.

  He watched her carefully, trying to decide whether
she was surprised by his proof that the cult was still around or if she was just covering her reactions better.

  “Really?” she said. “I thought they’d disbanded. The church elders were horrified when the bodies of two members were discovered—with a note taking responsibility for the killings. I once knew something about them, actually. They didn’t preach violence of any kind. And though they did ask for a percentage of the members’ incomes, so does the Roman Catholic Church.”

  “Were you a member?” he asked, keeping his tone curious but light.

  She hesitated. “Briefly. That’s why I was astounded by what happened.”

  “Why did you leave?” he asked her.

  She shrugged. “I was uncomfortable with everyone knowing all my business, with turning my whole life over to the church. I actually felt bad when it all exploded—some of the members were good people. If you ask me, it was the kind of thing that could happen anywhere. A couple of crazies ruining it for everyone.”

  “You mean the way fanatics in any religion will take the group’s beliefs and twist them to their own ends?”

  “Exactly. I think those two, the ones who killed the teenagers and then themselves, were totally insane. They acted on their own, based on some crazy belief that they were saving the souls of those kids. That’s what I thought then, anyway. I don’t really think about it at all anymore. I was young when I joined the church, lost… I’d had a lot of bad relationships…I needed guidance. That’s why I joined. That’s why most young people join cults. They need friends. Anyway…” She paused, looking at her watch. “I have another appointment, and it’s going to be a busy night. You’re always welcome here, of course.”

  He was always welcome, he thought—but she wanted him to leave now.

  He stood. “Thanks, Myra. I think I’m all set. I really appreciate your help.”

  She laughed, the color returning to her cheeks. “I’m always happy to help you spend your promotional dollars, Mr. Smith.”

  Alana was there to see him out—and lock the door behind him.

  He called Chloe soon after he left the mansion, thinking that she should just about be out of work, heading home. But she was still busy, doing paperwork. “I have to go out to the mansion with Victoria tonight for fittings.”

  His fingers tightened around his cell phone. “I’ll go with you.”

  He winced, realizing how curtly he had spoken, hoping she wouldn’t just tell him no.

  She didn’t. He let out a breath as she said, “All right. We were supposed to be there at seven, but we’re going to be late. I can’t get home in time today. I’m writing up reports for the school board, and they have to go in tonight. Victoria is going to pick me up at my house about seven-thirty—she’s sure that Myra will be all right as long as we’re there by eight, eight-thirty.”

  “I’ll be at your place by seven-thirty, too,” he said. “Victoria won’t mind me tagging along?”

  “Would it matter to you if she did?” Chloe asked. “You sounded…pretty harsh a minute ago.”

  “I’m sorry, but no, not really. I learned something about Myra today, and I’d really like to be around anytime you’re at the mansion.”

  “What did you learn?”

  He hesitated, remembering how she had reacted to the information about Maria Trenton.

  Remembering that she had admitted to seeing ghosts.

  “How about I show up at seven-fifteen and fill you in then?” he said.

  “Very mysterious,” she said. “Tell me now.”

  “Not over the phone.”

  “Even more mysterious.”

  He grinned. “Good. That means you’ll be happy to see me.”

  “I’m happy to see you anyway,” she said.

  Sitting in his car, he smiled. That was another thing he liked about her. She wasn’t a game player. She didn’t fish for compliments, she didn’t act aloof—she just said what she felt and meant what she said.

  He grimaced. Maybe thinking about that wasn’t such a good thing. It reminded him of the night gone by.

  “I’ll get to your place early, so I’ll be there whenever you make it home.”

  “Leo gets in around six.”

  “Then I’ll say hello to Leo.”

  “Sounds good. Okay, bye. No, wait. You do know I’m going to be going crazy wondering what you’re planning to tell me, don’t you? Myra isn’t a prison escapee or any thing, right?”

  “No.”

  “A transsexual?”

  “Certainly not that I know about.”

  “A foreign spy?”

  “I very much doubt it. Now stop. I’ll tell you as soon as I see you, I promise.” She was silent for so long that he thought she might have hung up on him.

  “I hope everything is okay with her. I like Myra. She’s always been nice to me.”

  “I think I like her, too.”

  “You think?”

  “You’re not getting any more out of me for now. I’ll see you soon.”

  They hung up, and he used his phone to access the Internet and look up the Church of the Real People. The address was in an area near downtown Miami.

  He pulled out onto the street, and started driving toward downtown.

  He exited at Biscayne Boulevard, and fifteen minutes brought him to the church. He found street parking about a block away.

  The building had clearly been designed for a Russian Orthodox congregation and sat in a mixed neighborhood of old houses and a few freshly painted and repaired commercial buildings near the city’s Design District. It was small but pristine—either the members could afford to pay for upkeep or they took care of the labor themselves. There was a small grassy area in front of it, and an actual yard on the eastern side, with picnic tables set up there under the shade of old oaks. There was a little iron gate at the front, and a decorative wall surrounding the property. A sign on the gate read, All Are Welcome Here. He had to admit, there was certainly nothing menacing about the place’s appearance.

  He pushed open the gate and started up the concrete walk. The front door was painted red. He tried the knob, and the door opened.

  There were no statues of saints, no crosses, and there wasn’t actually an altar, just a slightly raised stage and a podium. The room was plain, almost barren. As he stood there surveying the area, a man rose from a front pew and turned to meet him. “Hello. Welcome. May I help you?” he asked.

  The man was about fifty and balding. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read, Church of the Real People, Living in the Real World.

  “Hi,” Luke said, stepping forward. He offered his hand and introduced himself as Jack Smith. “I saw something about a potluck supper tomorrow night, and since I was passing by, I thought I’d come check it out.”

  “Please, come in. I’m Brother Mario Sanz, an elder here. We’re all about welcoming people, about finding friends through God’s way. Peace, giving, helping one another. Despite the sun and the crowds, Miami can be a cold and lonely place. People come here following their dreams and too often find everyone else is in a hurry, busy worshipping money and searching for a perfect tan out on the beach. We’re here to welcome those who need friends, or just need a hand. We are about the human need for relationships, and learning to do unto others with warmth and kindness.”

  And buying young girls from Brazil, Luke thought.

  He nodded gravely, though, as if approving of such lofty principles. “I have to be honest with you, Brother Sanz. I want to come to the church. I want to come to the potluck supper. But I’m concerned. I’ve read somethings…”

  Brother Sanz lifted a hand. “Say no more. We are well aware of how we have been depicted, how evil and frightening we’re supposed to be. Two of our members were self-confessed murderers who committed heinous crimes ten years ago. Since then we’ve tried very hard to prove the truth, that those men were working entirely on their own. We have never spoken against others, never wanted to harm anyone. We feel only pity for those who put money a
nd worldly goods above friendship and love.”

  “But those men who were found dead in the Everglades—they were members of the church, right?” Luke said.

  “We bar no man from seeking to find God here. I can only tell you—and the police know this as well, because they tore our church apart after the murders—that we cannot understand the insanity of the men who carried out such horror. Brother Michael was here at the time—he will tell you the same thing, too,” Brother Sanz said, pointing down the aisle.

  A second man had come into the church from a side door. He looked close to sixty, but had all his hair. It was long and white. He wore a brown cotton robe, but it looked more like a bedouin’s dress than a monk’s.

  “Brother Michael, this is Mr. Smith. He is hoping to join us, but he is concerned about the church’s past history.”

  “Ah,” Brother Michael said, taking Luke’s hand. “There is real tragedy in how the world sees us, for we barely knew those men. No one regrets more than we do that they used us to justify their own delusions. Can I give you a brochure? It’s about our work in the community, and the tenets of our church.”

  “I’d be delighted,” Luke said. “I understand what you’re saying—an entire group can’t be held responsible for the actions of a few. You must have lost a lot of members because of it, though.”

  “Some come into the church to stay, while others do not. This is a free country, and we are not God. We don’t see ourselves as his chosen, merely as his students. When we do not provide what our members need, they must move on. I do hope you’ll come to our supper Thursday night.”

  “I’ll certainly try,” Luke said as he accepted the pamphlet Brother Michael handed him from a stack on the front pew.

  He started away down the aisle, and then turned back. “Excuse me, I’m sorry, but one more quick question. Where does the church stand on relationships? You know, like marriage and homosexuality?”

  “We obey the laws of the country and state,” Brother Michael said. “We don’t encourage divorce, but we don’t condemn it. We do believe that God created man for his role in life and women for their roles, as well. But we’re not a backward society here—we believe in education, and in a woman seeking achievement.”