by J. D. Robb
“I think they killed him. I think he got caught trying to get to whatever turned him around. And I think they killed him. He had issues, okay, he had some serious issues, but he wouldn’t just take off like this.”
She shook her head fiercely, but her voice wobbled. “He just wouldn’t. Even when things were at their worst, he’d tag me on my birthday, on Christmas.”
“Has anyone from the order contacted you?”
“He had me listed as his next of kin. They sent me his final paycheck. Fuckers. I went out there once—to where he worked in Connecticut. They wouldn’t let me in. I wanted to see where he worked, to talk to somebody, but I couldn’t get past the gates. The place is a frigging fortress. They don’t want you in, you don’t get in.”
“Tell us about your relationship with Gwendolyn Huffman.”
“Gwen?” Savannah’s eyebrows winged up. “We hung out for a while. What’s she got to do with it?”
“Are you aware she’s a member of Natural Order?”
“Well, that’s bullshit. She’s gay. You can’t be a member when you’re gay. We hung out—intimately—for a couple months. Then I introduced her to Ariel, and that was that. If you want to talk about Gwen, talk to Ariel—Ariel Byrd. I think they’re still a thing. But Gwen didn’t know Keene. I never talked to her about Keene. We had sex, but we weren’t serious about it.”
“You and Ariel Byrd were friends?”
“Yeah, sure.” Savannah shrugged. “I mean, we’re not tight or anything. We’re both artists, and show our stuff at the same gallery. We hung out a few times—not intimately. Gwen went to an art show with me, and I intro’d them. I could see right off that was that. No big deal.”
“I’m sorry to inform you Ariel Byrd was murdered the night before last.”
“What?” Savannah lurched up from her slouch. “Come on!”
“You run in the same circles, as you said, but you hadn’t heard?”
“I … These are my two days off, my work-around-the-clock days. I haven’t left the apartment. I turn off my ’link. My roommate’s in Ohio for a few days for his great-granny’s hundredth birthday deal. She was murdered? Are you saying Gwen killed her?”
“No.”
“But she’s with the order? I never saw it, never … We didn’t talk a lot. I knew she was slumming—rich uptown girl having a fling with a SoHo artist. No problem. But I see, if that’s the way of it, why the sex had to be so secret. I just figured she hadn’t come out yet.”
Everything about her went hot and tight. “You think she had something to do with Keene?”
“No.” Peabody walked over, sat beside her. “But we’re investigating Ariel’s murder, and we’ll do everything we can to find out about your brother.”
“It’s those fuckers. Somehow, with both of them, it’s those fuckers.”
You’re not wrong, Eve thought.
They walked down, out onto the sidewalk, and stood a moment in a world simply teeming with life.
“A missing brother—and we may never find his body—a missing FBI agent—and same goes. And a dead woman. Common link. Natural Order.”
Peabody remained silent while they walked to the car, while Eve plugged in the route for Wilkey’s HQ.
“I’m going to ask McNab if he can run a search on missing persons, accidental deaths, homicides of members. Say, for two years. And keeping it to New York, New Jersey, and the area of Connecticut where we’re going now.”
“That’s a good thought, Peabody.”
“You had it yourself.”
“I did, which is why I’m saying it’s a good thought. Tag him now, see if he can start it. We’ll correlate it with whatever data we get from the feds.”
“I know she said she thinks they killed him, but part of her—most of her—still hopes to find him.”
“Yeah, I know. We’ll get her some answers. That’s all we can do.”
Stanton Wilkey came to prominence shortly after the end of the Urban Wars while people, still reeling from them, worked to rebuild. While those bitter from them stewed in anger.
He spread his word primarily on college campuses, where young, questing minds sought answers, solutions, and an order many had seen ripped to pieces.
Most who listened disregarded him as a bigoted lunatic, or a joke. But there were always a few, and a few could become many.
He promised a utopia, where there would be no wars, no strife, no struggle. Where each, cleaving to their own kind, would prosper. His fundamentalist and extreme religious views turned many away.
But there were always a few.
It was, he claimed, the mixing of races, diluting their purity, their culture, and the toxic freedom of unbound sexuality, the stain of homosexuality and prostitution, the ambition of women emasculating generations of men that led to war, to strife, to struggle.
He spoke of children, so innocent, so helpless, so neglected by mothers who failed to nurture in their quest for money and power.
As the few became many, he built his order. A small, rented building in the city, a quiet home in the suburbs.
On-screen appearances that led to crowded auditoriums. Seminars that led to retreats. All for a price.
He built his order, and his wealth, step by step.
Eve knew all this when she drove up to the gates of his Connecticut compound.
The walls, a good ten feet of natural stone, stretched a couple of city blocks on either side of the entrance with the wide iron gate flanked by sturdy pillars.
She’d noted the security cams at various points, and imagined the reinforcements included motion detectors, shockers, and infrared.
Beyond the gate, the road split in three directions: straight, right, and left. Trees, flowering shrubs, perfectly landscaped gardens broke up the expanse of green lawns. She spotted buildings of rosy brick or creamy white, all fronted by more trees and flowers.
Just inside the gate sat an actual gatehouse, white like the walls, with a peaked roof and one-way glass windows.
A human voice spoke through the speaker embedded in the pillar.
“Natural Order is closed to visitors. If you wish information on Natural Order, please visit one of our outreach posts. Have a peaceful and fulfilling day.”
Eve held up her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas, Officer Peabody, NYPSD. We’re here on police business.”
A man stepped out of the gatehouse. Tall and burly in a dark suit, he walked to the gate, waited.
“Okay. Sit tight, Peabody.” Eve got out of the car, walked to the gate on her side.
Ex-military, she thought. Not just the high-and-tight brown hair, but his bearing, his dead-eyed stare.
“This is Connecticut.”
“We’re aware. I believe Mr. Wilkey would like to be informed of an active investigation involving one or more of his members, and would cooperate with the authorities before too many details of that investigation and the connection to Natural Order become public.”
“You expect to show up here without going through channels and speak to Reverend Wilkey?”
Eve gave it a beat. “Yeah. Maybe you could ask him if he’d rather we go through channels, get a warrant, bring him into Central in New York for interview rather than do this here and now. Discreetly.”
“Reverend Wilkey is in afternoon meditation.”
“Great. Well, when he gets out, be sure to tell him NYPSD attempted to speak to him here, get his cooperation on record before this all blows up in the media. You have one of those whatever days yourself.”
She turned, took two steps back to her car.
“You can wait in your vehicle while we check to see if Reverend Wilkey is available.”
She just nodded, and to be pissy, leaned against her car instead of getting back in.
She watched two people walking on what she assumed were paths between buildings.
A woman came out of one building followed by about a dozen kids in knee-length navy shorts and white shirts. She, in her navy skirt, white
shirt, navy blazer, crossed to a bench under one of the trees.
The kids—all white, she noted—sat, neatly in two rows, on the grass facing her.
The gatekeeper came back out.
“Pull inside the gate and then over to park.”
The gate opened, a slow, silent sweep.
“This place already gives me the creeps,” Peabody muttered.
“I think it can get a lot creepier.”
She parked as instructed.
“Please place your weapons inside your vehicle, then secure your vehicle. A cart will transport you to Reverend Wilkey’s residence.”
“My vehicle is secured, and our weapons stay with us.”
He smirked at her. “Weapons are not permitted in the compound.”
“Do those include the one on your left hip, the second on your right ankle?”
He stiffened. “I’m security.”
“Hey, so are we. Our weapons stay with us.”
She had a dead-eyed stare of her own. With it she saw temper burn across his face.
As an electric cart hummed toward them, he turned on his heel and marched to it. It stopped just far away enough Eve couldn’t clearly hear the conversation—though she did catch the gatekeeper’s bitches before the driver—Hispanic, early forties, light brown uniform—waved the air in a chill-it-down gesture and drove the rest of the way.
“Lieutenant, Detective, welcome. I’m Cisco. Why don’t you take a seat in the back? I’ll take you to Wilkey House.”
They got in, and the cart took the road to the left. Eve glanced back to see a second man come out of the gatehouse and join the first in studying her car.
She figured they planned to bypass the security, do a search, try to access data from her nav system, her comm.
Smiling to herself, she settled in. They were in for an unpleasant surprise.
She saw more buildings now, and a half court behind one of them where a group of boys—all black—played some round ball. Red shorts, white tees.
Beyond stood a small chapel-like building with stained-glass windows and a little fountain burbling out front. A statue of Wilkey stood over the water, arms spread in benediction.
Yes, creepy.
More buildings, then a screening of trees before another wall, another gate.
A compound within a compound, she thought as the gates slid open.
The house, bride white, the carved white pillars rising across its expansive covered front porch, reminded her of pictures of plantations in the old South. Trees spread shade on the manicured lawns. Gardens flourished in a kind of regimented march of color.
A woman in a flowy floral dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat busied herself weeding it along with the two young girls flanking her.
None of them looked over as the cart rolled by.
Three stories, and Eve decided she’d term it palatial. Another porch spanned the second floor, and both porches had deeply cushioned chairs, iron tables, urns of flowers.
By the way the sun reflected on the windows and glass doors, she recognized one-way glass.
Eve and Peabody got out opposite sides when the cart stopped.
“Someone will escort you inside. I’ll be available to transport you back to the gate when you’re ready. Enjoy your visit to Wilkey House.”
Even as the cart rolled away, the right side of the double white doors opened. A woman stepped out.
She wore a light blue suit, quietly and conservatively cut, with low-heeled shoes. Though she looked older, Eve knew Wilkey’s daughter, Mirium, was twenty-four.
The older came from the cut of the suit, the dull brown hair worn in a thick roll at her nape—and the look of profound annoyance.
She tried to mask the last as Eve and Peabody started up the spotless white stairs to the porch.
Her welcoming smile didn’t hit sincere.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. I’m Mirium Wilkey. On behalf of my father, welcome to our home. My father will join us as soon as possible. Since it’s such a lovely day, we’ll sit on the veranda.”
Without waiting for an assent, she led the way to the cushy chairs around a round table.
“I serve as my father’s personal assistant and domestic staff manager. Is there any way I can help you today?”
“Have you been in New York recently?” Eve asked. “Say, Monday night?”
“Monday?” Blue eyes, as quiet as her suit, turned contemplative. She reached up absently to toy with the little pearl stud in her ear. “I was on campus—as we say—Monday, as I have been all week. We’re holding a retreat. I do have a pied-à-terre in the city, as we often have business in New York.”
Two women came out onto the porch—one in her late teens or early twenties, the other nearer sixty. Both wore navy skirts, white shirts buttoned to the neck, with small navy bows at the collars.
The younger set out glasses filled with ice while the other poured a golden brown liquid into them from a pitcher.
Neither spoke, smiled, or lifted their eyes.
As the younger set down Eve’s glass, she dropped a grimy little twist of paper in Eve’s lap.
Eve moved her hand over it as the older poured the liquid.
“Herbal sun tea,” Mirium said. “We grow our own herbs, and of course, abstain from caffeine. You’ll find this quite refreshing.”
She neither spoke to nor acknowledged the other women. They slipped back into the house like ghosts.
Eve slid the twist of paper into her pocket.
“And your father? Was he on campus Monday night?”
“Of course. He’s in retreat. Perhaps if you tell me what brings you to us, I could help.”
“A woman was murdered Monday night.”
Mirium lowered her head, shook it. “The taking of a human life. Is there any stain darker on the human heart and mind? But I don’t know how that brings you to us.”
“Did you know Ariel Byrd?”
“I don’t recognize the name.” Mirium lifted a hand, this time to the single strand of pearls at her neck. “Was she a member? I can look at our files to check that if you need—”
“She wasn’t a member. The woman who found her body and reported it is. Gwendolyn Huffman.”
“Gwen?” She actually clutched the pearls now. “Oh, how terrible for her!”
“You know Ms. Huffman.”
“Yes. Since we were children. My father and her parents have been friends for years. I need to contact her, offer my support. We limit outside contact during retreat, including any electronics, but I can request a dispensation for this. Poor Gwen.”
“Yeah, poor Gwen.” Eve glanced around. “Obviously she didn’t participate in this retreat.”
“No. She’s to be married very soon, and is very tied up in the plans. Hopefully, Gwen and her husband will join us for our retreat in the fall.”
“You know her fiancé?”
“Merit? Yes. Not very well, but the order is very involved with charitable organizations, as are the Caines and, of course, the Huff-mans.”
Mirium produced a tight little smile. “I’m afraid there’s little I can tell you that you’d find helpful. The Huffmans are, I’m sure you know, exemplary people. We value them. I’m very sorry Gwen had this dreadful experience, but this is the sort of secular business we shut out during our retreats.”
“Your father may be more helpful.”
“I don’t see how, as he’s been in retreat for several days. I don’t want to waste any more of your time, so …”
As Mirium trailed off, Eve watched Wilkey walk out of the trees. He glided—he was good at it—to the woman and the two young girls weeding.
He paused to speak to them. Both young girls smiled up at him, but Eve noted the woman kept her head down, and clutched their hands even after Wilkey continued on.
Mirium got to her feet as Wilkey started up those grand white steps.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, Reverend Stanton Wilkey.”
She said it in a way, as he stood basking in the light at the edge of the porch, that made Eve wonder if they were expected to rise and take a knee.
Not going to happen.
14
He made an impression, Eve supposed. Tall, lanky on the edge of thin, with his lion’s mane of white hair waving to his shoulders. His eyes of clear and crystal blue beamed what she supposed others saw as benevolence.
He had a thin, scholarly face. As the house had made her think of a plantation, his face made her think of paintings of ancient saints and martyrs.
She considered that very deliberate.
He wore white—cotton pants, a long white shirt, and white loafers. He had long, slender feet, long, slender hands.
When he spoke, his voice came deep and soft, like a velvet cushion.
“Welcome to my home. Forgive me for keeping you waiting.”
He didn’t offer his hand to shake as he approached the table, but set one on his daughter’s shoulder.
“I trust Mirium has made you welcome until I could accommodate your unexpected arrival. Thank you, Mirium.”
Softly delivered or not, the words rang with dismissal.
Mirium’s lips twitched tight before she smiled.
She started to step back.
“It would be helpful and save time if Ms. Wilkey stays now.” Eve looked directly into those crystal-blue eyes. “We don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary.”
“How kind of you. Please sit, Mirium.”
He’d barely taken a seat himself when the two women were back. The glass, the ice, the pitcher, the pouring. The younger risked the briefest flick of a glance at Eve.
“Since communications are forbidden”—Eve let that hang an instant longer than necessary—“it would be difficult for word to get out of the compound or in. We’re here to do both.”
“I assume this is of great import.”
“Anyone needing help from the police I consider of great import.”
She assumed—hoped—her message was received as the two women returned to the house.
“Ariel Byrd requires that help now.”
“You said she—” Mirium caught herself. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but you said she’d been killed.”