City of Saviors, page 14
Afterward, as she wiped her fingers on a wet nap, she said, “I didn’t kill Gene, so you don’t need to go there about my shop.”
“Oh, but I must. It’s my job to go there.” I flipped back to my notes regarding Bernice’s finances. “Yes, so . . . two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to LaQuisha Follett— you’d left the perm in too long. Another two hundred and fifty thousand to Amber Treviste—another burned and bald client. Failing to pay taxes last year, and . . .” I looked up from my notes. “Shall I continue?”
Her eyes blazed. “You. Ain’t. Got. To go there. I pay my bills.”
“But you need a little help, right?” Colin asked. “And you asked Eugene and he told you no, even though we now know that he could afford it.”
Tears filled Bernice’s hot eyes. “He was gonna help but—”
“No, he wasn’t, Bernice,” I said, shaking my head. “He knew about you and Joe, and he had a meeting scheduled today to take you out of his will.”
A lie, sure. Why not?
Her lips trembled. “I ain’t heard no such thing.”
“Yes, you have,” I said, “and you couldn’t have that, right? So you made him a cobbler and you soaked it in poison, killing him before he could make that change to his will. A change that would’ve left you broke.”
“Nuh uh,” she said. “No, no, no.”
“You didn’t care about him,” I said. “You didn’t even know he was allergic—”
“To coconut,” she said, and snapped her fingers. “That’s what he can’t have. You asked me the other day, and I couldn’t remember. My mind was all messed up cuz of all that was going on, but I remember now. And he wore the medical bracelet that tells doctors that he got an allergy. And he used to keep one of them pens you stick yourself with just in case you eat something.”
Bernice nodded so hard, her head was moments away from snapping off. “He kept a pen on his TV tray, next to the remote control. Always.”
“Did you ever touch that pen?” I asked.
“Never. I ain’t never-ever-ever touched that pen. One time, it rolled off the tray and I went to go pick it up and Gene nearly bit my head off. He didn’t want me messin’ with his pen.”
“Cuz I have that pen,” I lied. “And we’re running the fingerprints on it through our system.”
Colin pointed to the door. “And we have Joe Rice in the other room right now, telling us everything.”
Her wild eyes darted to me, to the door, then back to me again. She took shallow breaths, then held her breath before shouting, “I didn’t kill Gene. I may not have been . . . right with him all the time but . . .” She shook her head. “You got one of them lie detector tests laying around?”
“We do,” I said, “and he just happens to be here today.”
Officer Ruben Lipsky was not here—he was wrapping up tests at Seventy-seventh Division, but he promised to be here by ten. As he drove, I told him about the case and about Bernice Parrish. Then, I e-mailed him questions my number 1 suspect needed to answer.
After getting her a can of Sprite, I led Bernice to the polygraph exam room and introduced her to Officer Lipsky. A moment later, I joined Colin in the AV room and plopped into the empty chair.
“Sorry about mentioning the gun,” he said, flushed.
“Heat of the battle,” I said. “No worries.”
Lipsky was now strapping Bernice’s right arm onto the padded armrest of the chair. Officer Elaina Sills joined them and helped apply monitoring equipment around Bernice’s chest and stomach. Then, Lipsky shared with Bernice questions he’d be asking and gave her the chance to bring up any concerns she had about the polygraph exam.
Bernice Parrish smiled at him and shook her head. “No questions—I seen this on TV. I’m ready.”
He started with control questions—name, date of birth, residence, today’s date—to help him and the machine gauge truth from deception. Then: “Have you ever prepared food for Eugene Washington?”
“Yes, several times,” Bernice said. “He always liked—”
“Please keep your answers to yes and no,” Lipsky requested. “Have you ever prepared food for Eugene Washington?”
Bernice said, “Yes.”
“Did you prepare peach cobbler for Eugene Washington in the last week?”
“No.”
In August, July, June?
No.
In the last year?
Yes.
“Did you put coconut into the cobbler you baked?” Lipsky asked.
Bernice shook her head. “No.”
“Did you put coconut into other foods you prepared for Eugene Washington?”
“No.”
“Did you handle Eugene Washington’s EpiPen?”
“No.”
Luke knocked on the door to the AV room. “Hey. They just ran Bernice’s prints against the prints we took in the house, including the set found on that cobbler dish.”
My pulse jumped, and I sat up in my chair. “Please tell me it hit.” With that good news, a monthlong vacation wouldn’t be so bad.
“She’s touched every damned thing in that house.” Luke shook his head. “Except for the cobbler dish. Sorry, Lou.”
“Damn it.” I slumped in the chair.
Colin pat my arm. “Doesn’t mean she didn’t do it. Just means she didn’t leave the print. Somebody else could’ve carried it for her.”
I thought about that and an ounce of hope surged through my veins. “True. You’re good for something, Taggert.”
“Well, that girl I—”
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
He winked at me. “That’s what she said.”
Thirty minutes later, Lipsky, unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, found Colin and me in the AV room. “She’s crazy as hell and the Joe Rice question about him sprinkling the cobbler with coconut made the machine wiggle a little. She claimed she needed to pee, which, you know, anxiety and whatnot.”
“Ultimately?” I said.
“She passed.”
I groaned and rubbed my face. No hit on the print. No lies on the polygraph. Bernice Parrish didn’t kill Eugene Washington.
But Joe Rice was still in play.
“Let’s hook him up now,” I said.
“Sure,” Lipsky said. “Oh—one more thing. Miss Parrish wants her soup pennies or she’s gonna sue.”
20
JOE RICE, A MAN AS SLICK AS SPIT AND SEAWEED, PASSED THE POLYGRAPH EXAM. He was a great deceiver in his professional life but anything related to poisoning Eugene Washington? Just call him Booker Effin’ T. Washington.
“You need a new suspect,” Colin said as we entered the parking garage.
“I know. Where do you think we’re going?” I spotted the Crown Vic in its space—sparkling chrome, shiny blue paint and wheels. “You washed the car.” He had even cleaned the car’s interior—the scent of pine almost masked the pervasive stink of mildew and pickles.
“Don’t ever say that I don’t do nice things for you,” he said, turning the key in the ignition.
At a little past noon, the sun had shot us with the worst it had for the day. Angelenos continued to sweat, yes, but they walked a little quicker and swung their hips with more zest and ease. The heroes in the San Gabriel Mountains were successfully containing the fires, and now the sky was almost light beige again.
And despite Bernice Parrish and Joseph Rice washing out as suspects, despite being forced to take a thirty-day vacation starting Sunday, the day did not hurt as much as I’d expected.
Colin hummed a Maroon 5 song as he navigated through midday traffic.
In the passenger seat, I reread a text message Sam had just sent. Sometimes it snows in April. Code for “I miss you and it makes me so sad being away from you.” The Crase case had kept us apart when I needed him most—but we’d both rather wait so that a murderer remained in jail forever.
Blessed Mission Ministry’s digital billboard had changed since yesterday. DO YOU NEED SPECIAL PRAYER?
Yes, I do. I closed my eyes. No more snow. No more separation. Let me win. Amen.
Colin didn’t notice my praying. He kept looking in the rearview mirror to check his teeth, to check his hair, and to pry grit from the corners of his eyes. He fished a roll of Pep O Mint Life Savers from his jacket pocket, then popped a lozenge.
“You’re so breaking the tenth commandment,” I said.
He offered me the roll. “Which commandment is that?”
“The adultery one.” I slid a mint beneath my tongue.
He smirked, then tossed one last look into the rearview mirror. “I ain’t broke nothing . . . yet.”
The houses surrounding Blessed Mission were mostly remodels or all-new construction, with a McMansion shoved between dilapidated bungalows and weathered ranches. The Googlers, Twitterers, and NFL were coming to the hood and brought with them higher rents and property taxes. Colored folks had a little money to get that new roof, and white folks had discovered cheap land.
“Old house, new house, new house, old house,” Colin said. “What a strange little neighborhood.”
“Ah,” I said. “Noticing something other than your teeth?”
The Craftsman next door to Blessed Mission was a little rundown but still boasted great bones. A sweaty construction worker gleefully shoved a Bobcat into its living room. Metal and wood crunched and groaned.
I winced and tightened just hearing those sounds again, and from smelling gunpowder and talcum powder—the few memories I had from the car accident in Bonner Park were of gunpowder from Zach Fletcher’s gun and the talcum powder from the airbag that had exploded in my face.
Colin didn’t see me go rigid—his attention had returned to his teeth and hair. All this grooming for Mrs. Solomon Tate.
And as we sat with her in Bishop Tate’s office, I had to admit . . .
That lopsided smile. Those Sophia Loren eyes. She was one of God’s showroom pieces, His “look what I can do” haute couture. A face pretty enough to trick Eugene Washington into eating killer cobbler so that she could put in a sauna behind the baptismal pool.
Charity smiled as she handed Colin a glass of sweet tea. “Sol flew to Arizona last night for meetings, but you can call him at his room at the Hilton in about an hour.” She pushed up the sleeves of her salmon-colored sweater.
“When’s he coming back?” Colin asked.
I cocked an eyebrow at my partner. For his sake or yours?
She smiled at him. “Tomorrow night. Late tomorrow night.” She sat the pitcher on the coffee table, then swiped her hands on her salmon slacks.
The room smelled sweet and smoky, like vanilla candles that had been snuffed out. With Charity looking at Colin like that, with Colin looking at her like that, and with the room smelling like the honeymoon suite at the Bellagio, it was obvious: I was the third wheel.
“Why do you have an ATM down in the lobby?” I asked.
Charity tore her eyes away from Colin’s. “You know this area—it’s not the safest. The members, especially our seniors, can get money out without the fear of being robbed or harassed.”
Colin sipped his tea, then said, “We have an ATM in our station lobby for the same reason. Safer place to get money. Makes sense.” He nodded at me. Right?
I rolled my eyes. “Guess it also helps with the offering plate.”
Charity chuckled. “It does. We need our members to give. Nothing’s free—our Homeless Ministry especially ain’t free. There are more than twenty-five thousand homeless people in this city.” She paused, then added, “Even Jesus had a group of women supporting him.”
“That article you’re quoting about the homeless,” I said. “The reporter also mentioned high rent and gentrification as causes.”
Charity nodded, then made a sad face. “People can’t even afford the ‘poor’ nowadays.”
The sound of clicking shoes against the tiled floor outside the office grew close, then stopped—someone was listening. After a moment, the clicking started again, this time, moving away from the pastor’s office.
“Back when I was a kid,” I said, “Blessed Mission had a small lot. No fountains or porte cocheres. No massive parking lots.”
“I remember those days, too. Back then, folks were giving me the side eye because I was thirty years younger than Sol when we got married. But I proved them all wrong. This little ghetto butterfly got them all of this.” Charity held out her arms and a smile crept across her face. “We did purchase surrounding property, Sergeant Norton, but we paid the owners a fair price. No one went homeless because of Blessed Mission.”
“So what’s the building fund for?” Colin asked, a cop again. “One million dollars, right?”
She fluffed out her twists, then said, “Yep. We need to retire some debt. Do a few renovations here and there. And we’re building a senior residential facility next door.”
“The craftsman coming down as we speak?” I asked.
Charity nodded. “We purchased that lot and two more. And the building fund is long-term so that members won’t have to come up with a lot of money at one time if something around here breaks.” She held up both of her hands and that planet on her ring finger threw prisms against the walls. “Again, none of what we do here is free. The literacy program, the substance abuse program, Spanish ministries . . . We feed and clothe thousands of people a year. We give back, and then some. Not to brag, but I’m not like some other first ladies around the country.” She smirked. “I drive a Honda, and my husband drives a Toyota with cloth seats.”
“Well, that counts for something,” I said. “I listened to one of the services posted on your Web site. During offering, your husband said something like, ‘If you give, God will rain down upon you health and wealth.’ ”
“That promise is biblical,” Charity pointed out. “Psalms, Jeremiah, Proverbs . . . You can find it in each of those books. Exodus 23:25 says, ‘Worship the Lord your God and His blessing will be on your food and water. I will take away sickness from among you.’ ”
Beads of condensation trickled down the sides of the iced tea pitcher, and a wet ring was now forming on the coffee table.
Charity moved the issue of Black Enterprise and a framed family portrait away from the puddle, dabbing it with a napkin. “We don’t hold a gun to people’s heads, Sergeant Norton. This ain’t a stickup.”
“No,” I said, “but if they don’t donate, then they won’t get on that giving tree.”
“That’s because you have to give to get on the giving tree,” she said.
“I’ll be honest, Mrs. Tate. I loathe that tree. Sure: I only went to church six times in my life, but I do remember hearing that Jesus said to give in secret.”
She nodded. “To not perform your acts of righteousness before men. But that was then. A long time ago.”
I blinked at her as blood filled my ears. That was her answer?
Love your neighbor. Oh, that was then, a long time ago. Thou shalt not kill. Oh, that was then, a long time ago.
Charity folded her arms and tilted her head. “Why do you think we’re crooks? Is it because you did some digging and found out how many bedrooms I have?”
“I’m charged with finding out who killed Eugene Washington,” I said, “and now that we’ve discovered that he was a very wealthy man—”
“You think we had something to do with it?” She gaped at Colin. “Seriously?”
“When we first asked about him yesterday,” I said, “you didn’t seem to know who I was talking about.”
She shrugged. “Right. So?”
“But we saw video of you and him together at the church picnic. You actually kissed the top of his head.”
“We have a lot of people here,” she said. “I kiss a lot of heads. My job as first lady is to make every member feel like family.”
“Over at Washington’s house,” I said, “we’ve met some very interesting people who are members of your church. There were three women—”
“The soothsayers?” She laughed, then shook her head.
“You kicked them out,” I said.
“They were being disruptive.”
“How?”
“Trying to take over services. Interrupting Sol as he spoke. They’d stand over people and start praying, waving that hankie, banging that tambourine, finishing each other’s sentences.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “Honestly? They were freaking people out. They were freaking me out. So we asked them to stop. They refused, and so Solomon had to ask them to leave. He was very nice and extremely patient. Because, you know, they all have history. And then they tried to take people with them to start another congregation, which was just ridiculous. Anyway, ignore them—they bring nothing but conflict and chaos to anything they touch.”
“Neighbors say that they saw a van from this church at Mr. Washington’s,” Colin said. “They said a man and woman visited him back on Monday night. Were you with the van recently?”
Charity closed her eyes, thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, that wasn’t me.”
“Where were you?” I asked.
“On Monday night? Football practice with Brandon, my twelve-year-old. And Solomon was in Pasadena, at All Saints Episcopal for a meeting.”
“Did you make a special dessert for Mr. Washington on the day of the picnic?” I asked.
“Me?” she asked, pointing at herself. “I don’t cook nor do I bake, to my husband’s chagrin.”
“Your fingerprints, then, wouldn’t be on a casserole dish we found near Mr. Washington on Tuesday morning?”
She squinted at me. “Why would it be?”
“Stranger things have happened,” I said. “Could you come down later to leave us your prints? And when Bishop Tate returns, we’ll ask the same of him.”
Eyebrows crumpled, she regarded Colin, then me. “Sure, but I don’t see why you need my fingerprints.”
“No one’s exempt in a homicide case,” I said.
“But . . .” She tried to smile. “We’re innocent.”
I shrugged. “Says everyone I’ve ever questioned in my hundreds of years as a police officer.”
