City of Saviors, page 23
“I think so,” I said with a grin. “And don’t worry. I’m not taking programs. Just reading.” That niggling, like tingling and spiraling combined, poked from my gut again. I’m sure I had found everything I needed—I just needed to put it all together.
37
I HANDED BISHOP TATE A WET WIPE TO CLEAN HIS HANDS OF THE FINGERPRINTING ink, then said, “Oswald Little is a cherubim.”
“A what?” The minister wore pressed chinos and, despite the heat, a sweater of many patterns. A simple gold wedding band and a Timex with a worn leather band were his only adornments. A purple-and-white robe with velvet cuffs hung on a coat rack near his desk. Probably cost him a fine nickel, that robe, but the man seated in the armchair across from us, in that Cliff Huxtable sweater, did not present as a Lear-jet-flying, Armani-suit-wearing, Bentley-driving man of God.
“Mr. Little is a cherubim,” I repeated. “A donor level on your giving tree. That’s several thousand dollars a year, right?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “No idea. That’s Charity’s thing. I’m not much of a fund-raiser.” He tossed the soiled wipe on the table, then regarded Colin and me as though we were dusty ficuses in the corner of his office. “You’re not much of a churchgoer, are you, Sergeant? I can tell—you seem to have no idea why we need money.” He chuckled. “To be honest, someone could be just as suspicious of you.”
Sonia Elliott and her tray of lemonade entered the office. She moved differently now—more hips swaying than before. Glossier lips, too. She sat the tray on the coffee table in front of the minister and poured lemonade into each glass, then handed them out.
Bishop Tate, a smart man, knew to keep his eyes off of the secretary’s ass, and instead he watched me, or he watched Colin, or he stared at the sleeve of his busy sweater.
“Anything else?” Sonia Elliott asked with a smile. “I made some of my famous coffee cake this morning.”
“Sister Elliott’s one of our best cooks,” the minister told Colin and me.
“One of the best?” she asked, hands on her hips.
Bishop Tate smiled. “The best.”
“That’s right,” the woman said with a triumphant smile. “Would you like some?”
Bishop Tate shook his head. “We’re fine. Thank you, Sonia.”
After she slinked out of the room, I said, “You were saying someone could be suspicious of me?”
“I’m a taxpayer.” He pointed to me. “I pay your salary. Not just yours, of course. All of LAPD’s. I could ask, ‘Well, why do the cops need all those fancy Mustang patrol cars and body armor and all that?’ Back in the day, police only needed batons, a service revolver, and a good pair of shoes. Crime rates were much lower back then than they are today—so what good is the slick car and the high-powered rifles?”
“Well, back then,” I said, “in those good old days, there was no drug war, nor was there a proliferation of assault and automatic weapons in the hands of ordinary citizens. Back then, in those good ol’ days of William Parker, our first police chief, Negroes couldn’t vote or enjoy a grilled cheese and Coke at Woolworth. Man, those were the good ol’ days, weren’t they?”
Bishop Tate’s eyebrows rose and a small smile played on his lips. “Anyway. I mean no harm or disrespect. And if you ever need someone to talk about what’s going on with you personally, Sergeant Norton, I’m here. And I’m not talking about Eugene Washington or Oswald Little. I’m referring to your pain. The Spirit has whispered in my ear about you, and this may not make sense or it may sound weird but . . .” He squinted at me, then pointed to my left and right shoulders. “At this very moment, demons are camped all about you.”
“Not sure how to respond to that,” I said.
The minister grinned and pointed at Colin. “You’re saved. I see it in the set of your jaw, and in the way you glow.”
I rolled my eyes—guess the spirit didn’t tell him that Colin had a thing for his wife.
“Thank you, sir,” Colin said, “but we’re here to investigate a murder and a missing congregant who has lost possession of his hands.”
“And demons are usually present around those who do our type of work,” I added. “And I’m not referring to the supernatural kind. To be honest, the supernatural kind can take a number and wait in line.” My words came out dangerously slow as lava.
Bishop Tate cocked an eyebrow. “Them’s some bold words.”
“God’s on my side,” I said. “Whom shall I fear?”
He winked at Colin. “Keep praying for her.”
“Like you prayed for Mr. Washington?” I asked.
His smile dimmed some, and he grew so rigid that he vibrated from the strain. “I can’t help those who don’t want to be helped. You see, while I may provide this congregation with the Word, members must also take an active role in their daily living, in their own salvation. Jesus said, ‘Open the door.’ That means verb-ing. That means action. He cannot open the door for you. Nor can He clean your house.”
I nodded, then said, “Idell Messere, Dorothea Tennyson—”
“The so-called prophetesses,” he said with a wry grin. “More like witches. Predicting the future is not the same as hearing and sharing the word of the Lord.”
I shrugged. “Predicting? In my few conversations with them, no one has told me what I’d find, where I’d find it, whodunit. A few gospel songs and a lot of daily praying—that’s all I’ve gotten from them.”
“Why do you think they’re coming to Washington’s house every day?” Colin asked.
He sighed, shrugged, rolled his eyes. “No idea, Detective Taggert. I just couldn’t allow them to remain members of this congregation. Any other questions?”
“On the first day,” I said, “they mentioned Mr. Washington trusting when he shouldn’t have. And that others trusted him when they shouldn’t have. Do you know what they—?”
“I don’t fill my mind with their sorcery,” Bishop Tate said with a wave of his hand. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” I said. “Oswald Little.”
“Oz was a member of Blessed Mission. A church deacon. Helped us win several development loans. Great guy.”
“Was a member of Blessed Mission?” Colin asked. “So he is dead?”
Bishop Tate froze, then blinked at us. “As far as I know, he’s alive. Unless you’ve heard something?”
“We’re told he’s alive,” I said. “He’s also your brother, correct? Masonic brother, to be specific.”
The minister leaned back in his armchair. “Yes. Oz and I attend meetings at Prince Hall.”
“The grand secretary,” I said, “says Mr. Little stopped coming to meetings in October 2010. Why is that? Why did he stop being active?”
The minister shrugged. “After his accident—”
“Which accident?” I asked.
Bishop Tate pointed to his head. “Oz changed after that. He’s a banker, so he was very methodical. After his head injury . . .” Tate whistled. “No one knew what he’d do from one moment to the next. He didn’t know sometimes.”
“Any other injuries?” I asked.
The minister squinted as he thought. “Can’t think of anything else.”
“And he’s still a donor to the church, correct? Despite that head injury?”
Bishop Tate nodded. “Good habits never die.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Little?” Colin asked.
Bishop Tate crossed his legs, then rubbed his chin. “Let’s see . . .” He stared at the ceiling as though the correct answer had been scribbled there.
“Blessed Mission has, what?” Colin asked. “About four thousand members?”
“Six thousand.”
“That’s a lot of people,” I said. “You can’t personally keep track of everyone.”
His eyes bit into me. “I do my best, Sergeant Norton.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry—I interrupted. You were figuring out the last time you saw Oswald Little.”
A bead of sweat slipped down the bishop’s forehead and soaked into his right eyebrow. As though it was connected to his biorhythms, the air conditioner clicked on. “Do you mean at Sunday service?” he asked.
“On Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday, picnics, weddings, Christmas, Easter, whenever.”
He shrugged, and his face relaxed. “I’m embarrassed to say that I can’t recall. Despite our political power and community influence, not knowing everyone and where they are at any given month is a problem with a church this size. I must do better. I will do better. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Like I always say: you only improve by recognizing your problems. Anything else?”
“Yes, sir,” Colin said. “Where were you on this past Monday?”
He patted his stomach, then pointed to the empty space on the couch. “Asleep right over there, recovering from Sister Raymond’s potato salad she made for the picnic.”
“Was anyone here with you?” Colin asked.
He nodded. “My staff, including Sister Elliott, the head deacon, several elders—they were also with me that night at the board meeting in Pasadena, at All Saints.”
“And then later this week,” I said, “where were you?”
“I’ve had meetings in Arizona.”
“With?”
“Our national board of directors.”
“Which city in Arizona?” I asked.
“Tempe.”
“Not Phoenix? Your wife said—”
“I flew into Phoenix,” Bishop Tate said, “but the meetings took place in Tempe.”
“And you stayed where?” Colin asked.
“With a colleague and his family.”
“How’d you get to Tempe?” I asked.
“I drove.”
“A rental?”
The minister stared at me, his hatred pulsating like radiation from the sun. “Of course, since I flew in.”
I smiled through this attack, asking, “On Monday night, do you know where Mrs. Tate was?”
“She . . .” He cocked his head and squinted. “She had dinner with an old friend.”
“Not football practice with Brandon?” Colin asked, paling.
The minister shook his head. “No. Football’s on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She told me . . .” He shifted in his chair and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
I gave Colin a side eye—his Adam’s apple was also bobbing in his throat.
“Who has access to the church vans?” I asked.
“All the officers, Ike Underwood, and my wife have access.”
“Is there a checkout system or tracking of who took which van at what time?” Colin asked.
Bishop Tate shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Sister Elliott that question.”
“Where do you think Mr. Little is right now?” I asked.
He swiped his sweaty eyebrow. “In Belize—at least that’s what I’ve been told.”
“Who told you that?”
“Ike Underwood. He’s in constant contact with Oz—Ike is his caretaker and stays with him at the house.”
I leaned forward. “So when you told me that Mr. Little was in Belize, you didn’t know that firsthand?”
Bishop Tate shook his head.
“Why is Mr. Underwood taking care of Mr. Little?” Colin asked.
The minister reached for his glass of lemonade. “The head injury diminished Oz’s ability to take care of himself.”
I cocked my head. “And yet he traveled to Belize all by himself.” I flipped pages in my notebook. “So you have seven hundred thousand to raise before the end of the year.”
Bishop Tate traced shapes in the condensation on the glass’s side. “Sounds impossible, but we can do all things through Christ. What does any of this have to do with Eugene’s death?”
Colin plucked a picture of the mummified hands from the expandable file, then placed it near the pitcher of lemonade.
Bishop Tate slipped on his reading glasses, then studied the picture without touching it. “Brother Underwood told me that workers uncovered these at Eugene’s house. That they belong to Brother Little. Is that true?”
“You don’t seem shocked,” Colin said.
The minister snorted, then took off his glasses. “To be honest, I don’t believe that the hands are real.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“In my line of work,” the minister said, “I’ve witnessed unexplainable, sometimes strange things. Demon possession, a child aging backward, inexperienced billionaires running for president. And I’ve witnessed staged things—demon possession, a child aging backward, and inexperienced billionaires running for president. These hands look like props in a magic show.”
“The hands are real, sir,” Colin said, “and we’ve confirmed that they belong to Mr. Little.”
Bishop Tate blinked . . . blinked . . . “So the hands I’ve seen on Oz . . .”
“Are prosthetics,” I said.
“When did that . . . ?” He pointed to the picture.
“Mr. Underwood told us the operation occurred in 2013,” Colin said.
“I guess no one told you?” I asked.
The minister stared at the picture, then shook his head.
“You have any idea how Mr. Washington came into possession of Mr. Little’s hands?” Colin asked.
Bishop Tate took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, then shrugged. “Other than stealing them? No idea.”
“Do you trust Mr. Underwood?” Colin asked.
Bishop Tate opened, then closed his mouth without answering. His knee jiggled a bit, then stopped. “I did trust Ike, but with everything going on and your questions . . . I don’t know what to think. Of anybody.”
“Could we get check copies of Brother Little’s most recent donations?” I asked.
Bishop Tate shouted, “Sonia?”
A moment later, Sonia Elliott entered the office. “Yes, Bishop?”
“Could you get the detectives check copies of Mr. Little’s recent donations?”
The church secretary shuffled over to a file cabinet and pulled out a drawer.
Bishop Tate pointed at me. “Believe me when I say He’s gonna do something wondrous for you.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “I need wondrous nowadays.” To Sonia Elliott, I said, “In addition to current checks, I’d like to see old ones, too, from Mr. Little, say . . . 1999, 2000, even 2004. I know you have them for auditing purposes. Thank you.” I snapped my fingers, Colombo-style. “Oh. The church vans—is there a log of who had keys on any given day?”
Sonia Elliott blinked at me, then swallowed as though a pill had been stuck in her dry throat. “Of course, but to be honest, I’m not a stickler for people to fill out the log. So many other things for me to be obsessed about.”
I nodded. “Totally understand. Still: could you provide me a copy of this week’s log? Thanks so much for your help.”
Sonia flipped and flipped in notebooks, selecting a page here and there, then flipped some more.
“Last thing,” I said to Bishop Tate. “Where can we find your wife?”
His face darkened. “Why?”
I picked up the print kit and waggled it. “We need her fingerprints, too.”
38
BISHOP TATE DIDN’T KNOW WHERE WE’D FIND HIS WIFE. “OBVIOUSLY, HER schedule is more fiction than I thought,” he said, as he flipped through Charity’s blank desk calendar.
“Do you know where she is?” I squinted at Colin as I tossed my bag into the driver’s seat.
His face flushed all the way to the roots of his hair. “Why would I?”
I folded my arms and leaned against the car’s hood. “Really, dude?”
He cleaned the lenses of his sunglasses with the tail of his polo shirt. “I have no freakin’ clue where she is.”
“Call her,” I said. “Tell her we need her prints and that I’m gonna stop asking nicely.”
He slipped on his Ray-Bans, then dialed Charity’s number.
Cars pulled in and out of the parking lot. The janitorial service carried mops and spray bottles to a van rumbling beneath the porte cochere. Back across the street, Sonia Elliott had wandered to the courtyard with a phone to her ear.
“Hey, Charity, it’s Detective Taggert.” Colin paused, then cleared his throat. “Thought I would see you today—we’re here at the church. I know this sucks, but we still need your fingerprints. Also, umm . . .” He scratched the inside of his free ear. “There’s some discrepancy about where you were back on Monday night, and we need to clear that up. So just give me a call as soon as possible. Thanks.” He left his number as though she needed it, then ended the call. To me, he said, “Now what?”
I placed the copies of Oswald Little’s checks as well as the church van log into my binder, then looked back at the church. “Was I imagining things or does Sister Elliott—?”
“Have a thing for the bishop?” Colin asked. “Yeah, I thought she was gonna sit on his lap.”
“Anyway,” I said, “let’s do some footwork on their dead church members, shall we?”
On the car’s laptop, I searched public records for all things Helen “Nell” Montgomery.
The DMV’s picture of the old woman was stingier than the photo used on her funeral program. The glam was gone, and beneath the harsh, institutional fluorescent lighting, she was an angry-looking woman with mottled skin and a dull-brown wig.
“She lived over near Leimert Park on Edgewood,” I said.
Colin pulled out of the parking lot and headed west.
Once upon a time, the house had probably been a small California bungalow, but now it lived out its days as another two-story behemoth. In the driveway, a gorgeous family of four unloaded groceries from the back of a minivan. The middle-school boy and girl carried toilet paper and paper towels into the house.
“It’s like they’re in a Honda commercial,” Colin said.
He stayed in the car as I approached the couple now wrangling an economy-sized tub of laundry detergent and dog food from the van’s trunk. Their eyes widened before I could open my mouth. May have been the badge on my left hip. May have been the holstered Glock on my right. Or maybe they smelled death on me—I wore it like some women wore Chanel No. 5.
