City of Saviors, page 28
“That’s a strange question,” she said, hand back on her eyebrow. “And really: it could’ve been anybody. You know people are crazy nowadays.”
“So that’s a no?” Colin asked.
“I didn’t climb up no hill,” she said, trying to laugh. “So that’s a no.”
A pair of men’s glasses—preppy Ralph Lauren eyewear— sat next to the glass of whiskey. “Maybe your husband?”
“I’m not married. Came close a few times, but never found the right man.” She shrugged. “Sometimes, the Lord says, ‘wait,’ and even now, that’s what I’m gonna do.”
No one spoke. Outside, the police helicopter circled the neighborhood and sounded like it was buzzing right above us. Somewhere in the house, Teddy Pendergrass asked me to close the door so that he could give me his all.
“Maybe your son took a trip up the hill?” I asked.
Sonia Elliott pursed her lips, then shook her head. “I guess women nowadays have children without husbands, but I’m not one of them.”
“You told me a few days ago that you lived near Eugene Washington,” I said. “This is nowhere near his neighborhood.”
“I . . . I was . . . mistaken,” she whispered.
“But you do live down the hill from Oz Little,” I said. “Maybe that’s who you meant?”
Her mouth popped open, then closed, then opened again, without one word being uttered.
“And you were where on Monday night?” Colin asked.
“I . . . I . . .” She jammed her lips together. Tears shimmered in her eyes.
I pointed to the west. “Ike’s up there, up that hill, and he told us so much. So you should probably—”
“Can you protect me?” she whispered. “Protect us? I didn’t . . . He made me bake it and . . . I love him. It’s wrong, I know.” She dipped her head, and whispered, “This all got crazy, out of control. He promised just one more, one more . . . Lord forgive me, forgive me.”
My eyebrows scrunched. Who did she love? Who was “us”?
“You baked the peach cobbler?” Colin asked.
Sonia Elliott nodded, then whispered, “They said it would be more peaceful doing it that way. They were gonna kill him anyway. Gene was an awful man. A scary man, always has been. And it was just coconut. How can somebody . . . ? It was just coconut.” Wide-eyed, she shook her head. “I didn’t know he would suffer so.”
Something thumped above us.
We froze.
Sonia Elliott’s eyes bugged.
“Who’s here?” I asked.
She stared at me for a long time before dropping her gaze to the carpet.
Somewhere, a clock ticked . . . Ticked . . . Ticked. Somewhere, Teddy Pendergrass crooned.
“Would you mind if we looked around?” Colin asked.
Her hand clenched her neck. The vein there pounded like a jackhammer.
I opened my binder and scribbled a note. Then, I showed her what I wrote.
If you are being held against your will, swipe your nose.
She whispered, “I’ll tell you everything in the morning.” Then, louder, she said, “I’d rather you leave. I’m expecting guests, and I have to prepare for services tomorrow.”
I scribbled another note. He’s in the bedroom. Swipe your nose if yes.
Her trembling hand brushed across her nose.
I touched her arm, then directed her to the front door.
“Thank you.” Fat tears tumbled down her cheeks, and she clicked down the short foyer.
Colin called for backup as he followed Sonia Elliott to the front door.
I pulled my Glock from its holster and kept my eyes on the staircase. Beads of sweat pebbled in my hair and stung the wound on my scalp.
I took the first step . . .
Third step.
Seventh . . .
Teddy Pendergrass . . . louder . . . come on over to my place . . .
My hands clenched so tight around the gun, I couldn’t tell it from me.
Eighth step . . .
Colin, blue eyes hard, knuckles white, now stood two steps beneath me . . .
Come on and go with me . . .
The landing was just three steps away. Could’ve been the Swiss Alps.
That cologne—mossy, wet, countryside . . . He was near.
I reached the landing. Pressed back against the wall, but my racing pulse kept me from being flush against the flat surface. All of me tingled—I had my killer. He was just a few yards away from me.
I nodded to Colin.
Colin winked at me.
I took a deep breath and rounded the corner.
The murderer stood in the middle of the hallway wearing boxers and a gray T-shirt. There were tears in his eyes—and a .44 pointed at his head.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 6
46
“MR. TATE,” I SAID, MY VOICE TIGHT, MY OUTSTRETCHED ARMS TIGHTER, AND MY hands the tightest as they clenched the Glock. “I need you to put down the gun.”
The ceiling felt low, and the dark wood panels on the walls made the hallway look and feel narrower than it was. There was a “click” in a bedroom, and Teddy Pendergrass stopped singing.
Bishop Solomon Tate flinched, but the muzzle of the silver .44 Mag remained snug against his right temple.
Colin stood a few feet behind me with his Beretta aimed like mine at the minister’s torso.
“Why are you doing this, sir?” I asked.
Solomon Tate offered us a sad smile. “Because thirty minutes from now, the world will find out. And Sonia—she loves me, but she’s a good woman and she’ll tell it all. She was there with me at the beginning and stuck beside me even after I chose someone else.
“Dot, she was . . . losing her mind. Predicting crazy things after she lost our son. And I just couldn’t . . . manage her sickness, calling herself a prophet—”
“Dot? You mean Dorothea? The one with the hankie?” The witch?
He nodded. “I loved her, but I had to—”
“Banish her?” I asked, my skin ice cold.
Bishop Tate closed his eyes. “And Sonia was there for me after the divorce and . . . She was pure—and did all that I asked even if . . . I’m done. The world will learn that I helped to create that . . . monster. That I knew what he was so long ago, that I used him to . . . I’m done. What’s left?”
“Your family,” I said, softer now. “Your kids. Your church. That’s what’s left.”
He surveyed the ceiling. “The foolish man built his house upon the sand. And since the beginning, I built mine atop flesh and blood.”
His words made me shudder, and my grip loosened.
He chuckled. “How do you think I got all this? Ike and Gene were ruthless, but they only did what I wanted them to. All I wanted was to help people. To just . . . I’m done.”
“We’ll work it out,” Colin said. “We’ll talk with the DA. Just lower your weapon, sir.”
Bishop Tate flexed his fingers but didn’t acquiesce. “How much is a life worth? The policies we took out on members were a quarter of a million each. But that’s insurance. How much are they worth, in prison terms, Sergeant? Twenty-five each? Thirty? For me, I estimate two hundred years.” He chuckled, then said, “What deal could the DA possibly offer me when I’ve already made a deal with the devil?”
Downstairs, the front door opened.
“Lou?” Pepe shouted.
“Up here,” I shouted back, “but stay there. We’re here with Bishop Tate.” To the minister, I said, “I’m very good friends with—”
“No.” He jammed the muzzle against his temple. The vein in the middle of his forehead bulged and banged.
My gut clenched. “Did you kill Ike Underwood?”
The minister’s eyes widened. “We were in Vietnam together. I told you that, didn’t I? He did everything I ever asked of him. I didn’t kill . . .” A tear slipped down his cheek. “Even now, I can’t stop lying. It’s become second nature to me.” He took a deep breath, then nodded. “Yes, I did. I killed Ike Underwood. He’d always wanted everything Oz had. Oz didn’t have much of a family, but he had wealth. We needed money to build, and we knew that no one would notice him gone, that no one would notice that the real man no longer breathed. And we were right. For a long time, we were right.”
“And where is Oz now?”
He swallowed, then said, “The crawl space beneath the house on Corning Avenue. Ike and Gene buried him when they did work on the house before selling it.”
The house on Corning Avenue—now occupied by Hermie and her stuffed pooch.
“Someone called me pretending to be Oz,” I said. “Was that you?”
He sighed, nodded.
“And Eugene Washington?” I asked. “Did you ask Sonia Elliott to bake the . . . ?”
“Yes. No. Yes. I . . . Ike and I . . . Gene was there, too, in the war. He came out . . . changed. We watched him in Vietnam eat . . . dead Vietcong . . . out of revenge, anger. We thought he’d stop once we came home but . . . We had all changed but Gene . . . We thought it was for the best. He was an abomination. He had lost control. I didn’t know he was keeping hands and . . . Some, I didn’t even know about, he just did that on his own, like the kid who joined the congregation after Hurricane Katrina.”
My mouth was dry, and my hands loose around the gun. “Was Oz the first person you all . . . ?”
The minister shook his head. “He was just the first . . . friend. The others—they just . . . had. And so, we took. And Gene. He kept demanding that we pay him more and it had to end. He needed to be stopped. We didn’t think anyone would care that an old man in a house like that . . .” Awed, he shook his head.
“Put your gun down, sir,” Colin said. “Please.”
The man shook his head. “I’m not leaving here alive. Either I’m gonna do it or you’re gonna do it. I am still a servant of God and I still believe I’m here to alleviate suffering and I don’t want you to suffer so just let me—” His finger flexed.
Boom. The shot echoed through the hallway.
Bishop Tate cried out in pain. Blood spurted from his shoulder as he crumpled to the ground.
My finger hadn’t moved.
I looked back at Colin, and at his finger still pressed against the trigger.
47
HE’LL LIVE.
That’s what I told the mistress as I handcuffed her in the driveway of her home.
He’ll live.
That’s what I told the wife after she’d sped from their home higher up the hill.
Charity Tate, dressed in sweats and a Blessed Mission baseball cap, stared at Sonia Elliott in the back of the patrol car.
“Did you know?” I asked.
“About their affair?” She turned to me with bloodshot eyes. “I had no idea. Why would he . . . ? With her?”
My cheeks burned. “I don’t mean . . . I meant the murders? Did you know?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What? I don’t . . . understand. You said, just now, that Sol’s alive. Who else is dead?”
I stared at her—there was confusion in those Sophia Loren eyes. She didn’t know. I touched her shoulder. “We have a lot to talk about.”
Agitated, she bit her lip. “I can’t right now. The neighbors have the kids, and we have an early start in the morning. The first Sunday service begins at . . .” She lifted her cell phone. “I need to let Elder Alexander know that Sol can’t preach tomorrow and—”
“Charity,” I said.
Phone to her ear, she gave me the one-minute finger. “Good evening, Elder. It’s Charity—” She smiled as she listened. “Yes, I know it’s late. Listen, the bishop’s in the hospital.” She smiled. “No, he’s okay. Someone shot him . . . Yes . . . I’m going over there now. But for tomorrow . . .”
I sighed, then wandered over to Colin at the car. “She has no clue,” I said. “Her entire world is soaked in blood. Her great dynasty built on a man’s hands.”
He tore his eyes from the first of hundreds of forms needed to be completed. “When will you yank her from Wonderland?”
I glanced at my wristwatch, then leaned against the car. “I’m not. Anyway, I’m gonna have to send you on a refresher course. Center mass, Detective. Center mass.”
He shrugged. “I burped and the gun flipped back a little.”
I said, “Ha. So the house over on Chariton. Dr. Goldberg’s got some digging to do. Good luck with that.”
He turned to face me. “I didn’t squeal on you, Lou. About your pain. About anything.”
“Who did?”
“Pepe. To show that he had the balls to be IAB. That’s why Andreoff called, and that’s why L.T. kept pulling my ear. He thought it was bullshit, too, but he had to go through the motions. He wants Pepe out because of all this.”
Tears stung my eyes, but I clamped my lips together and breathed through my nose. “Hope he gets the job cuz he’s nobody to me now.”
Colin sighed, then crossed his arms. “How long is vacation?”
I dabbed my eyes with a knuckle. “Just a month.”
“What are you gonna do?”
I shrugged. “Catch up on Orange Is the New Black. Learn how to surf. Buy a fern.” I looked at my watch: two thirty-five. “It’s Sunday now. I’m officially in Tahiti.” My voice sounded wet and scratchy, but those feelings disappeared as I spotted Lieutenant Rodriguez’s Crown Vic pulled past the tape. “You got this?” I asked my partner.
Colin also watched the Ford park and the big man climb out from behind the steering wheel. He sighed, then took a deeper breath before saying, “Yeah. I got it.”
And I thought about the three prophetesses and their first greeting to Colin and me last Tuesday. The detective and the chief join us today. Had that been a prophecy? Had I, the detective, been training Colin, the future chief of the Los Angeles Police Department?
I pat Colin on the shoulder. “See you in thirty days.” With a confused heart and a rigid spine, I left him there with his reports.
Pepe nodded at me as I passed.
I nodded back.
“Lou,” he said. “Richard Trudeau’s license, the one you found in Washington’s garage? He’s been missing since October 2005. That’s, what, two months after Katrina?”
“Yep.” I didn’t stop in my step.
“We gonna talk about this?” Pepe called after me.
“Nope.” I kept walking.
Lieutenant Rodriguez approached me. “It’s for the best, Lou.”
“Yes, sir.”
“See you in thirty days.”
“Yes, sir.”
A female patrol officer drove me back the station. Neither of us talked. I sat with my eyes squeezed shut, seeing the glow of streetlights even with closed eyes. Back in the Porsche, my phone vibrated with a text message from Lena. I know it’s late but I’ve made my decision about Chauncey. Call me.
But I didn’t call. Instead, I sent a single text message: What are you doing for the next thirty days?
All around me, uniformed cops escorted bloody, surly men from the backseats of patrol cars to the cells deep within the building.
On my phone’s screen, ellipses appeared. Then: What do you have in mind?
I bit my lip. New hair could wait. Dr. Popov could also wait—I had a feeling that nature’s therapy would soon lower my blood pressure. I typed:
In the morning, chef’s choice quiche. Then, how about a VIP suite at Mandalay Bay, courtesy of Victor Starr? Followed by surfing and Netflix and then . . . ?
Send.
Sam responded. And then falling in love? I’m down. See you in thirty minutes.
I threw the car into gear and cruised west on King Boulevard. Thirty minutes. Thirty days.
No cannibals. No hands.
Brooks had said none of the crazy would be going away soon. The buried bones of victims, freezers filled with ill-gotten gold, secrets, so many secrets. It would all be waiting for me. If not this case, then the next. Until then, though . . .
Thirty minutes. Thirty days.
That was enough time to start a new life. Enough time to find my more.
Right?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FIVE YEARS AGO, ALL I KNEW WAS THIS: I WANTED TO CREATE A HEROINE WHO would help rewrite the story of mysteries set in a city that I loved. I wanted to create a heroine with a big heart, a quick quip, and the desire to live her best life. I’ve wanted many things before and have been told “no” a lot. But this time, I was told “yes,” and Detective Lou Norton got her chance.
Thank you, Jill Marsal, for being an extraordinary agent—I’ve benefited greatly from your tenacity and wisdom, from your belief in this character and her LA story. Thank you, Kristin Sevick, for championing this series, for your “Attagirl” for both Lou and me and rallying the good folks at Forge on my behalf.
City of Saviors required that I learn some things, and I’d like to thank retired detective lieutenant (and Forge labelmate) Neal Griffin and retired “Deputy Dave” Putnam for answering my many questions. Thanks to my childhood friend Lori Nelson, M.D., for helping me make Lou sick. D.P. Lyle, M.D., you are a national treasure to crime writers everywhere, and I thank you for your expertise. My siblings Gretchen, Jason, and Terry, thanks for answering random questions that always come up when I’m writing a story. My parents Nate and Jackie, I’m forever grateful for your love and support. David and Maya, you are my rocks, my fellow adventurers, my loves. Thank you for your patience and enthusiasm and understanding and acceptance. It means so much to me.
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
LAND OF SHADOWS
A DETECTIVE ELOUISE NORTON NOVEL
RACHEL HOWZELL HALL
Along the ever-changing border of gentrifying Los Angeles, a seventeen-year-old girl is found hanged at a construction site. Homicide detective Elouise “Lou” Norton’s new partner Colin Taggert, fresh from the comparatively bucolic Colorado Springs police department, assumes it’s a teenage suicide. Lou isn’t buying the easy explanation. For one thing, the condo site is owned by Napoleon Crase, a self-made millionaire… and the man who may have murdered Lou’s missing sister thirty years ago. As Lou investigates the death of Monique Darson, she uncovers undeniable links between the two cases.
