Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3) (19 page)

CHAPTER 26

GIVING UP THE GHOST

Langston Walker’s memorial service was being held at the First African Methodist Episcopal Church, called FAME by some and First AME by others. By the time I arrived, both the regular parking lot and the overflow lot were full. I had to settle for street parking in the Jefferson Park neighborhood, an impoverished area in southwest L.A. My car “alarm” was at home; I’d given Sirius the morning off. There were enough elements about my vehicle to suggest it was an off-duty police car, but I wasn’t sure if that would deter would-be thieves or make it a magnet for vandals. As I passed by my car, I fondly tapped it twice and hoped it would be there when I returned.

FAME is one of the larger megachurches in Los Angeles and an important hub in L.A.’s African American community. When I worked Metropolitan K-9, I was called to the Jefferson Park area on several occasions, but I’d never had reason to go inside the church. As large as the building was, it appeared that those mourning Langston Walker were going to fill its interior real estate.

I thought of my wife’s memorial service but remembered few specifics. I’m sure I was in shock, and it was all I could do to be there in person. In the days following Jennifer’s death, it was an accomplishment just getting out of bed. My good friends drove me to the service, guided me as to what to do and how to act, and then took me home. Sirius was there waiting for me, and the two of us mourned together.

The number of people in the church said a lot about Langston, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I would have even a tenth as many mourners when I died.

I walked down the aisle, and as I looked for a spare seat, I saw plenty of familiar faces. The 187 Club was well represented, as was LAPD. Art Epstein was there and had his arm around a young man who had to be his son Joel. We nodded to each other, but there was no space in his pew, which was just as well. This wasn’t a day to talk about Ellis Haines.

An African American family of five waved me down to join them. The family closed ranks, allowing room enough for all of us. I nodded my thanks to them. They happened to be standing from tallest to smallest. Right next to me was the mother, a tall, heavy woman who looked to be in her late thirties. Her husband, a few inches shorter and a few years older, stood next to her. The two daughters were next in line. They looked to be fraternal twins, each on the cusp of being a teen. At the end was a boy, who was perhaps ten.

“We’re the Williamses,” said the mother. “I’m Grace, and this is my husband, Dion.”

“Sometimes Grace forgets I can speak for myself,” said Dion. He extended his hand, and we shook.

“I’m Michael Gideon,” I said.

“This is Mr. Gideon,” Grace told her children. “And this is Destiny, Amity, and Justice.”

“Those are great virtue names,” I said, “just like yours.”

“I thought I would continue the tradition of my mother and her mother before her,” said Grace.

“I suggested we name one of the children Silence,” said Dion, “a greatly underrated virtue.”

Even in the somber setting of a memorial service, I couldn’t help but laugh. The twins rolled their eyes, while Justice dismissively said, “Dad.” It was clear they’d heard their father’s observation before.

“How do you know Langston?” Grace asked.

“I work LAPD,” I said, deciding on the shortest explanation.

“You hear that?” said Dion. “You kids act up and I’ll have Mr. Gideon arrest you.”

There was more eye-rolling, and another aggrieved, “Dad.”

“And how do you know him?” I asked.

“Langston and Savannah live just down the street from us. And we go to the same church.”

We were all still speaking in the present tense, I noticed. We were all reluctant to let Langston go.

“Not this church?”

She shook her head. “Our church is too small to accommodate this many people. That’s why the service is being held here. And that’s also why the service won’t be adhering to the usual AME program. Savannah wanted to do it Langston’s way.”

“That’s as it should be,” I said.

“Amen,” said Grace.

Despite our being toward the back of the church, the space still felt intimate, something rare in big buildings. A woman who I assumed was Savannah Walker was sitting in the front row, flanked by her family. Every so often she dabbed her eyes with a tissue, but it was clear she was resolved not to break down during the service. Her children and grandchildren were not as inclined to rein in their grief; there was a lot of quiet sobbing going on.

Before the service began, I tried picking out which mourners were members of the 187 Club. I was pretty sure on most of my selections, identifying them by their thousand-yard stare. They were thinking about another memorial service, just as I had been. I suspected many were reliving that awful time surrounding the murder of their loved ones. There was no getting over that; there was just learning how to cope in its aftermath.

The sound of a musical introduction signaled that the service was about to begin. “They have three or four choirs at First AME,” whispered Grace, “and I think Savannah was able to talk all of them into singing.”

I was used to memorial services being somber events, but from the first this seemed more like a celebration than a solemn remembrance. The service started with the song “Stand.” It was new to me, but not to most who were there. The song’s lyrics commanded that everyone get to their feet. Stand we did. Clap we did, fast and loud. Hope we did.

There were prayers, of course, and a moving eulogy, but mostly there was up-tempo music. The different choruses would not let us be passive, exhorting us in their refrains to get out of our seats and move our feet and clap our hands. As different as all this was from the services I’d grown up with in the Catholic Church, I didn’t feel out of place. There was no “Ave Maria,” but there were gospel standards with choruses perfect for the mourners, including “I’ll Fly Away,” “I’m Free,” and “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”

The recessional of “Amazing Grace” was familiar to all. John Newton had written the hymn, and I wondered how many people in the church knew that he’d been a slave-ship captain before realizing the error of his ways and becoming an abolitionist. Everyone held hands and sang. I thought about Newton’s journey as we sang the refrain, “I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind, but now I see.”

I felt that blindness. For the sake of my cases, I hoped it would pass. I hoped I’d be able to see.

After I reclaimed my hand from Grace, she asked, “You’ll be going to the repast, won’t you?”

I opened up my mouth to offer up some excuse, but Grace could read my intentions and intervened. “You know Langston wouldn’t want his LAPD friends to leave hungry.”

“He did like good food,” I said, remembering our dinner. “But I really . . .”

Grace was already shaking her head. “And you wouldn’t want to offend Savannah.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know her,” I said.

“That’s all the more reason for you to stay and meet her. I’ll be sure to introduce the two of you.”

Talking with Savannah Walker was on my follow-up list, but I hadn’t planned on talking to her on the day of her husband’s memorial service.

“Welcome to your new family,” Dion said.

The repast was being held in the biggest of the church meeting halls. There were several catered carving stations, but there was also an abundance of home-cooked casseroles, greens, salads, and desserts.

I regretted having come empty-handed, and wouldn’t have eaten but for Grace. She brought me a heaping plate and ignored my protests. By this time she’d learned I was a widower (it’s a word she used, but one I’ve never been comfortable with), and had decided I wasn’t really capable of looking after myself. It didn’t surprise me to learn that Grace was a first-grade teacher. At least she didn’t cut the meat on my plate.

Dion and I made small talk. I learned he worked in human resources for UPS, having transitioned from being a driver.

“I used to get a lot more exercise,” he said, patting his stomach, “but after almost twenty years of all that running, I’d had enough.”

“Was that your decision or Grace’s?” I asked.

He laughed and started nodding. “I remember coming home one day and seeing some textbooks on the table. ‘What are these doing here?’ I asked. And that’s when I learned I was going to night school.”

Both of us looked over to Grace. She was in the process of separating Justice from his first course of dessert and insisting he eat “real food.” Dion looked at me and raised his eyebrows. We both hid our grins.

Around us all the tables were rapidly filling up. At the table directly across from us, I recognized a familiar face. It took me a moment to place Ronaldo from the 187 Club without his soccer jersey. He was wearing a black suit. The two of us nodded at each other.

Dion noticed the exchange and asked, “Cop?”

I shook my head. Everyone at Ronaldo’s table, I realized, was a member of the 187 Club. I wasn’t sure if I should explain how I was acquainted with him and the others at the table. As far as I was aware, the 187 Club wasn’t like AA, where you were supposed to respect the privacy of its members, but I couldn’t be sure.

“He’s one of Langston’s friends,” I said.

Seated next to Ronaldo was Catalina Ceballos. And not surprisingly, next to her was James, the man who had comforted her when Catalina became upset while talking about her husband’s status as a “cleared other.” It seemed to me that in the wake of Walker’s death, most of the 187 Club members looked shell-shocked. There didn’t seem to be much talking going on at their table, or at several of the other tables filled by club members. The introspection I’d noticed during the service seemed to have carried over to the repast. Maybe the membership was realizing the additional void in their worlds created by Langston’s death.

My ulterior motive for staying at the repast was to have the chance to talk with Savannah Walker. As I sat there second-guessing my strategy, the decision was taken out of my hands. In her time of grief, Mrs. Walker had taken it upon herself to go from table to table thanking people for being there. She began her rounds at the table two down from where we were, and then she continued to the table right next to us. Even before she reached us, everyone at our table got to their feet. Grace remembered her promise to me and came to my side.

Most at our table seemed well acquainted with Mrs. Walker, and before she reached me, everyone offered her words of sympathy and hugs. Grace embraced her, then introduced me as if I were an old friend.

“This is Michael Gideon,” she said. “He knows Langston from the force.”

I had assumed Savannah Walker wouldn’t know my name and was surprised at her recognition of it.

“You’re the detective who just spoke at the club,” she said. “Langston said you brought your dog to the meeting, and then to the dinner. My husband told me your dog kept looking at him with these beseeching eyes, and he found himself throwing him more and more of his dinner.”

“He’s quite the expert at getting handouts,” I said. “And your husband had a great big heart that he showed to both the two-legged and the four-legged. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how much I respected him, and how I’m sorry I never got the chance to know him better.”

“He came home in a wonderful mood after the two of you had dinner,” she said, “so I know he enjoyed getting to know you as well.”

As we nodded and smiled, I knew the moment had come when Savannah Walker was ready to move on. There was a room full of people waiting to offer her their condolences and their love. I almost let her pass by, but I reached out with my hand, gesturing for her to bear with me a little while longer.

“In only two short hours, it seemed as if Langston and I discussed just about everything,” I said. “But since hearing about his death, there’s one thing I keep thinking about: his ghost.”

I thought I’d have to explain further, but Savannah was nodding. “I’m surprised he opened up to you about the ghost. I could tell something was bothering him this last week or so, and I kept pressing him to tell me what it was. He told me about a closed case that was haunting him.”

“So he was actively working the case?”

“For most of this week, he was holed up in his office. Langston would only say he was ‘doing some chewing.’”

“I hope you don’t think it’s presumptuous of me, but I’m wondering if I can pick up on this case where Langston left off.”

She squeezed my hand. “I’m sure Langston would have liked that, but I don’t know much more than what I’ve already told you. Tell you what, though—why don’t you stop by the house? Maybe you can make sense of what he was working on from what’s on his desk. I learned not to touch his desk and upset his system.” She smiled. “Of course, I always thought his
system
looked more like clutter than anything else, but maybe you can decipher what’s there.”

“I’ll do my best,” I promised.

I knew better than to tell her my suspicions that her husband’s death might be anything but accidental. In the days to come, there would be a better time to discuss that with her. For now she had to deal with more pressing obligations.