The Lord Is My Shepherd (9 page)

“Did he?” he prompted.

“No, not that I ever heard.”

“Do you ever find yourself on Palm Avenue on Sundays?”

“I guess. I'm not sure. Are you talking about the guy on the donkey?”

“How did you hear about that?” he asked.

“Oliver works for the newspaper. He came to my house yesterday to interview me about the body in the church. He let it slip, but I don't think he was supposed to.”

“You got that right,” he growled. The detective took a deep breath. “Okay, so the Palm Sunday guy. Now this one, the money changer thrown out of the temple.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Yeah. No question about that.”

“That's terrible!”

“Someone is sending a message. Do you have any idea what part of the Easter week story the body in the church could represent?”

She thought about it for a long minute. Nothing about the man or the way he'd been found or the place rang any bells. “No, I'm sorry.”

“Does the name Miguel Jesus Olivera mean anything to you?”

“No, I don't know a Miguel.”

“How about Jason Schneider or Ryan Bellig?”

She shook her head. “Are these the men who were killed?”

He didn't answer, but instead flipped through his notebook. “Is there anything more you want to tell me about Harold Grey?”

“I can't think of anything.”

“Okay. I need you to not leave town until I clear you to do so.”

“Why?” she burst out.

“Also, if you plan on staying here again tonight, I'd suggest changing rooms. We'll be in touch.”

As he left the room, she found herself more bewildered and frightened than before. After locking the door she grabbed her cell phone. A moment later she remembered that Jeremiah's card was still sitting on her kitchen table. Why hadn't she bothered to program the number in when she had the chance?

If she went home and changed clothes, she could get his number. She shivered, not sure she was ready to go back home.
Ten minutes, that's all it will take to get in, change clothes, and get out.

Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she grabbed her purse and her keys, and headed for the lobby, where she checked out of the room. If Harold was the killer, the police would surely arrest him within hours. If he wasn't, then she had nothing to fear from staying at home.

Unless the killer really is targeting me, and it's someone other than Harold.

She tried to push the thought from her mind. The killing had been random. There was no way the killer could have known she had checked into the hotel the night before. The only person who knew that was Jeremiah. Her heart skipped a beat for a moment but she reminded herself that he couldn't be responsible for the dead man in the church.

Soon she arrived home and sat in her car, building up courage. The house looked normal. Finally, she forced her-
self out of the car and when she went to the front door she discovered it was locked.
Just like I left it. But then so was the sanctuary.

She opened the door with a hand that shook and stepped hesitantly inside. It only took a moment before she screamed.

Unable to sleep well because of worrying about Cindy, Jeremiah rolled out of bed. She should have been perfectly safe in the hotel. Still he went through his morning ritual, cursing himself for not having gotten her cell phone number. He was just about to leave the house and head over to the hotel to check on her when the phone rang.

“Help me!”

He recognized the voice as Cindy's. “Where are you?”

“My house! Someone's been here.”

“Did you call 9-1-1?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be right over.”

He slammed down the receiver and raced out the door. Ten minutes later his Mustang screeched to a stop outside her house. She was sitting on the front porch but jumped to her feet when he got out of his car. She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. He held her tightly, feeling the shudders that rippled through her body.

A minute later he heard a car pull up. He stepped away from her and turned to see Detective Mark Walters. The detective walked up and looked him over. “Rabbi.”

“Detective.”

“I figured you'd turn up sometime today.”

Jeremiah had no idea what he meant by the remark. He glanced at Cindy, who looked pale.

“Good morning,
again
, Miss Preston,” Mark said.

“Again?” Jeremiah asked before he could help himself.

Mark smiled wryly. “Yes, Miss Preston and I just finished a long conversation not half an hour ago.”

“What happened?” Jeremiah asked, feeling more protective of Cindy than he would have liked.

“I'll let her fill you in later … after she fills me in on the here and now.” Jeremiah and Mark both turned toward Cindy. “I came home to change clothes before work. The front door was locked, but when I walked inside I could tell someone had broken in,” she explained.

“Did you touch anything?” Mark asked.

“The door and the phone.”

“Okay, show me.”

Cindy led the way to the front door, with Mark right behind her and Jeremiah trailing. The rabbi's thoughts churned.

Inside, books and papers had been flung about the room. The cushions had been pulled off the couch and one of them unzipped, its foam exposed. Her television, DVD player, and stereo were undisturbed.

Mark moved slowly through the living room, asking questions. Jeremiah glanced toward the kitchen and saw that the drawers were all open, but only one kitchen cabinet was ajar.

Jeremiah walked back toward Cindy's office. Her computer seemed untouched, as did her filing cabinet. The window remained closed and locked.

He continued on to Cindy's bedroom and paused in the doorway. Her end table drawer was on the bed, its contents
spilled beside it. On the other side of the bed her jewelry box had been dumped. Half a dozen different cross necklaces had been placed in a pile separate from the rest, which was spread out on her comforter. The window in the room was also closed and locked.

He returned to the living room.

“—looking for something,” Mark was saying. “And, whatever it was, he didn't want you to know. That's why he only unzipped one pillow instead of shredding all three of them. It was meant to throw us off.”

“What was he looking for?” Cindy asked.

“I think I know,” Jeremiah said.

They both turned toward him, and he led them back to her bedroom. Cindy cried out and moved toward her jewelry, but Jeremiah put a hand on her shoulder to restrain her. Mark pushed past them, walked around the bed, and then saw what Jeremiah had seen.

His eyes glittered. “He doesn't know we found the Shepherd's cross.”

Jeremiah nodded. “He's hoping Cindy picked it up.”

“Which means our killer searched the scene when he realized it was missing, knew she was the first person there yesterday, and came looking for it,” Mark said.

“And whoever he was, he didn't break in here,” Jeremiah said softly.

“No. He tried to cover his tracks, but he couldn't help locking the door behind him. What kind of person does that?” Mark asked.

“Someone with an interest in the safety of the property,” Cindy said, face ashen. “Harold, my landlord.”

“Not only did he know you weren't here last night so he could break in and look through your stuff, he knew where to stage the next murder for your benefit,” Mark confirmed.

“Next murder? What are you talking about?” Jeremiah asked.

“Your girlfriend can fill you in later.”

Out of the corner of his eye Jeremiah saw Cindy turn crimson. He kept his cool and just stared at Mark.

“I'm not his girlfriend,” Cindy spit out.

Mark held Jeremiah's gaze for a moment before turning back to her. “What's important now is that we go find Harold and ask him a few questions.”

“But he's such a nice man,” Cindy protested weakly.

“Some of the worst people you've ever met masquerade as the nicest,” Mark said.

“Could you please call me and tell me what happens?” she asked. “I'm not going to feel safe until this murderer is caught.”

Mark gave a noncommittal shrug and then turned to the door. Jeremiah moved, inserting himself casually between the detective and the exit. “She needs to know if you have a suspect in custody,” he said softly.

“Calm down, Rabbi. I'll give her a call later today.”

“Thank you,” Jeremiah said. He moved so the detective could leave.

Mark nodded. “Don't touch anything. In fact, the two of you need to leave now. Forensics will be here in a few minutes to sweep for prints.” He pulled his cell phone from his belt and left.

Cindy collapsed onto one of the chairs at her kitchen table. Jeremiah stood for a moment, listening as Mark talked to another officer.

“Yeah, break-in. Looks like the killer was trying to get that cross back. No. She thinks it could be her landlord. Yeah, Harold Grey. Yeah. Meet me there. It's time we asked Mr. Grey some questions.”

Jeremiah and Cindy left the house a minute later. She looked up at him with tired eyes.

“How did you sleep?” he asked.

“Great until the police came to my room,” she said.

“Yeah, about that—”

“Condensed version?”

“No, I want to hear the whole thing.”

When Mark met Paul outside Harold Grey's home, he hoped they could put an end to the killing spree. A man in his early sixties answered the door.

“Harold Grey?” Paul asked.

“Yes.”

“Sir, we're detectives,” Mark informed him, flashing his badge. “Do you mind if we come in and ask you a couple of questions?”

“Not at all,” he said and ushered them inside. They took seats in the living room, and Mark took a moment to study the man before him. He didn't seem like a serial killer, but appearances could be deceiving. And with the stakes as high as they were, they couldn't risk letting the killer go free.

“A body was found at First Shepherd yesterday,” Mark said.

Harold nodded. “I heard. Terrible business.”

“Where were you Sunday evening?” Mark asked.

“At a play in Los Angeles with my wife. We're season ticket holders.”

“And what time did you leave?” Paul jumped in.

“A couple of minutes after ten.”

“Can you prove that?” Paul pushed.

Harold nodded. “Why? Wait, I'm not a suspect, am I?”

“We're talking to everyone who had access to the sanctuary,” Mark said, unwilling to divulge more than that. They would check out Grey's story, but he had a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Harold Grey wasn't their guy. Still, they had to be sure.

“You're a Shepherd at the church, is that true?” Mark asked.

“Yes,” Harold said, looking puzzled.

“Do you mind showing us the cross?”

Harold pulled it out from underneath his shirt and then slipped the chain over his head and handed it to them. Mark took it and stared at it for several seconds.

“Sir, it is my understanding that there is no way to tell the Shepherd's crosses apart,” Mark said at last.

“Ordinarily that's true, but I can assure you this cross is mine.”

“How?” Paul asked.

“Turn it over,” Harold instructed.

When he did Mark saw the engraving and read aloud. “The First Shepherd of First Shepherd.”

Harold beamed. “When they started up the program five years ago, I was the first volunteer to go through the training. They gave me that cross special because of it.”

Reluctantly, Mark returned it. He exchanged a grim glance with Paul. They were back to square one.