The Psalmist (6 page)

 

Chapter 7

T
HE BIG MAN
had been eating pancakes alone at two-­twenty in the morning, the only customer seated at the counter, when the phone vibrated in his trousers pocket; it was the one call he had to take.

“Gil Rankin.”

“He needs to see you,” the familiar voice said.

“I thought we were finished.”

“No. One more.”

So Rankin, his muscles still tingling from pumping iron, had no choice but to follow instructions. He flew that morning to New York City, where a driver met him at LaGuardia and took him to meet the Client. This time the man was sitting in the back of a delicatessen in midtown, eating a pastrami on rye and drinking coffee, the
Daily News
open in front of him to the sports pages. A slight, otherwise plain-­looking man, with silvery hair and dark, disturbing eyes.

“I wish it hadn't come to this, Gilbert,” he told Rankin, taking his time folding the paper closed. “It isn't a result any of us wanted. But it has to be done. This sort of betrayal—­it's like fruit that has gone bad. Have you ever seen spoiled fruit made good again?”

“No,” Rankin said, trying, with mixed success, not to look at his client's eyes. It was like looking at the sun, something you shouldn't do.

“No, that's right,” his Client said. “It doesn't happen.”

How did things get to this point, anyway?
Rankin asked himself on the limo ride back to LaGuardia, watching the city through a driving, icy rain. It was hard to say. He had worked for lots of high-­end clients over the years, all sorts of characters. But a decade ago his list had shrunk to one, and stayed that way ever since. His assignments now were infrequent but always lucrative. And the rest of his time was his, to do whatever he wanted. For a man who liked to work after dark, Rankin had made a good life for himself in the Sunshine State. He was married to a beautiful, intelligent, Puerto Rican–born woman who was also his best friend. They lived in a 17,000-­square-­foot Spanish-­style place on the water, paid for, fully staffed. They had one boy in elementary school, one in middle school. Sometimes, Rankin and his family took his boat into the Gulf of Mexico, far from everything, for days at a time. Nothing made him happier.

The only thing he didn't have anymore was the luxury of saying no. That was their arrangement: you take the assignments you're given, you know the pay will be enormous, you don't ask questions. And Rankin did a good job. It was the only reason he'd gotten to where he was today.

This deal, from the beginning, had been the Client's strangest assignment. But it came with the sweetest incentive: this job could be his last, if that's what Gil Rankin really wanted. Meaning, he could walk away, if he wanted, millions of dollars richer, and never have to go back. There was an adage he'd heard all of this life—­that eventually, everybody gets caught. It wasn't strictly true, but close enough. Rankin had known hugely successful ­people who now resided in nine-­by-­nine-­foot prison cells because they'd played too long and gotten sloppy, or made deals with clients who were wearing wires. He had always wanted to get out undefeated, the way Rocky Marciano had.

So now he was driving back to Maryland to complete the last part of the Client's deal. It meant returning to the little town of Tidewater, to a rented house the Client was providing for him. The rest would be up to him. The final part of it was simply to take out Jackson Pynne before he talked. According to the Client, Pynne would probably make it easy for him. Fact was, Pynne might be on his way back there now, right back to the scene of the crime.

 

Chapter 8

“H
OW DOES SHE-­CRAB
soup and homemade cornbread sound?” Charlotte asked.

“Mmm.”

“Good. Because it's the only item on the menu today.”

Sneakers raised his head and thumped his tail twice as Luke pulled the rose from behind his back and handed it to Charlotte. Kissing her, he breathed a nice blend of body lotions, spices, and corn bread. Classical piano music played in her study.

Luke fetched a bottle of water from the fridge and leaned on the kitchen counter, admiring Charlotte. Their cottage was officially a parish house, owned by the church, but she had converted it into something quite different, finding it too musty and rustic. It now resembled a quaint Queen Anne–style New England bed and breakfast, decorated with an assortment of antiques and nautical knickknacks.

Charlotte turned down the music.

“If I had to guess, I'd say one of Beethoven's late quartets,” Luke said. He took a drink of water.

“Good thing you don't have to guess,” Charlotte said.

“Brahms?”

“Ravel.”

“Well. I was close, anyway.”

She just gave him a look, and began to ladle the soup. Although she worked at home as a writer and historian, Charlotte dressed smartly each morning, as if she were going into an office full of ­people rather than just one largely indifferent mixed Labrador retriever—­except on those days when she volunteered at the Humane Society. Today she wore charcoal gray slacks and a tan wool pullover. Her ash blond hair was up in a claw clasp.

“So, what have you been doing?” she asked.

“Just trying to pretend it's a normal day,” he said.

“Any luck?”

“Not yet.”

“Your public has been calling.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Don't worry. I turned off the ringer.”

Charlotte watched him as he walked to the table.

“Are you limping?” she said.

“No, I'm okay. I just banged my knee earlier, at the office.”

“Oh.” She brought their lunch to the table and Sneakers resettled beside her chair. For most of the day, the dog stayed in close proximity to Charlotte. Luke, despite his deep affection for Sneakers, would always be his auxiliary master.

“How was your meeting with the investigator?” she asked, looking at Luke with her intelligent, pale blue eyes. “Learn anything new?”

“A little.” He told her about the morning meeting with Amy Hunter as they ate. Luke shared everything with Charlotte. The night before, they had sat in these same places and mulled over possible explanations for what had happened at the church Monday night. Today none of them sounded right. Nothing did.

“This is delicious,” he said. Charlotte smiled appropriately, although he could tell she was waiting for him to say more. They'd always been good counterweights—­Charlotte the product of a wealthy and privileged D.C. upbringing, Luke raised middle-­class in towns all over the States. But Charlotte had a rebellious side; she'd apparently crossed swords often with her famous father on political issues before the two of them settled into an awkward truce some years ago. Her only sibling, a younger brother named Nelson, had died when she was ten, and it remained an uncomfortable topic between Charlotte and her parents. She had an inwardness that still intrigued Luke, an ability to be sociable when she wanted and also to spend long periods of time in silence.

“You know what's funny?” he said, noticing that she was still looking at him. “I think I saw Jackson Pynne today, on my way home.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, way out in the country. Passed right by me in a silver pickup.”

Charlotte tilted her head, interested. “Are you sure it was him?”

“Not entirely. Except we looked at each other as he passed and there seemed to be a moment of recognition.”

“You should tell the inspector.”

“Yeah, I know.” He smiled, not sure if her word choice was making fun of Amy Hunter or not. “I will.”

Her eyes stayed with him as she went back to her soup. “He used to really think the world of you, you know.”

“Jackson did?”

“Of course. He thought you could fix his life.”

­“People overestimate me sometimes.”

“I don't.” She gave him a smart, mischievous look. “And
you
don't. That's what matters.”

Sneakers suddenly raised his head as if remembering something he needed from the store. After a moment he settled back to sleep.

“Darlene from the college called,” Charlotte said.

“Your occasional friend.”

“Yeah.”

“This must qualify as an occasion.”

“She heard that the killing had to do with the vote on the new church. And with the Nayaks. Someone in the office told her that. She wanted to know if it was true.”

“To which you replied . . .”

“I laughed. I couldn't help it.”

“Good. An appropriate response,” Luke said.

Amy Hunter had asked about this, too: if the debate over church growth might've had anything to do with the killing. The congregation was split on whether to build a new church on the existing site or sell the land and relocate. Frank Nayak, Jr., or Little Frank, as the old-­timers called him, had offered to purchase the church and donate a large parcel of inland property for the relocation. The church, Little Frank liked to say, was “a nonrevenue producer, not the proper use of that land.”

“You know how when the mafia wants to deliver a warning, they leave a dead fish on the front porch?” Charlotte said. “Maybe this was a variation of that.”

“Leaving a dead woman?”

“Maybe.”

“Who would they be warning?”

She widened her eyes, giving him her
Who do you think?
look.

“It's not like I own the church.”

“No. But you have an opinion. And you're the face of the church, aren't you?”

“Only the mouth.”

“So to speak.”

“But my opinion is in line with what the majority of the congregation thinks—­that we keep the property. Though, of course, it isn't up to me. The district superintendent, the bishop, and the staff/parish committee make those decisions.”

“You don't have to convince me, counselor.”

Luke smiled. He let his thoughts roam a little as he finished the soup. Back to the dream. Back to Millie at the hospice with her child's smile. Back to the meeting with Hunter.
We're going to solve this thing.

When he finished, Luke was surprised to see Charlotte studying him.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You're not thinking about those numbers again.”

“I was, yeah.”

More than that, he suddenly had a pretty good idea what the numbers in Jane Doe's right hand meant.

 

Chapter 9

B
EN
S
HIPMAN PARKED
in one of the nine spaces assigned for state police alongside the Public Safety Complex, where Hunter, Fisch, and Ship worked in small adjoining offices.

They dropped their bags on Hunter's desk.

“Ready?” she asked, outside Shipman's door.

He was rubbing his hands together.

“Let's do it,” he said.

Ship went first, with his distinctive, somewhat clunky walk, as if his shoes were an inch too long, wiping his hands again on his red lumberjack coat.

Fisch was in the office, seated in front of twin monitors, perfectly postured in a black T-­shirt and dark pressed jeans. He turned and his nose immediately wrinkled; the fast food aroma evidently still clung to the two of them.

“Sorry,” Hunter said, looking self-­consciously at her hands. Shipman, she saw, had hidden his behind his back.

Fischer was a tall, elegant-­looking man, half Cuban, half African-­American, originally from Miami. He ate no processed food and kept vitamins, fruit, and protein bars on his desk. He was an anomaly among cops, certainly among homicide investigators. But he was also one of the most disciplined and diligent detectives Hunter had ever worked with. She liked him a great deal even though he seemed unknowable in some ways. Ship had told her more than once that Fischer was gay, but she sensed he was just speculating.

“What've you got?” Hunter asked.

“Pickup. Matches ID.”

Fischer called up the digital file on his screen and tapped some keys, Hunter watching how the sinewy muscles in his arms worked.

“Low res,” he said. “Texaco, Highway 50. 8:37
A.M.,
Tuesday.”

About an hour after Pastor Bowers found the body.

Hunter and Shipman watched the brief sequence, keeping a respectable distance
.
A silver double-­cab Dodge Ram pickup stopping beside a gas pump. The driver's door opening. A tall man in an overcoat and baseball cap getting out, reaching for the gas nozzle. Seeming to duck his head away, as if to avoid standing in range of the camera.

“May be something, maybe not,” Fischer said. They all watched again. This time Hunter noticed the top of the license tag.

“Can you freeze that? Is it Delaware?”

“Already have. Blown it up several ways. Last number's cut off. It's Delaware.”

“What did our witness say?”

“Mr. Charles? Thinks so, can't be sure.”

“We ought to release it, then,” Hunter said. “Did you e-­mail it to me?”

“You have it.”

“Good. Good work.”

Hunter and Shipman walked back to her office next door. They ate their lunches together, mostly in silence, Hunter at her desk, Shipman at her worktable. Ship ate fast, as if racing to finish first, talking inconsequentially about the case. Hunter savored her food, particularly the fries.

“You know, you shouldn't eat so fast,” she said.

“Uh-­huh.”

“Seriously.”

“Yeah. You're probably right.” Which came out as “Pwafly wut.”

He ate the rest the same way, though; there was no slowing Ship down once he got going. After he returned to his office, Hunter ran the gas pump sequence again on her own computer screen, this time in slow motion as she poked at the rest of her salad. There was something familiar about how this man carried himself. He reminded her of an actor, someone well known. But she couldn't quite place who. She ran it again.

Hunter caught a whiff of Polo cologne then and looked up.

S
TATE'S
A
TTORNEY
W
ENDELL
Stamps was in her doorway, looking on with his wide, expressionless face. Dressed, as always, in a tailored suit, this one navy with pinstripes.

“What've you got?”

“Oriental salad,” Hunter said. “Want a fry?”

He flattened his lips as if she were asking him to play dolls.

“What've you got on the case? Anything?”

“Not much.” Hunter nodded at the screen. “Image of a pickup that matches description of a vehicle seen parked outside the church yesterday, about an hour before the pastor showed up.”

She wiped the grease off her hands and turned the monitor screen, showing him the digital footage. The state's attorney temporarily parked himself on a corner of her work station, breathing audibly as he looked on impassively. Stamps was a large, square-­shouldered man with pale skin. The whole Stamps family was tall and fair. His two girls were sports stars at Tidewater High.

“Huh,” he said afterward. He stood. “Kind of weak, isn't it?”

“Well, we don't know yet.”

“Tell me about it again.”

“Which part?”

He nodded once at her computer monitor. Often, Stamps's eyes glazed over as ­people explained things, but he registered the general topic so he could circle back if necessary and ask them to tell him “again.”

Together, they watched the man pulling out the nozzle and ducking his head away.

“He looks familiar, somehow,” Hunter said.

“He does.” Stamps sighed ambiguously. At the door, he turned. “Oh, and say, have you done anything with those numbers yet? The numbers on her hand?”

“Not yet.” She raised her eyes to his. The sheriff, no doubt, had briefed him on it. “We may send them to other agencies this afternoon or tomorrow.”

“Think it could wait another day or two?” He moved a step closer and assumed a hushed tone: “The only reason I mention it, there's something brewing that the sheriff wanted to talk with us about. He's the one requesting it.”

“He hasn't requested it to me.”

“No, I know.”

Hunter felt the back of her neck bristle. She'd left four messages now for Sheriff Calvert and twice driven to his office downtown, only to be told he wasn't in. But she didn't want to show her anger or frustration to the state's attorney, so she pretended to smile.

“I don't know the details,” Stamps said. “Apparently, someone saw something, but won't talk to anyone other than the sheriff.” His sentence ended with the inflection of a question mark.

“Having to do with Robby Fallow, by any chance?”

“It may be. I really don't know.”

“I'll talk with the sheriff,” Hunter said. “If there's some new information he has, it would need to come through this office, of course.”

The state's attorney held up his hands in a surrender position.

Hunter's phone began to ring.

“We'll talk,” Stamps said.

She nodded, took a deliberate breath and answered the phone: “Hunter.”

“This is Luke Bowers.”

“Oh. Yes, hello.”

“I think I've figured it out.”

“Sir?”

“The numbers. I think I know what those numbers mean.”

“Oh,” she said, looking at where the state's attorney had just been standing. “Excellent.”