Corpses Say the Darndest Things: A Nod Blake Mystery Page 9

  That deserved an answer and I obliged. “I'm not at all sure you've suffered one.”

  He turned to a pillar of salt and I let myself out. The door thudded closed and I was on the outside. I tried not to take it personally as chances were I probably just wasn't used to the sound of an expensive door closing. Back in the land of the mortals, Gina was up, in front of her desk, coming at me wearing that stupid Tabernacle smile, and holding out a slim piece of colored paper. It was a check. “I guess I won't be seeing you anymore?” she said.

  “I wouldn't be too sure of that.”

  Her smile wavered. “But the Reverend said…”

  “I know what he said. But I'm not about to drop this case. I have a personal interest.”

  You'd have thought I kicked her dog. “If you'll forgive my saying so,” she said. “I think you have a personal grudge.” A gleam appeared behind her eyes that could only be described as scary. Her lips, usually red, round, and moist enough to float a buoy, were pale and stretched to a thin line. “Is it powerful men you have a problem with? Or is it just religion?”

  Having both my manhood and my morals questioned was, considering how accommodating I'd been, too much. “Gina, here's a fact you need to glom onto. The coroner's report lists the cause of Katherine's death as homicide by blunt trauma. Somebody busted her skull with a rock.” I wasn't telling anything she didn't already know, yet her hand went to her mouth in alarm. No sense stopping there. “You should understand that, for the murderer, it went deeper than that. In their mind, Katherine was righteously executed for her sins. Whoever killed her had, has, an intimate knowledge of scripture. The Bible on her dresser was left open to Deuteronomy 17, specifically to verse five, charging her, convicting her, of adultery, and passing sentence. `Take the man or woman who has done this evil deed to your city gate and stone that person to death'.”

  Gina stared, as unreadable now as her boss. I didn't wait for more.

  “I don't take checks,” I said. I ripped hers in half and handed the pieces back to her. “I don't like being told what to do. And I don't have a problem with religion. I have a problem with murder.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I was a disgruntled, unfriendly, and bone-weary detective when I forced myself up from the couch to answer my doorbell that night. Following my not very impressive (for either of us) visit to – and impromptu firing by – Reverend Delp that morning, I spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening studying the pile of video tapes supplied by my secretary's obviously obsessed and probably (I always thought) not quite right mother. Like a cryptographer deciphering a coded message, or a brat being made to eat his peas (take your pick), I studied one crusade appearance after another, one tape after another, trying to see, hear, or get a feel for something. I took in messages from the good reverend on the subjects of giving, forgiving, sharing, forbearing, abstaining, and not complaining (the detective complained). I watched Delp and his gang pound the hell out of the seven deadly sins, and their illicit progeny, to the wild applause of their tear-drenched stadium and concert hall audiences. I was awash in the (deadly stiff and formal, but admittedly beautiful) solos, duets, quartets, and choirs belting out choruses and hymns from Absent from Flesh! O Blissful Thought! to Zion Mourns in Fear and Anguish. I found myself bowled over by the organization, as I neared the bottom of the stack, without being any the wiser. More than that, I was just plain sick to death of the show.

  I'd collected an impressive number of splinters so far in the search for truth regarding the shortened life and brutal death of Katherine Delp. The cooperation I'd received felt none too cooperative. My luck was running along usual lines, meaning none at all. I knew two things; the killer was a religious wacko and, now that my crusade orgy was nearing an end, absolutely everyone at the Temple of Majesty was still in the frame. (Plus the population of Chicago, eh, and the world.) Reverend Delp whistling me off the scent and back into my cage like a hound that had failed him did nothing for my humor and only deepened my suspicions. As for Gina questioning my motives… My motives are questioned twenty-four, seven, three-sixty-five by everybody from Frank Wenders to my green grocer and they can all run down an alley and holler, “Fish!” But when Gina accused me of malice, it bothered me. I don't know why. The fact that it bothered me, bothered me. That was just the stuff I could talk about.

  That other thing. I didn't even know what to call it. Whatever it was that had been happening to me. The pains in my head, the low ringing tone in my ears, the visions or hallucinations I'd been having. I didn't even want to think about them but, of course, had been all day and into the evening. A glowing photograph that spoke to me? The appearance of the murder victim at the scene of the crime long after the body had been removed? And what in God's name had happened when I'd accidentally touched Reggie Riaz's hand? I'd not only returned in an instant to the Delp bedroom, I'd seen the murder first hand and been spoken to again by the victim. Hell, I'd felt the murder. I'd experienced the crushing blow to my own head! And, really, thanks to Willie Banks and the Nikitin brothers, hadn't my head taken enough already? Was I losing my mind? Had I really damaged my brain? It was ridiculous, the whole thing, but it wasn't funny. I couldn't talk about it with anyone and, had I been able to, wouldn't have had the slightest idea what to say.

  The point is, when my doorbell rang, I wasn't very goddamned happy. Besides, I'm a bachelor (a longtime divorcee, but we aren't even going into that) and a loner. No good ever comes from my bell ringing and I had no reason to expect a change. In spite of all that, I rose above the call of duty and managed not to growl as I pulled the door open. Then, as miserable as I was, I laughed.

  There stood Lisa, back lit by a single dim bulb dangling from bare wires in the hall. Her arms were loaded with, in no particular order, the massive purse she always carried (and the portable grocery it contained), file folders from the office, a black plastic video box, a paper bag of yet-to-be-determined fast food, and a cardboard carrier featuring two tall lidded paper cups with straws (triple-thick shakes, if I knew her). Her massive glasses had slipped and were precariously balanced on her nose making her look like a drunk owl with a question.

  “There goes the neighborhood.”

  “Hi,” she replied, her head cocked to keep her glasses from falling.

  “Hi. What are you doing?”

  “I found another tape in mother's machine and thought I'd better bring it over.” She was animated but, with her glasses askew, not to good effect. I took pity and carefully slid the specs back on her honker, giving her the opportunity to straighten her head. “Oh and, by the way,” she added, her voice now quiet as if she were sharing a deep secret, “I really, really, hope you are being careful with these videos because my mother will never forgive me if something happens to her tapes.” She brightened like throwing a switch. “On the other hand, she's delighted you have finally found religion.”

  “Thank your mother for me and tell her, Amen. But just between you and me I've had about all of Reverend Delp and his merry band of followers I can stand. I'm crusaded out.”

  “I think you'll want to see this,” she said. She altered her voice again going, I think, for something in the neighborhood of seductive. “I peeked at it…”

  I won't say I was seduced but, okay, I was curious. “Yes? And?”

  “And it's a recording of their most recent revival in beautiful Atlanta, Georgia.”

  “Atlanta?”

  She nodded eagerly as her glasses slipped again. “It's the show they put on the night that Reverend Delp's wife was murdered.”

  Okay, I was seduced. “Why isn't your mother my secretary?” I took the tape from the pile in her arms and tucked it under mine. Then, because I'm a nicer guy than people think, I relieved her of the drink carrier as well. I started into the living room. Lisa kicked the door closed and followed.

  “What else you got?”

  She adjusted her purse, poked her glasses, and waved one of the file folders, fanning me. “Reggie Riaz's
redacted prison records; with additional notes from one of Large's snoops. Knowing you, you'll probably find it a page turner but what little I waded through was pretty dull reading. Not much bad guy stuff at a casual glance.”

  “Thanks for the book report,” I said, taking it from her. “But I'll probably read it anyway.” I dropped the file on the coffee table next to the drinks. “And?”

  Lisa gave me a questioning look, then remembered the paper bag she was still carrying. “Oh, yeah.” She passed her free hand before the printed golden arches like the lovely Carol Merrill before a year's supply of dog food. “I brought supper.” She slid my mess over, clearing the working center of the table, and began unpacking burgers and fries. “Sorry,” she said. “It's the best I could do. I can't cook.”

  “Did we just meet or something?” I grabbed the video box, removed the cassette, and headed for the tape machine. I popped it in and pushed Play.

  If you don't have a tape player and recorder, you must get one. What I knew about technology could fit in a thimble with room left for my… Let's just say, no detective should be without a video machine. I don't watch TV, it watches me, but that recorder was indispensable. While I pitch a product from which I won't make a dime, keep in mind that smaller will always be bigger. Betamax, baby. VHS will wind up a fart in the breeze.

  On the television, the Delp Ministries' Atlanta Crusade appeared in color, pomp, and circumstance. God would have been delighted. Then the whole shooting match took off at a breakneck pace as I continued to play the tape but held down the Fast Forward button. That improved the show.

  “Are you,” Lisa began through chewed french fries, “looking for anything special?”

  The tape, and the devout crusaders, raced onward. There was Delp waving at the substantial crowd. I liked him better on Fast Forward too. Guilt and hypocrisy with music, it seemed, was easier to take in double-time. Lisa repeated her question.

  “Yes,” I said. “I am looking for something special.” I slowed the tape when the esteemed reverend reached the dais to join his slathering entourage. He shook hands, issued hugs, and returned to waving at the gushing auditorium of believers. The television cameras panned the crowd then cut back to the podium and widened out to take in a full view of the stage. I paused the image. “And there it is.”

  “What?” She jumped up and joined me by the set. “What do you see?”

  “It isn't what I see,” I said. Then I stopped, unable to proceed with special sauce dripping from Lisa's lip. I stared, tried not to smirk, failed dramatically, smirked – and pointed. She slapped me and asked, “Who are you, John Travolta?” Had it all been a joke, the punch-line would be that we both smoked a cigarette. But it wasn't a joke, it was just Lisa. She licked the milky gob off and, with my secretary's lip again suitable for family viewing, we got back to business.

  “It isn't what I see,” I repeated. “It's what I do not see. I do not see Reggie Riaz or his wife, Rocio. Neither one is there.”

  “That's significant?”

  “Don't you read Sherlock Holmes?” I asked. “It's inexplicable. That makes it significant. In all of the other tapes,” I said, pointing at the television screen, “the Riaz couple are right there, beside Gina Bridges, behind Delp. But they're not in Atlanta.”

  “What's that mean?” Lisa asked.

  “Ah. That is the question,” I said. “What does it mean? Reggie told me he's never missed a crusade. But he missed this one; the night Katherine Delp was murdered.” I couldn't help but smile. I'd finally found a reason.

  “Doesn't seem like much to put you onto this Reggie Riaz as a suspect.”

  “It isn't what put me on to him.” It suddenly occurred that, if I didn't shut up, I was going to have to tell her about… things I didn't want to tell anyone about. Don't get me wrong. I trusted Lisa with my life. But I wasn't prepared to foist my questionable mental state on her. She was staring with that patented look of curiosity. “They are all suspects,” I told her. “Every praying one, down to the kid who hands out their programs.” There came a loud and persistent knock at my door, startling us both. My smile disappeared.

  “I'll get it,” Lisa said all signs of her smile gone too.

  I shut off the tape machine and the television while she opened the door. Standing there in the same dim light was what at first glance looked to be a rabid moose. A closer look showed it was only Frank Wenders stinking up the doorway. If by then Lisa hadn't recognized him, his growl made his identity plain. “Blake here?” The man was little more than a traveling belch.

  “Yeah. Come on in, Lieutenant.”

  Despite Lisa's invitation, the fat bastard still seemed to barge in like a pig through a sale barn gate. He filled up my living room, grimly proud, on display, but I wouldn't have given a wooden nickel for him. In an admittedly weak attempt at playing host, I groaned, “Hello, Frank,” then, bowing to an obvious fact, added, “Slumming are you?”

  Wenders ignored me and eyeballed my apartment instead. Up until that moment I'd been spared his company. Now that he'd crossed the threshold, he took it in from kitchen, to hall, to living room and gave no indication he was impressed. He stopped snooping when he spotted our food. He grunted. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner.”

  “Think nothing of it,” I told him. “But why aren't you out planting evidence in the Temple of Majesty choir loft or hitting Delp's newsboy with a rubber hose?”

  “We are,” he said, turning to me. “Now it's your turn. You and I gotta talk.”

  “Pull up a french fry,” I told him.

  Other than his chins, he was a statue. Eventually he said, “We need to talk alone.”

  That didn't appeal to me at all. I held up my end of the stare-down for nearly a full minute before admitting to myself it was useless. He wasn't going to go away until we had his talk. Both of us turned to Lisa. One of the many things I like best about her is she usually gets it and she certainly did that time. “I'll get my things.” She did, hiding whatever frustrations (if any) she had. With her jacket back on and her half of the meal gathered back up, she turned and forced a smile. “I'll see you at the office. Good night, Lieutenant.”

  After she'd gone I asked Wenders if he'd like a drink.

  “I'd like an explanation.”

  I shrugged that off. “I can only guarantee a drink.”

  “I can guarantee you an arrest and an indictment for murder if you don't play ball with me.”

  If I hadn't been so tired, I'd have stared incredulously. As it was I just stared. “When did I become a murder suspect?”

  “You're wasting all that innocence. You've been a suspect since the morning Katherine Delp was found.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “You know, Blake, your explanation for your car being spotted outside of Delp's place was so lame that I can't wait, I am absolutely dyin', for you to tell me why your prints are at the murder scene?”

  “My prints?”

  “Yeah. It's actually none of your business until your trial, but your left hand print was on the window sill outside of Delp's living room. You're a naughty boy. You was lookin' through the window. Now, what was you lookin' at?”

  I stared like Willie Mays judging a tricky one. The difference being that Say Hey played center and I was all alone in left field.

  “This can get shittier, ya' know,” Wenders assured me. “Any clue why we might dust an exterior window sill?”

  “Clueless.”

  “Oh, now you come on. That was the easy question. I expected more from a street savvy Private Eye. The murderer went in through the window. Now, do you have any idea why your footing was so bad you needed the sill for balance? Don't ya' remember where you were standing?”

  I was sucking hind tit but it finally dawned on me. “A rock garden?”

  “See, now you're cookin' with gas. The same rock garden from which,” he pointed at me, “the murderer picked up the weapon. One large rock with which,” he pointed at me again, “the murderer bashed in Ka
therine Delp's once fairly attractive noggin. Now, would you like to share information? Or shall we take a ride together?”

  “This is bull, Frank.”

  “I swear to God I'll arrest you and hand you over to that prick DA for an indictment.”

  “You could indict that chair. You know I didn't kill Katherine Delp.” I might as well have been talking to my shoe. I sighed in partial (which from me to Wenders is complete) surrender. “What do you want?”

  “Before I walk out that door, I'm gonna find out what you were doin' at the scene of a murder.”

  “I wasn't at the scene of a murder. That's what I've told you all along. I was at the mansion to keep an eye on Mrs. Delp. That was it; babysit her and the house until she went safely to bed. She did so at 2:40 am o'clock. Then I went home.”

  “You left out the murder.”

  “There was no murder while I was there. I repeat, she went safely to bed.”

  “It won't do. I find your facts devoid of facts.”

  “You couldn't find a walrus in a phone booth, Wenders. The story is going to have to do because, as far as I was concerned, that was all there was to it. Now I'm a clam.”

  “Go ahead, Blake, do everything ya' can to give yourself a hard time. When it all collapses on you, I'll piss myself laughing.” He shook his thick head as if he found it all so very disappointing. “I'm telling you now, if we weren't friends –”

  I cut him off. I could take a lot of things, but I couldn't take that. “We're not friends, Frank. We've never been friends.”

  With such terse remarks on my part, I did as promised and showed him how pretty my lips were when they didn't move. He blustered and barked, threatened and growled, but in the end having nothing more than my hand print at a place where I admitted being, Wenders managed to collect enough sense to leave. Good riddance.

  Chapter Thirteen

  That was twice I'd squirted out of the lieutenant's hands but, if I knew Wenders, the third time was going to be the charm. Those pictures were burning a hole in my desk and I still didn't know whether or not I was withholding evidence in a murder case. I had to corral Nicholas Nikitin. It was almost a miracle that the police had not stumbled onto him yet, had not interviewed anyone from the church that knew what Katherine had been up to and had mentioned him, or analyzed a spot on the bed linens that wasn't what it ought to have been. Okay, maybe it's overstating it to use the word miracle. Wenders couldn't find a hippo in a turnstile – but eventually even he'd get there. Sooner rather than later the young man's name, if not his relationship to the victim, would pop up and the lazy lieutenant would go a-hunting. If he was hidden in the city, tucked away in some rat hole, the cops – even a single-celled animal like Wenders – would find him before I could. That was just math and common sense. But my guess was Nikitin was a thinker. Admittedly he'd gotten into this mess by thinking with his little head instead of his big one, but a thinker just the same. If my theory that he wasn't a killer was accurate, then he wasn't a rat either. So he wasn't hiding in a rat hole. Which meant he wasn't in the city. Asking his brothers for help was pointless. Had they been of a mind, they'd have gotten a hold of me and they hadn't. They didn't trust me and my nose was too sore to try to change their minds.