Devil in the Deadline (10 page)

“Miles around, probably.” Kyle looked out the windows, interest clear in his tone. “How do I let you talk me into this stuff?”

“I'm charming?”

“There's that.”

Janis and Bobby McGee were making better time than we were. I drummed my fingers on the wheel to the rhythm of the song and glanced at the clock again as the orderly line of cars marched toward Golightly's Way of Life church. Which we couldn't even see yet. I squinted at a speck on the horizon, my thoughts returning to the tangled web this murder had become.

If Landers was right, the PD had it covered. If he was wrong, I had two scenarios: either someone from the streets killed Jasmine (Violet, maybe, or someone else nobody had mentioned), or her past caught up with her. A past that had something to do with this ministry outfit.

We followed the waving of more orange-vested men to a parking spot in a concrete sea of cars and hiked a half-mile to the entrance. I stopped twice to dump pebbles out of my coral Stuart Weitzman slingbacks. “It didn't occur to me I was in for a workout when I got dressed,” I grouched, hanging on Kyle's arm and sliding my shoe back onto my foot.

I noticed several other women wearing sneakers or flats with their dresses and made a mental note for next time.

Pausing under the grand stone archway, I stared at the thirty-foot 3D version of the cross from Jasmine's doodles. There was no way people could be eyeballing me because they knew why I was there, but I couldn't shake the feeling we were getting the once-over from every direction. I shot Kyle a glance from the corner of my eye. “Let's go see what all the mystery is about?” I murmured.

“Following you, Lois,” he whispered, laying a hand on the small of my back.

I stepped into a whoosh of conditioned air, barely registering the metal logo crosses dotting the walls and doors before a woman in a long pink dress and plain ivory ballet flats rushed to my side.

“Welcome to Way of Life.” She smiled through at least three layers of peach lipstick. “We're so happy you chose to worship with us today! If you'll come right this way, there's just a few things we need to go over with you before the service starts.”

11.

  

Natural talents

  

Another woman appeared at my other elbow. They hustled me into a side room, leav
ing Kyle with his jaw slightly loose.

The one in pink shut the door and turned to me with the same smile still pasted in place. Her cohort, in a pale blue dress with cap sleeves and no shape to speak of, chirped a welcome from behind me.

Did I give off some sort of reporter pheromone? Had we driven into Stepford? My brain whirled through possibilities, each more insane than the last.

The welcome wagon faced me, still grinning.

Or maybe not so insane.

“Good morning, ladies.” I tried to keep my voice even. Body combat, five days a week for six years. A highly-trained federal agent outside the door. We could take them if we had to. I was almost sure.

“Good morning,” the pink one said. “I'm Jenny Sue.”

“And I'm Mary Lynn,” the blue one chimed in.

“And you are?” they asked me in unison, widening their eyes and their smiles to slightly less than maniacal.

“Leigh.” My middle name popped through my lips before I had time to close my mind around the intention. The subconscious is a funny thing. “And thank you. Nice to meet you.”

“We're so glad you've chosen to worship with us this morning,” pink Jenny repeated.

“But we need to talk with you for just a moment.” Blue Mary turned for a row of cabinets that lined the far wall.

I backed a casual step toward the door, endless horror-movie-brain-sucking possibilities for what could be behind doors one, two, and three dancing through my head as I watched their vacant smiles.

Mary turned back with a pair of lemon yellow Havianas that matched the soft summer cardigan I wore over my knee-length turquoise sundress. Her smile hadn't budged.

“If you'll just leave your shoes in the cabinet and put these on, we can show you and your,” she glanced at my left hand, “gentleman friend to your seats.”

Um. “You—you want my shoes?” Of all the things I would have guessed were in those cabinets, flip flops hovered just above Leprechauns on my list.

Blue Mary held out the flip flops. “Insurance, you understand. Carpeted stairs and shoes like those don't mix well.”

I smiled. “I appreciate the concern, but I'm the least sue-happy person in Virginia. And I've climbed less stable things than stairs in higher heels than these.” I turned for the door and Jenny's hand closed around my wrist.

“I'm afraid it's policy,” she said, her voice just a scoche tighter. “Yours will be waiting for you after service is over.”

What. The. Ever-loving. Hell?

I focused a laser stare on her hand. She removed it. When I raised my eyes back to hers, I held her gaze for a four count.

This craziness (insurance, my ass) before I'd made it three feet in the door had my inner Lois bouncing around on a curiosity high. No way I was getting thrown out over footwear.

I smiled. “I'm holding you to your word, now,” I said, keeping my tone impressively airy. I slipped off my shoes and watched as Mary I-couldn't-recall-her-second-name picked my babies up like they had cooties and settled them on a high shelf behind the second set of doors.

I slid my feet into the Havianas, and nearly fell on my face turning back for the door. “Are they coated in Vaseline?” I muttered, shooting a hand out for the wall. Louder and brighter: “I appreciate the welcome, ladies. I do think I can find my own seat. Is the balcony safe?”

They smiled, a glad-to-be-rid-of-me glint in their eyes.

The feeling was totally mutual.

Curling my toes and stepping carefully, I picked my way back to Kyle, who pushed off the wall and put a hand under my elbow. “You still in there? Who was Scarlett O'Hara's oldest child? What was Aikman's career passing record?”

“Wade Hampton Hamilton.” I grinned, grabbing his arm. “And twenty-eight ninety-eight of forty-seven fifteen for almost thirty-three-thousand yards.”

“What the hell was that about?” Kyle flinched when I poked him.

“Church. Watch your language,” I hissed, looking up. “Notice anything different about me?”

The bridge of his nose wrinkled. “You're shorter.” He looked at my feet. “What happened to your shoes?”

“They took them. Said I couldn't go into the sanctuary in them.” I tugged on his elbow. “How's this for irony? I can't walk in these flip flops they forced on me. Slow down.”

“What? Why?”

“I wear heels too much? I dunno. I can't remember the last time I had a pair of these on. My feet are sliding all over creation.”

“No, why did they take your heels?”

“They said it was an insurance liability. If I fall down the steps or some nonsense.”

“It looks like that's more likely to happen with the ones they gave you.” He turned for the stairs.

Pausing at the bottom, I stepped out of the Havianas and picked them up. “If they didn't want my bare feet on their floors, they shouldn't have taken my shoes,” I grouched, taking the steps two at a time when organ music started on the other side of the wall.

A cursory glance told me the other women all knew about the footwear rule. I saw an impressive array of flats in every color of the rainbow, but not a single shoe with a hint of a heel. Why?

We found seats in the upper nosebleed, staying on our feet and singing along with three hymns before a man-shaped speck walked to a podium in the middle of a stage that was bigger than my house. And backed by a Mack-Truck-sized gold cross. With silver and copper rays shooting from it to the edges of the wall. These folks got some mileage out of that trademark.

A jumbotron flashed on and showed a young, handsome man with thick bronze hair and violet eyes. He flashed a row of perfectly-bonded teeth and welcomed the thousands of people in the room to the Way of Life.

He raised his arms and everyone stood, turning to say good morning and shake hands. I scanned the room surreptitiously, thanking ten people for blessing me and wishing them a blessed day in return.

Half a football field from us, on the far side of the balcony, I spotted a three-row section of people dressed in identical white Oxfords, heads bowed in prayer while everyone around them blessed their neighbor.

Huh.

When the hymns began again, I poked Kyle. “What do you think is up with the prayer warriors over there? They didn't get up and do the welcome thing.”

So far, that and the jumbotron—and the shoe police—were the only things that didn't seem like normal church.

“There's a school here. Like a private Bible college. Except, you know, not accredited by anyone,” Kyle whispered.

I nodded. I knew that. I also knew there were more students enrolled in it than three rows would hold. I started to whisper back to him when I noticed the blue-haired woman on his other side, feigning disinterest in our conversation. Stepford fresh in my mind, I decided to leave the analysis for the ride back to Richmond.

Golightly took the lectern to thunderous applause about halfway through the hour. He spoke eloquently and passionately about evil, forgiveness, and loyalty for twenty or so minutes, my eyebrows going up by degrees. I could've sworn some of his words were about Jasmine. “The Good Book tells us he who brings trouble on his family will inherit only wind, and the fool will play servant to the wise,” he intoned.

More applause followed his closing prayer, which begged for generous hearts. Subtle.

He took a seat that too closely resembled a throne for me to keep an entirely straight face when it came up on the screens and I coughed over a laugh. Mrs. I'm-not-really-watching-you cut her eyes to me.

A small army of suits filed to the front of each seating section, offering plates in hand. By the time one made it to us, it held a pile of twenties that would keep me in shoes for a year or more. Kyle dropped another one in and got an approving nod from blue hair when he passed her the plate.

I let my eyes roam while everyone else bowed their heads for the offering prayer. Better than a hundred collection plates filed out through the side doors, each tottering high with bills and checks. And that didn't count what the TV audience phoned or wire-transferred in. Philosophers all the way back to Jesus believed money corrupted.

There was a lot of it going backstage at Way of Life.

Everyone stood to sing a last song, then turned for the exits. As Kyle and I shuffled toward the stairs with the crowd, I turned back to the knot of people praying on the other side of the balcony.

They hadn't moved—except for one guy in the front row. The only one in the group not wearing the academy uniform, he had a shock of cropped dark hair and a twill blazer that had seen better days. His head was turned at an odd angle, his eyes wide behind his square glasses.

I'd swear he was looking straight at me.

  

Kyle and I rehashed every blip the entire drive back to civilization, with nothing but questions to show for our musing when I dropped him off.

Yes, the group of people praying as though no one else existed was different, but who knew why they were doing it? Maybe someone was sick. Maybe it was an assignment.

Yes, it was a lot of money. A lot lot of money. But taking in cash isn't a crime. Kyle said he'd ask around about tax records, but it would take time.

Yes, Golightly was too smooth. He sailed past charming and into used-car-salesman-with-a-better-smile territory. Was he a criminal mastermind? Kyle said he'd put money on me learning how to walk in the flip flops before we could find proof.

Pink Jenny had returned my shoes with a smile and a halfhearted invitation to come back soon. Did they dislike all outsiders, or was I special? No way to tell.

And then there were the crosses. Way of Life was covered up with the logo Jasmine had doodled in her journal. Like, indoctrinated-to-the-point-of-scribbling-it-mindlessly covered up. And the trademark meant she hadn't seen it elsewhere.

Since I didn't want to tell anyone (even Kyle) about the journals yet, I kept it to myself. But any uncertainty I might have had about Jasmine and Way of Life being connected washed away like a sand castle at high tide. The key to her identity was there. I just had some digging to do.

Playing fetch with Darcy, I was so lost in thought I didn't hear the engine shut off behind me. Or the gate open.

“Are you on some kind of mission to see how many dangerous leads you can chase in a week?” Joey's voice behind me was such a shock I didn't consider his words until I spun around—and almost fell, thanks to an ill-placed elm root. Graceful I'm not, but good grief.

His arm shot out to steady me, and I caught myself by bracing both forearms against his chest. I raised quizzical eyes to his and he held my gaze for a long second before he sighed something that sounded like “dammit” and lowered his lips to mine.

Oh. My.

I froze, my brain failing to process his presence, let alone his tongue tracing the seam of my mouth. He pulled me closer, one arm winding around my lower back. I fell against him, parting my lips.

His mouth moved urgently over mine, searching for an answer I wasn't sure I had. At first, anyway. I slid my hands up over his broad shoulders as his moved up my back, thrills skating across my skin and fireworks in my brain obliterating even a hint of anything else.

He laid a trail of tiny kisses across my jaw to my ear and whispered, “Why are you so stubborn?”

“Natural talent?” I wasn't sure how I got enough air to breathe the reply with my pulse hammering so fast. I didn't want to admit, especially to myself, how much I'd missed him. He smelled so good. Cologne, sure, but not overdone and floating around something else that was positively magical. Months of dreaming about that smell, and I still couldn't put a finger on exactly what it was.

Right then, I could put my whole hands on him. I took full advantage, curling my fingers into his hair as his mouth moved over my collarbone.

Minutes (hours?) later, I noticed Darcy's plaintive bark, her tiny claws clacking on the back door. I came up for air (and sanity), standing up straight. Someone had loosened Joey's tie. And half-unbuttoned his shirt. A deep breath told me my bra was unhooked and his hands had traveled south.

He let go of me and ran one hand through his hair, which porcupined out in every direction from all my groping.

“Hey there.” He grinned and my pulse galloped a few more beats.

“Hey, yourself.” I shook my head, stepping out of his arms and leading him into the house. “That's a heck of a greeting.”

He cleared his throat, buttoning his shirt and stooping to scratch the dog's ears. “Sorry about that.”

“No need for apologies.” I winked as I shut the door. “For the kiss, anyhow.”

Grabbing two Diet Dr Peppers from my fridge, I followed him into the living room. My pulse finally slowed when I took a seat across from him and put his soda on the table.

“Mixed signals, much?” I asked, sloughing off the romance fog and leveling a serious gaze at him. “You sounded annoyed before we—well. Care to tell me what brought you here?”

He sat back and raised an eyebrow. “Me, mixed signals? Your friend said you spent the night with your ex last weekend.”

“I did not.”

“But you spent the morning with him today.”

“I was wor—” I stopped, tilting my head and narrowing my eyes at him. “How the hell do you know that? Are you having me followed?”

For the first time since I'd set eyes on Joey a year ago, I felt uneasy in his presence. I threaded my clammy fingers together and tried to look more mad than scared.

He rolled his eyes. “You say that like I don't know you at all. I'm not stupid. I just have friends.”

“Why on Earth would any of your friends notice who I spent my morning with unless you asked them to?”

“Because you took an ATF agent into Simon Golightly's church.”