Devil in the Deadline (19 page)

“Of course.”

“They had a code. So he would write things to her like about the beauty of the grass, and it was supposed to mean her eyes. Or something.”

I nodded. “How does one earn letter privileges?”

“Being faithful. Toeing the line. Getting praise from the ministers. You know—God telling them you could get letters.”

“I'm not sure I see God concerning himself with my method of correspondence.”

“Their God concerns himself with everything. Especially how much money you have. Some people who work here drive fifty miles each way in the most awful cars. No air conditioning, and it's getting hot. No heat in the winter. They sincerely believe if they're faithful enough and believe enough, God will bless them with a better car.”

I scribbled that down, then reached into my pocket and tried to find the voice recorder on my BlackBerry from memory. Pretty sure I took a picture of the inside of my pants.

“How does this pass for logic?” I blurted, biting down on the tip of my tongue as the words slid out anyway. “If they really believe God cares about such small details, then why wouldn't a benevolent diety want people to be comfortable?”

“Couldn't tell you,” Elise said. “They don't like when I ask questions. That's how I got moved from the offices to the coffee bar.”

“You used to work in the offices?” I asked.

“Just as an assistant. Answering phones, filing papers.”

Watching people?

Thirty minutes of careful questions all but confirmed my suspicions about Wolterhall. He was from California. He liked women, but of course no one acknowledged that. The younger and prettier, the better, according to Elise. Yes, he was married. He handled all the ministry's financial affairs. And they overlooked his extramarital ones in return. Holy cow.

“How many women are we talking about?” I asked.

“I was only there for about two months, but I saw seven,” Elise said.

Seven. That was playing the field, all right. It was damned near a whole softball team.

“And his wife?”

“The wives don't stay with the ministers the night before a service.” Her tone was beyond sincere and straight into matter of fact. Her face said she believed what she was saying, no matter how kooky I thought it sounded, so I held mine carefully neutral. No judgment. Only facts. “They have to be alone to receive God's anointing. You can speak to them if they talk to you first, but not unless.”

“But the women he was with?”

“Needed saving. I asked about it, and Miss Jenny strongly suggested I never speak of it again. The next day I learned how to make the reverend's favorite latte.”

I nodded slowly. Needed saving from him, maybe. “Young women from the congregation?”

“Newer ones. Never the same one twice. Usually the ones who came in wearing heels. I told you about the lustful thoughts and the shoes. My guess is Mrs. Wolterhall got them banned from the whole church. None of us were allowed to wear them already, but they started with the flip flop welcome and the insurance thing about a year ago.”

“Does Wolterhall have an assistant?”

“Matthew. He's the only boy who works in the offices.”

Damn. I paused. Jasmine was pregnant before she left.

“And Jasmine? Who did she work with?”

“Pastor Brady. He's the reverend's right hand.”

Pastor Brady. Mister B? I'd have to check him out.

“He like pretty girls, too?”

She shook her head. “His wife is a knockout. They seem really in love.”

Strike one.

“How well do you know Matthew?”

“We're friends. Kind of,” she said.

“Was he seeing Jasmine?”

She started to shake her head, then paused. “Dating is a distraction,” she said. “From the work of the Lord. I think she had a boyfriend, but I don't know who. Nobody talks about it.”

“Can you find out? Without getting in trouble?”

“I can try.” She nodded, an idea forming behind her blue eyes. “You want to talk to people, right?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Can you come back on Saturday? We don't have classes, and the offices are closed. Just the shops and stuff are open.”

“What do you have in mind?” I asked.

She leaned closer, her face lit up like a mischievous child's, and outlined a plan.

I listened, my thoughts racing ahead. Just as she stopped talking and smiled, the floor vibrated and her eyes popped wide. “I have to get you out of here. We can't have anyone in the dorm but another student.”

I grabbed a photo off the stack. “Can I borrow this?”

She nodded and peeked out into the hallway. I followed when she waved the all-clear.

Too much spinning through my head. My fingers ached for a pen. Or a keyboard.

I finally had names—not just Ruth's, either. The back-home boyfriend and the parents hung just below Wolterhall and Violet on my suspect list.

And those were only the people I knew about. What if Jasmine had a dorm romance? I wanted to talk to the ministers more than I wanted Eunice's white chocolate banana bread.

I climbed into the car and started the engine.

Saturday.

2
0.

  

Lingering glances

  

W
ay of Life vanished in the rearview, the adrenaline rush that went with being right making my head a little hazy as I dialed Aaron's cell.

“You psychic or something?” he said by way of hello.

“Nope.” I stopped at the intersection with the main road, wondering which way to town. I tried right first. “But I have good instincts. Why?”

He chuckled. “I just picked up the phone to call you. Can you come by here?”

“Not for a while,” I said. “I'm in Fauquier.”

“Landers has a lead he wants to talk to you about. In person. We're getting slightly paranoid, thanks to your blogger friend. When are you free?”

“First thing in the morning?” I asked. “I have dinner plans I can't break.”

“Sure,” he said. “So, what did you find out there?”

I took a deep breath. We were both on cell phones. If Girl Friday had figured out how to listen in, I had bigger problems than a blog with two hundred followers. “Between you and me, right?” I dropped my voice, anyway. “Until I say otherwise?”

“Of course.”

“Ruth Galloway. Her name is Ruth Galloway.”

“Who her?”

“Jasmine.”

A sharp intake of breath followed by silence put a goofy grin on my face.

Home. Run.

“Holy shit, Nichelle. Where did you get that?”

“Magic.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I, kind of. Maybe I am a little psychic. Following my gut has rarely failed me.”

“This time it led you to the TV preacher. Is that where you found her name?”

“I talked to a girl who goes to the Bible college he runs. Turns out, our Ruth was this girl's BFF. Both of them not quite drinking the Kool-Aid. She actually changed her name to Jasmine while she was there—something about the vines that grow on their porches and hating her uber-controlling parents. Disappeared suddenly after a strange illness a little over a year ago.”

I knew the silence on the other end of the line meant he was taking down every word. “Hometown: Wallingford, South Carolina. The folks are big fans of Golightly.”

“Got it,” he said. “I'll find them.”

“Have you checked specifically with the Fauquier sheriff's office for missing persons?”

“Fauquier has a sheriff?”

I laughed. “I'm headed there now. I'll let you know what I find.”

“Nichelle.” He paused. “This is—thanks for calling.”

“I keep my word, Aaron. I still have faith you'll do the same.”

“Not that I've earned that this week, but I appreciate it.”

I clicked off the call and pulled over to the shoulder, searching for an address for the local sheriff. GPS said I was halfway there. I followed robot-woman's directions to a squat, cinderblock building on a sparse main street. A feed store and a bank were the station's only company.

Parking the car, I climbed out and went inside.

Two uniformed deputies played cards across a single desk. Their heads swiveled to the door in unison when the little brass bell over my head tinkled as I stepped through.

Their faces betrayed shock for a few seconds, both of them scanning me from head to toe—twice—before they scrambled to stand and spoke in unison. “Can we help you, ma'am?”

I smiled. “I hope so. I'm looking for information on a missing person's case.”

The taller one shouldered past his buddy to get to the counter first. “We'd love to be of assistance, but I'm afraid we don't get too many of those around here. Missing horses or hunting dogs are more regular for us.”

“It should be easy to find, then,” I said. “Ruth Galloway, age twenty-four. Tall, dark hair. Pretty.”

The shorter one tipped his broad-brimmed hat backward. “Don't ring a bell.”

“It would have been more than a year ago. Perhaps the sheriff would remember?”

“Don ain't in today,” the shorter one said. “I can try him on the CB. He's out taking care of some county business this afternoon.” He paused. “I'm Buck, and this is Malcom.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I'm Nichelle.” I stopped there. Police reports are a matter of public record, and I wasn't ready to tell them why I wanted this information.

“Where'd she live?” Buck asked, moving to a file cabinet in the far corner.

“She was a student at Way of Life's Bible academy,” I said.

A quick look passed between them.

“I see,” Malcom said, leaning on the counter. “The thing is, ma'am—”

“Malcom.” Buck's tone held an unmistakable warning. Malcom turned a questioning gaze on his cards partner, who had yet to open a file drawer.

Buck shook his head slightly. Almost like he thought I wouldn't notice.

“The thing is what?” I pasted on my best confused smile.

Buck stepped away from the file cabinet. “I'm afraid we can't help you. We don't ever have no trouble out of the reverend and his folks.”

“You didn't even look for the report,” I said, keeping my voice even.

“No need. I know we didn't take one from the church. We'd remember something like that.”

Sure. I glanced between the two of them, Buck's face frozen in a much less welcoming smile, and Malcom suddenly preoccupied with his shiny black shoes.

“I see,” I said. “And if I wanted to ask the sheriff about that, when might he be available?”

“I'm not sure of his schedule for the rest of the week, ma'am.” Buck kept the smile in place as he talked. Creepy.

“Could you try his radio?” I asked.

“I don't want to interrupt his business just now.” Still with the smile.

But you were going to before I said the reverend's name. I didn't bother to say it. One more crazy piece for this puzzle, though it was at least pretty easy to see where this one fit. Golightly had money and wanted to be left alone. These guys were happy to oblige in exchange for the occasional under-the-table envelope stuffed with cash. Fantastic.

I smiled and nodded, turning back for the door. Buck hustled around the counter and opened it for me. His attempt at nonchalant as his eyes lingered on my plate failed. Especially since his lips moved while he read.

Shit.

I peeled out of the lot and dialed Kyle's cell.

“Hey you.” His voice was warm.

“I was right about the girl,” I said.“Ruth Galloway, twenty-four, of some little mountain mining town in South Carolina. Student at the Bible academy. I just pissed off the local sheriff's deputy, who I'm pretty sure is on Golightly's off-the-books payroll. And he got my plate number on my way out.”

Kyle was quiet.

“You still there?” I asked after thirty seconds of dead air.

He huffed out a short sigh. “Keeping you out of trouble is a full-time job. Where are you now?”

“Speeding back toward Richmond. My mom is here. We have dinner plans.”

“Don't speed.” The edge in his voice could have sliced through steel. “You're handing those yahoos an excuse to arrest you. Stay five under until you get clear of the county by twenty miles, and call me when you get back to Richmond.”

“Want to come to dinner? I know Mom would love to see you.”

“Can I meet you at your house when I get out of here?” he asked.

“Sure. I'll be there in a couple hours. Have to run by the office.”

I clicked off the call and tossed the phone in the cupholder, my brain racing way faster than the posted speed limit. It wasn't proof. But it was more than I'd had that morning by a hundredfold. And it had Charlie beat by a country mile. All things Bob would be pleased with. I kept a paranoid eye on the rearview all the way into downtown, piecing a story together in my head. Swinging into the
Telegraph's
garage, I hurried upstairs and flipped my laptop open. Kyle and Mom would enjoy catching up if I was a few minutes late.

  

The
Richmond Telegraph
has learned the identity of the young woman found brutally murdered on Belle Isle earlier this month. In an exclusive interview, a friend of the victim identified her from sketches as Ruth Galloway, 24, of Wallingford, South Carolina.

Richmond police were cautiously optimistic about the turn in the case Thursday, though department spokesman Aaron White said they'd wait for confirmation from a second source.

The RPD made an arrest in the case this week, holding a young man who was a friend of the victim's for the past year on suspicion of being involved in her death.

  

I paused, not wanting to tip my hand about Golightly and Way of Life for a number of reasons—and keeping my exclusive wasn't even at the top of the list. Leaving that out made the story thinner, but it was still an earth-shattering headline with the amount of space and airtime that had been devoted to the mystery woman in the past ten days.

  

White said the victim's identity could move the investigation along faster.

  

I recapped the investigation, leaving out the part where Landers was still looking for Son of Sam while an innocent young man sat in custody. There'd be time to take the PD to task for that when everything had been set straight. And I had a way slimmer chance of making sure that happened if I pissed off the brass tonight.

I searched for Wanda Galloway on Whitepages and found only one in Wallingford. Bingo.

Punching the number into my desk phone, I held my breath, letting it out in a whoosh when a machine picked up.

Hoping Aaron had talked to them already, I left my cell number and a deliberately vague message. Just in case he hadn't.

I attached the story to an email to Bob and stood, looking toward his door. His light was still on.

I ran to his office, tapping on the door before I plowed around the corner and stopped short. Andrews was in my usual chair, an irritated look on his face as he turned to me.

Bob raised his bushy white eyebrows. “You okay, Nichelle?”

“I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I have an exclusive for tomorrow. Is the front already gone?” I glanced at the Virginia Tech clock on the wall. Seven-fifteen. Nothing like playing to the wire.

Bob shook his head. “It's done, but they haven't started the run. What've you got?”

“The murder victim? I got her name. And a photo. Nobody else has it.”

“Did you call White?”

“I had to. He promised not to give it to anyone 'til we run it. So if we can get it in the morning edition and wait 'til the racks fill to put it on the web, we'll sell some papers with it.”

“I do like the sound of that,” Andrews said, standing. “Nice work, Miss Clarke.”

“Thank you.” I couldn't keep the frost out of my voice. I had a feeling I knew why he was there, and I didn't appreciate it.

Bob turned for his computer monitor. “It sounds like I have some rearranging to do, Rick, if you'll excuse me.” He didn't sound apologetic in the least.

Andrews nodded. “Thank you for your time, Bob.”

Bob nodded. I shut the door behind Andrews when he left. “What gives?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” Bob asked absently, his attention on my story.

“Bob,” I sighed. “What did he want?”

“Same thing he wants every day. To try to talk me into retiring and handing the reins over to Les. He's not going to win. I plan to drop dead right here in this chair.”

“Not funny, chief,” I said.

“But true.” He grinned, turning his focus back to the screen. “Nice. Do I want to know where you got it?”

No. “A source. I have art, too.” I pulled the photo from my bag and handed it over.

“Pretty.” He shook his head, passing it back. “See how big Larry can make it without losing quality. Tell him to let me know.”

“Yes, sir.” I stood and turned for the door.

“Nichelle.” Bob leaned back in his chair, a smile softening the worried lines in his face when I turned back. “This is good work.”

“Thank you.” I grinned. “You think we're okay waiting for morning? I mean, with Girl Friday lurking about?” Damned never-ending deadline. I was not a fan.

He drummed his fingers on his mouse. “I'll post it to the web at eleven-oh-one—TV won't have time to get it on air without giving us credit. The rack sales will still get a bump. This search has been a big story.”

I nodded. “G'night, chief.”

Larry scanned and sharpened the photo and emailed Bob a two-column-by-four-inch image, handing me the original back. I tucked it into my wallet.

I thanked Larry for his help and he swiveled his chair to face me. “I meant to call you earlier today, but it looks like I wouldn't have caught up with you, anyhow. I worked some magic on your other photo. Where's the one you're trying to match it to?”

I leaned over his desk and pulled Wolterhall's picture up on the Way of Life website. Larry studied it for a minute when I stood, then raised one unruly gray eyebrow. “Way of Life Ministries? What are you into now?”

“Don't ask,” I said. “Trust me. You don't want to know. How much of a chance this is the same dude from the other photo?”

He opened a program on his laptop and moved it to the giant monitor in front of him, pulling up a much sharper version of the
Register's
photo. I peered over his shoulder and whistled. “Okay, Merlin. That's some magic if I've ever seen it.”

“Thanks. The facial recognition software we use to tag images for the website should tell us if this is the same guy. But my photo eye says there's a good chance it is. What did he do?”

“The one in the old news shot was an armed child molester.”

“And you think he works for this ministry outfit? Nice.” Larry pulled the photo from the Way of Life site over.