Accused: A Rosato & Associates Novel (38 page)

“That still doesn’t add up to $50,000, does it? In less than a year?” Mary became aware that Sisters Helen, Christina, and Rita, along with Brother Washington, were inching their way over, to hear what was going on.

“Well, there was one thing that I should mention, but I don’t have any proof of that or anything, either.”

“That’s okay, this isn’t a court. This is just me asking you what you know.”

“I heard that there was a single contributor, like that somebody donated a mighty big check, on the condition that it be anonymous.”

Mary’s mouth went dry. That fit with her theory, too, because Rita would never have accepted the collection money, if she had known that it had cost her son his freedom. No loving mother would let her child sacrifice his life for her own, least of all Rita. “Who was the anonymous donor, and how much was the check for?”

“I don’t know the name of the donor, or the amount of the check, but I heard it was the lion’s share.”

“I thought so! There must be a record of this somewhere. There
has
to be a record of a check that large.” Mary was thinking aloud, but even as she said it, she realized that if there had been a payoff, it wouldn’t be by a personal check or by any other check that could be traced to the anonymous donor. “Was it a cashier’s check? It had to be.”

“I think it was, but I still don’t know the donor.”

“If I say his name, will you recognize it? Is it Tim Gage? He would have been young, like seventeen, and handsome. He drove a Jaguar convertible.”

“I don’t know, I’m so sorry.” Sister Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t know who it was. I never heard a name. I never saw him. I wasn’t involved with tithing at all, back then.”

“Somebody has to know his name.” Mary wasn’t about to stop now. She’d ask everybody in the congregation, if she had to. She felt sure it was Tim Gage, but she needed the proof. “Would the Pastor know?”

“I think he might, but I don’t know for sure.”

Mary looked wildly around the room. “Is he here? Where is he?”

“He’s not here. Only the Culinary Ministry is here. The church officials are over at Belmont Plateau, Fairmount Park, setting up for the picnic tomorrow, getting the permits and what not.”

Mary’s thoughts clicked ahead. “So whoever the donor was, he came here and delivered the check?”

“Yes, that’s what I assume happened.”

“Who would he have delivered it to? Brother Kelverson?”

“Yes.”

“When would he have delivered that, day or night? Do you have any surveillance cameras here, outside, or in the church office? Or a sign-in log?”

Sister Elizabeth laughed, waving her off. “Oh no, we don’t have anything like that. But if somebody brought a cashier’s check for Sister Rita’s operation, he would’ve done it at night, because Brother Kelverson had a day job at FedEx. He worked at night for the church, and that’s when he counted the tithes and did his paperwork.”

Mary tried a different tack. “Sister Elizabeth, do you know if the donor was white or black?”

“I heard he was white,” Sister Elizabeth answered, lowering her voice. “You know who I think it was? University Hospital. Sister Rita works there, and they love her there, she’s been with them for almost twenty years. I figured that they got together and took up a collection for her, and one of the hospital men brought it over.”

“No, that’s not it.” Mary was following her gut. “A group couldn’t collect that much money. This donor had to be somebody rich, somebody who could write a big check and not even blink, like this rich kid I’m thinking of, Tim Gage.”

“Excuse me,” said a voice behind Mary, and she turned around to see Brother Washington scowling at her with dark, glittering eyes, set deep into his gaunt, wrinkled face.

“I’m sorry, Brother Washington.” Mary knew she was shirking her assigned chore. “I’ll help you with the folding chairs, in just a minute. Can you wait?”

Brother Washington curled his thin lips. “No, not that. Sister Elizabeth is wrong. I was there. I saw the man give the check to Brother Kelverson.”

“You
did
?” Mary asked, incredulous.

“I was sweeping the office, and he came in.”

Mary gasped. “Was it a young white guy? Good-looking? Was his name Tim Gage?”

“No.” Brother Washington shook his graying head, which swiveled on a skinny neck that stuck out of his uniform’s collar. “He wasn’t white.”

“He was black?” Mary’s heart sank. Then it couldn’t be Tim Gage. It shot her whole theory.

Brother Washington shook his head again. “No. Not white or black. An Indian fella, in a tie and jacket. Brother Kelverson call him Mr. Patel.”

Chapter Forty-six

Mary couldn’t believe her ears. It didn’t make any sense. “Are you sure you heard him right?”

“Sure I’m sure,” Brother Washington answered, annoyed. “I may be old but I ain’t stupid.”

Rita frowned. “Now Brother Washington, please don’t talk that way to our guest, in the Lord’s House.”

Mary didn’t mind Brother Washington, who was a piker compared with The Tonys. She was already thinking it couldn’t be the same Neil Patel who worked at The Gardner Group, especially because Patel was such a common Indian name. “How old would you say this man was?”

“About forty years old.”

Mary didn’t understand. Neil Patel of The Gardner Group looked about forty-six years old now, so he would’ve been forty then. “What did he look like?”

“Tall. Thin. Bald.”

Mary thought the description fit Neil. “Did he have glasses?”

“Yes. He look like a lawyer. Act like one, too.”

Rita interjected, sternly, “Brother Washington, now that’s enough. Mary is a lawyer, and she’s here to help Lonnie.”

“Hmh!” Brother Washington sniffed.

“Brother Washington, let me show you a picture, and you tell me if this is the man, or not.” Mary was already reaching into her pocket for her BlackBerry, logging onto the Internet, and scrolling to the website of The Gardner Group. She enlarged the website with some difficulty, clicked About Us, then Legal, and found a thumbnail of Neil Patel and showed it to Brother Washington. “Is this the man you saw with the check?”

Brother Washington squinted hard at the BlackBerry screen. “How you expect me to see that lil bitty thing?”

Sister Helen took off her hot pink reading glasses and handed them to Brother Washington. “Here, put these on. They’ll help you.”

“Hmpf!
Pink?
No!”

“Please, Brother Washington.” Mary barely kept the impatience from her tone. She was dying to know if it was Neil Patel. “This is very important.”

Sister Rita stiffened, angering. “Brother Washington, I
know
you don’t want to make me lose my temper, no, you
don’t.
”

“Don’t need no pink eyeglasses,” Brother Washington muttered, but he accepted the glasses, put them on, and peered through them at the BlackBerry screen. “Yes. That him. That the man.”

Mary felt thunderstruck. She’d felt so close to solving the crime, but she didn’t understand anything, anymore. She had no idea why Neil Patel would be paying Lonnie Stall to plead guilty to Fiona’s murder. “You’re sure?” Mary asked, incredulous.

“How many times I gotta say?” Brother Washington glared through the glasses, his cloudy brown eyes magnified like brown marbles.

Rita touched Mary’s arm. “Tell me, what’s going on? Does this make a difference for Lonnie?”

“I don’t know yet.” Mary’s mind was already racing through the possibilities. If Neil wasn’t the killer, he had to be protecting whoever was the killer. She put her hands on Rita’s soft shoulders. “Don’t get your hopes up, okay? I didn’t expect his answer, but I don’t know if it tells us anything.”

“But who is that man?” Rita’s face was a mask of confusion. “Who is Neil Patel? What does he mean to you?”

“Let me get all the facts first. I have to get back to my office, as soon as I can.” Mary had to talk to Lou and Judy, and process the new information. “What are the chances of my getting a cab outside?”

Rita shook her head. “In this rain, not very good, that’s for sure, and the bus doesn’t stop near here, either. You can borrow my car if you like. If it helps Lonnie, I’d surely be happy to help.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer. Thank you.” Mary hated to inconvenience anyone, but she didn’t want to waste a minute. “Is your purse in the coat room? Let’s go get it.”

“This way.” Rita turned on her heel and hustled through the crowd, saying polite “excuse-me’s-please,” with Mary at her heels. The two women hurried into the anteroom, where Rita found her purse, extracted her keys, and handed them over, closing her eyes briefly, then opening them. “I just said a prayer to guide your footsteps, and I know He will. Thank you so very much for all you’re doing for my son, and the light of God is within you, I can see it plainly, no matter what Brother Washington says about lawyers.”

“Thank you so much.” Mary gave Rita a big hug, then rummaged around the garment rack for her purse and umbrella. “I should be back later tonight, don’t worry. I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s going on, and get the car back to you. Thanks again.”

Mary hurried out the door, opening the umbrella against the driving rain and leaving the church. She hustled back over the vacant lot, avoiding the puddles and watching her step over the shaky rubble footing. She reached Rita’s Altima, tucked the stalk of the umbrella under her arm, fumbled for the key fob, and chirped the car unlocked, then jumped inside, closing the umbrella and stowing it on the floor on the passenger side.

She started the ignition, flipped on the windshield wipers, and reversed out of the space, down the street. It was hard to see in the rain, but she cruised to the corner, took a right onto Aston Street, heading for Chestnut Street or one of the other major streets that would lead back to Center City. She couldn’t wait to tell Lou about Neil Patel, so she picked up her BlackBerry and pressed L, but didn’t hear the call ringing when she held the phone to her ear. She braked at the light and checked the screen, but the battery icon glowed a telltale red. The screen read,
INSUFFICIENT BATTERY FOR RADIO USAGE
.

“Damn!” Mary reached in the console where she kept her car charger, then she realized she wasn’t in her own car. She tossed the BlackBerry aside and looked around for a pay phone, but they were artifacts in most city neighborhoods. She looked out the window but all she could see was the pouring rain, making a blackish-gray haze of the rowhouses and parked cars. Lights shone dimly inside the homes, and pedestrians hurried along the pavement, mere shadows under umbrellas.

She braked at a traffic light, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, her thoughts going a mile a minute. She couldn’t imagine any connection between Neil Patel and Lonnie Stall, so she went backwards in time, trying to piece it together, brainstorming with herself. She’d believed that Tim Gage had paid Lonnie to take the fall for Fiona’s murder, so she applied the same reasoning to what she’d just learned about Neil Patel. If her reasoning held true, then Neil would’ve been paying Lonnie to take the fall for Fiona’s murder. The only possible conclusions were that Neil Patel had killed Fiona himself, or that Neil was covering up for someone else who had killed Fiona. And the latter conclusion was unspeakable, because Neil wouldn’t cover up for just anybody. He worked for the Gardners, and she didn’t even want to think that the killer could be one of the family.

Mary clenched the steering wheel, horrified. Even after the traffic light turned green, she remained stricken, at a standstill. A car honked behind her, and she came out of her reverie and hit the gas. The Altima lurched forward, and she had to brake quickly not to crash into a delivery van in front of her, its red taillights bathing her in crimson. She found herself stuck in an endless line of traffic, two lanes of congestion going both ways, and she’d never get to the office at this rate.

She took a right onto the next cross street, which she seemed to remember was a back way to Center City. She couldn’t read the sign for the rain, but she thought it was Huntingdon Avenue. It had to be a main artery because the Altima’s tires shimmied as they got caught in the groove of trolley tracks, which crisscrossed West Philly, still used by subway-surface cars. She wasn’t as familiar with this section of town, farther southwest than the University of Pennsylvania and her old stomping grounds.

The windows and windshield started to fog up, and she hit a button on the dashboard for the defrost. Air conditioning blew into her face, but the windshield didn’t clear and the only thing that got defrosted were her contact lens. The traffic finally started moving, and Mary took the first right she could, then a left, taking the shortcut downtown.

Her thoughts raced ahead, trying to make sense of Neil Patel or someone in the Gardner family as Fiona’s murderer. She had no idea what their motive would be, but either would have had ample opportunity to commit the murder. Patel and any family member would have had access anywhere in the new Gardner Group headquarters, including the second-floor conference room, where Fiona had been killed. Mary could imagine Neil or a family member going with the VIP clients who were being shown around, then slipping away from any client group without being noticed.

Mary took a right turn, following the shortcut, preoccupied with the details of how the killer could have committed the crime. She thought back to the layout of the reception area, with the public stairway leading to the second floor, and she could imagine Neil or a family member running up the stairs, going past any cordon or sign without being questioned by security or anyone else. She would bet that the surveillance tapes would show as much, but nobody would think twice if they saw any of them going up and down. Neil or a family member wouldn’t have even had to take the stairway by the loading dock and kitchen, where she had thought Tim Gage had sneaked in and which the police believed Lonnie had used.

She took another left turn onto Floodgate Street, relieved to see that she was one of the few cars on the block and that she had escaped the major traffic jam. She wiped a fan in the windshield and noticed that the neighborhood was deteriorating, with fewer lights on inside the houses, some of which appeared to be vacant. She found herself wishing that the car had GPS, but it was too old, or that her BlackBerry still worked, so she could access a map application. Still she stayed the course, because Philadelphia was famously designed on a grid and she refused to get lost in her own hometown.