The Psalmist (23 page)

 

Chapter 39

T
H
AT SOMEONE HAD
been detained overnight for the church killing hadn't made the newspaper or television news, but it was all over the streets of Tidewater County that morning. At the wooden booths and Formica-­topped breakfast tables on Main Street, patrons kept their papers folded, sharing the real news over coffee, bacon-­egg specials, and crab omelets.

Luke picked up a carry-­out coffee at the Blue Crab Diner and fended questions from several of the regulars, surprised that no one seemed to know, yet, that he had just talked with Jackson Pynne.

Driving in to the church, he called Amy Hunter. The late morning sun was bright, melting the patchy remnants of Sunday's snow.

“How was he?” she said.

“He was pretty open. About Kwan Park, anyway. Not about everything else.”

“Where are you?”

“Headed to the church.”

“I'll be right over.”

A
GGI
E
C
OLLINS, DRESSED
in a brand-­new navy pinstripe suit with a purple print scarf, went through the usual formalities before allowing Hunter to enter Luke's office, to be seated in front of his desk.

“Could I get either of you anything to drink?” she asked. “Coffee? Water?”

“No thanks,” Amy said.

“I'm fine,” Luke said.

“You sure?” Her eyes went back to Hunter. “Tea?”

“We're fine,” Luke said.

When the door finally closed, they shared a smile. Then Luke began to tell Hunter all that Jackson Pynne had told him at the jail that morning. Hunter looked on without reaction, her eyes alert.

When he finished, she looked out the window and grimaced.

“So?” Luke said. “Will they have enough to bring a case against him?”

Her eyes were back with his “
They
think so. It's a tricky case. The evidence is all circumstantial, of course, but there's a lot of it. We're dealing with a serial killer and we need to connect the four crimes in order to show what really happened. But the state's attorney is resisting that. He has what he considers a strong case against Jackson Pynne now and he wants to proceed, get it over and out of Tidewater County.”

“Without involving the other three murders, you mean?”

“Yeah. And what you just told me, about them being lovers, only makes it stronger.” Hunter sighed. “The wild card in all this is what the FBI is going to do. And for some reason, I don't have a very good feeling about that, either.”

Hunter looked away out at the marshlands, thinking private thoughts. Moments later she stood and moved toward the door. Luke could see she had something else to say to him, although he couldn't imagine what it might be. She stopped by the door, her hand on the knob, her eyes roaming his office.

“You know what,” she said at last. “There's something I said to you the first time we talked here that I've regretted a little ever since.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

Somehow, Luke knew what she was going to say next. “You don't mean about being a devout secularist?”

“That's right.” She showed a rare smile. “How'd you know?”

He shrugged.

“It just seemed a little flip,” she said, “and also not entirely true. I guess I'm not really sure what I believe.”

“Nothing wrong with that. I'm not a proponent of absolute certainties,” he said. “Or of anyone following a religion that doesn't have some deep-­rooted meaning for them. The nice thing is, we can come to faith from many directions.”

“Yeah.” Hunter smiled again, her hand still on the doorknob. “Good,” she said.

Luke thought of several things he might've said then, questions he wanted to ask about her life. But this didn't seem like the time for it.

“Anyhow,” she said. “Talk with you later.”

L
UKE HAD PROMISED
himself that he would address the short stack of congregants' comments before lunch. Many were cheery observations about the church staff, his sermon, or the music selection, although there were always one or two challenges in the deck. Germaine Holland, for instance, requested that the church ask the Mickelson family—­although she didn't refer to them by name, only as “the newcomers”—­to “refrain” from sitting in the second-­row pew, which had been Germaine and Bob Holland's “regular” seat for close to ten years. Luke moved her note to the bottom of the stack.

Easier to handle was this anonymous comment:
For two weeks, the same dead cockroach has had been lying in a corner at the very back of the church. Please REMOVE before Sunday!!

Luke decided he'd handle this one himself, before taking on Germaine Holland.

He pulled a tissue from the box on Aggie's desk. “I'm going off on a mission,” he told her mysteriously, and then he walked off into the church. He spent several minutes trying to locate the offending bug, but without success. Maybe Martha Cummings, the church custodian, had beat him to it.

As he headed back to the offices, Luke felt his cell phone vibrating. The ID read:
UNKNOWN CALLER
.

He stopped in the darkened corridor between the sanctuary and the offices, his heart thumping.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Preacher.” It was the thick voice from the day before. “Did you visit our friend Jackson Pynne this morning?”

Luke said nothing.

“It's funny, because I thought you told me you didn't know where he was”

“I didn't. Police called me last night and said he wanted to talk with me.”

“And what did Mr. Pynne tell you?”

“Not a lot.”

“What did he say happened to the woman? Kwan Park.”

“He doesn't know.”

“You're not leveling with me now, are you, Preacher? What did he say happened to Kwan Park?”

Luke remained silent.

“You don't think someone other than Jackson Pynne killed this woman, now do you, Preacher?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“I sure hope you don't think that.” Luke could hear him breathing. “Because that would be a big mistake. If you did. Big mistake.”

Luke thought of Charlotte. “That's really not my business,” he said. “That's police business.”

“Yes, exactly right. That isn't your business. So don't try to play hero now and become involved any more than you already have. Because if you do, you might discover some carvings on your wife's body.”

“What?”

“I think you understand what I'm saying, Preacher. She's a very pretty lady,” he added, a chuckle in his voice. Then the line went dead.

Luke stood there staring down the dusty wooden corridor.

Then he called Amy Hunter.

“Hi,” he said. “You probably didn't expect to hear from me again so soon.”

S
EATED IN
H
UNTER'S
small office at the Public Safety Complex, Luke reconstructed his two conversations with the anonymous caller. The threat against Charlotte had immediately changed the equation for him. After the first call, he'd prayed and wrestled with what to do. But not after the second. Even if this was someone associated with the sheriff trying to scare him away from Jackson Pynne, the caller had crossed a line by threatening Charlotte.

Hunter watched him with the quiet empathy of an experienced listener. It was almost as if their roles had become reversed, Luke's intensity absorbed by Hunter's calm. She'd been around, he could see. She'd been through things she didn't talk about.

“I guess I should have told you right away,” he said when he finished.

“It's tough to know what to do sometimes. Just don't let this get to you,” she said. “Go about your normal day-­to-­day activities. We'd like to send regular patrols by your house, if you don't mind. And I'd also like to put a trace on your phones.”

“Sure,” he said. “Thanks.”

“It's probably best that you don't involve yourself in the case anymore, in any way, from here on out. Don't talk with Jackson Pynne again. If he calls, refer him to us.”

“Okay.”

Luke watched her, feeling humbled. .“Who do you think this is?”

“I don't know,” she said. “It could be someone connected with the sheriff, as you say. Or it might be someone involved with this organization that Kwan Park worked for. Either way, the motive's the same.”

“They want to make sure Jackson is prosecuted for the murder.”

“Right, that's what it seems like. Which is sort of interesting in itself.”

“It is,”

Hunter showed a cautious smile. Luke could see from her eyes that she was way ahead of him, already playing out the chess moves in her head. He felt a little sad that he wasn't going to be involved anymore; but he also knew that's how this had to go. His only role now would be to pray. And to wait.

G
IL
R
ANKIN WATCHED
the pastor's wife from a distance as she walked from her BMW to the front door of the cottage, carrying a small bag of groceries. She's a stylish woman, he thought, pretty and slender. Nice hair. Comports herself nicely. If he'd had to rough her up, he would've enjoyed doing it.

But it was too chancy to start on anything like that at this stage. Until they knew for sure what was happening with Jackson Pynne, he needed to be more careful. He'd shaken up the preacher now, that was good enough.

Rankin knew that his problem was too much empty time again. He needed to work out, to get his mind on something else.

You do as you see fit, that's not my business,
his client had said
. I just need to ascertain the end results.

I wish we didn't have to do it this way, Gilbert. These ­people, they were like children to me, you know that. But they have that stench now. Betrayal has a smell. So, we have no choice anymore.

Rankin started the engine of his Jeep
.
It wouldn't be long before police began to monitor the pastor's house. He couldn't come near here again.

Driving back toward Jimmy Creek, he turned up the radio to drown out the Client's voice playing in his head

But it was still there, as tangible as the road and the fields:
You do as you see fit, that's not my business. I just need to ascertain the end results.

I wish we didn't have to do it this way, Gilbert. You know that.

 

Chapter 40

S
TATE'S
A
TTORNEY
W
ENDELL
Stamps agreed to delay filing murder charges against Jackson Pynne until Amy Hunter met with him at three-­thirty the next afternoon. This was good and bad news for Hunter. Good because it gave her a twenty-­four-­hour window to make a case that might change his mind; bad because twenty-­four hours wasn't enough time to do that. It would have helped, of course, if Jackson Pynne had agreed to talk with her. But Pynne was still refusing her requests for an interview. Ben Shipman had, uncharacteristically, called in sick that morning, making their work even more difficult.

Hunter enlisted Sonny Fischer's help to track down Pynne's movements on Monday and early Tuesday. She wanted to create a timeline, proving that he couldn't have killed Kwan Park or left her body at the church. But the surveillance video told a different story: Pynne's pickup truck had crossed through the Bay Bridge toll plaza at 6:07 on Tuesday morning en route to the Eastern Shore. Meaning he could have been in Tidewater County at the time Kwan Park's body had been placed in the church. State troopers had found his truck two days ago, in a shopping center parking lot, but no sign of his computer or any other personal items.

Several times, Hunter tried to reach Dave Crowe, who was apparently still in Washington. She eventually left him a message saying she had important information to share about Jackson Pynne.

It was a few minutes past five when he finally called back.

“Just a heads-­up,” he said, by way of greeting. “Between us? We found something this morning on Mark Chandler. We think he may be the John Doe from Virginia. The mutilation, with the lips and tongue missing?”

“Yes.”

“He was an attorney. Represented several accounting firms, including the one that did the books for the Quik Gas franchise. He was one of the three names you gave me.”

“Right, I know all that.”

“Okay, but you don't know this. We've searched the hard drive on one of his home computers. Over the past few weeks, he'd been diverting funds from a Delaware firm that has a pipeline to August Trumble's charities.”

“Really.”

“Mmm mm. We're talking several million dollars, all told, funneled from illegal tax returns through shell companies.” He paused. “Electronically transferred, then redistributed to four separate accounts. One of the accounts was absorbing the bulk of it.”

Hunter turned away from her desk, letting that sink in. Funny that Crowe was talking so openly over the phone all of a sudden. “So, what are you saying—­you think Chandler was embezzling from Trumble's corporation?”

“I didn't say that. This is still preliminary, Hunter. You can draw whatever conclusions you want. I'm just giving you a heads-­up.”

Hunter had a sinking feeling. “So you're thinking Kwan Park was one of the four accounts? That maybe she and Jackson Pynne were together embezzling from Trumble's organization? And that's why she was killed?”

“We don't know that. We don't know who was accessing the fourth account. We know it existed, that's all.” Crowe took a deep breath. “It's early yet, but I think you can see where it's heading.” After a moment he added, “I understand Jackson Pynne's been arrested but isn't talking?”

“That's right. I've been trying to reach you.”

“Sounds like they might have the right man this time,” he said.

“Oh? Why would you say that?”

“We'll get into it later.”

“When?”

“The morning.”

Hunter sighed. “So what's happening with the investigation?” she asked. “Is this federal yet?”

“The murder of Kwan Park? No. But we can talk about that in the morning. Sit on this for now.”

“On what?”

“On everything I've told you. From when we first spoke the other night.”

“Why?”

“We'll talk in the morning. The case is taking a turn. That's all I can say. I'll be back out there in the morning and we'll discuss it.”

“Why can't we—­”

But he'd hung up. Hunter sat there, holding the phone. After a while she realized she was studying her own reflection in the window and not liking what she saw. She imagined what she'd look like in twenty-­five years, where she'd be. They were not thoughts she needed to be having right now.

“Y
OU DID THE
right thing, telling her,” Charlotte said. “It's in their hands and you don't need to worry about it.”

“I know.” They were all in bed together, under the covers—­Charlotte, Luke, Sneakers—­the three amigos, the room lit only by a night-­light. A state cruiser was parked up the road, police keeping the cottage under surveillance. First thing in the morning they'd have alarms installed on all the doors and windows.

“But promise me you won't be involved anymore,” she said. “Let's not even talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“Promise.”

“Promise.”

She leaned on her elbow. He could sense her eyes watching in the darkness.

“What.”

“Say it again,” she said. “This time with feeling.”

“Prom-­miss,”
Luke said. She kissed him and then snuggled closer, getting comfortable. Moments later, Sneakers, sensing three was a crowd, burrowed out from the covers and settled in his own bed for the night.

Charlotte had a way of making bad things disappear. It was one of her talents. As he lay in bed listening to the wind, Luke thought about the first time they'd met. She had come alone to a Methodist ser­vice in the D.C. suburbs and chatted him up in the parking lot afterward—­talking about Joseph Campbell, Madeleine Albright, Plato's
Republic,
and rapper Coolio, all of which he'd somehow managed to include in his sermon. They laughed easily together in a way that—­he now knew—­wasn't quite natural for either of them. Several weeks later they went out for dinner, and began dating. It was a respectful, lively, and platonic relationship. Then, several months in, after a dinner of yellowtail snapper at Charlotte's house, she asked, “You didn't bring your pj's, by any chance?”

“Should I have?”

Charlotte shrugged and for the first time gave him the mischievous look that he'd come to love.

Tonight, they fell asleep holding each other. But Luke woke several times and turned over, recalling the menacing intonations of the caller's voice. He listened to Charlotte and Sneakers breathing in rhythm like secret jazz musicians. He lay with his hands behind his head for a long time, watching the moon through the curtain as it hung high above the marsh grasses, wishing he could just close his eyes and join them.