Faithful Unto Death (10 page)

It was four thirty when I hit Highway 59 headed south for Sugar Land. Four thirty lands you solidly in rush-hour traffic. I’m deliberately using the word “solidly”—I mean it as opposed to liquid. The traffic seems not to move. There was a taxi-yellow Hummer in front of me and I could swear it was jouncing from side to side with the boom of the bass. I’ll bet you would expect me to be foaming at the mouth, preacher or no preacher, but I wasn’t.

Some time ago I was visiting with Carol Thompson after services, and I had expressed the enormous frustration I feel when I’m caught in traffic. If you live in or near Houston, traffic is a fact of life. Carol is a family therapist; the church refers a lot of people to her, so even though I hadn’t been looking for advice when I made that offhand comment, I listened to what she had to say.

“For a temperament like yours, I think the frustration stems not so much from the delay, which, intellectually, you can accept as a necessary and unavoidable consequence of living on the outskirts of one of the nation’s largest and most sprawling cities, but from the waste of your time. Men like you tend to get their sense of self-worth out of what they accomplish. Sitting in traffic, they aren’t getting anything done.

“You might try a couple of tactics. One is to check out The Teaching Company series from your local library. It’s an audio series, very good. The professors don’t talk down and you could learn a lot on any number of topics—Darwinism, mythology, biography, economics, tons of history—in short, you’re feeding your brain, continuing your education even as your engine idles on the freeway. Another tactic my patients have found effective is to learn a new language. You can go to Sam’s Warehouse and pick up any of a number of good CD language programs.”

I thanked her, trying not to be too conscious of the line backing up behind her; there are always members who want to let you know how well you gave your sermon, or whether they felt it was worth giving at all. Carol noticed my concern and gave my arm a squeeze.

“That consultation was on me, Bear. You won’t get a bill in the mail.”

Carol had been dead-on with her advice. Since then, I’ve been alternating between The Teaching Company and the Modern Scholar series and a Spanish language program—it was soothing listening to an educated, well-modulated adult voice confiding to me the intimacies of Winston Churchill’s life, or asking me,
“¿Qué te parece?”
—“What do you think?”—about
el restaurante
,
el libro
, or
los jóvenes
.

I didn’t want to puzzle out what Miss Lily had been saying. I’m not a liar; I know that for sure.
Soy un hombre veraz.
I slipped in a Spanish CD and started ordering a make-believe dinner from the make-believe waiter’s suggestions. I started with
albondigas. Yo gusto albondigas.

In spite of the traffic, I spent a relatively pleasant forty minutes chatting with the waiter, the
camarero
, who couldn’t hear me. I felt relaxed and collected when I pulled into the church parking lot. That didn’t last.

Detective James Wanderley was waiting for me.

Fourteen

D
etective Wanderley was sitting cross-legged on the lawn, his back against the edge of the seat of one of the park benches the church had dotted around the lawn. I can’t remember the last time I could get my legs in that pretzel configuration.

He was reading a coverless paperback. He glanced up at my car, his hand shielding his eyes from the low sun, and he got up slow and easy, not using his hands, just unfolding. It made my knees hurt to watch him. He stuffed the paperback into his jacket pocket, and strolled over to meet me as I got out of the car.

“Ah. It’s the friendliest man in Sugar Land. You have a minute, Bear?”

Probably I was reading into it, but that sounded snarky to me. “Friendliest man.” It was one thing coming from Annie Laurie—I was already sorry Annie had given that young man permission to use my nickname. Wasn’t any way I could stop him from using it now without looking like a tight ass.

“Is it going to take a minute?”

He stared at me, his face shadowed now that his back was to the dying sun. I was having trouble reading his expression, with the sun being right in my eyes. I wondered if he had deliberately maneuvered me into that position, some sneaky cop trick he’d learned from TV.

“No. Probably thirty minutes. Maybe more. You might want to ask some questions, too.”

I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to ask Wanderley, or hear from him, either, unless he was looking for more parenting tips on how to raise a daughter, and I didn’t think that was why he was here. Nevertheless, I led the way up to my office, passing Rebecca on her way out. She usually leaves for the day around five because she doesn’t think it’s good for the “boys” (those would be her pugs) to be on their own too long; I try to work until seven. Normally those two hours after the office has closed are when I write my sermons and work on my next book, but on Tuesdays we had special programs at the building.

Rebecca looked startled to see Wanderley. She didn’t say anything, just nodded to him and told me she’d left a pile of messages on my desk.

Wanderley and I had gotten off on the wrong foot at our first meeting. That wasn’t my fault, but I felt it was incumbent upon me to start this meeting in a more positive direction, try to talk to Wanderley like Molly’s dad, instead of the smart-mouthed detective he had seemed at first. I was praying in my head, over and over, “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Your sight, oh Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.” You’d be surprised how many different situations that Psalm covers. Especially the “words of my mouth” part. Rebecca once recommended I quote Psalm 39 instead, and “put a muzzle on my mouth.” She was quoting out of context, but I refrained (see?) from pointing that out.

As I passed Rebecca’s desk, I pushed a button on her telephone console to make sure we wouldn’t be interrupted by calls.

I thought if I didn’t put my desk between us, it might help things out some. Maybe make the situation less adversarial. I sat down on the easy chair and gestured to the love seat. It would be interesting to see if Wanderley could turn the love seat into a fun house ride the way he had the swivel chair.

Wanderley plopped down and swung a leg over the arm, knocking askew the lamp shade on the side table lamp. Didn’t seem to faze him one bit. He spread his arms out over the back of the love seat, slumped down, and looked as comfortable as a man dressed in briefs on his own living room couch. When his wife was out of town.

I said, “Have you had a chance to check out the preschool Chloe is looking at?”

“Are you ready to tell me what was covered during your Monday meeting with Garcia?”

So it wasn’t Molly’s dad I would be talking to right now. It was Detective Wanderley.

I went ahead and told him. He had a right to the information; I knew that now. In the Church of Christ, though we hold confidentiality in high regard, if there is a criminal matter being investigated and we have information that might be pertinent, we’re going to tell. It’s that way in most Protestant churches. Keep that in mind if you decide to go confessing to a minister instead of a priest.

He wanted to know who the other woman was. I told him I didn’t have a clue.

I said, “Don’t you have any suspects besides Alex? I mean, he’s a sixteen-year-old kid . . .”

“Lots of sixteen-year-old boys are killers. Hormones are high, they get worked up over nothing; they don’t have all the options an adult usually has. They act before they think. But yes, we’re looking around. I shouldn’t tell you this, but I took notice of the fact that someone from Garcia’s law firm showed up at the house yesterday afternoon to ‘pick up’ Garcia’s laptop and ‘work-related’ papers. He said they were firm property and might hold confidential client information.”

“And you let that fellow walk off with that stuff? Don’t you watch
Law and Order
?”

Wanderley shook his head reprovingly and grinned.

“No, Bear, I did not let the guy ‘walk off’ with all that info. I’d had all that packed up before you ever got to the Garcias’ yesterday. I wouldn’t have even known about the firm’s request if the clever Mexican maid hadn’t called me to fill me in on it.”

I bristled. “Cruz isn’t Mexican, she’s Colombian, and she’s not a maid, she’s—”

Wanderley jerked upright and interrupted, “What? She’s what? She’s wearing a maid’s uniform and cleaning the Garcias’ house for free because the Pope sent her an edict saying that all the brown-skinned people in the world should do what they can to help their poor, suffering white brothers and sisters?”

“She wears those uniforms because they’re cheap and easy to clean. I asked her. She’s more like a housekeeper,” I finished.

“Right. That’s what I said. Don’t break my balls, Bear. Cruz is a brown-skinned woman working in the kitchen of a white woman’s house in Sugar Land, Texas. I was not out of line to assume Cruz was a maid. And unlike you, I don’t think there’s anything shameful in being a maid or disrespectful in thinking that’s what Cruz is.”

I would work on that one later.

“And did you find anything of note on Graham’s computer or papers?”

“You mean all of twenty-four hours after we picked them up and less than seven after we’ve inventoried everything? We’re still going through them. I thought the firm trying to pick up ‘firm property’ on the very day Garcia died was a little hasty, that’s all. It caught my attention. I don’t know that there’s more to it than good fiduciary duty.”

“You read John Grisham?”

“I do. With pleasure. I don’t use his books to solve crimes.”

“Then what did you learn?” I asked.

“Oh, that Honey has a dad who has a textbook case of megalomania.”

“Textbooks don’t list megalomania anymore.”

“But HD Parker fits the definition, doesn’t he?”

“Give me your definition.”

“Delusional dreams of wealth and power.”

“Parker isn’t delusional about those things. He’s the real thing. Or he was once. But yeah, he’s a piece of work. What did you learn from Alex?” I asked him.

“Let’s see, more than you might imagine, considering he barely said a word to me, and wouldn’t answer most of my questions, and hardly looked at me.”

I tried not to smile. “He was taking his cues from his lawyer.” God bless Glenn Carter for sending someone sharp.

He shook his head. “I think he saw the lawyer’s presence as an insult. He definitely saw his mother’s presence as an insult. Alex did his best to ignore them both. And that attitude. Umm. I guess I saw that as a point in his favor. He doesn’t seem afraid, not the way I’d expect him to be, not for himself.”

“So what did you learn?”

“That he was out all night the night his father was killed. Strictly speaking, Garcia was killed in the morning, but Alex wasn’t home when it happened.”

“You knew that yesterday.”

“That his truck, a very distinctive, eye-catching truck, was seen parked at the Avalon Community Center around two in the morning. You know where that is? Where the tennis courts are?”

That wasn’t good news. If it was true, it meant Alex’s truck was parked just down from where Graham was killed. A sidewalk led from the parking lot up to the levee and then skirted the golf course right past what I was coming to think of as the murder scene.

I said, “His isn’t the only truck of its kind in the whole wide world.”

“No, but it may well be the only one of its kind in First Colony; I’m having that checked.”

“Did he say the truck was his?”

“He didn’t deny it.”

“That’s not the same as confirming it.”

He swung his leg down and leaned forward, elbows on thighs, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

“Not in a court of law it isn’t, Mr. Wells. I’m not trying to build a case against Alex Garcia; I’m trying to find out what happened that night. I’m trying to find out the truth. You know, the truth will set you free.” He smiled at me.

I was afraid the truth might not set Alex Garcia free.

“It doesn’t seem like much to go on, does it?” I asked. “Lots of teenage boys stay out overnight, racing their cars, probably smoking pot in the greenbelts,” I hesitated. “You know what a greenbelt is? Those strips of park the developers use to separate subdivisions?”

I got a look from Wanderley.

“Okay. Just being clear. Anyway, the Avalon parking lot is a favorite make-out spot. Or so I’ve heard. Why would Alex have killed his dad anyway? Far as I know, father and son got along fine.”

“How far do you know, Mr. Wells?”

And there it was, the great difficulty. How far did I know? How far did I go on faith? And where did I place my faith? Not in men, and certainly not in chariots and horses, or whatever their modern equivalent might be.

Beyond the portion that is revealed to me, I don’t have any idea what on earth goes on behind the members of my congregation’s closed doors. I don’t know what temptations beset them, I don’t know what demons they wrestle, I don’t know which of them cry themselves to sleep, I don’t know who is enslaved to addictions that ride them ragged, I don’t know who is on their knees all night praying and hearing no answer, I don’t know who walks out of church, smile on his face and clap on the back to go home and beat his wife and children bloody or to excoriate coworkers with words sharper than glass shards. I don’t know.

I trust in the encompassing love of God, but I know from experience that that love allows horrors on this earth. In short—not that I ever am—I didn’t have one clue whether Alex Garcia might have a motive for killing his father. I didn’t know but that Alex might feel he had a very good reason for killing his father.

I said, “I don’t know.”

Wanderley drew something from his pocket and held it concealed in his hand. “The witness who told us about the truck? He told us it looked like there were two people sitting in the cab.”

“Really? So Alex might have someone who could alibi him? Obviously, he didn’t tell you who it was, or you would have said, but do you have any ideas?”

Wanderley reached his arm out toward me and opened his fingers. A stream of gold slipped out. A heavy rose-gold chain dangled from his finger and at the end of it swung a gold locket, engraved initials twined together. The initials were J.W. for Josephine Wells. It was my mother’s locket, until she gave it away. To Jo.

Wanderley said, “I have an idea.”