A Sounding Brass (15 page)

“Just one more. Do you have any pictures of Richard Myers?”

She laughed. “Are you kidding? That’s, like, a majorly closed chapter in my life.”

Ray closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He couldn’t tie Richard Myers to Brandon Boanerges on the basis of a screen name.

“But I’ll tell you what,” Teresa went on. “My mom is a scrapbooker. I probably sent her a photo in the first flush of romance—argh,
we are just so lame when we’re in love—and if I did, she’ll have it. She keeps everything. She’ll be one of those little old
ladies with forty cats and hallways filled with scrapbook clippings, I swear.”

“If she has a picture, I’d be grateful.” He gave her his e-mail address. “If you can scan it and send it to me, it would really
help my investigation.”

“No problem. I’ll call her when I get out of the shower and send you something if she has it.”

Ray said good-bye and snapped the cell phone shut. A picture would tie it all together. Despite what Teresa had said, Ray
pulled his laptop out and fired it up anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to check his e-mail and see what was cooking on some of his
other cases. Ross could handle a lot of their caseload, but he had a wife and family to think about now. Double shifts and
voluntary overtime, while still a reality of the job, would be something he’d have to negotiate now on both sides of the commute.

Ray cleaned up a bunch of e-mail, calendared some court dates that had come in, and wrote a report for Harmon that with any
luck would pacify him for a day or two more. And lo, when he refreshed his mail screen, there was a message from one
[email protected]
with a honking big two-megabyte attachment. With a sigh of regret that he wasn’t at the sheriff’s office with its handy T1
connection, Ray told his system to start downloading and went and took a shower. When he got out, it was ready, and he opened
the file with a twist in his gut. It wouldn’t be this easy. It never was. The file would show some other loser, some guy with
a biker ponytail and a bunch of tattoos.

But it didn’t.

An ordinary-looking girl with an extraordinary smile sat on a couch, behind which was an overdressed Christmas tree. And sitting
with his arm around the girl was Luke Fisher.

Back then he’d been blond and suffering from a held-over case of acne and glasses he’d obviously ditched for contact lenses.
But that confident smile couldn’t be altered, and neither could the cocky attitude.

Not unless Ray could find a way to alter it for him.

Permanently.

B
ETWEEN THE MORNING’S MAIL
and the contributions from the night before, Claire put nearly fourteen thousand dollars on the books on Thursday morning.
This was nothing short of a miracle. She had no idea there was that much spare money floating around in this part of Washington
State, much less people who were willing to give it to support the work of God. They couldn’t all be misguided, as the Shepherds
had always told them. The methods of giving and receiving might be different, but any community of believers needed money
to do things for each other. If success was the measure of blessing, then they were being blessed like nobody’s business.

“How are we doing?” Luke stuck his head in her office door.

“Almost fourteen thousand, between last night and this morning. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I’d say it was impossible.”

“God’s work is never impossible. Sometimes improbable and often unbelievable, but not impossible.”

She laughed. “You’re right.”

“If we apply for access to the repeater tower on Mount Ayres, we can broadcast to an even wider audience. I’ve got Toby working
on that now. In the meantime, it’s time for the mobile unit.”

She saluted. “You’re the boss.”

He leaned on her doorjamb, looking casual in khakis and a button-down shirt. His chestnut hair curled around his ears and
Claire fought a sudden urge to walk over and smooth it back.

“God’s the boss, otherwise our ministry wouldn’t have this much power.” Which confirmed what she’d just been thinking. “I’ve
got our unit all picked out; it’s just a matter of handing over a down payment and then getting it outfitted with broadcasting
equipment.”

“Do you want me to cut you a check?”

He grinned at her. “You read my mind. When my show’s over I’ll drive up to Spokane and buy it. No point in waiting. God’s
time is now.”

“But won’t you need someone to drive it back for you? How are you going to get both vehicles back down here?” Not that she
was fishing for an invitation, but she hadn’t been to Spokane in ages. Maybe they’d have a late lunch together before they
went to the dealership. She couldn’t think of anything she’d like better than a long conversation with someone as interesting
as Luke. They were practically on the same wavelength. And then maybe he’d see that—

“I may as well have it outfitted while I’m there. And we’ll need to get the station’s logo painted on it, too. All that will
probably take the rest of the week.”

“If you tell me where and what, I’ll get it set up for you.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I know what we need. I’ll take care of it. What I need you to do is handle the back end when the
bills come in.”

“Will it be expensive?” She was used to handling large amounts of money at the bank, but that was in a corporate environment.
Here at the station, the money almost seemed bigger because the environment was so small and intimate.

“I won’t lie to you. The broadcasting equipment will probably cost as much as the van, even if I get some of it on the used
market. But look at it this way—God will provide for our needs as long as we use it to glorify Him. Right?”

“Right. Oh, by the way, a guy from Amato and Son called. A first pass at the worship center’s design is ready, and he wants
to get on your calendar to go over it.”

“No kidding? Wow, they must be hard up for business if they got that through so fast. Maybe we’re their only client.”

Claire thought that was highly unlikely. Amato was the only design firm in the valley, and with the discount store going in
and all the people who had come into the bank wanting custom homes, he had to be busy. “Should I set him up for tomorrow?”

“Sure, right after the morning show. Then I can bring the drawings to Gathering on Sunday and get people behind the plan.
Somehow seeing something on paper makes it more real than just my running off at the mouth about it.”

She’d hardly call his style “running off at the mouth,” but his self-deprecating humor was endearing.

“Okay, so.” He held up a hand and began counting down on his fingers. “Ten thousand to Cascade Chevrolet for the van, and
ten thousand to the Good Shepherd Church for the homeless program—those are the ones we talked about last week. I’ll get you
their addresses. A thousand to Amato and Son for a deposit on the drawings, and . . . are we missing anybody?”

“Five hundred to the food bank in lieu of my bonus,” Claire reminded him.

“Right. If you get those cut today, I can drop off the Amato one and mail the others.” He glanced at his watch. “Thirty seconds
left. Thanks, Claire.”

He spun out of her doorway, and moments later she heard his smooth voice back-calling the previous couple of songs. By now
she was used to the rhythm of the station, where conversations happened in multiples of three minutes, and silences fell when
Luke was talking, even though the DJ’s booth itself was soundproof. It would be just her luck to be yakking on the phone with
someone the day Luke forgot to shut the door, and everyone within five counties would hear her in the background.

He came back after launching another song and gave her the addresses of the ministries on his omnipresent yellow sticky notes.
If anyone took them away from him, he probably wouldn’t be able to function, she thought with a smile as she stuck them to
the sides of her monitor and began to prepare the checks.

Okay, one to Pastor Richard Myers, care of Good Shepherd at a P.O. box in some little town across the state line in Idaho,
one to Amato, one to the food bank, and one to the Chevy dealership. When the checks printed, she signed her name carefully
on each one, not without a sense of happiness.

This
was ministry. Not fighting with your hair every morning in the hopes that someone would be impressed with your so-called
example and ask a question about what you believed. No, real ministry was supporting the work of God, buying food for people
who had none. This was service. This was what God wanted.

Thank heaven for Luke, who had opened their eyes at last.

* * *

THE SERGEANT’S PHONE
rolled over to his cell and rang twice before he picked it up. “OCTF, Harmon.”

“It’s Harper.”

“You still out there, running up motel bills?”

“Yes, but I’ve got a good reason. I’ve tied Brandon Boanerges to Luke Fisher and a character called Richard Brandon Myers,
formerly of Hollyweird, California.”

“Tied them together as in they’re all the same guy?”

“Yes, sir. And I’m seeing a pattern of increasingly serious fraud. First petty crime, then an Internet ministry that led to
this lonely hearts thing in our files, and now . . .” Ray’s voice trailed off as he tried to think of what Luke Fisher might
be up to next.

“Now?” Harmon prompted.

“He’s spinning records at a gospel radio station, and I haven’t figured out what he’s up to.” Ray’s voice was a little flat.
Harmon wasn’t going to go for this.

“Christian radio. Harper, did it ever occur to you that maybe the guy saw the light and decided to go straight?”

Ray pinched the bridge of his nose while the plain beige carpet on his motel room’s floor blurred as he closed his eyes. “Yeah,
it occurred to me. I just don’t think it’s likely.”

“And why is that?”

Harmon wasn’t going to buy it. He wasn’t going to let him stay here on the state’s dime until he figured out what Fisher was
up to.

“Because it’s my opinion that this guy Myers, Boanerges, Fisher, whatever you want to call him, is exhibiting the behavior
of a sociopath. He doesn’t feel emotion, so he can perpetrate these scams on people and just walk away. A sociopath doesn’t
get a revelation about God and turn over a new leaf, because to him God is just an abstract, like anger or love, which he
can’t feel. He can’t have a relationship with God because he can’t feel it. And therefore God won’t change his behavior.”

“Since when are you a psychologist?” Harmon wanted to know.

“I listen to textbooks on tape, sir. I have the depositions from these women who say that Boanerges was just going through
the motions of courtship behavior, that they never really felt that he loved them. That makes a certain personality type try
harder to get his attention, which is why he was so successful.”

“So, how does this relate to him now? This guy playing Christian music at this station?”

“If his behavior is escalating, I’m thinking he’s got something bigger than lonely hearts up his sleeve. I just don’t know
what it is, yet. Everything he’s doing seems to be legit, and he’s got the community squarely behind him.”

“So, other than sitting around drinking coffee and waiting for him to rob a bank, what’s your plan?”

“He’s gotten himself involved in this church Ross Malcolm and I have both investigated. You know, the Elect of God.”

“Malcolm did the case where the Elder’s wife had Munchausen’s by Proxy, yeah, and you arrested their head guy, who’s a rapist.
Nice bunch of people you hang around with.”

“They are a nice bunch of people, in the main. So nice that I don’t think a guy like Fisher can resist setting them up for
something.”

“Another week.”

“What if that’s not enough time? Whatever he’s got cooking could take months.”

“You’re not staying out there for months unless it’s on an unpaid leave of absence. Do what you can in another week. Then
you’re coming back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Harper?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Do your best to nail this guy. I really hate lowlifes masquerading as Christians. It gives us all a bad name.”

His boss hung up with his customary abruptness, and Ray blinked in surprise. Five years of working under him and he’d never
suspected the good sergeant swung that way.

* * *

WHATEVER CLAIRE HAD
been expecting when she walked into Gathering at the hall on Sunday, it wasn’t the rainbow of color she saw. Mixed in with
the holdouts who were not convinced you could just decide that wearing black was no longer a standard of godly behavior were
those who embraced this brave new approach wholeheartedly. Linda Bell wore—ouch—orange. All the singles edged toward the new
standard in brown, beige, blue, and green. The teenagers had gone all out and sported flowered skirts in hot pink and lime.
People who were undecided chose a black skirt with a muted blouse in white or gray.

Clearly the stores in Hamilton Falls, Pitchford, and even Spokane had been raking in the sales this past week as Elect women
came out of their closets in droves. Even Rebecca, Claire saw with amazement, wore a pretty silvery gray outfit that complemented
her hair perfectly.

“You look lovely,” she whispered to Rebecca as she sat next to her.

“Black never did anything for me,” Rebecca whispered back. “But there was no point in getting a bad spirit about it, was there,
since there were lots of other women in worse shape than I. Poor Julia with her red hair, for instance. That green is very
nice on you. It matches your eyes.”

Claire had wondered if she would stick out like a sore thumb as the only person wearing color in the entire congregation.
But as she’d put on the stylish little mail-order skirt and jacket this morning, she’d told herself that she was supporting
Luke and Owen. If they said it was time for a change, then that was good enough for her. It was liberating, in a way, to see
her sisters in Christ smiling at each other and passing around compliments like candy. But just in case anyone went overboard,
there was always Alma Woods and her little flock of cronies, dressed in black as usual, as though it were a badge of righteousness,
and staring daggers at Rebecca.