A Sounding Brass (26 page)

Except he didn’t believe in luck or coincidence.

“Luke said he’d been donating to them for some time,” Claire told him. “I cut them a check for ten thousand the first week
I was here.”

“You sent ten thousand to a P.O. box on Luke’s say-so?”

“I had no reason not to. Then.”

His brain was moving at lightning speed. A church in Idaho. Right across the state line. Nice and safe, if you were on the
run. But crossing a state line turned a little fraud into a nice big federal felony. “Let me use your phone, just in case
it’s real. But I bet it’s not.”

She rolled her chair back and waved a hand at it. “Go ahead.”

He dialed Information for the Idaho exchange, and to his amazement, the church on the letterhead actually existed. For a split
second, doubt flickered.
No. Never assume.

“Good Shepherd Community, this is Dineen Strachan speaking.”

“Hi, Ms. Strachan. I’m calling for Pastor Myers, please.”

“You mean Pastor Torvig.”

“There’s no Richard Myers associated with your church?”

“No indeed. To whom am I speaking?”

“This is Investigator Ray Harper of the Washington Organized Crime Task Force. I had information that I could find Pastor
Myers there. Maybe I have the wrong church. Is there another Good Shepherd in—” He glanced at the letterhead. “—Miller’s Ferry?”

“Investigator, there’s only one Good Shepherd anywhere.” She laughed comfortably, as if she’d made a joke. “But no, as far
as churches, we’re the only one with that name.”

“Okay, let me ask you this. Did you receive a check recently for ten thousand dollars?”

The laugh this time wasn’t comfortable, it was incredulous. “Ten thousand! Not likely. The most we’d see around here is a
couple of hundred. Should I be on the lookout for it?”

“If it does show up, would you mind calling me?” He gave her his cell phone number. “It was sent to your P.O. box.”

“We don’t have a P.O. box. The church has a street address and we get our mail right here.”

“Ah.” Of course, they did. “Well, keep an eye open anyway, Ms. Strachan. I appreciate your help.”

“Any time you want to send ten thousand our way, Investigator, you just feel free.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He hung up and glanced at Claire, who was pacing the length of her office between the desk and the credenza. “They didn’t
get the money,” she said flatly.

“No. They don’t have a post-office box and there is no pastor named Richard Myers.”

“Oh dear. Oh dear.” Gripping her elbows in agitation, she made a fast turn. “I’ll put a stop payment on the check.” She reached
for the phone and Ray put his hand on hers. Her fingers were cold under his. He gathered them in his palm and pulled her closer.

“Too bad I didn’t figure out a little sooner what he was really doing while he was spinning records for KGHM.”

“I knew he was too good to be true,” she said. “He’s been such a jerk to me lately. I can’t believe I didn’t figure out something
was wrong long before this.” Claire pulled away a little, as though it would help her think. “How long did you say you’ve
been chasing him?”

“At least a year. When I came to Hamilton Falls to testify, I heard him on the radio and recognized his voice.” He gave her
a rueful glance. “So, yeah, I haven’t been completely up front with you about why I was hanging around. His last gig was romancing
older women to get their money, and one of them had the foresight to tape him one day. At that time he was using the name
Brandon Boanerges.”

“Brandon.” She sat on the edge of her desk and frowned. “Brandon. Why is that name familiar?”

“Have you seen it lately?”

“I’ve seen hundreds of names lately.” She gestured at the stack of new mail. “And I’m a little fried from being arrested and
getting no sleep. But I’ll remember. I always do.”

“Meantime, this check for ten grand was shipped off to Idaho. If you had just pulled off the scam of the century and had a
brand-new van paid for courtesy of your fine, churchgoing listeners, where would you be headed?”

“I’d be going to that post-office box in Idaho to cash my check,” she said.

He nodded. “That’s my girl, thinking like a criminal. Let’s hit the road.”

“Ray, I can’t.”

He stopped in the doorway and slapped the jamb. “Right. You’re on my recognizance. You can’t leave town.”

“Technically, neither can you, right?”

“I don’t have much choice. We have a joint-forces order in place, but there isn’t time to call in the cavalry. I could notify
the FBI, but by the time I got them mobilized, I could be in Miller’s Ferry. It’s not that far away.”

“He’s also got a head start.”

“Well, let’s hope he plans to stop and enjoy the fruit of his labor. I can’t see a guy like that saving his pennies. He’ll
probably blow the lot on radio equipment or something while he looks for another town to rip off.”

“He can’t.”

“Oh, I bet he can.”

“No, I mean he can’t cash the check and get the actual money right away. There’ll be a fifteen-day hold on it, especially
if it’s a new account. Not only that, the bank might invoke the ten-thousand-dollar rule and notify the Treasury Department.”

“No kidding.” Sometimes the Feds, in their war on drugs, actually got their red tape in the right place. “I’m glad I have
you for backup on this one. So, best case, he’s not going to have any money.”

“Right. And that will probably make him cranky.”

“He hasn’t shown any signs of violence, but you never know.”

“Ray, be careful.” She slid off the desk and stopped in front of him. “Please.” Her eyes were huge and frightened, and a little
red around the edges from tears. Her skin had that transparent look some women got with lack of sleep, and she was pale.

She’d never seemed more beautiful to him.

“Last time we talked I wasn’t sure you’d care if I never came back,” he said with a trace of his old attitude. “Something
change?”

Her head tipped forward, hiding her eyes. “If we ever get out of this, can we talk about that?”

He wasn’t going to let her off the hook that easily. “Only if I have something to look forward to.”

When she lifted her head, the beginnings of a smile flickered at the corners of her lips. “You do,” she said. “Now go and
get Luke Fisher.”

* * *

THERE WAS STANDING
on the edge of the precipice, and there was doing a championship swan dive right off it.

Claire figured that with those words, she’d committed herself. Nothing that she had thought to be good and right seemed to
be so in reality, so maybe some of the things she’d thought were wrong weren’t so bad after all. Luke Fisher, nationally known
radio evangelist and unanointed leader of the Elect, was a con artist. The police, guardians and protectors of the community,
had arrested her for—what? Opening the mail, cutting checks, and sending thank-you letters?

So, if Ray wanted to come back to something more than a handshake and a vote of thanks, she was more than willing to give
it to him, because he was the only thing in her life that seemed to make any sense at all. That sense of safety she’d felt
with him hadn’t led her astray—on the contrary, it had been the one thing she could count on through this whole awful experience.

Well, the second thing. God, it was clear, was listening to the incoherent, panicked gabble her prayers had become. She was
going to pin what was left of her ability to believe in things on those two, and hope they would bring her through.

Meantime, here she was, breaking the law again by being in the station without Ray to vouch for her. Well, what the cops couldn’t
see they wouldn’t get upset about. She had things to do. Pulling the stack of unopened mail toward her, she picked up the
phone, tucked it between her chin and shoulder, and dialed Rebecca’s number.

“Quill and Quinn.”

“Rebecca, it’s Claire.”

“My goodness! Is this the single phone call they allow you from jail?”

“No, you’ve been reading too many detective novels.”

“Are you all right, dear? Your poor mother is prostrated.”

“That’s what I was calling about. Can you let her know I’m okay? Ray Harper came back and sprang me—”

“Did he? How very romantic. I knew there was something going on between you and that boy.”

“—and I’m at KGHM, hiding out.”

“Goodness. You mean it was a real jail break?”

“No, I have a twenty-four hour pass. Rebecca, something terrible has happened.”

“What could be worse than your getting arrested?”

“Luke Fisher setting it up, that’s what. He’s a con artist. All the money we’ve been sending to his charities has actually
been going straight to him under other names.” Rebecca made a choked sound. “You have to call Derrick Wilkinson and get him
to stop the land deal. When Margot and I went out to the site, she declared it unbuildable. The bank isn’t going to grant
the loan, and Mark McNeill and Owen have already mortgaged their houses. Derrick has to get to them and tell them to pull
out of escrow before they’re stuck buying a swamp.”

“Good heavens,” Rebecca said in the hushed tones of shock. “Wait, I’m writing all of this down. Mark—Owen—escrow. All right.
What else?”

It felt so good to have someone believe her that Claire was close to weeping with relief. But she bit back the urge and plowed
on.

“One more thing. When you’re talking to Derrick, tell him to break this to Owen gently. Owen’s going to feel responsible for
this whole thing because Luke hooked him in first. Tell Derrick that the two of them should talk to Toby Henzig. We all need
to stand together on this, and I think Toby and Owen can find some common ground.”

“You’re saying that the Elect and the community church can, you mean,” Rebecca translated quietly.

“Yes. As much money came from those folks as from the Elect. We’ve lost money and trust over this, and the only way we’ll
get it back is to work together. I don’t care how radical or sinful that sounds, it’s the truth.”

“Oh, I agree with you. And from what I understand, Derrick has actually had a word or two with Mr. Henzig already. He is a
very angry young man, our Derrick. Spearheading a recovery effort might just be the thing he needs.”

Claire rocked back in her chair with a huff of laughter. “Rebecca Quinn, you amaze me.”

“Why is that, dear?”

“You know more about the people in this town than we do about ourselves.”

“Nobody pays any attention to little old ladies in bookshops, dear. That’s our burden—and our strength.”

She sounded so smug about it that Claire laughed again. “Go forth and conquer, O intrepid one. Meantime, I’ve got calls to
make and letters to prepare returning all these checks. I might as well do something constructive while I’m grounded.”

It took just as long to return a check as it did to thank a listener for one. While she filled in database fields on autopilot
and got the mail merge ready, she called Margot at home and asked her to stop payment on the Good Shepherd Church’s check.
Then, after forty or fifty letters, Claire realized that the eerie silence in the station had been going on for some time.

Dead air.

The tapes had stopped playing.

With a gasp, she leaped to her feet and ran into the studio, where the phone console was lit up like Main Street at Christmas
with people calling in, no doubt wondering what had happened.

Oh dear. Oh dear. What was she going to do? Start the tapes over? No, the station was going to be in enough trouble when all
of this broke without adding the fact that they’d all been fooled by a two-dollar tape. She sat at the console. She’d seen
him do this often enough. Blindly, she reached for the nearest CD sitting in the caddy and popped it into the player. Okay.
Slide the lever up to route sound to the mic. Headphones on. Now, talk.

“This is Claire Montoya, coming to you live from 98.5 KGHM, where we—”
Are the biggest fools God ever put on the planet.
“—rock for Jesus!”

She punched the Play button on the CD, slid the lever back down, and while the studio filled with the rapid-fire swing of
Five Wise, she slumped back in the chair and burst into tears.

It didn’t last long. Her eyes already stung from crying so much, and besides, she had only three minutes while the song played.
So, when the digital counter told her she had thirty seconds to get the next song started, she put another CD in the tray.
She’d figure out how to back-call them in a minute. While the second CD played, she ran back into her office and got the stack
of letters.

She glanced around her desk. Oops, better take the contents of the inbox, too. Back in the studio, she let the CD go to the
next track while she got herself organized, then decided she’d do that for all of them.

“This is a Two-Track Weekend,” she announced to five counties when the song ended. “Today you’ll get not one, but two songs
from each album. If you have any requests, just give us a call.”

Whew. That would give her six or even twelve minutes in which to get some work done. Unless the phone rang, which it did,
a couple of minutes later.

“KGHM, this is Claire. What can I play for you?”

“Miss Montoya, I thought we made it clear that you were in Investigator Harper’s custody.”

It took Claire a second to place the voice. “Um—”

“This is your attorney, Miss Montoya. Spencer Rodriguez. Is the investigator at the station with you?”

“No,” she said.

“Do you have an explanation as to why you are suddenly a DJ and he is not there?”

Dead air
probably wasn’t the explanation he was looking for. “Ray believes Luke Fisher may have gone to Idaho to collect a check I
sent to one of his false names. So, he’s gone after him, and since I can’t leave town and no one is here to run the station,
here I am.”

“You realize you are breaking the terms of your temporary release.”

“I know,” Claire said. “But I don’t have a choice. I’m hoping Toby will be here any minute, and then I’ll come to your office.”
She glanced at the clock. Past two, and Toby’s shift usually started at noon. What on earth was going on? Had everyone fallen
into an alternate universe, where nothing was where it was supposed to be? “I’m not going anywhere, Spencer. I promise.”