Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (16 page)

The captain’s eyes were open now, but as soon as he started to speak, they again began to narrow. “Do you have any suspects?”

“Yes, sir,” Elliot said. “A man named Douglass Wistrom, a drifter, tops the list.”

“What’s his connection?”

“He was seen in the vicinity where the john was killed, and the prostitute was shot just up the street from his apartment.”

“Do we have a motive?”

“I’ve yet to establish that.”

“Then why is the man number one on your list?”

“Because he disappeared right after I questioned him.”

Captain Lundsford muttered something under his breath then shook his head. “What else do you have?”

  The captain’s attitude was beginning to get to Elliot, and for that reason the words he had only intended to think came out. “A drug dealer and a pedophile.”

Captain Lundsford leaned back and laughed. “Good lord, son. Maybe you’re using the wrong bait.”

“No, sir. I’m on the right trail. I can feel it.”

The expression that came over the captain’s face told Elliot that he was in trouble. Dombrowski shook his head and mouthed
no
.

“Feel it?” the captain said. “Are you telling me you’re one of them clairvoyants, or a genie with a crystal ball?”

“No, sir. Nothing like that. It was just a figure of speech.”

Elliot paused, then continued. “There’s more to it, sir. Last night, when I was questioning the bartender at Cymry’s, someone scratched a pagan symbol onto the hood of my car. Later I got an e-mail telling me to drop the case.”

Captain Lundsford opened another stick of gum. “That’s interesting all right. You make notes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You got three days, Elliot. And this department runs on facts and hard evidence, not some hoodoo crap.”

Elliot took the opportunity and got up from his chair. “Yes, sir,” he said. As he was leaving, he added, “Thank you, sir.”

Chapter Twenty

Elliot walked out of Captain Lundsford’s office knowing he needed to find a connection, some common ground between the victims and the remaining suspects, and before he reached his office it came to him. Both Zachariah Holsted and Brighid McAlister had related symbols tattooed onto their skin, Felicia Mullins worked for a church-sponsored school, and Paul Atwood was concerned about what his congregation might think should they learn of his involvement with a prostitute. The answer was religion.

But there was a problem with his theory. Elliot had a gut feeling about one of the players, and it was the only one who didn’t appear to fit the motif. He logged on to the computer, then patched into the county records. While he waited for the search results, he placed a phone call to a couple of new acquaintances.

The phone number for Howard and Maud Wistrom had been disconnected, and there was no record of the couple ever having adopted a child in Tulsa County. He did, however, find another type of record.

Elliot printed off the information, then left the office. From there he drove to Memorial Park Cemetery.

Once there, he stopped and got directions, then made his way to the site. Getting out of the car, he stepped onto the soft ground, being careful not to walk across the graves, though with the names running in all directions in this part of the cemetery, it was a difficult task. When Elliot reached his destination, he stopped and stared down at the bronze plate on the ground. The person buried there had been born at Hillcrest Hospital in Tulsa on February 18, 1977, but he’d never lived to tell about it. Douglass Wistrom, the son of Howard and Maud Wistrom, had been stillborn.

A noise broke Elliot’s concentration, and when he realized it was his phone he pulled it from his pocket and brought it to his ear. “Elliot.”

“We need to talk.”

The words that’d come from the phone were not inviting, their tone was anything but that, but the soft voice behind them tugged at Elliot’s heart. It was Cyndi. The temperature was dropping, and a brisk wind made him pull his collar up. He waited until the wind died down, watching as it whipped the dead leaves around, concentrating them in the slender ditches alongside the narrow road. “Where are you?”

A long pause followed, and Elliot wondered if he’d lost the call, but then she answered. “In my car.”

With Cyndi’s clipped answers, and again the tone of her voice, Elliot suspected something was bothering her. “Are you all right?”

“Not really. Could we meet somewhere?” 

“Sure.”

“How about Woodward Park?”

Elliot gripped the phone. It seemed an odd place to meet on such a cold day. “All right. Where will I find you?”

“The first parking area near the west entrance,” she said, and then she disconnected.

Elliot stuck the phone in his pocket. The area Cyndi was talking about was off of Peoria Avenue near 21st Street.

When he arrived, he found Cyndi, leaning against her car, a burgundy-colored Mercedes, one of the newer models with the aerodynamic design. Cyndi wore a black wool coat with a blue scarf, and black pants that hugged the curves of her legs. She looked fabulous.

A stiff wind blew through the park, and, as Elliot climbed out of his car, he couldn’t help thinking that it was the same wind that had circulated through the cemetery. The park was surrounded by expensive homes. Cyndi looked as if she belonged there with the old money of Tulsa. Elliot, on the other hand, did not. He walked over and stood next to her. “What’s on your mind?”

Cyndi took his arm in hers. “Let’s walk.”

As they made their way through the park, Elliot began to change his mind about the location, stepping along the narrow blacktop road, then across the brown grass, and even though they didn’t speak their touch was natural, and their being together felt as right as Elliot had ever dreamed of right being. It was like that until they reached the rose garden.

It was in the garden where Cyndi stopped and said, “You’ve turned out to be a bit of a surprise to me, Kenny. I never figured you for the type to kiss and tell.”

Elliot tried to make sense of her words, but couldn’t. “What are you talking about?”

The wind had turned Cyndi’s face a delicate hue of pink so that it contrasted attractively with her blonde hair. “Michael confronted me today. He knew about our dinner date. He was angry. I’ve never seen him like that.”

Neither had Elliot, and he knew he’d been the cause of it. He reached for her hand, but she turned away and looked across the beds of dormant rose bushes. “It has to be over between us.”

Elliot shook his head. “Cunningham jumped on me, too, last night at the office, not long after I’d left the restaurant. I don’t know how he found out, but it didn’t come from me.”

“Then who told him?”

A shiver ran through Elliot as he relived the events outside of Cymry’s, recalling the e-mail that’d come afterward. “I don’t know.” Then, because she was involved in this too, he told her about the e-mail.

 Cyndi hugged herself. “It could be Michael.”

“Cunningham?”

She nodded. “I think he’s been following me.”

“That doesn’t sound like Cunningham.”

“I know, but it is. He’s possessive. It’s why I broke it off the first time.” She paused and then added, “I really like the guy. I decided to give it a second chance. I guess I was wrong.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Elliot said, though he had to admit it made sense. How else could he have known so quickly? “It could be someone else.”

She shook her head. “It’s him. I can feel it. I’ve suspected it before.”

Elliot watched a squirrel run along the wall of the garden. Things had gotten pretty bad when he’d rather suspect a friend of stooping this low than embrace the alternative: the very real possibility that whoever had been following him around was tailing Cyndi as well. “I hate to bring this up, but the guy who frightened you at the bar . . .”

“No,” she said, “that wasn’t Michael.”

“I didn’t think so.”

A worried expression crossed Cyndi’s face. “What are you getting at?”

“Somebody’s trying to shake me off a case I’m working. It’s possible that you’re . . .”

“Wait a minute. What case? And what could it have to do with me?”

 “Probably nothing,” Elliot said, “but it’s possible they’re trying to get to me through you.”

“Who’s trying to get to you?”

“I wish I knew.”

Cyndi slowly raised a gloved hand and rubbed her temple. “Jesus, Kenny.”

She was still looking away, staring at the rose bushes. Elliot took her arm and turned her toward him. “Look, the smart thing for you to do is to walk away from this, get back in your car and go home, forget you ever knew me.” He paused, fumbling for the right words. “I know this is selfish of me, but I hope like hell that you won’t do that.”

Cyndi gently touched Elliot’s face with her hand. “What are you saying?”

“You do something to me, Cyndi. I don’t know what it is, but I do know that I like it, and I don’t want to lose it.”

Cyndi smiled, but then she turned away, burying her face in her hands momentarily before looking up again. “I don’t know what to tell you right now. I need time to think.”

Elliot felt his face flush, and he wondered why he’d allowed himself to be so foolish. “Sure,” he said, “I understand.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I don’t think you do, not really.” After a pause she added, “There’s something terribly wrong with me.”

Elliot took a moment to gather his courage. The conviction behind her words was unnerving. “What do you mean?”

She turned toward him, her eyes moist and as blue as he’d ever seen them. “There must be,” she said, “I keep falling for cops.”

A sense of relief waved over Elliot. “That’s not so bad.”

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for it. That’s what worries me."

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a police detective, Kenny. You saw what happened with Michael because of me. Some people say I’m bad news. I didn’t want any of that to happen, but maybe . . . are they right?”

Elliot pulled her close. “I don’t believe that for a second,” he said, drawing her even closer. And when they came together, their lips touching in a way they had not before, Elliot began to understand that the embrace, and everything from that moment forward was beyond attraction, was in fact beyond his comprehension of passion.

She pulled back. “I have to go.”

“Maybe I’ll quit being a cop. Would it make a difference?”

“You would do that for me?”

“Maybe,” Elliot said. But he knew that he would do anything for her.

Cyndi didn’t comment further. She simply turned and walked away.

Chapter Twenty-One

Elliot stepped onto the brick walkway and followed it toward an English Tudor–style house, pausing for a moment at the front entrance, a medieval-looking door with thick, translucent windows on either side of it, giving all that was seen through the glass a rippled effect. His encounter in the park with Cyndi had left him distracted, and he fought to focus his thoughts and reconcile his dual purpose for being there as he rang the bell. It was the home of Reverend Ellery Palmer, senior minister of the Open Arms Unitarian Universalist Church, the church that sponsored Felicia Mullins’s dance classes. After making the connection with religion, it had been only a matter of time until Elliot remembered seeing a related brochure in Holsted’s living room.

When the door opened, Elliot identified himself and walked in, though his heart wasn’t completely in it. He kept toying with the idea of dropping the whole thing, like the e-mail had told him to do. The captain didn’t seem that concerned about it. Why should he continue and risk making Cyndi a target, if no one cared?

“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” Elliot said.

Palmer let out a sigh. “Make it quick. I don’t like getting involved in police matters.”

The quiet stuffiness of an old library hung over the foyer, but Palmer led him to a cheerful sitting room with large glass doors that looked over a courtyard made of brick.

Reverend Palmer leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard, a neatly trimmed growth the color of an old nickel. His knee bounced up and down, like he was a kid about to be lectured. “What can I do for you, Detective Elliot?”

Of the three people Brighid McAlister had been blackmailing, Paul Atwood was the only one who had a solid alibi. That left two. “I’ve run across some information that might pertain to you and your church. But first I’d like to ask you a few questions. It concerns Felicia Mullins and Zachariah Holsted.”

The names registered with the reverend. Elliot saw it in his face. They sat across from each other, he in a leather recliner, and Elliot in a wicker chair. The reverend put his fingers together, forming a steeple. “Neither of them are members of my church.”

“But you do know them?”

He turned away for a moment, gazing outside at the courtyard, then looked back and said, “I was against the appointment of Ms. Mullins simply because I was in favor of hiring someone from within our organization. I think it’s best to go with those who share our spiritual outlook. However, we are strong believers in democracy. We had a meeting and it was decided that, due to her background and experience, she should be employed by the church. She did come highly recommended.”

He paused then said, “You mentioned an investigation. Might I ask what it entails?”

“Murder,” Elliot said. “And two of my suspects appear to have a connection with your church.”

Reverend Palmer sat back in the chair, his eyes narrowing. “I see. Then you do understand that I might be bound, in certain areas, by an oath of confidentiality?”

The reverend seemed defensive, and Elliot found it curious that he’d throw that out even before he knew what Elliot was after. “I thought you said neither of them were members.”

He didn’t answer.

“What’s your connection with Zachariah Holsted?” Elliot asked.

“There is no connection. There was a time when he attended our church, but that time is over.”

“That sounds rather final. What happened?”

Reverend Palmer frowned. “Our spiritual philosophies did not coincide.”