Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (27 page)

“Again, I think you know the answer to that.”

“I also know that Solomon Stone was feeding information to the FBI,” Elliot said, pushing the envelope of truth. “He was trying to bring you down, Reverend, so he could take over your church. That’s a pretty strong motive for murder in my book.”

“That may be, but I didn’t do it.”

“Do you know who did?”

“No, sir.”

“Isn’t it true that Gary Sullivan was once a youth counselor in your church?”

“You’ve done your homework, Detective. Yes, at one time he served in that capacity.”

“He also kept a file on Solomon’s son, Justin, part of which he took with him when he left. Do you know where the rest of that file is, and why he kept it in the first place?”

“No, to the first question. As for why he kept it, Justin Stone was a willful and unruly child. Sullivan was good with children. He was trying to help the boy.”

“Why did Gary Sullivan, a longtime member, suddenly decide to leave the church?”

“We had a difference of opinion. This is not a prison, Detective. People come and go as they please.”

“Did it have something to do with the Stone family, Justin in particular?”

Reverend Coronet pushed back from his desk and stood. “If you’re going to arrest me, Detective, then do it. Otherwise, I’d like to ask you and the good chief to leave my compound, immediately.”

With that, the men dressed in brown who had lined the perimeter of the room stepped forward, surrounding Elliot and Chief Washington. “Of course,” Elliot said. His bluff had already worked better than he’d expected it to. “Just one more question. Does the name Jim Llewellyn mean anything to you?”

Marshall Coronet didn’t answer, but Elliot saw that the name did indeed register with the reverend. Elliot unfolded his coat and pulled it on. “Thank you for your time, Reverend Coronet. You’ve been most helpful.”

Several of the men escorted Elliot and Chief Washington to Washington’s car. As they drove out of the compound, Chief Washington whistled. “That was pretty impressive, Elliot. You really grilled the guy. I was taking notes.”

The church buildings and the rows of small houses where the members lived were all painted a stark white, giving the impression the men were passing through a military base. “Thanks,” Elliot said.

“You’re a natural. Do you think Coronet did it?”

“Reverend Coronet’s not the type to do his own dirty work, but I’d bet a year’s salary that he had a hand in it. The trick is in proving it.” As Elliot said the words, a morbid thought occurred to him. “Tell me something, Chief. Did you find any more graves out at Saucier’s place?”

“Nope. We’re still looking, though.”

As the unsettling line of reasoning that’d struck Elliot began to evolve, a sick feeling ran through him, and he began to suspect that if Washington’s crew did find another grave, it would be a child-sized one.

Jed Washington grinned. “But I do have something for you. We managed to lift some prints from Saucier’s barn. The only ones we found that weren’t Saucier’s, belonged to a Tulsa man. Does the name Douglass Wistrom mean anything to you?”

Chapter Thirty-One

At the office once more, Elliot swallowed the rest of his coffee then crushed the cup and tossed it. The Llewellyn case file sat on his desk, an unorganized mess, from which he needed to make some sense, highlight the major points, and create a workable summary. Captain Lundsford wouldn’t stand for anything else. Lundsford wasn’t your garden-variety captain, but he wasn’t a bad guy really. Elliot logged on to his computer and saw the e-mail icon flashing. He loaded the program, his pulse quickening.

I guess you didn’t believe me. I told you to drop the case, but you didn’t listen. Now you’ve gone too far.

Elliot thought of Cyndi. She hadn’t answered her phone since they’d talked before lunch. He grabbed the phone and tried again. Still nothing, not even an answering machine. His stomach churned as he grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

Before he reached the exit, Captain Lundsford appeared in front of him. “Are you all right, son?”

Elliot had to concentrate. “Something’s come up.”

“It can wait.”

Before Elliot could respond, Lundsford had his arm around him and suddenly they were in his office. Elliot took a seat without being asked. He didn’t know if his legs would continue to hold him.

“I’ve got a case for you,” the captain said. “A south-side couple, just built a two-million-dollar house on one of those lots off Sheridan.”

Lundsford’s eyes began to narrow, closing a little more with each word. “Three days after they moved in, the wife finds the husband floating facedown in the pool. High profile. Should be good for you.”

“What about the case I’m working?”

“Put it on hold.”

“I’m close. I can wrap it up in a few days.”

“Really? Sounds to me like you solved a fifteen-year-old murder in Donegal, but not the one you were supposed to be working on.”

“But it’s connected. The notes in Llewellyn’s file prove that.”

“That’s a pretty weak connection. He was working a story there, but the hooker probably gave him the drugs. Maybe she didn’t mean to kill him, but I think she did.”

Elliot started to tell Lundsford about the prostitute not really being the prostitute, but he didn’t. How could he explain something like that? The captain would dismiss it as another of his gut feelings. “There have been some new developments.”

“Yeah? What have you got since we last talked?”

Elliot gave the captain a complete rundown, including the disturbing e-mail he’d just received.

Captain Lundsford listened intently, jotting down notes now and then, and when Elliot had finished he nodded and said, “Do you have any idea where Wistrom could be?”

“No, sir. Not at this time.”

Lundsford stared blankly at the wall momentarily then said, “We’ll put out an APB.”

He picked up the new case file from his desk and handed it to Elliot. “In the meantime, get started on this.”

Elliot considered pressing the issue, but he knew Lundsford was right. And since he needed to check on Cyndi, the quickest way out of Lundsford’s office would be to agree. “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

Lundsford lowered his head and began to scribble on a notepad, which meant the meeting was over. Elliot stood and headed for the exit, but just as he cleared the doorway, the captain said, “You’ve done good, Elliot.”

Elliot paused. That was completely unexpected. “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

Elliot left the office and headed straight for the parking garage. When he found his car, he drove to the Yorktown, where Cyndi lived.

When he arrived, he parked at Utica Square, then crossed the street and stopped at the guard shack. As soon as the guard came out, a neat young man with an athletic build, Elliot identified himself and asked if he could go up to Cyndi’s apartment.

The guard rubbed his forehead while he examined Elliot’s badge. “I don’t think I can let you do that, Detective, not without Ms. Bannister’s okay.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but she might be in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Elliot did his best to explain the situation.

“Who sent the e-mails?”

“I wish I knew,” Elliot said. He paused, then added, “Why don’t you try calling her? Maybe she’s in now.”

The guard hesitated, then ducked inside the small building where he worked. A few seconds later, he came out shaking his head.

“What if something’s happened to her?” Elliot said. “Surely you can understand my concern?”

“Yes, sir. But our protocol addressing the protection of our residents is strict and straightforward.”

Elliot watched a black Mercedes exit the parking lot. “Could you have someone check on her, go to her door and knock, ring the bell or whatever?”

The guard pulled the collar of his jacket up. “Just a minute,” he said. Again he went inside the shack. A few long minutes later he returned. “I talked with my supervisor. She’s going to send someone up to check on Ms. Bannister, but that’s the best we can do.”

Elliot buried his hands in his coat pockets. In the silence that ensued, he heard a car door slam shut, a sound that had come from the lot across the street where he’d parked, but he saw no one.

A few seconds later, the guard said, “I applied for the Police Academy once.”

Elliot turned away from the lot to answer. “Is that right?”

“Yeah, I didn’t get it, though. I guess they weren’t hiring then. They told me to try again later.”

“You should,” Elliot said. “You’d make a good cop.”

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll do that.”

“You from around here?”

“Not originally. We moved down from Pennsylvania when I was twelve. My dad got laid off from the mill. He’d met some guy at the airport in Dallas a few months earlier. He managed a couple of hotels here in Tulsa. The plane was late and Dad had stopped off at the bar for a drink.” He paused and shook his head. “So dad calls the guy up. He gave him a job, and we’ve been here ever since.”

The phone inside the shack rang. “Hang on,” the guard said, “that’s probably her.”

The guard’s face said it all when he came back out. “Sorry,” he said. “Ms. Bannister’s not at home.”

Elliot’s stomach churned. “Did they go inside?”

“Yes, sir. The guard used his key. No one was there. The apartment’s empty.” He paused then added, “There were no signs of a disturbance, though. Everything looked okay, in its place I mean. I’m sure everything’s all right. She’s just not at home right now, that’s all.”

The guard’s words did little to settle Elliot’s nerves. “Thanks,” he said. He handed the young man one of his cards. “If she shows up, will you give me a call?”

He took the card. “Sure thing. No problem.”

Elliot crossed the street to the parking lot where he’d left his car, with self-admonition running through his head. He should have paid more attention to his intuition, which kept telling him something wasn’t right when he’d talked with Cyndi. She’d seemed distracted, even confused. He dug his keys from his pocket and punched the remote, but just as he reached for the door, he saw movement from the corner of his eye, and he spun around to find himself staring into the anger-contorted face of Michael Cunningham.

“Where’s Cyndi?” he asked.

Elliot shook his head. “I haven’t seen her since last night.” He didn’t mention that he’d talked with her on the phone earlier. “You know you really shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

Cunningham jerked his thumb toward the building where Cyndi lived. “She’s not home, and she doesn’t answer her phone. I checked with her parents. They haven’t seen her either.”

Elliot realized, and not for the first time, that he actually knew very little about Cyndi. He hadn’t even thought to ask about her parents.

Cunningham took a step forward. “I need some answers, Elliot.”

Elliot stepped away from the car. It was a strategic move. He didn’t want to be pinned against anything if a struggle broke out. “Come on, Michael. You know as well as I do that we’re not going to get anywhere this way.”

He shook his head. “Everything was fine until you came along. This wouldn’t have happened without you.”

Elliot took a deep breath, resisting the urge to reflect Cunningham’s aggression. He’d known when he was just a kid, even before he joined the football team and Coach Sims had confirmed it, that he was the major cause of his own problems. He’d spent a lot of time trying to distance himself from that kind of behavior. But he was beginning to wear down, and Cunningham’s irritation acted only to increase the adrenaline that surged through him. He began to assess the situation and his adversary’s ability to deal with it.

A car in the parking lot passed by, catching Elliot and Cunningham in its lights, and for a moment Elliot thought the simple act of being exposed, taken from the darkness, might ease the tension, but as soon as the car pulled onto the street, Cunningham stabbed his finger toward Elliot’s chest. “Tell me where she is, Elliot. Don’t make me ask you again.”

Elliot raised his hands, though only for emphasis, to aid in communication as he started to speak, but Cunningham took the gesture as an act of aggression. He made his move.

He came at Elliot wide open, showing his inexperience, his chin hanging there for the taking, his arms flailing in wide arcs with no real muscle behind them. Not that he didn’t have any, he did. He just didn’t know how to use them.

For Elliot, once a confrontation escalated to the point of physical contact, things decelerated, unfolding in a motion that was both slow and predictable. At times, the advantage this offered seemed unfair, as if he actually knew his opponents’ moves a split second before they did. Knowing this was impossible didn’t make it less real. He took a half step to his left and launched a straight right at Cunningham’s face.

Cunningham stumbled backward, clutching his nose. Blood seeped between his fingers. He launched another attack, charging forward, again swinging wide. One of the punches caught Elliot on the jaw.

Elliot sidestepped, then dug a hook to the body, which found Cunningham’s liver, and like an animal sensing the kill Elliot put his weight into it, twisting his body to concentrate the blow.

With that, Michael Cunningham, former all state, offensive lineman for the Tulsa Golden Hurricanes went down. Elliot had to fight the urge to finish him off. Perhaps it was some kind of genetic memory, a survival instinct born of necessity in a time when letting your opponent off the hook went beyond bad judgment, teetering on the brink of foolishness. But he did not. He held back and watched Cunningham fall, not a merciful drop, but a slow, agonizing decent, his face broadcasting his disbelief.

Elliot helped Cunningham to his feet. He had no fight left in him. “Where’s your car?” Elliot asked.

He didn’t answer.

Elliot scanned the parking lot until he spotted Cunningham’s red BMW. Throwing Cunningham’s arm over his shoulder, he walked his colleague to his car. Once there, he dug the keys from his pocket, then opened the door and helped him in, which more or less involved letting him fall onto the seat. “You all right?”