Hell on the Heart (33 page)

Dare pulled the handle on the glass conference room door and thanked the agent who had shown him the way. The team, minus Stillwater, clustered around the table, engrossed in reports and computers.

“You’re late. Was the autopsy worth it?” D’Sean asked and scooted his chair over to make more room for him.

Nobody had been there long. Twylla and Skeet had arrived from the East Coast only an hour or two before. The investigation in Santa Fe continued but the bulk of the evidence now was being worked in the FBI crime labs.

Dare swung a leg over the empty chair at the end of the table and plunked his computer case on the table while he hunted for a place to plug it in.

“Under the table.” Twylla said, knowing instinctively what he was seeking. “Tell us how everything went down.”

“Stillwater lost it big time when Cezi was shot. I expected the gypsies to do the same, but their superstitions on death and dying prevented it.” Dare shook in head in wonder, unsure he possessed the strength the gypsies displayed in honoring their beliefs.

Twylla pulled a blonde strand of hair out of her face to tuck it behind her ear. Her mouth drew into a hyphen and she furrowed her brows. “The hospital’s giving her a decent chance, but she’s not out of the woods yet.”

Dare hadn’t expected more. The fact she lived was a miracle. But miracle or no, they had an unsolved case. Stillwater was essentially MIA. Someone had to assume his calming influence and steer the ship. “Do we have a profile on Adam aka Henry Latham?”

Skeet passed him a sheet. Dark circles under his eyes and road-weary features testified to his lack of sleep. “We think we’ve figured out the trigger. What better career for a conman than a preacher? Ambitious, money hungry, a fame-at-any-price guy.”

Twylla chewed her bottom lip before exchanging glances with Skeet. “His real claim to fame was his charisma. We interviewed congregants and fellow seminary students who told us Latham had big gaps in his knowledge of the bible, but he had fire, brimstone and instantaneous rage at his fingertips.”

“No money in being the minister of a small church,” Skeet said. “He saw his future in being a television evangelist, but his church wasn’t big enough to support it. Henry’s father, Arthur Latham, a big-time Boston lawyer was fairly well off. According to Henry’s ex-wife, he agreed to bankroll the television venture.”

Twylla took up where Skeet left off. The interaction between them had been honed to a point they almost spoke as one. A question rose to Dare’s lips, but he didn’t voice it. Some things Stillwater could handle when he returned.

“So Latham quit his congregation,” Twylla said, “to form his own ministry. But before money could change hands, his father died in a car accident. His step-mother, whom Henry had described on numerous occasions as a…” she dug through her paperwork until she found what the right page, “…soul-sucking witch, became sole beneficiary and money dried up like a corpse in the desert.”

Skeet pointed to another report. Dare glanced down to see Amelia Sanchez’s name. “According to his ex-wife, Old Hank did not take it well. After a bout of self-destructive drinking, his personality changed. He blamed God, his stepmother and eventually Amelia. She left and hid from him for over a year until she heard he’d been assigned ministry of another church.”

Twylla unearthed another packet of papers, partially hidden under her computer. “Now, things get tougher to follow. Under Henry’s guidance, the new church starts a fundraiser for building repairs. Depending on who you ask, they’d collected somewhere between a million and a million and a half dollars. Which for some reason was not in a bank, but in a safe in the church basement.”

“That was never clear,” Twylla said. “One night a fire claimed the building, but the money, Henry and one of the board members, a young guy named Jake Strait, disappeared.”

“We set up a camera to record the crowds as we shifted through the wreckage in Sante Fe to see if anyone was particularly interested in what we found.”

The group nodded.

“A lone guy in a cap and sunglasses shows up everyday, but keeps his distance from the crowd. Ciggy turns our focus on him and gets several decent camera shots, which he runs through face-recognition software. Nothing comes up.” D’Sean coughed and reached for a glass of water.

Ciggy continued, “Then the nurses tell us some guy has been hanging around the hospital at odd times. They ID the photo. The pilots ID the photo. So we know what Herod looks like, but we don’t know who he is. We get here. Skeet shows the photo. We compare and bingo we have our Herod – Jake Strait.”

“You’ve run him?” Dare asked, knowing Ciggy would have used every resource possible to find out Strait’s history.

Ciggy’s lips pulled into a grimace. “More bad news. Nothing under that name. Not even a driver’s license. So he’s probably got a record, but if it was a juvie record it’ll be tough to find it.”

“Well we now know how they bankrolled their next venture,” Dare said. “Anything else?”

“We’re reconstructing the hard drive of a pretty demolished computer. Hopefully something will come of that.” Ciggy said, his round owlish eyes not even glancing up from his bank of monitors.

“Oh, yeah,” D’Sean added. “One of the pilots was scheduled to fly Herod to the Caymans at the end of the week. I can’t imagine it was for the beaches and the weather. So money trail leads there, but the question is, whose money? Herod? Adam? My gut tells me we’re in for a surprise.”

Dare raised an eyebrow and then laughed. “Maybe more than one. Let me tell you about the autopsy.” He tossed the paper work on the table. “No big surprises. He had faint traces of Special K in his bloodstream, but nothing unusual popped out.”

“Nope. A key.” Dare pulled the small metal key out of his shirt pocket and flipped it to show the stamped letters and numbers on one side. Now what do we think that goes to?”

“Locker, but where?” Ciggy asked. “What does it say?”

“E.P.G.S. 108.” As Dare spoke, Ciggy typed the letters and numbers into the computer, but Dare was already a step ahead of him. “Where are we most likely to find lockers? Airports have gotten rid of theirs, so a train or bus station is the most likely.”

Twylla looked up from the autopsy report. “He had a amateur tattoo in his hairline behind his ear. The ME thinks it was self done or maybe jailhouse.”

Skeet looked where she pointed. “Mirror writing.” He traced the numbers of a sheet of paper. Then held the backside up for the group to read. “Whatever these numbers are, he cared enough to hide them.”

On cue everyone checked his watch while Twylla pushed a button on her cell phone. “Road trip. We’ll be there within the hour,” she told the pilot.

No one spoke. Finally, Dare voiced the statement on everyone’s mind. “Let’s draw straws to see who gets to tell Stillwater we need him.”

# # #

Dallas

Poppy had mastered the art of appearing old and infirm, although John suspected he could out-boogie them all. The bent and frail man was escorted to Cezi’s ICU room despite the fact it was not ‘ten minutes until the hour’ the official time of visiting hours. The busty blonde nurse, who’d been hell-bent to enforce the rules no matter how much John tried to out-rank her, chose to ignore them for Poppy. It wouldn’t have surprised him at all if the old guy had slipped his phone number in the pocket of her scrubs.

After he was comfortably seated, the nurse bent to hear his whispered words. She nodded, stroked his hair and poured him a cup of water, before quietly backing out the door and glaring at John.

Then she jerked her thumb at him to indicate Poppy wanted him to join him and for once she wasn’t going to stop him. John bit back his grin as he hurried into the room.

Poppy watched the doorway and sprang out of the chair as soon as the nurse had disappeared. He stood on the Cezi’s right side, impatiently waving his hand and gesturing for John to stand on the left.

“Hold her hand and mine.” He did the same, offering his hand across the narrow bed.

Her delicate fingers were cold. He rubbed his thumb to generate some circulation. Poppy’s hand was equally fragile, but warm to the touch. Power radiated off his fingers, making John’s confidence swell.

“Pour your strength into her,” Poppy said without giving him a clue to how he expected that to happen.

An idea flashed into his head. The Blackfoot told the story of Napi, creator of the earth. First the Old Man, as he was known in the legend, marked it with red paint before he gave the earth’s landscape shape.

“Hold on.” John looked around for a substitute and the best he could come up with was uneaten red gelatin from a tray in the hall. He smeared it on the floor and then stepped on top of it. If the nurses hated him before, this was going to cement his position with them forever.

“Old Man, lend me your strength,” John said and closed his eyes. His heels warmed as the earth pulled through his feet, climbed his legs and infused his torso. He clasped Cezi’s hand and strength poured through him into her. When Poppy placed his hand in his, the circle was complete.

Poppy chanted, a low murmur in a language John failed to comprehend, but believed two cultures merged to heal one small dark-haired woman.

Half an hour later, Poppy quieted, but didn’t release his hold. John popped open an eyelid. Cezi’s hand was no longer cold. In fact, it radiated heat. Her skin tone had improved. Whatever strength Poppy had given her was working. Poppy’s face appeared haggard and his body swayed. John dropped the hands he held and hurried to the far side of the bed to ease Poppy into a chair before he ended face down on the floor.

“She will start to get better now,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and drained.

“She already is. Have some water.” He helped the older man drink. “Rest here for a few minutes. I’ll keep the nurses away.”

Poppy’s strength had waned to the point he could barely nod in agreement. His body slumped into the chair and his breathing labored. The man had to be close to a hundred. He was entitled to a brief nap. Damned if the nurses were going to kick him out on John’s watch. He darted out of the room, determined to head off interference.

Ten minutes later Poppy opened his eyes, completely refreshed. He leaned over and patted Cezi’s hand. “He’s a good man, Peata. Figure out a way to keep him around. Enough frolicking with the spirits, come back to us. He needs you.”

He kissed her knuckles like an old time suitor, then walked quietly from the room.

The sterile hospital was designed for efficiency. Everything was self-contained. Clean, bright, tidy and antiseptic, the room was the most depressing place, Cezi had ever seen. ICU had been worse. The bank of monitors with their rhythmic taps and dings should have been soothing, but she suspected Pavlov had used the same noises with his dogs.

If this was what outside medicine was like, how did
gajé
ever get well?

A nurse dressed in baby blue scrubs covered with tiny pastel dinosaurs adjusted her bed, fluffed her pillows, and shifted her water cup to be within easy reach.

Despite her no-nonsense manner she wore a gentle smile. Her gray eyes exuded kindness. “You’ve had a lot of visitors.”

The remote was looped around the bars designed to hold Cezi captive. Since she hadn’t fallen out of bed for over twenty years, she doubted their necessity now. But with a definite metallic snap they went into place. The nurse pushed buttons on the remote causing the precariously tilted, overhead television to roar to life and then spent a few minutes fiddling with the volume control.

“I’m sure it won’t be long before someone comes to see you. Can I get you anything?”

Cezi ran her tongue over her teeth. The grouty fuzz of five days without dental hygiene disgusted her. “Toothpaste and a toothbrush. I probably need a hairbrush, also.”

The nurse slid a tray table in front of her, pulled up the center space to show her a mirror. Sealed packages of deodorant, toothpaste, a toothbrush, a comb and a razor waited for her. “Anything else?”