Into the Light (20 page)

“I’m not sure. I’m transporting Father Gabriel. If you have an emergency, there’s a phone in the kitchen.”

“I don’t know who to call or how.”

CHAPTER 20

Stella

Dylan and I made a deal the other morning when he took me to the house on Cortland Street. We agreed to keep our work to ourselves unless we believed it held a connection to Mindy. The problem with that deal was that after going through Dr. Howell’s files, I was convinced everything had to do with Mindy’s disappearance. Even the woman at Starbucks was suspicious.

I mean who writes an
S
like that?

Dr. Howell’s information didn’t point to a conspiracy, more a compilation. Each case was a piece of a larger puzzle. Unfortunately, each piece didn’t necessarily belong to the same puzzle. I found myself constantly second-guessing and wondering if I was trying to make the wrong pieces fit. After all, there was probably a good reason that members of The Light were going back and forth to Canada.

Back at WCJB I worked on my research.
The Light
made for a very broad Internet search. There were literal lights, lighting stores, lighting-supply chains. Though I didn’t think he realized what he’d done, Dylan’s comment about a church was responsible for narrowing my search. While there were hundreds of churches with
Light
in their names, there were only a few churches named
The Light
. It just so happened that one of them was located in Detroit, Highland Heights to be exact. According to the website, The Light was a beacon against darkness and a home of healing for the lost. It was a self-sustaining place of devotion founded on fundamentalist beliefs that offered enlightenment to its members and freedom from the constraints of the dark.

Gabriel Clark had begun The Light in Detroit over fifteen years ago. The relatively short biography of the founder spoke of Gabriel Clark’s personal calling to The Light and his willingness to share his journey with those in need. His picture was the stereotypical promotional picture showing a smiling, handsome man in his late forties or early fifties. His slicked-back blond hair and expensive silk suit reminded me of a television evangelist. However, neither Gabriel Clark nor The Light offered sermons through social media. To hear Father Gabriel, as he was referred to on the site, a prospective member was required to attend a visitors’ assembly at one of the church’s campuses or informational hubs. The website mentioned that there were campuses throughout the country, but the locator page indicated only the one in Detroit. There were no local informational hubs.

Out of curiosity I clicked the form one was required to fill out to attend a visitors’ assembly. It didn’t give a time or date for an assembly; instead it was more of a questionnaire, pretty straightforward at first, but as I scrolled the questions became more personal and intrusive. It went from name, address, sex, age, marital status, number of children, and religious affiliation to essay-type questions. These had unlimited space for answers that were to include the personal background, triumphs and challenges, and even employment history of prospective members and spouses. Near the bottom was a statement I’d also seen on the website that discussed the applicant’s willingness to participate as a full-time committed believer.

What does that even mean?

The more I read, the more the hairs on the back of my neck came to attention. At the very bottom the form said that upon receipt, a Visitor Specialist would contact the applicant.

My thoughts went to the women I’d seen crossing the street. It was difficult to say because of how far away I’d been, but I couldn’t remember anything distinguishing about them. I couldn’t even remember what they were wearing. I seemed to recall slacks or maybe jeans. They hadn’t been wearing handmade dresses such as I’d associate with more conservative groups or cults.

That word
cult
sent shivers down my spine. I opened a new tab and typed it in the browser. The definition I found said it was a system of religious veneration and devotion directed toward a particular figure or object.

Is that what this church is? Or am I reading too much into it? What does “full-time committed believers” mean, and why are they crossing the Canadian border daily?

I checked the website again. There was nothing to indicate that The Light was an international church, and the site said only that there were multiple locations within the United States. That was when I noticed the Outreach tab and clicked.
Preserve the Light
was at the top of the screen, with pictures of jars of jams and jellies. The blurb said that the church’s homegrown, homemade jams and jellies helped support its outreach. A testimonial from a member of The Light read as follows:

“I was lost in a world of darkness, using my body to support deadly habits, when I found The Light. Today, I only use my body to create Preserve the Light, serve my husband, and follow Father Gabriel. I’ve never been as content and fulfilled. The Light and Father Gabriel saved me. Please purchase Preserve the Light so others may be saved.” The testimonial was attributed to “Follower of The Light, Sister Abigail Miller.”

Serve her husband?
My skin crawled.

Well, at least this woman wasn’t out selling her body anymore, and the location in Highland Heights made sense, if the ministry was about helping people who were dependent on drugs or alcohol. I wasn’t sure why or if I believed there was a connection, but I wanted to learn more.

I started with Preserve the Light. Clicking on the Order Here box, I filled out my request. Ten dollars was a lot to pay for a jar of jelly, but I reasoned that it was for a ministry. After entering my shipping information, I selected strawberry. With the weather turning colder and the leaves changing, the fruit reminded me of summer.

The other agreement that Dylan and I had come to was that I’d stay out of Highland Heights. Maybe it wasn’t so much of an agreement as it was him telling me to stay out. I didn’t want to argue about it, but if my work took me back there, I couldn’t say no . . . or more like I wouldn’t say no. It was Bernard’s informant who had led me to The Light, so I owed it to Bernard to be sure there wasn’t a connection between The Light and the drug smuggling we were trying to uncover at the border. The idea that there was a connection between this church and missing or dead women came to mind. Just as quickly I dismissed it. That was ludicrous and likely a result of my vivid imagination. Besides, nothing about those women set off my radar. Then again, I was a ways away.

Two things were for sure. One, I was excited about my homemade jam. I hadn’t had good strawberry jam since I was a little girl. Thinking about my grandmother’s jam had my mouth watering. Two, I was going back to Highland Heights. I wanted to find out what was going on in that school building across the street from The Light. If it was only a jam factory, then I’d be able to tell Bernard that the lead hadn’t panned out.

That wasn’t a conversation I’d relish. This investigation was taking longer than either of us had expected, and coming up with dead ends seemed to be my new specialty. Thank God, Foster was keeping Bernard busy with some new stories. Nevertheless my boss was definitely getting anxious. It wasn’t until I’d gotten him, maybe not on board, but at least entertaining the compilation theory that he’d agreed to let me keep working this angle. In order to do that, I’d had to share some of the information I’d learned from Dr. Howell. I didn’t tell him my source, but I gave him a taste of the incidence of women dying from suspicious causes over the last ten years in the Detroit area. When I did I watched his wheels turn. Even the slightest possibility of a connection between the dead and missing women and the drug smuggling made his brow and upper lip glisten with perspiration. Bernard foamed at the mouth like a rabid dog with the need to uncover this story.

When my phone rang, I glanced at the date on the screen and my heart clenched. It’d been six weeks to the day since I’d last spoken to Mindy. I tried to suppress the lump in my throat as I answered the phone.

“Hello, Stella Montgomery.”

“It’s Foster.”

“Hi, I obviously didn’t look at the number. What can I do for you? You’re saving my ass keeping Bernard busy. Otherwise he’d be chewing it every chance he had.”

Eddie Foster’s laugh filled my ear. “Not a problem. We all have some stories that fall into place better than others. Have you found anything lately?”

“Jelly.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” I said, waving my free hand. “What do you need?”

“It’s not so much what I need. I have a couple questions for you.”

“OK, shoot.”

Foster cleared his throat. “You know we keep an eye on our own, right?”

“You’re making me nervous. What are your questions?” I bit my lip.

“What do you know about real estate in Bloomfield Hills?”

“I know that some of the partners at Preston and Butler live there, and it costs more than I’ll ever have.”

“OK, have you ever heard of Motorists of America?”

I shook my head toward the phone, as if he could see me. “No, Foster. Is this for a story?”

“No, not really. Like I said, we keep an eye on our own.”

“Hey, I love you, but jump ahead. My mind’s so rattled with this case, I’m missing the point.”

“Motorists of America, MOA, was a retirement endeavor set up in the late sixties for employees of the big auto companies. It was a private option for members of UAW and Teamsters. It didn’t replace their union dues or retirement; it was billed to supplement it.” I had no idea where he was going. “That was fifty years ago. I’ll spare you the history. Let’s just say it was one of the many ventures that didn’t deliver. The funny thing is that I remembered it was something Mindy had mentioned, and recently I was doing a search and it came up.”

“Foster?” We’d already canvassed all of Mindy’s research. MOA hadn’t been there, so it must have been a while ago that she’d mentioned it.

“Give me a minute.”

Securing my lip once more to stop from telling him I didn’t care, I nodded.

“I can give you more detail, but obviously you want the CliffsNotes. MOA declared bankruptcy in the eighties. Operations stopped, but it wasn’t dissolved.”

My patience was wearing thin.

“After bankruptcy a company is unable to . . .”

“Foster, I really want to care. Are you saying this isn’t a story and somehow has something to do with me?”

“Jesus, Stella, listen a minute. MOA has a list of assets a mile long, valued in the millions, hell, billions. I don’t know. I just got started into all of this. The part that jumped out at me, the reason I even stumbled upon this, was because of a six-bedroom home in Bloomfield Hills.”

“Are you and Kim house shopping?”

“Like we could afford to live there. No, I may have been running some searches on Dylan Richards and his name popped up on a utility bill, gas, for that six-bedroom. His name was only there one month, and then it was changed, but you know how slow utility companies are? Their records last forever.”

What the hell?

I shook my head. “Let me save you any further trouble. It’s not
my
Dylan Richards; you’ve got the wrong one. Next, explain to me why in the hell you’re running a search on my boyfriend.”

“I suppose that’s possible, that it’s not him. What’s his father’s name?”

I bit my lower lip. “Um, Mr. Richards? We haven’t really made it to the parent part of this relationship. He doesn’t talk about them. Now answer my other question.”

“Bernard asked me to check him out.”

“Holy shit!” I covered my mouth and looked around the office. Apparently my outburst had gone unheard, or people were used to them. Not drawing attention, I lowered my voice. “Don’t. He’s a cop. We’ve only just started discussing allowing Fred to visit. Seriously, he’s a detective. I promise we’re good. He’s good.” I ran my hands down the length of my ponytail and twisted the end.

“Fred?” Foster asked.

“Never mind. Actually, this pisses me off.”

“Cool your jets. Bernard comes across all corncob-up-the-ass-ish, but listen, I’ve worked for him for a long time. He’s got good instincts and, well, he said he’d feel better if everything checked out.”

I straightened my neck and shook my shoulders. After pursing my lips, I asked, “And what else did you find?”

“Stuff I’m sure you know, criminal justice at Wayne State, straight to DPD where he spent five years as a patrolman before making detective and moving straight to narcotics and homicide. That’s a bit unusual, but the flags aren’t red, only amber. I mean, usually people start with less prestigious assignments. Your man went to the top. Personally, he’s been dating this hot investigative journalist . . .”

If Eddie weren’t happily married with two kids I might have been offended, but since he was I just laughed.

“Seriously,” he went on, “commendations, few complaints. The only thing that struck me as odd was the one-point-four-million-dollar home owned by MOA with his name on the gas bill. I’m diving deeper into MOA. I just wanted to ask if he had that kind of money lying around. Did a rich uncle die?”

“Foster, you’ve got the wrong Dylan Richards. I’ve been to his house. It’s a nice renovated two-story in Brush Park: backyard, fence, and plenty of shelf room for Fred.” I giggled. “He’s my fish. I hate leaving him. He gets depressed.”

Foster scoffed. “Well, Fred should be glad he doesn’t live at my house. I don’t know what my kids do to their goldfish, but I bet we buy a new one at least once a week. Kim said that when she enters the pet shop, all the goldfish try to hide behind the little castle.”

“OK, remind me not to let your kids babysit Fred.”

“Listen, Stella, I’ll look into this. You’re probably right, and don’t say anything to Bernard. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s a nice guy. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Hey, wait.” I had an idea. “Did Bernard ever have you check on anyone for Mindy?”

“Stella . . .”

“Come on. Did he?”

“You know she wasn’t dating anyone when she disappeared.”

I nodded. “I know, but before that. I mean we were tight, but I was super busy when I worked for Preston and Butler. I didn’t know if . . . ? Or did he ever have you investigate her?”