STATE OF ANGER: A Virgil Jones Mystery Series (Detective Virgil Jones Mystery Series Book 1) (6 page)

The two men stood up and Donatti
picked up their plates, looked around for a trashcan, didn’t see one, shrugged,
and set them back down on the table.

“You know,” Rosencrantz said, “If
you let that Jamaican chef of yours, what’s his name, again?”

“Robert,” Virgil said.

“Right, right, Robert. If you get
Robert some of this shrimp, and he put some of that jerk sauce on them and sort
of sizzled ‘em up in a pan, you’d have something right there.”

Donatti was nodding. “He’s right.
That sauce of his is something. You’d pretty much have the crack cocaine of
shrimp.”

Virgil nodded right along with
them. “Yeah, I know. I’m already on it.”

__________

Before he left, Virgil found
Margery at her desk. “Margery, listen. I’ve got something I want to run by
you.”

“Sure,” Margery said. “But wait,
before I forget, here’s the number of the seafood place in Elkhart. They’re expecting
your call.” She handed him a slip of paper with the info. “They said, and I
quote, ‘as a favor to me and because you’re a new customer, they’ll move you to
the front of the line.’ They’ve got a truck coming to Indy today. If you could
call them soon enough, you’d be all set.”

“Hey, that’s great. But, uh, I
probably won’t have time to call them.” Virgil pulled one of his cards out of
his wallet and handed it to her. “Do me a favor? Call the number on this card
and ask for Robert. He’s my chef. Tell him I said to order whatever he needs,
okay?”

“Sure. That’s no problem. You said
you wanted to run something by me?”

“I do. Look, I usually don’t ask
this, but you seem to sort of have your ear to the ground around here, so I was
sort of hoping you could let me know if you hear of anything that might be, uh,
let’s say, out of the ordinary.”

Margery looked around, like
someone might be listening. “Like what?”

“Anything really. Something out of
place, someone acting strange, uptight, saying something out of character,
something they wouldn’t normally do or say. Don’t do anything about it, but
call me and let me know, will you?”

“Sure, sounds a lot like what I do
already.” She gave him a little eyebrow wiggle. “And, as long as we’re trading
favors, how about you do a little something for me?”

“Uh, maybe,” Virgil said, a little
skeptical. “What is it?”

“Oh don’t get all coppish on me.”

“No, no. I’m not. What is it?”

“Well, earlier I told you I was
thinking about retiring and spending some time on the beach.”

“Yeah? Boy I could tell you about
some great places in Jamaica. I go every February for a month.”

“No, no. I was wondering…your two
guys?

“Yeah?”

“Well, you know…the cute one. Is
he attached or anything? I was hoping you could put a word in for me.”

Virgil puffed out his cheeks.
“Margery, I’ll be the first to admit I’m not very religious, and I mean not at
all. But with God as my witness, I don’t know which one qualifies as the cute
one.”

Margery huffed a little. “You
know…the tall one. What’d you call him? Rosie?”

“He’s the cute one?”

Margery gave him a slow blink.
Twice. “Oh, honey, are you kidding me? I’d like to buy him a few of those rum
punches and get him into a man thong on the beach. You might not ever see him
again.”

“Ah, Margery, come on...”

“What?”

“I’ve got to work with the guy.
Now every time I look at him…”

10

__________

V
irgil
could feel the day starting to slip away. He had a court appearance scheduled
from a previous case in a little over two hours. He thought about calling
Sandy—even picked up the phone to do it—but then tossed it back on
the passenger seat of the truck. The doctor had told her to get some rest. No
sense in bugging her if she was actually doing what she’d been told. His
thoughts of Sandy made him think about what she’d said about the Governor’s
wife being out of town…how she’d been there with the Governor at his home, at
night, just the two of them…

But those thoughts were nothing
more than basic jealousy.

So. Sandy. Virgil had been drawn
to her immediately. The feeling was foreign to him. It made him feel like a
dopey little schoolboy. A middle-aged dopey schoolboy. Because they were on the
same unit and Virgil was her boss, the politics of it could get complicated.
There were rules about those sorts of things.

But…
maybe fuck the politics.
And the rules
.

__________

Virgil had never seen Samuel
Pate’s residence, but he had a rough idea where his house was located. One of
the television stations in town had done a feature story on Pate’s home a few
months ago and Virgil remembered the story mostly because he was so amazed at
the grandiosity on display from someone who had made their fortune by
instilling the fear of God into people who probably could not afford to buy a
second-hand bible.

The documents he’d collected from
Franklin Dugan’s office sat on the seat next to him and Virgil thought he
should at least glance at them before trying to talk to Pate. He turned into a
gas station just off the highway, picked up the papers and began to read. He
spent the better part of an hour trying to make sense of what he saw in the
documents, but after reading through them three times he discovered he had no
more detailed information than what Cora had given him earlier: Samuel Pate was
under investigation for insurance fraud out of Texas, he was talking publicly
about running for the office of Governor of the state of Indiana, and he
apparently had a banker who’d been either very generous or foolhardy. Maybe
both.

When he finally turned into Pate’s
drive, Virgil realized the story he’d seen on television a few months back did
not do justice to the level of extravagance and excess in this man’s life. On
T.V. Pate preached the way to heaven was to give most, if not all of your
earthly belongings to God through his ministry, yet it appeared he lived his
life as if the very rules he preached somehow did not apply to him.

The driveway was almost a quarter
mile in length and at the far end it split into two lanes, one that led around
the side of the house to a five-car garage, the other to a circular turn-about
in front of the three story red-bricked mansion. Virgil parked his truck just
past the front door then walked up and rang the bell. When the front door
opened he felt a surge of cool, conditioned air brush past, but when he saw the
woman on the other side of the threshold who smiled at him and said his name
aloud he was left off balance and suddenly at a loss for words.

“Well, Virgil Jones. What on earth
are you doing here? Come in, won’t you please?”

Her accent was manufactured, acquired
from her time spent in Texas, the way a person’s skin will darken after weeks
or months spent outdoors in the summer sun. But Virgil knew she had always
spoken with a Midwestern twang found the sound of the words that came from her
mouth as contrived as any meaning or sincerity they might have held.

In high school her name had been
Amanda Habern, but her married name now was Pate. Virgil had heard that a
number of years ago she and Sermon Sam had married, but at the time Pate was
not yet famous and Amanda was just a girl he’d known a long time ago for a very
short while. Under any other circumstance he might have been surprised that she
recognized or even remembered him, but Virgil and Amanda had a history of a
single shared encounter, one which could have been beautiful, or at least just
plain old fashion fun, but in the end was neither.

Virgil accepted her invitation and
crossed the threshold of the front door and when he did, he found himself suddenly
conflicted about the nature of his visit and her eagerness to so willingly
invite him into her home. He was in her house as an investigative officer of
the state of Indiana and not a casual visitor or long lost lover from decades
ago and he wondered if the warmth in her eyes and the look of fondness upon her
face were as manufactured as the accent of her singsong voice. Regardless of
the purpose of his visit, Virgil had to admit she was still as easy to look at
now as she was twenty years ago. She wore tennis whites, and her shirt was damp
with perspiration. When she closed the door the two of them endured one of
those clumsy moments old lovers are often faced with when an unexpected chance
encounter brings them together. She stepped forward, her arms open to hug him
at the same time he put his right arm out to shake her hand. It was awkward and
Virgil thought she laughed a little too quickly and perhaps a touch too long.
In the end, they went with the handshake.

They looked at each other for a
moment before Virgil broke the silence. “It’s been a long time, Amanda.”

“It has been a long time, hasn’t
it?” she said. “I just put some coffee on. Why don’t you come join me?”

She placed her hand in the crook
of his arm in an effort to lead him through the house, but Virgil held himself
steady and refused to go along with her. When she felt the resistance she
turned her head and Virgil saw her smile falter. “I’m here in an official
capacity, Amanda. I need to speak with Samuel. Perhaps yourself as well, but
I’d like to have a word with your husband first.”

 “Is this about Franklin?” she
asked. “Why would you want to talk to Samuel about that?”

Virgil made note of her referral
of the victim by his first name, then answered her question. “Yes, it is about
Franklin Dugan’s murder. I’m investigating on behalf of the state. It’s what I
do, Amanda. Is your husband home?”

“No, I’m afraid he is not home,
Detective
.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s at the church. They always
tape Sunday’s broadcast a few days ahead of time then edit it down for time. I
know a lot of people think it’s live, but it’s not. It’s taped. We make no
secret about that, you know.”

The defensiveness, Virgil thought,
was probably a large part of her life in general so he drew no conclusions from
the words she spoke or the manner in which they were delivered. “I wouldn’t
know, Amanda.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything other
than I am not a member of your church, and I don’t watch your televised
broadcasts. How well did you know Franklin Dugan?”

“Are you asking me that question
in an official capacity? Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or
something?”

“We only read you your rights if
you are under arrest, which you are not. Could you please just answer the
question?”

“I could, but I choose not to. My
rights are the same whether I’m under arrest or not and in this particular
instance, I choose to remain silent. If you have any questions for my husband,
or me, I suggest you contact our attorney. Better yet, I’m sure he’ll be in
touch with you. And your boss.” She opened the front door. “It was great seeing
you, Jonesy,” she said, her manufactured east Texas accent suddenly gone, but
her voice still thick with sarcasm. “Maybe next time we see each other it won’t
be in an official capacity.”

“I seriously doubt it, Amanda. Have
your husband call me as soon as he gets home.” When Virgil tried to hand her
his business card she refused to take it so he laid it on the small receiving
table next to the door. As soon as he set it down a gust of wind swirled
through the doorway and blew the card onto the floor as if the table were no
more willing to accept his contact information than the woman who stood at his
side. He stepped out into the sunlight, the sound of the brass doorknocker banging
against itself as the door slammed shut behind him.

__________

There were no misconceptions in
Virgil’s mind as to whether or not Amanda Pate would tell her husband to call,
so Virgil drove over to the Pate Ministry complex located on the outer edges of
a shopping center on the city’s west side. The massive brick building situated
in the center of the property was so non-descript it looked more like a small
hospital or office building than a church. Most of the property had been paved
with blacktop and dedicated to parking, and when he turned into the entrance of
the complex, Virgil saw that the parking lot was completely full. He parked next
to the yellow-curbed sidewalk in front of the building then set a laminated placard
on the dash identifying his truck as an official state vehicle.

A landscaper was spreading
fertilizer on the grass. Parts of the sidewalk were covered with the chemical granules
and they crunched under Virgil’s boots as if he were walking across a crushed
shell parking lot, the kind you find in ocean side towns of the Deep South. Four
sets of double glass doors with reflective tint separated by square brick
pillars fronted the building, and when he was less than ten feet away they all
opened at once and a throng of people exited the building and made their way to
the parking lot. Virgil had to stand aside and wait for the first wave of
people to pass before he could get inside the building. The scene reminded him
of quitting time at the factory where his grandfather had worked his entire
life. His mom or his grandmother would sometimes take him along and they’d sit
at the curb or on the trunk of the car and then the steam whistle would blow
and the men would pour out of the factory like the inside of the building was
on fire and about to explode.

The lobby area of the church was
bigger than Virgil expected. Hundreds of people clustered about in small
groups, talking or laughing, and some even held hands in a circle, their eyes
closed, their heads bowed in prayer as if they had to put in one more request
to God before they left the building. There was a café of some sort along the
eastern wall of the lobby serving coffee, tea and croissants. Small tables with
open umbrellas in their center holes lined a vertical railed enclosure where
people sat and talked with one another, their faces full of hope and joy as if
perhaps they were the chosen few who were lucky enough to have found their
heaven on earth. Next to the café was a bookstore where still more people
browsed the aisles while others waited in line to pay for their literary
selections. Across the lobby on the opposite wall a large area separated by
red-roped stanchions contained a maze of multi-colored tube slides, the kind
you see in the children’s section of fast food restaurants. Dozens of children
ran and happily climbed the ladders then slid down through the tubes, their
hair full of static electricity when they popped out the bottom. Virgil turned
back around and looked at the doors he’d just entered feeling a little like
Alice must have felt when she followed the rabbit down a hole and ended up in a
mystical place that made no sense to her at all.

A number of the children and
younger adults wore beaded bracelets on their wrists, the ones with WWJD on
them and even Virgil knew the letters stood for ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ Virgil
looked around for a few seconds and thought if Jesus were here, he would in all
likelihood wait until everyone had safely left the building then burn it to the
ground.

Virgil turned in a slow circle,
looking for the office area or an information kiosk and that’s when he noticed
two men approaching. They were both big and ugly. Their biceps bulged hard
against their matching sport coats. Though one was slightly taller than the
other, they looked almost exactly the same. Shaved heads, thick necks, bulging
muscles, and arms that seemed just a bit too long. Mouth breathers.

The shorter one spoke, like maybe
the taller one didn’t know how. “Reverend Pate is in his office and is expecting
you. Follow us please.” The smaller of the two men took two steps forward and
motioned for Virgil to follow. The three of them walked through the lobby area
and then down a short corridor and into the administrative office area of the
complex and found Pate seated at his desk, on the phone. He motioned Virgil in
with an exaggerated circular arm movement then pointed to a chair in front of
his desk, then into the phone he said, “Yes, yes he’s here now. I’ll call you
later.”

After seeing the size of the lobby
and its carnival-like atmosphere Virgil was surprised by the fact that Pate’s
office was no bigger than his own. It was decorated in muted tones, a contrast
so stark from the rest of the building Virgil was almost more amazed by its
utilitarian form and function than he was of the lobby just down the hall.

Samuel Pate looked like a
televangelist, the way some people carry a look of the profession they
practice, like an airline pilot or a doctor. His hair was pure white and he
wore it combed straight back, each strand held perfectly in place by some type
of product that left a reflective sheen so thick it almost looked like a
translucent helmet. When he hung up the phone and smiled, his eyes held a
certain light that looked both welcoming and mischievous at the same time, as
if perhaps the way to heaven might just be through a lesser-known back door. He
wore a starched pink shirt with a white collar and tie, and the armpits of his
shirt were soaked through with perspiration, although the size and shape of the
stains were so uniform it looked as if they may have come from a make-up
artist’s spray bottle instead of his own sweat glands.