Salvation in Death

  “They’ll be coming along pretty soon. They’ll come straight back after the night they’ve had, go to their rooms. Or to each other’s rooms for comfort, for a rehash. But she won’t. She’ll want to be alone.”

  “The side dish.”

  “Yeah. My money’s on the blond singer.”

  “They were all blondes.”

  “Yeah, they were. The blond singer with the biggest rack.”

  “As not all men go for large breasts—as I can attest—I’ll also assume you’re basing your money on the replay, and the large-breasted blonde who fell to her knees to weep.”

  She poked a finger at his shoulder. “You watched the replay.”

  “Looking into things.”

  “And your take?”

  He lifted her hand to his lips. “I wouldn’t bet against you.”

  Eve turned as a limo glided to the curb behind her police issue. She watched people come out. A man, a woman, another couple, another man, then the singing quartet. They clumped together like a puffy blue ball, and rolled into the hotel.

  “We’ll give them a couple minutes, let them get to their rooms. Could wait to do this in the morning,” she said, half to herself, “but she might be easier to open now, and in her room. Away from the venue, from everyone else.”

  “And if she admits to being his lover, what does it tell you?”

  “I don’t know. It depends. One angle leads to another. It could be motive. She wanted more; he wouldn’t give it. Or there’s a jealous boyfriend, or former lover. Or . . . I’ve got some others cooking. Okay. Let’s go intimidate the night clerk. No bribing,” she added. “It takes the fun out of it.”

  She went in, strode across the lobby with its boring gray floors and unfortunate floral upholstery. She had her swagger on, Roarke noted. It never failed to entertain him.

  She slapped her badge on the counter where a droid in a severe black suit manned the front desk.

  “Good evening,” he said, and Roarke wondered whose idea it had been to program the droid with such a pussified Brit accent. “Welcome to the Mark.”

  “Ulla Pintz. I need her room number.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to divulge the room numbers of our guests. Ordinarily, I’d be happy to ring the guest room for you, and obtain that permission, but Ms. Pintz just came in, and requested a Do Not Disturb. There’s been a terrible tragedy.”

  “Yeah. Dead guy. I’m a cop.” She lifted her badge, wagged it in front of his face. “Guess why I’m here.”

  He only stared blankly, which Eve admitted was the trouble with service droids. They didn’t usually get sarcasm or subtlety.

  “Let’s put this in short sentences,” Eve decided. “Ms. Pintz is a witness to said terrible tragedy. I’m the primary investigator of same. Give me her room number, or I haul all your circuits down to Central, where we’ll get a warrant to shut you down due to obstruction of justice.”

  “Here at the Mark, our guests’ wishes are sacrosanct.”

  “Try this: How are you going to serve your guests’ wishes when you’re down at Central and the jokers in EDD are playing with you?”

  He seemed to consider that, as far as droids considered anything. “I have to verify your identification.”

  “Go ahead.” A thin red beam shot out of his eyes as he scanned the badge on the counter. “Everything appears to be in order, Lieutenant Dallas. Ms. Pintz’s room number is 1203.”

  “Does she have a roommate?”

  “No. The other members of the Eternal Lights share a suite, but Ms. Pintz prefers her own quarters.”

  “I bet.”

  Satisfied, she walked with Roarke to the elevator. “It’s not as much fun to intimidate droids.”

  “We have to take our small disappointments. Think of how you’ll enjoy interrogating Ulla.”

  “Yeah.” She stepped on the elevator. “Maybe that’ll make up for it. I also could be chasing my tail by looking at this as essentially unconnected to my first murder, instead of going with the overt and obvious.”

  “Trusting your instincts instead of the hard facts?”

  “If I were to run a probability right now, I’m pretty damn sure I’d get high eighties that we’ve got the same killer on both.”

  “And you think not.”

  “I think not. I think I know who killed Jenkins. Not sure why yet.”

  Eve got off the elevator, walked down to 1203. The Do Not Disturb light beamed from the door. She ignored it and knocked.

  “Ulla Pintz, this is the police. Open the door.”

  After several seconds of silence, Eve knocked again, gave the same command.

  “Hello?” A high, quavery voice spoke through the speaker. “I’m, ah, indisposed. They said I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone until tomorrow.”

  “They were wrong. You need to open the door, Ulla, or I’ll secure authorization to use my master.”

  “I don’t understand.” Sniffles accompanied the words now as locks clicked off. “Samuel said we could come back, and not talk to anyone.” The door opened. “He’s a lawyer and everything.”

  “I’m a cop and everything. Lieutenant Dallas,” Eve added, and deliberately said nothing about Roarke as they stepped in. “Rough night, huh, Ulla?”

  “It’s so horrible.” Ulla wiped at her eyes. She’d taken off the poofy dress and wore the hotel’s white robe. She’d had enough time to remove several layers of stage makeup so her face was naked, pale, splotchy. And very young. “He died. Right in front of us. I don’t know how.”

  Recognizing one who didn’t play damsel but simply was one, Roarke took her arm. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  The room was small, but managed to cram in a tiny sitting area in addition to the bed. Roarke led her to a chair.

  “Thank you. We’re all so upset. Jimmy Jay was so big and healthy and, and larger than life, so full of the energy of the Lord.” She made what Eve could only describe as a blubbery sound, then buried her face in a tissue. “I don’t know how he could be gone!”

  “I’m working on finding out. Why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Jimmy Jay?”

  As she lifted her head again, Ulla’s eyes popped wide, actually jittered. “Why do you say that? I sing. We sing. Me and Patsy and Carmella and Wanda, we’re the Eternal Lights. We make a joyful noise.”

  It was late, Eve thought, and there wasn’t any point in screwing around. She sat on the foot of the bed so that her eyes were level with Ulla’s swimming ones. “We know, Ulla.”

  Ulla’s gaze shot up, rolled away. Like a kid’s might when he denies snitching cookies even when his hand is stuck in the jar. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Ulla.”

  When Roarke spoke before she could, Eve scowled at him. But his attention was focused on Ulla.

  “Jimmy Jay would want you to tell us the truth. He needs your help. Someone killed him.”

  “Oh my goodness. Oh gosh.”

  “He needs you to tell us the truth so that we can find out who did this, so we can find the answers for those who loved him, who followed him. Who believed in him.”

  Ulla clasped her hands together, pressed them in the deep valley between her very impressive breasts. “We all did. I think we’ll be lost without him, I really do. I don’t know how we’ll find the path to Enlightenment again.”

  “The truth is the first step on the path.”

  She blinked, her watery brown eyes fixed on Roarke. “Really?”

  “You’re carrying a burden now, the burden of a secret. He wants you to lay it down and take that first step on the path. I’m sure of it.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes stayed riveted on Roarke’s. “If I could! But I don’t want to do anything that would hurt him, or Jolene, or the girls. I’d just never forgive myself.”

  “Telling us will help them, not hurt them. If they don’t need to know this answer, it won’t leave this room.”

  She closed her eyes a moment while her lips moved in
silent prayer. “I’m so confused. So sick in my heart. I want to help. I want to stay on the path.” Ulla spoke to Roarke. It was, Eve realized, as if she herself had poofed like smoke.

  “I guess you could say that Jimmy Jay and I had a special bond. A relationship that transcended earthy barriers.”

  “You loved each other,” Roarke prompted.

  “We did. We did.” Gratitude poured through her voice at his understanding. “In a different way from the way he loved Jolene, and his girls, and how I love my almost fiancé, Earl, back in Tupelo.”

  Ulla glanced at the photo beside her bed of a skinny man with a big, gummy grin.

  “We created light with each other. And I helped him, with my body, gain the strength to preach the Word. It wasn’t just physical, you see. It wasn’t like, well, sex.”

  Eve resisted, by a thin, thin thread, asking what the hell it was like if it wasn’t like sex.

  “Though we gave each other pleasure, I don’t deny it.” Eyes leaking, and pleading for understanding, Ulla caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “But through the pleasure, we gained a deeper understanding. Not everyone understands the understanding, so we had to keep it just between the two of us.”

  “Can I ask how long you had this special bond?” Eve put in.

  “Four months, two weeks, and five days.” Ulla smiled sweetly. “We both prayed on it first, and that power—the spiritual power—was so strong, we knew it was right.”

  “And how often did you . . . create light with each other?”

  “Oh, two or three times a week.”

  “Including this afternoon.”

  “Yes. Tonight was a very big night, for all of us. It was so important that Jimmy Jay have all the light and energy we could make.”

  She took another tissue, blew her nose delicately. “He came here this afternoon. I stayed in when the girls went out to do a little sightseeing before going to rehearsal. It took almost an hour. It was a special, special night, so we had to create a lot of light.”

  “Did he ever give you anything?” Eve asked. “Money, presents.”

  “Oh no, oh goodness. That would be wrong.”

  “Uh-huh. Did you ever go out together? Travel together, a holiday, out to dinner?”

  “No, oh no. We just came together in my room wherever we were. For the light. Or maybe, once or twice, backstage somewhere if he needed a little extra closer to preaching.”

  “And you didn’t worry that you might be found out by someone who didn’t understand the understanding.”

  “Well, I was, a little. But Jimmy Jay felt that we were shielded by our higher purpose, and our pure intentions.”

  “No one ever confronted you about your relationship?”

  Her lips moved into a soft, sad pout. “Not until now.”

  “You never told, or hinted, to your friends? The other singers, your, ah, almost fiancé.”

  “No, I didn’t. I was bound by my word. Jimmy Jay and I both swore right on the Bible that we’d never tell anyone. I hope it’s all right I’ve told you. You said—”

  “It’s different now,” Roarke assured her.

  “Because he’s gone to the angels. I’m so tired. I just want to say my prayers and go to bed now. Is that all right?”

  Back on the sidewalk, Eve leaned back against the side of her vehicle. “No way that was an act. She really is that gullible. She really is dumb as a sack of moondust.”

  “Yet very sweet.”

  Eve rolled her eyes toward him. “I think you have to have a penis to get that impression.”

  “I do, and did.”

  “Despite that—or probably because of it—you pushed the right buttons up there. You handled her very well, and got her to tell us without me having to threaten to haul her silly tits downtown.” She couldn’t stop the grin. “Set down the burden of the secret and step onto the path of righteousness.”

  “Well, it was a theme. In any case, she’s the type who looks to the penis, in a manner of speaking, to tell her what to do, what to think. Jenkins used that. Or maybe he actually believed what he told her.”

  “Either way, it’s an angle.” She opened the car door. When they were inside, she glanced at Roarke. “Could they both be dim enough to believe nobody suspected, got the sex vibe? Nothing? Two or three times a week for months, and the occasional booster backstage. Backstage, as we’ve seen, that’s swarming with people.”

  “Someone found them out, as you put it,” Roarke said as he drove them home, “and killed Jenkins because of it?”

  “It’s an angle. What would have happened to the church—its rep, its mission, its coffers—if this understanding got out, was made public.”

  “Sex has toppled countries, and buried leaders. I imagine it would have done considerable damage.”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking more, lots more than the death of the founder and figurehead. The murder of that figurehead by what could be taken as a killer targeting men of God. You could get play out of that, if you spin it right. You could take a few hits, but more, you could drum up more business. The outraged, the sympathetic. You could hold the line until a new figurehead stepped in.”

  Oh yeah, she thought. It played. It played a marching tune. “Meanwhile, you’ve got the widow, the family, grieving and steadfast. You’ll have media coverage out your ass, that will charge right through the memorial. Hell, if you know what you’re doing, you can make this a big plus.”

  “Who knows what they’re doing?”

  “Oh. It’s his manager. Billy Crocker.”

  Roarke let out a quick laugh. “And you know this from one interview with him—I assume—and a few hours on the investigation.”

  She rolled her shoulders, rubbed her eyes. “I should’ve said I like the manager for it. I’m tired, starting to feel punchy. I like the manager for it if it’s a separate killing. If I’m wrong and it’s connected to Flores/ Lino, I’m fucked if I know.”

  She yawned, hugely. “Not enough coffee,” she muttered. “I think I need a couple hours down, let my brain play with it while I’m out.” She checked the time, cursed. “Okay two hours max, since I’ve got to get my report in order before Peabody comes on. And I need time to do a couple runs, and plug in your financials summary. If I do a probability, even with Ulla’s statement, it’s going to slap me back. I need some more.”

  Roarke drove through the gates. “I take it you and I won’t be creating light together this morning?”

  She gave a sleepy laugh. “Pal, I’m looking for the dark.”

  “Fair enough. Two hours down and an energy shake in the morning.”

  “They’re revolting.”

  “We have a new flavor. Peachy Keen.”

  “Revolting and silly. Yum.”

  But since that was two hours away, she wasn’t going to worry about it. She concentrated on getting upstairs, stripping down, and falling into the bed where Galahad already curled, looking annoyed at the interruption.

  By the time the cat relocated to her feet, and she’d snugged herself against Roarke, she was out.

  And out, she walked onto the stage in the great arena of Madison Square Garden. The altar stood under a white wash of light. Both Lino, in his priest robes, and Jenkins, in his white suit, stood behind it.

  The black and the white, under the brilliance of light.

  “We’re all sinners here,” Jenkins said, beaming at her. “Just takes the price of a ticket. SRO, and every one a sinner.”

  “Sins aren’t my jurisdiction,” Eve told him. “Crimes are. Murder is my religion.”

  “You got an early start.” Lino picked up a silver chalice, toasted her, drank. “Why is it the blood of Christ has to be transfigured out of cheap wine. Want a shot?” he asked Jenkins.

  “Got my own, padre.” Jenkins lifted his water bottle. “Every man to his own poison. Brothers and sisters!” He raised his voice, spread his arms. “Let us pray for this fellow sinner, that she will find her path, find the light. That she repents!” r />
  “I’m not here about my sins.”

  “Sins are the weight holding us down, keeping us from reaching up for the hand of God!”

  “Want some absolution?” Lino offered. “I give it out daily, twice on Saturday. Can’t buy that ticket into heaven without paying for salvation.”

  “Neither of you are who you pretend to be.”

  “Are any of us?” Jenkins demanded. “Let’s see the playback.”

  The screen behind them flashed on. Dull red light blinking, blinking. Through the small window, SEX! LIVE SEX! beat that red light into the room where Eve, the child she’d been, shivered with the cold as she cut a tiny slice of a molding piece of cheese.

  In the dream her heart began to thud. Her throat began to burn.

  He was coming.

  “I’ve seen this before.” Eve forced herself to keep her eyes on the screen, willed herself not to turn and run from what was coming.

  He was coming.

  “I know what he did. I know what I did. It doesn’t apply.”

  “Judge not,” Lino advised as he shoved up the sleeve of his robes. As the tattoo on his arm began to bleed. “Lest you be judged.”

  On-screen, her father—drunk but not drunk enough—struck her. And he fell on her. And he snapped the bone in her arm as he raped her. On the screen, she screamed, and on the stage, she felt it all. The pain, the shock, the fear, and at last, she felt the hilt of the knife in her hand.

  She killed him, driving that knife into him, again and again, feeling the blood coat her hands, splatter on her face while her broken arm wept in agony. She stood on the stage and watched. Her stomach turned, but she watched until the child she’d been crawled into a corner, huddled like a wild animal.

  “Confess,” Lino ordered her.

  “Repent your sins,” Jenkins shouted.

  “If that was a sin, I’ll take my lumps with God—if and when.”

  “Penance,” Lino demanded.

  “Rebirth,” Jenkins preached.

  Together they shoved at the table of the altar so that it crashed to the stage, broke into jagged pieces of stone. From the coffin beneath, the bloody ghost of her father rose. And smiled.