The Betrayed, page 5
“Does the Burke Foundation have an office in the city?” I asked.
“Of course, in a big high-rise over on Perdido Street.” He reached into a desk drawer and fumbled around a bit, eventually producing a business card, which he slid across the table.
“You’ll want to speak with Valerie Grimes. She’s the manager of the outreach program,” he added.
I tucked the card into my pocket. “We also found this painted outside of two of the sites,” I said, placing the Polaroid of the symbol down onto the desk. “Does this look familiar to you?”
Father Kelly pulled out a set of reading glasses from his top desk drawer and donned them. He hunched over the desk, peering down at the image.
As Kelly stared at the picture, I took a moment to examine the bookshelves that graced the walls. Along the right side, thick volumes with largely modern bindings were stacked from floor to ceiling on hardwood shelving. There were more holy texts than I’d ever seen in one place: Bibles of all description, several copies of the Quran and Kabbalah, and numerous thick treatises on theology.
On the left wall, the selection was more interesting. There, behind locked glass doors, were tomes with names that excited the imagination. The Magus or Celestial Intelligencer, Le Dragon Rouge, Grimoir of Pope Honorius, and Malleus Maleficarum all shared space with even-more-mysterious works, covers too weathered by age and use to be readable.
Kelly removed his glasses and sat back in his chair, his expression confused.
“Can’t say I have. It’s a right strange wee glyph, to be certain.” Kelly sat in contemplation for a moment, then added, “Leave it with me. I’ll ask around, see what I can dig up.”
I nodded. “One final question, Father: Were you able to arrange a meeting with Mr. Fitzgerald for us?”
A look of surprise lit up Kelly’s eyes. “Yes, I did, praise Jesus, though I nearly forgot to tell you. He said to drop by his restaurant any weeknight. He’s usually there for the supper crowd.”
I nodded. “Thanks Father.” I looked to Rae. “Any questions from your end?” I asked.
Rae smiled. “Nope, but thanks for the sucker, Father. Tasty.”
“My pleasure, child,” Father Kelly responded.
As soon as we were outside, Rae removed the sucker from her mouth and tossed it. I looked at her questioningly.
“It’s not bad, but I’ve never been a fan of lollipops,” she said in answer.
I cocked my head. “Then why on Earth did you eat it?”
She shrugged. “Fastest way to see if it was drugged.”
I barked a laugh. “What if it knocked you out or poisoned you?”
She opened the car door. “I was trusting in your chivalry to save me, good sir,” she said in a reasonable impression of Scarlett O’Hara, tilting her head and batting her eyes theatrically.
I shook my head and got into the cruiser.
We parked at the curb by 707 Perdido and got out of the car. The building was a concrete high-rise with stone accents and large, multi-paned glass windows reaching into the sky. The entrance was a set of wooden double doors with brass fittings under a fifteen-foot-high stone arch, with some kind of crest at the apex.
Inside, the floor was dominated by a marble-covered lobby, with suites leading off down hallways to each side. In the center, on the left wall, was a bank of elevators flanked by a directory. On the right wall were entrances to public restrooms.
I cast a brief glance at the directory, verifying that the Foundation was on the second floor, then hit the button to call the elevator.
During the ride up, I mentally prepared my questions for Grimes while I suffered through a few bars of muzak issuing from the overhead speakers.
Stepping out of the elevator, I found myself in a hallway that stretched to the right and left. Directly ahead was an open entryway, with a sign to one side that read:
Suite 200
The Burke Foundation
We stepped through the entryway and into a carpeted lobby, which was decorated with muted but stylish furnishings and subdued colors. A smartly dressed young woman sat behind an imposing desk at the far end of the room. As we approached, she glanced up at us, a pleasant smile plastered to her face. The smile faltered when she looked me over.
I sighed inwardly.
“May I help you?” the lady asked with just the slightest trace of a southern accent.
I began to open my trap when I heard Rae’s voice beside me.
“Yes, we’re private detectives hired by Father Kelly to look into some things for the Church. He said Ms. Grimes had some information that could assist us.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Grimes is out this morning, but I’d be happy to take a message,” the lady responded automatically.
A concerned look appeared on Rae’s face. “Do you know when she’ll be back in?”
“On Tuesdays she’s usually out until lunchtime, inspecting the programs,” the lady responded.
“I see,” Rae said. “I suppose we’ll just drop by later, then.” She turned as if to leave, before suddenly turning back around.
“Just out of curiosity, what programs do you have on Tuesdays?”
“We offer breakfast to the homeless by the overpass.”
“Near the intersection of Canal Street and South Claibourne?” Rae asked.
“That’s the one.”
Rae beamed a smile at the lady. “Thanks so much, you’ve been very helpful.”
Ten minutes later, we were back by the tent city at the I-10 overpass. It was a buzz of activity that morning, with a portable kitchen on the sidewalk and bowls of steaming stew being handed out to a long line of people.
I scanned the volunteers, looking for the woman in charge, but came up empty. Rae tugged at my elbow, then pointed toward the tent city.
The tents were nearly all vacant, the residents lined up for their meal, but there were a few folks still milling around. Rae’s finger picked out a short, stout white woman with a tight bun of white hair on her head. She had her back turned to us, and was speaking with a large black man in a coverall.
I recognized the man as the same one I’d seen by the church last Thursday, the one with the shears who had been getting reamed out. Given that, I had a fairly good suspicion about who the woman was.
I felt my expression harden as I looked at her back. I nodded to Rae, and we began picking our way through the crowd.
As we got closer, I began to make out the conversation between the two.
“…and just because you think they might still want it is no excuse, Bernard. I want all the spaces clean and tidy, all of them, and anything left on the ground, outside of their sleeping area and not in a container, is trash. Do you understand?”
The woman had a harsh, grating voice, like a shout turned down to normal volume.
“But what if it’s Jack, and he says it’s Miss Alicia’s things?” the big man replied in a pleading, child-like tone that was completely at odds with the deep bass rumble emanating from him.
“Anything that is to be kept must be put away. No exceptions. Do you hear me, Bernard? If he wants to keep Ms. Alicia’s things, they need to be put away.”
Bernard shifted uncomfortably, bouncing back and forth from foot to foot, head lowered, but he nodded.
“Yes, Ms. Grimes.”
We stopped behind the lady, and I cleared my throat.
The lady let out an exasperated sigh, then turned to face us. “Yes?” she asked, looking me up and down with the same expression I imagine she would give to a newly discovered species of insect.
I held out a card. “I’m Rev, and this is Rae. We’re P.I.s hired by Father Kelly to look into the disappearances. Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”
She took the card, mild surprise on her face. “Father Kelly mentioned something about wanting to hire some professionals, but I never imagined he’d be able to afford to.” She looked me up and down again skeptically, as if trying to decide if I fit the description of ‘professional.’
“I suppose I can answer, as long as you can keep up,” she said dismissively, then began walking back toward the chow line. She had an unusual, waddling gait, as if she couldn’t bend her knees and was just bouncing from leg to leg. It reminded me a little of those weeble-wobble toys kids played with. Rae and I fell in beside her.
“Ms. Grimes, did you know the victims?” I asked.
She shrugged, answering without looking at me, “I suppose I had probably met them. I’m acquainted with almost all of our locals, but I can’t recall any of them except for Marcus.”
“Why did he stick out?”
She stopped abruptly, turning to fix a glare on me that said her estimate of my IQ—not high to begin with—had just dropped. “Because he was a child, of course.” She turned and continued walking. “We don’t have many homeless orphans, just Marcus and Jerome, as far as I know.”
I fell back in step as Rae took up the questioning.
“What about your staff? Were any of them close to the victims?” Rae asked.
Grimes cast a glance Rae’s way, then fixed her eyes back on her path. “I doubt it. Most of my paid staff are administrative support, working from our head office. The people you see here,” she said, her hand sweeping over the chow line, “are all volunteers.”
“What about the volunteers, then?” I asked. “Were any of them close to the victims?”
“You’d have to ask them yourself,” she responded.
“How about Bernard?” Rae asked.
Ms. Grimes stopped again, and actually turned toward Rae, placing one plump hand on an ample hip. “What about him?” she asked, something defensive in her voice.
Rae smiled disarmingly. “What I mean is, did Bernard maybe know any of the homeless? It seemed like he at least knew who Alisha was, after all.”
Grimes huffed. “Bernard is simple, you understand? Has been his whole life. He can barely keep up with the little chores I give him, much less the comings and goings of the homeless.”
“That why you’re so hard on him?” I asked. “Because he’s simple?”
Grimes fixed me with a stare that would wilt stone. “I am not hard on him, and I do not appreciate the insinuation. I run a tight ship; all employees must perform their duties to the Burke Foundation standards, no matter what their shortcomings.”
“I’m sure my colleague meant no offense, Ms. Grimes,” Rae cut in, casting me a glance that said ‘Shut up and let me fix this.’ “It’s just that it seemed you were a bit harsh in your directions to him. Is he a difficult employee?”
A little of the fire went out of Grimes’s gaze. “I wouldn’t say he’s difficult, exactly, just… easily distracted. I know my methods seem heavy-handed, but I’ve been managing Bernard almost his entire life. He has to be kept on a tight leash or there’s no telling where he’ll end up.”
Satisfied she had made her point, Ms. Grimes resumed walking, and we followed along.
“Would you mind if I asked him some questions?” Rae asked. Quickly, she added: “Once he’s done with his work, of course.”
Grimes chewed on this for a moment, then nodded. “I don’t suppose it can hurt. He lives in a little building by the garden at Saint Christina’s. He should be done with his chores today by three or four o’clock.” She stopped as we neared the chow line and turned to face us. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a lot of work I need to do and I’m not getting any younger.”
Rae added, “Thanks so much for speaking with us, Ms. Grimes. Please call if you can think of anything else that might help.”
Grimes nodded, and Rae and I observed as she moved behind the makeshift kitchen, barking out orders as she went. Volunteers and homeless alike stood straighter and moved with more purpose in her presence, the anxiety she elicited palpable.
As I watched her, I considered her as a suspect. She didn’t strike me as mean, despite Jerome’s assessment of her, just very stern. Like Rae had said yesterday, however, to a ten-year-old, there probably wasn’t much difference.
On the other hand, she didn’t seem all that concerned about the homeless. Her motivation seemed to be an internal sense of responsibility rather than a desire to help the needy. Overall, she didn’t strike me as a kidnapper, but neither did anyone else just yet.
While I was lost in thought, my gaze wondered past Grimes and the chow line to land on a small girl, perhaps ten years old, standing over by a support. My breath caught in my throat, and I froze.
She was waiting there, alone, her back to me. People milled about her, completely oblivious to her presence. Her tattered olive shirt, which hung to her ankles, billowed out behind her, loose and free in the wind. Jet-black hair, long, straight, and silky, spilled down her back, occasionally fanning out in the breeze. Her bare feet were dirty and calloused, the dirt a slightly darker shade of brown than her gold-tinted skin.
She couldn’t be here; it wasn’t possible.
I watched her die.
“What do you think?” Rae asked.
“Huh?” I said, my gaze finally breaking from the girl and landing on Rae.
Rae’s eyes went wide. “You okay, Rev? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
I snapped my head back toward the girl—She was gone. I stood dumbfounded.
“Rev?” Rae called again.
I shook my head to clear it.
“Yeah, I’m okay, just lost in thought,” I said. “What was your question?”
Rae looked me over skeptically. “I was just asking what you thought our next moves were?”
I brought my mind back to the problems at hand, putting the hallucination—or whatever it was—out of my thoughts.
“Let’s wait a bit and interview as many of the volunteers as we can; then we can grab some food and go have a talk with Bernard.”
Chapter 6
Bernie
New Orleans, Louisiana: 4:09 PM, Tuesday, October 16th, 1984
After spending a fruitless morning interviewing Burke Foundation volunteers, Rae and I visited a sandwich shop for a late lunch, then drove back over to St. Christina’s.
As we stepped out of the cruiser, Rae asked, “Do you know where the building Grimes mentioned is?”
I shook my head, then cast a pointed look across the street.
She followed my gaze to the side of the church, where Bernard was out in the garden trimming a decorative shrub, shears clicking away.
She grinned ruefully and came around to join me as I crossed the street.
We skirted the scaffolding on the side of the bell tower and entered the garden through an open iron gate attached to a stout stone fence. Walking along tidy inlaid stone paths, we made our way through the garden to stand beside Bernard. He didn’t so much as glance over at us; he was completely absorbed in his work.
Close up, I took a second to look Bernard over. He was a few inches shorter than me and maybe fifty pounds lighter, with a sturdy frame that was just beginning to go to fat. I guessed him to be about my age, with close-cropped hair thinning at the crown and graying at the temples. He was dressed in clean but worn work clothes, and his huge hands were covered in calluses and scars from a life of manual labor.
I watched him for a few moments, astounded at the skill he displayed with the clippers. He was expertly trimming the shrub, taking off millimeters of material at a time. It reminded me of watching my barber, an ancient man who had been cutting hair longer than I had been alive. The way his fingers knew exactly how much to remove, and where, to create a perfectly sculpted shape out of such an insubstantial material, never failed to fascinate me.
Rae nudged me, breaking me out of my reverie.
“Bernard?” I ventured softly.
The clippers stopped immediately, and Bernard turned toward me, as if awakening from some kind of daze. As he did, his Creole eyes, light blue contrasting with his clay-colored skin, leapt out at me.
“Uh… yessir?” he responded, looking at me with an expression that reminded me of a mistreated dog—obedient and hopeful, yet fearful.
I felt my expression soften.
“Bernard, I’m Rev, and this is Rae. We’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s okay?”
When Bernard’s gaze landed on Rae, I could almost see little hearts bubbling up in them like a Saturday-morning cartoon. His ears turned reddish, and he looked down shyly.
Rae smiled up at him with amusement. “Bernard?” she asked, trying to catch his eyes with hers.
Still avoiding her gaze, shifting in a kind of delighted discomfort, Bernard answered, “Oh, you can call be Bernie, miss. All my friends does.”
I shot Rae a grin, ceding the interview to her for the moment.
“You have a lot of friends, Bernie?” Rae asked.
Bernie looked down at his feet, shuffling. “Oh yes, yes, ma’am.” He shoved the shears in a pocket, then opened one huge hand and began ticking down fingers.
“There’s Father Kelly, and Ms. Grimes, and Mr. Pritchard at the candy shop, and Ms. Alicia, and Jerome, and Ms. Daniels at the flower place…”
When he ran out of fingers, he started back over, ticking off the same five fingers over and over.
“Then there’s Billy, who delivers the papers, Ms. Wilson, who always gives me pie on Sundays, Mr. Fitzgerald… oh, and Ms. Burke, who is always real nice to me.”
He looked down at his hand. “Five friends,” he proclaimed, proudly holding his large, calloused mitt up with all the digits splayed.
“I see,” Rae confirmed, beaming a smile at him. “Bernie, we just want to ask some questions about your friends. Is that okay?”
Bernie squirmed, smiling. “Sure, Ms. Rae, you can ask me anything.”
“What kind of person is Father Kelly?” Rae asked.
“Father Kelly is a very nice man. He helps all kinds of folks, and he lets me work in the garden.”
“You like working with the plants?”
Bernie nodded enthusiastically. “Father Kelly says God gave me a green thumb, but I thinks my thumb is the same color as the rest of me.”
