Travellin' Shoes Read online

  “Do you want me to talk to him?”

  “Would you? Chris always looked up to you. He respects you. He used to follow you around like a puppy. Said he wanted to be like you … play ball like you used to. He even said he wanted to be a policeman, just like you. I don’t know what else to do. I’ve talked till I’m blue in the face.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Jesus knows I thank you. That boy is ’bout all I’ve got on this earth, and I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to him. I’ve done all I know to do. I’ve prayed so long and so hard, I think God is ’bout tired of listening to me.”

  “Well, you keep on praying, and between the three of us—you, me, and the Lord—we’ll figure out something.”

  You could almost see the weight lift from her shoulders. I was happy to see her smile again, but I knew if her observations were true, talking might not be enough. I’d known Chris since he was a baby. He was one of the nicest, most well-mannered kids I’d met. Sure, he was your typical teenager who liked baggy jeans and rap music, but I’d been around too many of those ‘hoodlums’ Sis Green referred to, and Chris wasn’t one of them. Not yet, anyway. Those are the ones who are hardened from the inside out. You look in their eyes and you see nothing. No soul. No fear. No feelings. No hope. But these new friends might turn out to be a bigger problem than Sis Green knew.

  Chapter Three

  At five thirty on Monday morning, I watched the sun rise over the river from the window of my townhouse. I had enjoyed four hours of continuous sleep, an improvement over the past few months. Since my accident, my sleep had been sporadic. Six months ago, I was driving on the interstate when I was hit from behind by a sixteen-year-old girl texting on her cellphone. The impact forced my car into another vehicle—killing two people. One was a six-year-old kid. I spent twenty minutes praying and doing CPR. But it was too late. I see that kid’s face in my sleep every night. She was wearing one shoe and clutching a Barbie doll. I fractured a ton of bones in my knee. Two surgeries later, it only hurts when I push myself too far. The surgeries were probably the last times I’ve slept through the night, and that night was the last time I talked to God.

  After the short-term disability ended, I went on administrative leave. My shrink said the limp was in my head. If that was true, I had bigger problems. I could probably do my job with a physical limp, but I wasn’t sure about a mental one. I needed time to get my head straight.

  My townhouse is the end unit of a newly constructed complex, built to resemble a converted warehouse. My home is a Zen-like retreat. It was a foreclosure so I got it for about one third of its market value. Thanks to great timing and some excellent grants the city created to encourage cops and teachers to live in inner-city neighborhoods, I bought a place a lot nicer than most cops could afford. Three stories, brick walls, seventeen-foot ceilings, exposed pipes, minimalist modern furniture, and outstanding river views were the things I loved most about my space. Everything was orderly and neat. I’m sure the department psychologist would say my home reflected my need for order and control.

  But the best thing about my townhouse was the oversized two-car garage underneath it. I carved out a small space for a woodshop. I love working with wood and keep a number of tools in my garage. When I need to think, working with wood helps me make sense out of chaos. There’s nothing like the hum of a table saw to help sort out the mental pieces.

  After a hot shower and a bagel and black coffee with my morning paper, I was ready to face anything.

  After dropping Mama B at the hairdresser, I arrived at the parsonage at exactly ten. Mattie Young, Reverend Hamilton’s housekeeper for the past twenty years, was there as always and welcomed me. We exchanged pleasantries as she escorted me into the study and then discreetly left, closing the door behind her.

  First Baptist Church was well over a century old, and the parsonage had all the character, charm, and problems of a hundred-year-old building. The plumbing was archaic. The boiler and radiators belonged in the Smithsonian. The hardwood floors squeaked, and the draft from the molding around the leaded glass windows could blow papers from the top of a desk. But thanks to Mrs. Young’s tender loving care and a generous application of Murphy’s Oil Soap, the floors and wood moldings shone like the top of the Chrysler Building. The hand-carved wood staircases, bookcases, and mantles were unique objects of beauty with stories all their own, and exquisite hand-blown glass tiles surrounded the fireplace. Reverend Hamilton fit perfectly into this environment.

  When I entered the room, I got a glimpse of the reverend as he gazed out the window. I hadn’t noticed the lines around his eyes and forehead yesterday, nor the look of heaviness that seemed to weigh him down. His hair was almost completely white, and he seemed shrunken.

  Still, when he looked at you, it was as though he had X-ray vision. He saw the parts you tried to cover. As a kid, I was terrified of him. Here was someone who actually talked to God, and I honestly believed God told him all my deep, dark secrets. In Reverend Hamilton’s eyes, I saw all the lies I’d ever told. He’d seen me steal candy from the corner store, and he’d seen the dirty magazines I’d gotten from Herschel Washington and hidden under my mattress. I believed Reverend Hamilton saw it all. And maybe he did. He always seemed to know things, but he never said a word. In the mind of a guilt-ridden kid, that just made matters worse. Here was a man with the power to destroy my world. I figured he was just waiting for the right time to do it. Maybe he was still waiting.

  For a moment, the veil was lifted, and I got a glimpse of the real man behind the mask.

  “RJ, I didn’t hear you come in. Welcome. Sit down.”

  I took a seat in one of two wingback chairs in front of his desk and waited.

  Reverend Hamilton paused for a moment and then, with a sigh, leaned forward. “I don’t know how to begin. But I asked you to come because I’m concerned. As you know, attendance has doubled in less than a year. We’ve always been fortunate to have a good congregation that has been extremely generous in their giving. But lately, it seems there have been some inconsistencies with the offerings.”

  My radar went up. “What kind of inconsistencies?”

  He paused. “The deposit amounts seem to be a lot less than what we would normally expect.”

  “Someone’s taking the money. Is that what you’re getting at?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Who do you suspect?” I couldn’t help the sharp tone that entered my voice.

  He waited so long to respond, I thought he wasn’t going to. Eventually, he shrugged.

  Reverend Hamilton was older, but he knew everything that went on in that church. There was no way he didn’t at least have an idea of who was stealing money. Besides, not many people had access. “How much money are you talking about?”

  “Between tithes and offerings, we are down approximately fifty thousand from what we took in last year at this time.”

  That was more than I expected. “So, with more members, you have substantially less money?”

  Reverend Hamilton nodded.

  “Have you talked to the financial secretary? Checked the books? Called the bank?”

  “I’ve looked over the envelopes,” Reverend Hamilton said quietly, “and talked to the bank.”

  “Have you talked to the financial secretary?”

  Normally not one to shy away from problems, Reverend Hamilton returned his gaze to the window. When he finally spoke, his tone was soft and deliberate. “As you know, Thomas Warrendale was a CPA with one of the local firms. Moe Chapman was the financial secretary, but after he received the call and began preaching, the deacons felt it was too much to expect him to do both.”

  Years on the force taught me he was holding something back. “Is that the only reason?”

  Reverend Hamilton thought for a moment and then shrugged. “We had no reason to change financial secretaries.”

  “But you suspected somet
hing wasn’t right?”

  With a sigh, Reverend Hamilton said, “I wasn’t sure. There was nothing I could prove. It was … just a feeling. Thomas Warrendale agreed to take on the responsibility of financial secretary as well as minister of music.”

  I was getting annoyed and could feel my temper rising. “Did you talk to either one of them about your feelings?”

  “Warrendale was extremely creative. I’d heard him called a financial genius. He was going to have our accounts analyzed by someone at his firm.”

  “Why didn’t you go the deacons or the trustees? Or the police? Why did you wait so long before doing anything?”

  “I have no proof. You’ve been a member of the congregation long enough to know what would happen if I went to the deacons or the trustees. Thomas Warrendale and Moe Chapman would’ve been convicted in the eyes of the congregation within a day.

  “So, instead you let one of them steal from the church?”

  Reverend Hamilton’s eyes flashed. He quoted, “ ‘Dare any of you, having a matter against another, go to law before the unjust, and not before the saints?’ First Corinthians six: one.” Taking a breath, Reverend Hamilton regained his composure. “I can’t prove any money is missing. Not everyone pays tithes. There are a lot of very low-income people with great need.”

  As Mama B had complained, not everyone paid tithes to the church. It was very possible the new members weren’t adding to the church’s coffers. Reverend Hamilton’s problem was not uncommon. Many churches were apt to allow sin and sometimes outright crime to go unpunished rather than risk a scandal by involving the police in internal matters. I’d grown up with that ideology. Forgive and forget. Repent and be washed clean of all your sins. Coming to me must have been hard. I swallowed my frustration and waited. After all, if he hadn’t told me about the money, chances were good we might never have found out about it. And there could be a connection to the murder.

  “What about Moe Chapman?” I said. “He’s certainly no financial genius.”

  “He’s … a dedicated and passionate minister. I can’t believe he would be involved in this.” Reverend Hamilton took a moment to think and then shook his head. “Moe Chapman is very straightforward. This … well, this required some finesse.”

  “So, he isn’t smart enough to have done this?”

  Reverend Hamilton didn’t respond immediately. Finally he said, “I don’t believe this would fit Moe Chapman’s character.”

  “Do you think there is any connection between the money and Thomas Warrendale’s death?”

  Reverend Hamilton stared. “I don’t see how.”

  “You have got to be kidding,” I said. “We have missing money and a dead man.”

  Reverend Hamilton gave me a long look. “RJ, I understand what you’re saying. But, if what you’re implying is true, that would mean someone from the church … someone close to the money, is a murderer. And that is something I cannot accept.”

  I might not agree with his logic, but I could understand it. Reverend Hamilton was hanging on to the belief that those closest to him wouldn’t be capable of this type of treachery. I wondered briefly if the same thought had crossed Jesus’ mind when he realized Judas betrayed him for thirty pieces of silver. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to investigate. Not officially, mind you. I don’t want the scandal of a formal police investigation. You know the church well enough to know that if word of a police investigation got out, reputations would be destroyed. I want you to investigate privately—quietly. You can say it’s part of the investigation into Thomas Warrendale’s death.”

  That part was true. If I investigated the murder, I’d need to look into anything and everything that might possibly be connected to Warrendale’s murder. The coroner might not have officially declared this to be murder, but in the event of a suspicious death, we were apt to treat it that way so we didn’t lose time later. Something in my gut told me this was not a random house fire, even without the smell of gasoline. But, aside from the fact that I was not investigating this murder, I was still on leave.

  Reverend Hamilton lifted a shopping bag from the floor and slid it across the desk. Inside, I saw an old-fashioned accountant’s ledger, a CD case, and index-card boxes filled with offering envelopes.

  “Reverend Hamilton, I’m not sure I can help. I’m a detective, not a financial wizard. You need a lawyer, not a cop. Plus, I’m on leave.”

  “That’s why it would be an unofficial investigation. Being on leave should mean you have more time, right?” His X-ray vision penetrated my outer shell and pricked my conscience.

  “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  Looking down at his Bible, Reverend Hamilton smiled for the first time since I arrived. “I do. You start with the Word and with prayer. Let’s pray.”

  It had been at least six months since I’d prayed, but I assumed the position—head bowed and eyes closed. With any luck, he wouldn’t notice I was faking. Reverend Hamilton prayed for guidance and direction and finished with praise and thanks in advance for the solution.

  I stumbled outside in a daze, lugging the bag Reverend Hamilton had given me with the church’s receipts and bank statements. I swear it got heavier with every step. Tossing the bag in the trunk of my car, I felt a brief moment of relief. Out of sight, out of mind. Sooner or later, I’d have to tackle this problem, but not right now. I couldn’t prove a connection between the money and Warrendale’s death, but I felt they were somehow tied together. If there was a link, I would find it.

  I needed to pick Mama B up from the beauty shop, which was actually only a few blocks away from the parsonage. When I arrived, she seemed a bit out of sorts. It was just about lunchtime, so we headed to get a bite to eat. Despite the excellent lunch at her favorite restaurant, a little dive called St. Joe Café, she was still not quite her normal, jovial self. After fifteen minutes of probing questions, I ascertained she wasn’t happy her hairdresser was out of town, even though she’d arranged for someone else to do her hair—which by the way looked quite nice. However, during dessert, the true source of her frustration came out.

  Mama B took a bite of pie. “You know you ain’t foolin’ nobody. I can see right through you. And they should have put a bit of lard in the dough.”

  “I think the pie tastes great.” I ignored the personal commentary, even though I knew it wouldn’t matter. When Mama B got hold of something, she was worse than a dog with a new bone.

  “You ain’t sleeping. I can see the dark circles under your eyes.”

  I focused on my pie and kept eating.

  “Boy, you’re too young to be working this hard and not sleeping and probably not eating right.”

  “I’m eating very well,” I said, taking another bite of pie.

  “You know what I mean. You’re running yourself into the ground, and you need a wife.”

  I laughed, despite the serious look on her face. “How is having a wife going to help me sleep better?”

  “A wife would make sure you were looked after.”

  “Well, I don’t need a wife to look after me. I’m perfectly able to take care of myself.”

  Mama B rolled her eyes and snorted. “Pshaw.”

  “Look, I know you’re concerned, but I’m fine. I slept longer last night than I have in a long time.”

  “Men! You don’t even know what you need. If you had a wife, she’d be able to tell you.”

  I laughed so hard, people at a nearby table actually started to laugh too. Mama B was totally serious, but she eventually let it drop. I knew she was biding her time. She wouldn’t give up until she had me safely married off to a young woman of her choosing.

  After lunch, I dropped Mama B at home then swung by the courthouse. Judge E.L. Browning’s retirement party was today, and I wanted to stop in and wish him well. After forty-five years on the bench, Judge Browning was finally calling it quits. Over the years, we’d gotten to be something just short of friends.

  Judge B
rowning was the first African-American named to the bench in St. Joe, Indiana. After a short but distinguished career as a public defender, E.L. ran for and won his seat on the bench after Judge Richard Thomas was caught in a scandal involving drugs and an under-aged prostitute. E.L. was heavily involved in civil rights and education. In fact, for the last fifteen years, he’d served as a part-time professor at the local law school. Word around the precinct was he wasn’t leaving the bench for a life of leisure but would soon be named as the new dean at the law school. Oftentimes, cops and lawyers seem to be on opposite sides of the table. But, down to the last man and woman on the force, every member of the SJPD would attest to the fact that, while we may not have agreed with every decision E.L. handed down, we respected him. He treated everyone—cops, lawyers, victims, and criminals—with respect.

  Streamers, music, cake, and balloons filled the courthouse cafeteria. I grabbed a piece of cake and a fork and looked for his familiar face. I spotted E.L. in the middle of well-wishers and elbowed my way close enough to say, “Congratulations, Judge.”

  “Thank you, RJ. I was hoping you’d show up. Have you had a chance to consider my proposition?”

  “I’m still thinking about it.”

  Grabbing me by the arm, he guided me toward a less crowded corner of the room.

  “I know you don’t like the idea of talking in public. I still remember the first time you testified in my courtroom.” His lips twitched with the effort to keep from laughing. “I thought you were going to puke right there in the witness box.”

  “So did I. Which is why I don’t know why you want me to humiliate myself. I’m not a lawyer. I’m just a cop, nothing else—nothing special.”