Covenant

62

Lucas Tyrell had never failed to be impressed by the fabulous scale of the monuments erected by the faithful.

“It is more blessed to give than to receive,” he murmured as he tossed a handful of biscuits into the backseat of the car, Bailey crunching them noisily.

“What?” Lopez asked from beside him.

“The church,” Tyrell gestured. “How’d you suppose it got so wealthy if it really was giving and not receiving?”

The New Covenant Church dominated an entire corner of the block, a broad white building with narrow smoked windows shaped like medieval stained glass. The central portico was a vast triangular affair of steel and more glass, the central panels mirror-finished in the shape of a huge crucifix that reflected the early-morning sun’s rays.

“We shouldn’t be here, Tyrell,” Lopez said.

“Guess this is how much it costs to have God on your side,” Tyrell continued as they walked toward the vast portico. “Lucky He takes dollars.”

“Tyrell,” Lopez muttered sternly.

“It’s your call,” Tyrell said with a hefty sigh. “I’m not quite ready to put this case aside. Are you in or not?”

Before Lopez could reply, her cell phone buzzed in her jacket pocket. She pulled it out, listening intently for a few moments before ringing off.

“What is it?” Tyrell asked.

“We just got the files on Daniel Neville,” Lopez said, switching to her PDA and opening an e-mail. “Claretta Neville came up clean, no criminal record or history of any kind with the police except in connection with Daniel’s gang activities. Turns out that her African heritage is Ethiopian.”

“As would be Daniel’s,” Tyrell said thoughtfully. “Aren’t there tribes in Ethiopia who are said to be the descendants of Israel, lost tribes or something?”

“Maybe, I saw something on TV about that once.” Lopez nodded. “Michael Shaw, the hospital orderly, is also clean, nothing but a couple of parking violations. Casey Jeffs is …”

Lopez broke off for a moment as she read.

“Is what?” Tyrell asked.

“Is of interest. He’s been an employee of the institute for the past sixteen years. However, prior to that he was a patient, long-term psychosis. His name flagged up in relation to a homicide charge from back in 1984.”

“You’re kidding? He killed someone?”

“Went to trial.” Lopez nodded as she read. “A late witness testimony caused the case to collapse amid accusations of fraud and Casey was acquitted. The full file’s at the station.”

Tyrell rubbed his chin with one hand. “What about DNA from Daniel Neville’s room?”

“Dozens of them,” Lopez said. “It’ll take weeks to obtain profiles, and we haven’t got a suspect in custody to match them against. Besides, we know that Casey was nowhere near Daniel when he died.”

Tyrell let out a long sigh. “Powell will piss all over it. What else do we know about him?”

“Orphaned young. Mother was a hooker working San Antonio, died back in 1984 from a heroin overdose …” Tyrell frowned and looked at the pixelated image on Lopez’s PDA. A straggly haired blond woman, her features creased with the passing of the years. “Casey was arrested for killing her; attorneys filed for manslaughter charges and got a prosecution. He got taken in by the institute for treatment after the trial collapsed.”

“Who was the benefactor for his treatment?”

“It doesn’t say,” Lopez replied. “He’s been in and out of private rehabilitation clinics ever since. Doesn’t make any sense though. He’s never held full-time employment except at the institute, so where’d the money come from?”

“The father?” Tyrell guessed as he opened the door to the church foyer.

“Father’s unknown, according to this.”

Tyrell led the way to a broad reception desk overlooked by a brightly painted mural of a crucifix atop a hill, the sun casting beams of light upon it and the sky emblazoned with three inspirational words:

Rehabilitate. Rejuvenate. Rejoice.

Resurrect, Tyrell thought, but didn’t say.

The receptionist in the entrance foyer was a petite, slim, and bespectacled woman in her forties who seemed perturbed by the presence of two police detectives and their need to speak to Kelvin Patterson himself.

“I’m afraid the pastor is preparing for tonight’s presidential rally,” she said politely, “but I can arrange an interview for tomorrow if that’s convenient?”

Tyrell smiled tightly.

“It’s not. We need to speak to Mr. Patterson urgently, regarding the death of a patient.”

The receptionist frowned and turned away without another word, moving across to a phone and dialing a number. Tyrell watched her body language become defensive as she spoke. Finally, she set the phone down.

“If you’ll follow me this way, please.”

She led them through a myriad of corridors, many of them bearing vast canvases on the walls depicting biblical scenes. Tyrell struggled to remember his Sunday schooling as he noted images of the crucifixion, of the Garden of Eden, and what he guessed might have been the destruction of Babylon. Or was it Babel?

“Mr. Patterson is a very busy man, you know,” the receptionist said over her shoulder.

“As am I,” Tyrell replied.

“He has an immensely important rally tonight with a presidential candidate.”

Tyrell felt a squirm of irritation. Lopez hurriedly spoke beside him.

“Which candidate?”

“Senator Isaiah Black, Texas.”

Tyrell looked across at Lopez, who raised an eyebrow.

“Isn’t Kelvin Patterson the man who said New Orleans was destroyed by God because it hosted a Gay Pride rally?” Tyrell inquired.

The receptionist raised her chin as she walked, not looking back at him. “Who is to say that He didn’t?”

Tyrell chose not to reply.

They reached a large set of ornate double doors at the end of a long corridor that seemed to orbit the church’s main hall to their left. The receptionist knocked briskly on the doors before opening them and calling into the room.

“Pastor? The two police officers are here to see you.”

There was a muffled response, and then the receptionist backed out of the doorway and gestured for Tyrell to enter.