Silent Mercy

THIRTY-FIVE

I studied the photograph taken at the Chelsea Square Workshop after a performance of Ursula Hewitt’s controversial play.

“The newspaper doesn’t have a credit for that, Alex. One of Hewitt’s friends e-mailed it to her, and she forwarded the downloaded image to the editor herself,” Max said.

“Thanks.” I covered my ears with my hands to think, while Mike tried to light a fire under a small sheriff’s office in Georgia to get police and autopsy reports, and someone who knew the case to talk us through it.

I scribbled a note to Faith Grant on the bottom of the page with the photograph. I had put her e-mail address in my BlackBerry earlier, so I wrote a note above the picture, and asked her to call me as soon as she received it.

“Hey, Max. Would you please scan this for me and get it out?”

“Sure.”

She was back in three minutes and placed the paper in front of me. While I waited for my phone to ring, I kept staring at the four women. There was Ursula Hewitt, basking in the congratulations of her acquaintances. Opposite was Naomi Gersh, who appeared to be engaged in conversation with the others. The photo was so blurred — maybe even taken by a cell phone, from a distance, that it was hard to make out the faces clearly.

Four smart, vibrant women celebrating together in December at a controversial play that would obviously have been offensive to many devout worshippers — and now two of them were dead, victims of torture and mutilation.

“This is Alex Cooper,” I said, answering my cell.

“Hi, Alex. It’s Faith.”

“Thanks for the call. Is everything calm on your end?”

“Just fine, thanks. How can I help?”

“This photograph I forwarded you was taken at the workshop after one of the performances of Double-Crossed. I’m thinking that whoever took it might have more shots from that evening.”

“That’s probably true.”

“One of the detectives visited the theater this morning. It’s quite small, and since there was a party of some sort, there’s a chance some other audience members could have been captured in the images.”

Faith Grant took a moment to follow my thinking. “Why, Alex? Do you think the killer was among the guests?”

“We don’t know. I’m not hiding anything from you, Faith. We’re just trying to run it all down. The newspaper editor tells us one of Ursula’s friends supplied the photo. You said you knew women who were there. Maybe it was the night Chat went to see it. That would help us to start tracking back for information.”

I wanted information from these two other women in the photograph. I also wanted to make sure they were not also in the sights of our killer, that they were not currently in danger of being silenced.

“I see.”

“Of course you recognize Ursula.”

“Yes.”

“And the dark-haired woman on the far left is Naomi Gersh.”

“Okay.”

“The caption says one of the others is an ordained minister. By any chance—”

“Yes. I know who that is shaking hands with Ursula. Jeanine Portland, a graduate of this seminary. She’s wonderful, and I’m sure she’ll be helpful to you. I believe she’s at a church in New England.”

“Can you get that contact information for us?”

“Of course. The front office will have it.”

“So that leaves the young woman next to Naomi.”

“I can help you there, too, but she’s no nun. I’ll swear to that on a Bible.” Faith Grant was laughing. “That’s my sister, Chastity.”

I held the paper right in front of me and examined the picture again. “It doesn’t look anything like her.”

“That was her goth period, Alex. Dyed her hair black and straightened it. Lucky for me it was her New Year’s resolution to lose that look.”

My heart raced. I didn’t want her to hear any concern in my voice. “I need to talk to her, Faith. I need to talk to her as soon as I can.”

“I’ll tell her that when she returns my call. I’ve left her a message explaining that I’d like her to spend the weekend here with me in the dorms.”

“And she hasn’t called back?”

“Don’t sound so alarmed about it, Alex. It’s only been a couple of hours. I told you that Chat’s a free spirit.”

“So you haven’t talked to her since she left the seminary this morning?”

“No. It’s just been a few hours, Alex. There’s nothing worrisome about that.”

“Do you know where she is or what she’s doing that was so important she couldn’t stay to talk about Ursula?”

“I don’t keep her on a leash, Alex. And she isn’t responsible for what happened to Ursula, even if I am.”

“But under these circumstances, Faith — I mean with Ursula’s murder, and the fact that Chat spent time with her too—”

Faith Grant was calm and measured, perhaps even a bit annoyed with me. “Do you do this to your friends, too, Alex?”

“Do what?”

“Manage to put the fear of God in them whenever a child gets lost or a man looks at them the wrong way?”

“I didn’t intend to upset you.”

“I guess my calling, my professional training, is all about trust and belief and — well, faith. You don’t trust anyone very much, do you?”

I didn’t even have to close my eyes to recall the sight and the smell of Naomi Gersh’s body on the portico of Mount Neboh Church, or the treacherous slit in Ursula Hewitt’s throat as she lay in the ancient graveyard at Old St. Pat’s.

“I apologize for that. You know Chat’s habits and, of course, I don’t.”

Two of the women in that snapshot with her are dead, is what I wanted to say. Two of them were outcasts and pariahs, one in her church, the other to her family. It was Faith who had described her sister to us as the black sheep of the Grant clan, who told us it was so difficult for her to go home that she hadn’t made it back for Christmas, who alluded to a troubled past that might benefit from my counsel.

“I understand you’d like to have her help you figure out who was at the play that night. Is there anything else, for now, besides that and locating Jeanine Portland’s congregation?”

“Thank you. That’s all I need.”

“Then I’ll call you later.”

It was prosecutorial cynicism that had my wheels spinning. “Chastity Grant is the fourth woman in this photograph. Different hair and stuff, but it’s Chat, all right.”

“What’s your point?” Mike was standing over Max’s shoulder, playing with the words and partial phrases she had cobbled together from Gersh’s scraps of paper.

“Faith isn’t bothered by that at all.”

“Why should she be?”

“Think about what she told us. That they’re often mistaken for each other because they look so much alike.”

“Brilliant, Coop. What next?”

“I’m wondering about the guy who was following Faith to the apartment last night.”

“What of it?”

“That when he finally came at her face-to-face, like he was going to do something to her, he looked at her instead and the only thing he said to her was ‘sorry.’ ”

“The word means nothing out of context.”

“That’s why I’m trying to frame it. Maybe he was sorry because he had mistaken her for Chat. Maybe he was after Faith’s sister because of the contact they had at the playhouse in December. Maybe what’s driving him—”

“Maybe if your aunt had balls, Coop, she’d be your uncle. Stop with the spooks and speculation.”

“I don’t want a third corpse.”

“Nobody does. So far, no churches, no synagogues, no mosques heard from today. Let’s concentrate on solving what’s been done.”

“Anybody want to go to a service?” Mercer said, towering over us as he got to his feet.

“A prayer service?” Mike asked. “I’m ready to get me some inspiration, Rev. Nothing else seems to be working. Where to?”

“Avenue C.”

“Alphabet City,” Mike said. “Same ’hood as Naomi’s apartment.”

“My minister’s been doing his own research on these characters. Said if we want to know more about it, the closest operation to this office is in the back of a converted garage. Just look for the orange neon sign and the big cross.”

I stood up, anxious to do something more proactive than brainstorm in the conference room. “I’m in. What’s it called?”

“X-Treme Redeemer,” Mercer said. “The church where fists and faith collide.”