The Cinderella Murder

69

Steve Roman sat behind the wheel of his pickup truck outside the soup kitchen. He knew Martin Collins would be inside. He had photographers here every week to make sure they caught him on film, feeding the needy. Steve also knew that the millions of dollars Martin had raised for this center far exceeded what AG actually spent here feeding the homeless.

He had seen over the years the way Martin’s excesses had grown. Early on, Martin would offer explanations for his seemingly small indulgences-a fine meal was the ultimate pleasure, a custom-cut suit would make him more presentable to donors, and so on. But over time, the indulgences became larger and more frequent-the mansion, trips to Europe, vacation homes-and Martin stopped making excuses for them.

But Steve had always truly believed that Martin’s impact on the world-and guidance of Steve personally-made him a genuine leader. That’s why he had always been willing to do everything the church had ever asked of him.

Steve felt his grip on the steering wheel tighten as he replayed Martin’s words to the media that day. He had described Steve as a “disturbed individual” who had “found his way into” Advocates for God. He had assured the press that AG was doing everything in its power “to apprehend this criminal.”

Steve knew he’d messed up-bad. He hit that man who interrupted his break-in at the Under Suspicion house harder, and more times, that he should have. And that neighbor lady back in Oakland-that had gone really wrong.

But if Steve was such a disturbed, ill criminal, shouldn’t Martin Collins have to take some responsibility for his conduct? Martin, after all, had known Steve’s struggles with his temper. And yet who had Martin turned to when he needed someone to get to the bottom of what Nicole Melling was saying about him to Under Suspicion? That’s right: Steve. As far as Steve was concerned, his actions-right or wrong-belonged to Martin just as much as to him.

He felt the comfort of the nine-millimeter in the back of his waistband as he spotted Martin exiting the homeless shelter. Because Martin was a firm believer in what he called “the strengthening power of routine,” Steve knew that Martin’s next stop would be home. Steve also knew that Martin would spend several minutes shaking hands and posing for photographs before getting in his car.

That would give Steve plenty of time.

He started the engine and drove to the hills, parking one block away for safety, even though he’d stolen the blue pickup he was now driving. As he strolled on the sidewalk, he kept alert, checking for any police or security guards circling the neighborhood. If necessary, he could crouch in a nearby garden, posing as a landscaper. Steve knew how easy it was to hide in plain sight, simply by looking like someone who belonged in a setting. But the block was quiet. There was no need for camouflage.

Within seconds, he slipped right through the front door, using tools he’d wielded so many times on Martin’s orders. All these years, he had looked to Martin for guidance about what was right and what was wrong. Now Martin had turned that entire world upside down.

It was time for both of them to be judged by the only voice that counted.

He made himself comfortable on the living room sofa, placing his gun on the coffee table in front of him. He could not recall ever being so self-assured inside Martin’s home.

When he heard the mechanical rumble of the garage door, he rose and picked up his weapon. It was showtime.

Fifteen minutes later, a reporter named Jenny Hughes was jogging in the Hollywood Hills, admiring the homes as she passed. Her own digs were quite different, a converted warehouse in downtown Los Angeles. But on most days, Jenny’s runs doubled as a chance to check out how the other half lived. She had a serious case of real estate envy.

She used the approaching hill as an interval opportunity, breaking into a full sprint. By the time she reached the top, she was gasping for breath, and her pulse had spiked to maximum capacity. She slowed to a casual walk, feeling the endorphins surge with each deep inhale. There was a reason she had a resting heart rate of fifty-one.

She found her pace slowing further as she neared the next house on the block, an all-white modern number, chock-full of floor-to-ceiling picture windows. Her particular interest in this house wasn’t limited to the property itself. The home’s sole resident was Reverend Martin Collins, founder of the Advocates for God megachurch. Before she’d left for her run, the newsroom had been abuzz with reports that one of the church’s members was on a one-man crime spree.

She’d watched the reverend’s impromptu press conference. According to Collins, the man wanted by the LAPD was a free agent-a rogue who had gone off the deep end. But some in the newsroom speculated that the man’s arrest might be a chance for police to peer behind the church’s carefully crafted façade. There had been rumors for years that the church and its charitable activities were all a front for financial shenanigans. What would this Steve Roman say about AG now that Collins had thrown him under the bus on live television?

Jenny felt her pulse dropping beneath cardio level. Time to get back at it.

She gave a final look at Collins’s house as she picked up the pace. Just like her dream of owning a mansion was a distant fantasy, so too was a world in which she’d be trusted to write a front-page article exposing corruption at a megachurch. Jenny was a reporter in title, but so far her bylines were limited to human-interest stories, “personality” features, and other lightweight fare. If Collins had a dog who could ride a skateboard, that would be the kind of thing her editor might send her way.

Her thoughts were broken by the sound of two quick blasts, back to back. On instinct, she dove to the grass median next to her, seeking shelter behind a station wagon parked on the street. Were those gunshots?

The sounds were gone now. The distant hum of a lawn mower reminded her that she wasn’t exactly in East L.A. She was rising to her feet, laughing at her own wild imagination, when she heard one more blast.

This time she was certain. It was gunfire. And unless her ears were playing tricks on her, it sounded like the shots had come from Martin Collins’s house.

She entered 911 in her cell phone but then deleted the numbers for a quick call to her editor first. She finally had dibs on a major story.