Body in the Baptistery Read online

  Since that time, not only was he attending Bible study in Sunday School and hearing Joel preach every time work allowed him to be in church, he had begun to read his Bible almost every day. Over time he became convinced he and Bonnie should not be living together unless they were married. And even though he cared for her and enjoyed her company, he couldn’t imagine being married to her.

  When he told her how he felt about their living together she suddenly flew into a rage and screamed, “How can you be such a sanctimonious jerk? This religion stuff has made you nuts! If you don’t want me here, I’m gone!” She ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. He could hear her crying, but didn’t know what more to say to her that would do any good.

  After a few minutes he went to the bathroom door and spoke to her through the closed door. “Bonnie, that’s not what I meant. I just want you to understand where I’m coming from, what this means to me…to us.”

  He paused to collect his thoughts, and to control his own anger at her outburst, which he thought to be unfair and uncalled for. “Listen, Bonnie, for the first time in my life some real sanity and meaning has come to me. Jesus turned my life in a totally new direction.” And then as gently as he knew how, he said, “Bonnie, I want you to know Him, too.”

  His patience and deep, calm voice soothed her anger almost as quickly as it had flared up. She unlocked the door and as she walked from the bathroom she said, “I’ve seen the change in you, and I like what I see. But it scares me, too. What you’re asking me to do is so...so radical. So unlike everything I’ve ever believed before. Not that I’ve believed in much. I never gave much thought to religion, or God.”

  “Radical is a good way to describe it. My life has made a total one hundred-eighty degree turn. Before, I never gave any thought about God or how He wanted me to live. Now it’s always on my mind.”

  “So, where does that leave us?”

  “For the time being, you can stay here, but we can’t sleep together anymore. I just don’t think that’s what God would have us do. I’ll sleep on the sofa, you keep the bed.”

  “But you’re too long for the sofa.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll manage.” She looked across the table at him, smiled and said, “A God-fearing PI, who would’ve ever thought it?”

  “Certainly not 1,” Grant agreed. “But now I believe God will help me be a better PI than ever.”

  “But I work in a bar. Can I ask God to help me be a better cocktail waitress?”

  “Better than that—when you make Him the Lord of your life, you can ask Him to give you a better job.”

  “Do you think He would do that? Could He do that?”

  “You bet He can. Joel says...well, he used to say...that if you fully trust Him, God can do anything that fulfills His purpose.”

  Chapter Five

  B UT NOW JOEL CATES was dead, and Gideon Grant was bound to his vow to find his killer, and the motive for the heinous crime.

  He sipped his coffee as Bonnie began to clear the table. She did make good coffee, strong and black, the way he liked it. A loud pounding on the front door startled them.

  “Police, Grant, open up. I know you’re in there.”

  He groaned as he recognized the voice. It was the cop people love to hate, Orlie Tate. Recently promoted to lieutenant, he was more insufferable than ever. He was considered a jerk by nearly everyone who knew him before his promotion, now he’s a jerk with an even more arrogant attitude, and with more authority than anyone with such a small mind should possess.

  “Get ready for trouble,” he told her. “I know this guy and he’s a pain in the rear end.”

  “What’s he want with you?”

  “Who knows? He’d rather harass me than eat. Whoever promoted him to lieutenant must have rocks in his head.”

  He took his time going to the door. The banging and shouting continued. As soon as Grant opened the door, Tate started in on him. “You sure left the church in a hurry, Brother Grant,” he sneered. “Got a guilty conscience?”

  “At lease I’ve got a conscience.”

  “Still as smart-assed as ever, I see.”

  “Lieutenant, you know that you always bring out the best in me.”

  Tate’s partner, Sergeant Phil Early, was standing behind him. He was shaking his head and had a sneer on his face which was aimed not at Grant, but at his ranting partner. Embarrassed, he quietly said, “Hey, Gideon. Can we come in?”

  Grant gave a tight smile to Early and nodded to him. They had known each other for several years and liked each other, even though they had not spent much time together. While Grant had gone to bars after work, Early went home to his wife and children. The sergeant’s reputation was that of a cop’s cop, tough but fair. He was respected by his fellow officers, his superiors, and the civilians he had contact with.

  “I’ve got some questions for you, Sherlock.” Tate held all PIs in disdain, but his contempt for Grant was palpable.

  A few months ago Grant would have told him to get a warrant and slammed the door in his face. Today he prayed silently, “Lord, give me patience.” Keeping his anger under tight control, he opened the door wider and said, “Come on in and have a seat, Lieutenant, Sergeant.”

  “Some pad you’ve got here,” Tate scoffed as he surveyed the small living room. It was furnished with a battered coffee table, a brown imitation leather sofa, two stuffed chairs that had seen better days, a console TV/VCR, and an overflowing bookcase. The beige wall to wall carpet was a bit threadbare, but it was clean. “PI business must be booming,” he said, gloating.

  Grant wanted to slap the sneer off his face, but he just said, “I get by.”

  Tate acted like Bonnie wasn’t there, even though she was standing in the kitchen door in plain sight. Fright evidenced itself on her face as she twisted the dish towel in her hands into a knot.

  “You said you had some questions.” Grant’s tone and voice were as cold and hard as an iceberg. He pointed to the two chairs. The detectives took them as he sat on the sofa. Bonnie watched the three of them warily, her eyes going from one to the other like a spectator at a tennis match.

  Early took a notebook and pen from his pocket, ready to take notes as his senior partner asked his questions. Grant steeled himself, determined not to allow Tate to provoke him into losing his temper. The cop was a past master at bullying and intimidation. At only five feet, eight inches, and weighing about one-fifty, he tried to make up for his slight stature with swagger and bluff. Grant was in no mood for it.

  The soft, overstuffed chair almost swallowed Tate carrying him far below Grant’s eye line. Recognizing the inferior position this arrangement gave him, Tate moved to the front of the chair and stretched to his full height. His inflated ego would not allow him to give any opponent any advantage if he could help it; certainly not to some PI.

  “About the killing in the church, how well did you know the stiff?”

  Grant’s entire body went rigid. The cords of his neck stood out and his face flushed hot and red. His large hands knotted into fists. With great difficulty he remained seated as he said, “You really work hard to maintain your reputation, don’t you, Lieutenant?”

  “And what reputation would that be?”

  “Oh, you’re asking for it. The reputation for being a first class jerk, you idiot. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners? And didn’t the department teach you to have respect for the victims of crime, especially homicide victims...and even more so when the victim was a man of God?”

  Tate, about to jump to his feet, saw the furious look on Grant’s face, and stayed in his seat.

  Grant wasn’t through yet. “Of course, a slug like you probably didn’t have a mother just slid from underneath some rock.”

  Bonnie took a couple steps toward him and said, “Gideon, don’t...”

  Tate was quickly on his feet and shouting, “I ought to bust you right here and now!”

  “On what charge, for telling the truth? Shoot, I’d be happy to stand up in court and say that under oath. Even your own attorney couldn’t object.”

  Visibly struggling to regain control of his interrogation, Tate said, “Shove it, Sherlock. Where were you Saturday night from 8:00 p.m. ‘til 9:00 Sunday morning?”

  “I was right here. Bonnie can vouch for that.”

  Tate’s lip curled in disdain as he looked her up and down. “Huh. You’ll have to get a better alibi than some barmaid.”

  Grant sprang from the sofa stepping close to Tate and stared down at him. “That’s it. You’re outta here. You can harass me all day if you want to. I’ve been there and done that. But if you make another crack like that about Bonnie, I’ll cram that tin badge down your scrawny neck.”

  At a distinct disadvantage, Tate’s neck and face became redder by the second as he stared up into Grant’s twisted face. His nostrils flared and he stood clinching his fists. “So help me, one more word and I’ll slap the cuffs on you.”

  Grant held out his wrists, almost poking the furious detective in the eye. “Be my guest. Just make sure you can make it stick, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Early moved between them. “Come on, Lieutenant, we’ve done all we can here.”

  “We’ll leave when I say we’ll leave, Sergeant.” But he was already moving toward the door with Grant on his heels.

  “Don’t even think this is over, Grant. I’m not through with you.”

  As Grant followed them out to their unmarked city Crown Vic, he said, “You’re right, it’s not over. It won’t be over until the snake that shot Joel is on death row.”

  “And I suppose you think you’re going to put him there,” Tate shot back. “You get too close and he’ll probably put one of those slugs in your pointed head.”

  H
e slammed the car door and Early threw gravel as he backed out of the driveway.

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Grant said to no one in particular.

  Chapter Six

  A PRIL SEVENTH, a rainy Monday morning, did not improve Grant’s sour mood. He arrived at the offices he shared with Roland Rounds before 7:00. The lettering on the glass front door read: ROUNDS AND GRANT INVESTIGATIONS: Experienced, Reliable, Confidential.

  The office and cell phone numbers of both partners were listed. The office was located in a new strip mall on East Battlefield Road. It was an expensive address, but since Battlefield was one of the busiest streets in town, it gave them valuable exposure.

  Grant parked in his designated spot at the rear of the building. He entered through their private entrance, which lead to a small workroom situated between the two partners’ offices. It opened into a larger room which served as the reception area and secretary’s office. The front wall was all glass. An eight foot wide covered sidewalk was in front, bordering a wide parking lot.

  The three offices were tastefully decorated by Olga Oppermann, their secretary and Rounds’ sister-in-law. Live green plants sat in the corners, and colorful prints of European castles hung on the walls. With Germanic efficiency, she kept her desk and filing cabinets clean and in order. Her motto was a place for everything, and everything in its place.

  About the time Rounds’ first secretary moved to a better paying job, Olga had immigrated to the US. Her sister, Ingrid Rounds, Attorney at Law, and Roland’s wife of twenty-seven years, sponsored her. Of course, she needed a job, so Ingrid also sponsored her into the secretary’s job at Rounds Investigations. “Just temporarily,” she had told her husband. That was eight years ago.

  Roland and Olga seldom said a civil word to each other, but it would not do for anyone else to say a disparaging word against either of them in their hearing. Rounds and Grant both knew she was worth far more than she was paid. She was more a third partner than secretary.

  They came in together, both talking at the same time. “I am always late when I have to wait for you to pick me up,” she was saying.

  “Like it’s my fault your car wouldn’t start. When are you going to get rid of that junker?”

  “That junker is all I can afford on what you pay me.” Her German accent was very noticeable, even after almost a decade in the States.

  She looked like the stereotypical peasant woman. Her face was pleasant, not unattractive, but plain. She wore her long blond hair in braids coiled around the back of her head. Her stocky body was six feet tall and could intimidate most people she dealt with, male or female.

  Grant had often thought if he didn’t know better it would be difficult to believe Roland Rounds had spent twenty-two years in the military. Since his retirement from the U. S. Army Military Police, his diet and exercise regime had received very little attention. He carried 240 pounds on his five-ten frame. But he did have a full head of black hair, trimmed into a flat-top, which was more than Grant could say since he had gone bald during his freshman year of college. In keeping with the current fashion, he shaved what little fringe remained around the edges.

  Rounds had been in the PI business for seventeen years and loved it. He learned his craft well while in the Army MPs, retiring as a major. Even though he was fifty-five years old and overweight, he still could move smoothly and quickly when he had to.

  Ingrid Oppermann captured his heart during his first tour of duty in Heidelberg, Germany. They met on the base pistol range where she was practicing for Olympic tryouts, and he was working on his annual weapons qualification. Their union produced only one child, a son, Joseph Robert—Joe Bob to his family and friends—a Greene County Deputy Sheriff.

  A very ambitious and industrious woman, Ingrid went to law school while Rounds was in the Army. After his retirement from the Army, she earned a partnership in one of the largest and most prestigious firms in town, Perkins, Perkins and Rounds. Roland didn’t have to worry about the bottom line of Rounds and Grant Investigations Agency. His Army pension and Ingrid’s high six figure income took good care of the Round’s household and agency overhead. The fees he and Grant earned were gravy.

  Chapter Seven

  A T 9:30 ON Monday morning, Roland knocked on the frame of Grant’s open office door and walked in without stopping or waiting for a response. “Heard there was some excitement at church yesterday.”

  “Guess you could say that.”

  “Seriously though, I’m really sorry. I hear he was a nice guy.”

  “More than nice...he was my pastor and mentor...and my friend.”

  “Cops have any leads yet?’

  Grant filled him in on everything that had happened on Sunday. Everything except the shiny piece of metal he’d seen on the bottom of the baptistery. That was a piece of information he wanted to keep to himself. It just might lead somewhere in his investigation, somewhere he’d want to go alone.

  “I’m going to turn over every rock in this town ‘til I find the scum bucket that killed him.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute. Murder is a little out of our league. You better let Jenkins and his crew handle this one.”

  “Look, Roland, the only case I’m working now is the industrial espionage at Kraft Foods, and it’s about wrapped up. I’m going to investigate Joel’s death. I owe it to him. And besides that, Dick’s promised to keep me in the loop.”

  Rounds scratched his head and said, “That’s real noble, but who’s going to pay the bill for it? You’ve got no client.”

  “Don’t you get it? I’m the client. I’ll pay you for my time if I have to, but I’ve got to do this. There’s no way on God’s green earth I can sit back and do nothing.”

  “We’ve got to pay the rent, you know.” That was Rounds’ standard comeback whenever the subject of money came up.

  “Olga will tell you I’m carrying my weight on the books. I’ll report all my time in looking into Cates’ murder.” He tried to control his voice, determined not to show his anger, but old habits are hard to break.

  Rounds saw right through it. “I don’t care about the money. We’re plenty solvent. Just be careful. I don’t like the smell of this whole deal. I can’t help but believe there’s more to this killing than meets the eye...some kind of conspiracy or something. It smells bad.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Rounds stared at the ceiling. Grant put his elbows on the desk, his head in his hands, and stared at the wall. The only sounds were the clacking of Olga’s fingers on her computer keyboard and the traffic going by on Battlefield.

  Grant broke into their silent thoughts, “What do you mean, more to it?”

  “Think about it. Why would anybody want to kill a little known pastor of an insignificant church? What’s the motive? Who’s to gain from it?”

  “If I knew the answers to...”

  Olga’s voice on the telephone intercom interrupted them. “Gideon, Major Jenkins is on line two for you.”

  He punched the lighted button and the speaker phone key. “Hey, Dick. Roland’s here with me. We’re on the speaker.”

  “I don’t know what Joel Cates was into, but he was hit by a pro. Head and heart, double-tap, twenty-five caliber.”

  “That’s crazy. Why would a professional hit man be after Joel?”

  Jenkins said, “It must be a case of mistaken identity.”

  “Yeah,” Rounds interjected, “that’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

  “But he was killed in his own study,” Grant said. “It seems to me it would be hard to mistake him for someone else in his own study, at his own church. His name’s on the church sign.”

  “That’s true,” Jenkins agreed. “But he wasn’t dressed like most people expect a preacher to be dressed. He was in frayed jeans and an old sweat shirt.”

  “Was there any sign of forced entry?” Rounds asked.

  “None that we could find, and believe me, we looked.”

  “Dick, what’d the ME say about the time of death?” Grant asked.

  “It’s up in the air for now. Like you said yesterday, the warm water kept the body temperature from dropping as it normally would. And floating in the warm water messed with the lividity; says he’ll have to run more tests.”