Little White Lies Page 16

“Then what?”

  “I’m just making this shit up as I go along, babe,” he said. “How ’bout you?”

  “I’d switch up my style,” I said. “But so far, so good.”

  We were headed east on Interstate 20 in my rental. I was driving and Hawk was staring straight ahead behind his dark sunglasses. He was humming “Rainy Night in Georgia.” The sun was beginning to set, a deep chill settling in down south.

  “Ambush?” I said.

  “I know Frye,” he said. “Not this other motherfucker.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What could go wrong?”

  “That’s why we called a meet in a public place,” Hawk said. “Ain’t no black man likes to spend time with gun-toting honkies in the piney woods.”

  “People still say honky?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good to know.”

  “You still in touch with that gay caballero down here?”

  “Tedy Sapp.”

  “Yeah, Tedy.”

  “He used to send me a Christmas card every year,” I said. “And a mix tape of dance music that he knows I don’t like.”

  “Still doing security work?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “Might be good to have an extra hand,” Hawk said. “Just in case.”

  I nodded. Hawk began to hum again. This time it was “Delta Dawn” with a slight little vocal bit, “What’s that flower you got on.”

  “Just how does a black man get into country music?”

  “Outlaw country, man,” Hawk said. “Outlaw country.”

  “You, Willie, and Waylon.”

  Hawk didn’t answer, just kept humming. Not far past the Rockdale County line, I spotted the exit where we’d agreed to the meet. I edged off the highway, driving through a thicket of trees and around the back of a large brick building perched atop a hill. There were bathrooms, Wi-Fi, travel information, and picnic tables for visiting gunmen for hire. Hawk exited the car and disappeared. I wandered into the rest stop and looked through brochures to Six Flags over Georgia and a laser light display to Confederate heroes shone upon Stone Mountain. I learned you could still pan for gold in the mines of Dahlonega.

  Thirty minutes later, dusk turning to night, a black SUV wheeled into the lot and two men got out of the front seat. I spotted Frye with another white man who wore military-style khaki pants and an Army-green shirt. Frye had changed out of his Atlanta PD uniform into jeans and a dark blue jacket. He held a big flashlight loose in his hand. I walked the perimeter of the inside of the rest stop, checking out the entry road and the exit. I watched the tree line. I watched the front lot. I watched the back.

  I knew Hawk was doing the same. Maybe a dozen or so families milled about the open space. Some walked dogs. Others let children play in heavy winter coats and wool hats. A fat woman in a pink coat held the hand of a young girl in a parka, walking back to their car. Frye and the other man headed over to a picnic table and sat down on the top. I wasn’t sure of the law in Georgia, but both men wore guns on their hips. If they wanted to start trouble, there would be a lot of witnesses. And they wouldn’t make it far down the interstate from the Highway Patrol.

  Hawk emerged from somewhere in the woods a minute later and approached them. I walked past a man and a woman and their two young boys. The children were complaining about really needing to pee. I dismissed the family as clever assassins.

  I walked back into the cold, down a concrete walkway to where Hawk stood with Frye and his pal. They looked my way but did not stand, or offer to shake hands. The lack of southern hospitality was disconcerting.

  “This here’s Mr. Miller,” Hawk said.

  I nodded but didn’t introduce myself. Frye nodded in my general direction.

  “Who’s this?” Miller said, jacking his fat little thumb in my general direction.

  I shrugged. “Package deal. Like salt and pepper.”

  Miller scowled. Frye smiled.

  “Heard y’all on the outs with EDGE,” Hawk said.

  “Hard to respect an outfit that won’t pay what you’re owed,” Miller said. “That whole shit show is unraveling by the fucking minute.”

  “Bliss still running the show?” Hawk said.

  Miller looked to Frye. Frye nodded. It was very cold and our breath clouded the air. The trees were tall, leafless, running for miles into the deep woods. Cars came and went. A large RV wheeled into the lot, and a group of Asian men and women crawled out, exhausted.

  “Ever heard of a guy named M. Brooks Welles?” I said.

  Miller nodded. “Hell, yeah. Of course. I know Pastor Wells.”

  “Pastor?” I said. I couldn’t help but grin.

  “Sure,” Miller said. “He started the whole operation for Greater Faith. Shit, I thought you knew all about these guys.”

  I tried not to look surprised. Pastor Wells. Greater Faith. Guns, guts, and glory. Sure, I know the whole damn thing. I was just down here whistling Dixie.

  “Before he claims he found Christ, he worked for the Agency,” Miller said. “He runs security for the church and the training compound. After I retired from the Army, I started to work out at the range. Are you trying to bring down the church and Wells? Because if you are, I’m so fucking in.”

  “What do you think of Wells?” I said.

  “I think he’s as phony as a three-dollar bill,” Miller said.

  “That’s pretty phony,” I said.

  “I don’t think he was ever with the Agency,” Miller said. “Or did all those things he claims he’s done in his sermons. Arming the Contras. Fighting the Vietcong. All this Navy SEAL bullshit. Did you know he’s on television? He told us that Michael Bay was going to be making a big movie about his life.”

  “Amazing,” I said.

  “Miller can get you inside, Hawk,” Frye said. “If that’s what you want? Bliss knows who you are and what you do.”

  This time Hawk and I exchanged looks. Although Hawk didn’t show a thing on his face or behind the glasses. He simply nodded, taking it under consideration. They seemed friendly and eager to help. If they could get Hawk on the inside, he might be able to find out Wells’s mission. Which I didn’t believe involved helping the meek inherit the earth.

  “Have you heard the name Connie Kelly?” I said.

  Miller shook his head.

  “She was killed last week,” I said. “She was Wells’s girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?” Miller said. “Ha. That sounds about right. Most of the time he’s preaching about being a big family man. Great husband who lives for his wife and kids.”

  “Wells ever talk about his time in Boston?” I said.

  “Listen, man,” Miller said. “You can stop all the secrecy. I know who you are. And why you’re here.”

  “You do?”

  “Wells paid me and another guy to attack him in that alley in Boston,” he said. “And then he was supposed to pay us for taking you out.”

  “Glad that didn’t work out.”

  “That’s when we knew it’d gone too far,” Miller said. “You fucking shot me.”

  “You’re looking pretty good now.”

  “I was wearing a vest,” he said. “When I got back, Wells stiffed us. We could’ve gotten arrested.”

  “Did you guys kills Gredoni?”

  “No way.”

  I studied his face. He stared back. His eye didn’t twitch, nor did he stutter. Sometimes even a veteran crime buster like myself had a hard time spotting liars.

  “What about running guns?”

  “Oh, no,” Miller said. “That deal was between Brother Bliss and Pastor Wells.”

  “Where’s Wells now?”

  Miller looked at his watch and then back at me. “Where else?” he said. “Church. I heard he’s even preaching tonight.”

  “Praise the
Lord,” I said.

  Hawk grinned. Just a bit. Frye shined the flashlight down the path to the parking lot. “This is far as I can take you,” he said. “Good luck.”

  Frye shook our hands and left with Miller. We watched them drive off and head back onto the interstate.

  “Trust is a slippery slope.”

  “Trust?” Hawk said. “Joining up with this crew more about faith.”

  41

  I wasn’t really sure how to dress for the Wednesday-night service of Greater Faith, as I hadn’t been in church since the Carter administration. I wore a navy jacket with gold buttons over a white button-down and khaki pants. As soon as I entered the sanctuary, I knew I’d overdressed. Many people wore jeans and T-shirts. Some had on sweatshirts and baseball caps. If I’d worn a ball cap inside a restaurant or church, my father would have made me eat it.

  Hawk decided to skip the show, running down other business. The crowd was black and white. Many Latinos.

  By the time I found a place to sit, the service had started. It wasn’t hard, as there were hundreds of empty seats. The seats were fanned out in theater style with a Jumbotron set high above the pulpit. A rock band and a gospel choir played together on a brightly lit stage. The music was a bit like Andrew Lloyd Webber meets Three Dog Night. By the third song, I had yet to year “O Come, All Ye Faithful” or “Silent Night.”

  The congregation stood and swayed with the music, hands raised high. I would have raised my hands but feared my .38 might drop into the aisle.

  I spotted Wells enter the stage and stand by several of the performers. He’d dyed his silver fox look to a dark brown and wore a conservative navy suit. After a song finished, he took to the pulpit.

  “It’s a wonderful privilege to be able to worship freely,” Pastor Wells said. “But as many of you who follow my sermons and newsletters know, that’s not the same for our brothers and sisters in the Middle East. Christians continue to be persecuted and killed for their faith in Iraq, Lebanon, Libya, and Syria. In Syria, Christians face a mass genocide we haven’t seen since the Second World War.”

  I didn’t doubt the message. But I waited for him to get to the money.

  “As we celebrate a season born in this region, we are now faced with putting our faith to work,” Wells said. “Christianity has become the most persecuted religion in the modern world. We face no less than genocide in these countries run by Muslim extremists. We must be vigilant. We must be active.”

  And then it started. Wells just happened to know how to get money into the hands of freedom fighters. The group was called OCS, Onward Christian Soldiers. And for pennies a day, you could make sure the terrorists didn’t win.

  I didn’t refute the message. Only the messenger.

  After he finished, Wells took a seat near the pulpit as a large black man helped a frail old white man to the podium. The old man had a hump back and great shock of white hair. His suit was blue with a wide-collared white dress shirt and wide yellow tie. His face and body were skeletal, with sunken-in eyes and saggy jowls. When he cleared his throat, a hush fell over the sanctuary. His face appeared big on the screen with the words Dr. Josiah Ridgeway. I might’ve been watching a scene from Poltergeist.

  “Jesus Christ is alive and well,” Ridgeway said in a strong but shaky voice. “Praise God. He is the King of King, the Lord of Lords. He is the head of the body of Christ. The strongest and most powerful thing that’s ever been on the planet is the church. Father, we praise You! Love is in this house. He is in me. He is in you.”

  I checked my watch. Another half-hour to go.

  “Whatsoever you should ask the Father in My name,” Ridgeway said. “He will give it to you. He will.”

  Ridgeway read a passage from the Bible, complimented the choir and band, and then ran down some events on the social calendar. A Spanish service on Saturday. More volunteers were needed for a live Nativity scene. The food pantry had run low. I kept on waiting for more assault-weapon donations.

  The choir and the band continued for a few more numbers. People yelled “Amen.” Some cried. Lots of hands raised high and swaying. A very large woman next to me pulled me close and hugged me. After about an hour, it was over and the congregation made it toward the exits. Some walked toward the pulpit. There was a lot of talk about love. There was a lot more hugging.

  I made a beeline for Pastor Wells.

  He stood near a twenty-foot-tall Christmas tree wrapped in bright colored lights and big metallic-looking balls. A sign read Merry CHRISTmas. Wells saw me over the shoulders of a group he was greeting. His big, toothy smile disappeared and he met my eye.

  I nodded in his direction. Men and women wandered up to him, shaking his hand, hugging him close. They handed him envelopes and folded checks. He patted them on the back. Double-shook their hands. I noted the small American flag pin on his lapel.

  I was patient. I waited my turn.

  He stood at the top of six wide carpet-covered steps. The creepy preacher, Ridgeway, sat on the opposite end, greeting others. If we waited any longer, I feared he might disintegrate into dust.

  “Wow,” I said. “You really have reformed.”

  “This is what I do,” Wells said. “This is who I am.”

  “You washed that gray right out of your hair and dropped the E in your name,” I said. “A complete transformation.”

  “This is a special place for me.”

  “And for Connie,” I said. “Until she was killed.”

  “Not here,” he said. He looked furtively around the sanctuary.

  “Connie was my client,” I said. “She was your lover. Someone killed her. Let’s talk.”

  “Not now.”

  “When?” I said. “Ever hear of a come-to-Jesus moment?”

  “It’s not safe,” he said. “She knew that. She came with me anyway. She wanted to be part of my mission. My work. I should’ve never put her in danger.”

  “Who killed her?”

  I took a few steps up toward pulpit. He continued to search the aisles with the congregation heading toward the exits. Something caught his eye and I turned to see a middle-aged woman in a bright red dress walk down the aisle with three girls. She gave him a big smile and waved. The woman held the hand of a girl in each hand. An older girl, early teens, trailed behind, looking at her cell phone.

  “Mrs. Wells?” I said. “Without the E.”

  “Please,” he said. “I promise I’ll tell you everything.”

  “I’ll be waiting on pins and needles.”

  “My position,” he said. “My position here in the church is very important. It’s everything to me. It’s who I really am.”

  “Not the international man of mystery.”

  “That’s the old me,” he said. “But this is my life. My work and passion.”

  The woman and the three children joined Wells up on the stage. The woman wore a curious, but bemused, expression. She had on a great deal of eye makeup and lipstick. Her brownish hair had been teased and sprayed to an exact stiffness. One of the younger girls hugged Wells’s leg. The other stayed at her mother’s side and stared up at me. I winked at her.

  The teenage girl didn’t know I was there. Or her family. She was texting someone.

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Mike?” the woman said. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  He made a clunky intro to me and said something about me being an old and special friend. He clasped my hand with both of his and pumped it up and down. He leaned in and said, “Be careful. They’re out there. Watching everywhere.”

  I tried my damnedest not to shudder.

  42

  How was church?” Hawk said.

  “Not as enlightening as I’d hoped.”

  “Ain’t got that ol’-time religion?”

  “They don’t sing the old hymns an
ymore,” I said. “The new songs give me a toothache.”

  “You see Wells?”

  “Yep,” I said. “I even shook his hand, against my better judgment.”

  “What’d he say about his old lady?”

  “His old lady isn’t his old lady,” I said. “His real old lady was at the church. Along with his three children. He seemed to find it gauche to discuss his dead mistress in church.”

  “Damn,” Hawk said. “Spy, TV personality, preacher, family man. Just how does he do it?”

  “Hard work and integrity.”

  “Sure,” he said. “He say anything about Miss Kelly?”

  “He begged for me not to make a scene,” I said. “And promises to talk tomorrow. Says we were being watched.”

  “Were you?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “But then I’m predisposed not to believe a thing he says.”

  We’d switched hotels to a clean, efficient Holiday Inn just on the edge of the Perimeter. The room had two full beds. Hawk was lying on one with his hands behind his head, resting. The TV was on mute, playing Shane. I was at a small writing desk, counting out the ammo I’d brought. The desk had a couple postcards from the motel, a pen, and a large unopened Gideon Bible. It was late. The curtains were drawn.

  “I met with Bliss,” Hawk said.

  “How’d that go?”

  “He offered me some work,” he said. “Bygones be bygones and all that.”

  “Won’t he suspect me and you showing up at the same time?”

  “Don’t take me for a fool, babe,” Hawk said. “He know me with contact made through Sarge. Now I got Frye and Miller vouching for me. Man knows my rep and don’t know where I hang my hat. Or what kind of riffraff I associate with.”

  “You calling me riffraff?”

  Hawk didn’t answer. He pushed himself up off the bed and walked to the bathroom, where he’d placed a bottle of Moët & Chandon in an ice-filled sink. He felt the bottle, nodded, and poured a healthy portion into a hotel glass. I’d bought a six-pack of Blue Moon and two turkey sub sandwiches. We’d both eaten but hadn’t finished our libations.

  “What’s the job?”