“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.”
“HARD punches! To the head! Again, to the head!”
The man’s voice was yelling commands to someone farther back, out of sight, in the cavernous, dark space. An old garage had been split into a series of large open areas, the one through which we entered decorated like a primitive church.
“Work the head! Finish him now!” The shouts were loud and delivered with fierce direction, incongruous as the words were within a house of worship.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see the makeshift altar and the white cloths draped over it. Brass stands held tall candlesticks, not lit now, on the floor at the end of a few dozen rows of benches without backs.
We followed the voices past the pews, through an open, undecorated area, winding up in a brightly lit corner of the garage where a handful of men who appeared to be in their twenties and thirties were noisily cheering on the two figures punching at each other on a raised platform that resembled a boxing ring.
“Punch again! Finish him!” The screamer was older than the others, dressed in a sports jacket and slacks, while the onlookers, like the pair in the ring — were in black T-shirts and gym pants, all heavily tattooed and well-muscled, with shaved heads and carefully shaped goatees.
No one noticed us until Mercer stepped up to the side of the group. All the spectators stared at him, then at Mike and me. I didn’t know whether the hostility of their expressions was because we so obviously looked like law enforcement or because Mercer’s ebony skin was so different from the complexions of the all-white onlookers.
“Whoa! Hold it right there,” the man in charge called out, wanly smiling at us while he ordered his subjects to stop throwing punches.
The obvious winner of the round didn’t want to be halted. He continued to pummel the guy who was on his back on the platform floor.
Two of the men vaulted up into the ring to grab their friend. Before they could calm him, he slammed one knee down and placed his opponent in a choke hold.
“Did Jesus tap?” he shouted.
“Break it up, you hear me?” Mercer said, stepping in to stop the fighting.
“You tapping?” the fighter asked, throwing more punches when his opponent didn’t give him an immediate answer. “Jesus never did, did he?”
Mercer wrapped one of his enormous hands around the wrist of the guy who was on top and wrenched him back. He fell over onto his side, screaming up at Mercer, who was palming his gold detective shield for the group to see.
“What’s this fuss?” the man in the sports jacket said. His Southern drawl was as thick as the blood running from the mouth of the injured fighter, who was trying to roll over and catch his breath.
“Exactly what I’d like to know,” Mercer said. “What was Jesus tapping?”
“That means giving up in our sport. Christ never gave up, don’t you know? Now who might y’all be?”
“NYPD. Homicide,” Mike said. “I’m Chapman. That’s Wallace and Ms. Cooper. Never tapping either, till we get our man. You mind telling us who you are and what your sport is?”
“And why you’re beating the holy crap out of each other in a church?” Mercer added, shaking his head as the bloodied fighter refused his hand, struggling to his feet unaided.
“I’m the Reverend Harold Kelner. This here’s my church.”
“And your flock?” Mike asked. “Is this one of the lost tribes, or they really think they’re doing the Lord’s work in a boxing ring?”
“Timothy 6:12. ‘Fight the good fight of faith,’” Kelner said, motioning to us to step away from the men gathered around the platform.
I couldn’t stop looking at the guy who was trying to steady himself and rise to his feet, blood dripping from his chin and holding his neck at an angle, as though the choke hold had made a permanent impression.
“Would you mind telling us something about your ministry?” Mercer asked.
“Why, sir? Has one of my worshippers done something illegal?”
“No reason to think so, Reverend. We’re just trying to help some detectives in another state. Trying to get an understanding of these extreme ministries. Found you in the phone book and thought you could give us some general answers. May I ask where you’re from?”
“Came here about a year and a half ago from Nashville, Detective.”
That city wasn’t directly in our path of homicidal destruction.
“To establish this church?”
“Exactly so, Mr. Wallace. And this academy.”
“What academy would that be?” Mike asked.
“You must be here because you’ve been told that some of our brethren in the evangelical movement have taken on mixed martial arts as a way of reaching out to young men.”
“Only men?” I asked.
“That’s correct, ma’am. Surely you’re aware that in churches across the country, the attendance numbers for young males — well, young white males; you’ll excuse me, Mr. Wallace — is regrettably low. Dropping all the time. Go to our services on a Sunday and you won’t have but a handful of men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-six. That’s a sad fact. Pretty much all pastel and girlylike, so our programs are developed to be an outreach tool to the community.”
“How so?”
“Many men are led to find Christ when they come to understand that Jesus was a fighter. Do you know what mixed martial arts are?”
Kelner’s voice was syrupy but he sneered at my ignorance. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. What we walked in on,” I said, “just looked to be brutal and violent. Anything but spiritual and uplifting.”
“What you saw was a sport called cage assault. Highly popular, ma’am. Always draws a crowd, especially when you put on a show before the prayer service.”
“A blood sport, obviously.”
Mike could see I was offending Reverend Kelner. He slid behind me and pinched my forearm to urge me to keep quiet.
“So, mixed martial arts,” Mike said. “Kickboxing, wrestling, full-contact karate — ultimate fighting, is that it? A little more machismo in your ministry.”
“Yes, sir, Detective.”
“I get you,” Mike said, although I knew him well enough to know he was stroking the reverend. “The church is becoming too feminized for your folk.”
“Gentle shepherding is just fine,” Kelner said, “but not at the price of strength. There are so very many young men who’ve grown up without fathers, without direction. They’ve struggled to find hope, and today’s religious institutions don’t really have a place for them. Our group tries to make Christianity more appealing. Fighting as a metaphor — like Christ fought — is very attractive to many fellows.”
“Joining faith to fighting,” Mike said.
“That helps us promote true Christian values. We’ve got almost seven hundred churches across the country.”
I was sickened to think of this as a religious movement. It seemed so antithetical to the teachings of every mainstream culture. I turned away from Kelner and watched one of the fighters mop the stained floor of the platform.
The loser had limped off to sit on the sidelines, against the wall of the old garage, still marked with faded red paint in the shape of a road sign that warned drivers to stop.
