The detective instincts in Dantzler were screaming that this was a case with legs. It was, Dantzler conceded, and he admitted this with some reluctance, one he would probably look into. Like it or not, his interest had been piqued. His detective juices were flowing.
There was yet another, ever greater reason for his interest-the possibility that an innocent man was in prison. That was unacceptable.
Dantzler spent Saturday night drinking Pernod and orange juice and listening to Leonard Cohen CDs. On Sunday, he rose early, put himself through an hour of torture on the treadmill and Stairmaster, showered, and read the newspaper. After paying a couple of bills, he gave thought to playing a few sets of tennis with Randall Dennis, but quickly brushed them aside. He also toyed with the idea of phoning Laurie, but cast that notion out just as quickly. Their relationship had cooled during the past few months, which, both of them agreed, was for the best. Richard Bird, their captain, was in equal agreement. He was dead set against co-workers being involved romantically, and he had not been afraid to make his feelings known.
Instead, Dantzler opted to dig into the stack of unread books, beginning with Harold Bloom’s Jesus and Yahweh: The Names Divine. He had read several of Bloom’s books and had always found the celebrated Yale professor and literary critic to be interesting, provocative, and enlightening. An hour into this one and Dantzler wasn’t disappointed. It was, he felt, Bloom’s best book to date.
By three-thirty, however, Jesus and Yahweh had been usurped by Eli Whitehouse. Dantzler couldn’t get the Reverend’s words out of his head: I didn’t kill those two people, Detective. He set the book aside, looked up Charlie Bolton’s number, grabbed his cell phone, and punched in the numbers. Charlie answered after the first ring.
“Jack,” he yelled, “if this isn’t life-or-death important, I’m gonna shoot you dead.”
“You’d do better to shoot those fish you’re trying to catch. From what I hear, you can’t land one with a rod and reel.”
Charlie laughed. “Much as I hate to admit it, there’s a good deal of truth in that statement. I’m an old man who can’t see.”
“Clever, Charlie. Didn’t know you were up on your Hemingway.”
“Hell, Jack, I met him once. Down in Key West a couple of years before he ate the shotgun. Shook his hand.”
“You and Papa. Hard to envision.”
“I only shook the man’s hand, Jack. We didn’t share a beer.”
“I assume you’re at the lake. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“When will you be back?”
“Tonight, around midnight. Why? What’s up?”
“Meet me at Coyle’s tomorrow. Say around one-thirty. Lunch is on me.”
“What’s this about, Jack? Something important I need to know about?”
“Relax, it’s nothing big. I simply want to talk to you about a few things.”
“That has an ominous sound to it.”
“You worry too much, Charlie. There’s nothing ominous about it at all.”
“Worrying is what made me a good cop.”
“See you tomorrow, Charlie. And don’t smell like fish when you show up.”
After hanging up, Dantzler returned to the Bloom book, spending the next hour reading and contemplating the author’s suggestion that Yeshua of Nazareth and Jesus Christ were not only different personages, but were, indeed, totally incompatible with one another. According to Bloom, one was a rather dark and mysterious human, the other a theological God. One longed for his father, the other was his father’s anointed son. The great irony, Bloom was quick to point out, was the transformation of Yeshua, the Jew of Jews, into the centerpiece of a new religion-Christianity. Bloom took that paradox even further, saying that had Yeshua of Nazareth somehow survived the Crucifixion and lived on into old age, he would have regarded Christianity with amazement. Dantzler found himself in complete agreement with Bloom’s assessment.
At six, with more than half the book finished, Dantzler’s growling stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten all day. Yahweh would have to wait, Dantzler decided. Food, not esoteric literature, was now the top priority.
He quickly threw together one of his instant “left-over specials,” this one consisting of spaghetti and meatballs, and what remained of a Caesar salad. Not an award-winning meal by any standards, but at least it was filling.
There was nothing in the house that would even remotely pass for dessert, so he mixed another Pernod and orange juice and was about to head for the deck when his phone rang. He put his glass on the counter and picked up the phone.
“Jack Dantzler.”
“Forget everything the Reverend told you,” a man’s voice ordered. “That’s for your own good, and I will not repeat myself.”
“Who is this?” Dantzler asked, but the man ended the call without answering.
Dantzler punched in the caller ID, only to be informed by a mechanical voice that the number was not accessible.
He hung up the phone, stood there for several seconds, then grabbed his Pernod and orange juice and went out onto the deck. The night was warm and breezy, the sky filled with countless stars. A gold moon reflected off the lake that bumped up against his back yard. Damn near a perfect night, he thought to himself.
Dantzler sat in a lounge chair and pondered the phone call. Specifically, the questions it triggered. How did the caller know about the meeting with the Reverend, which took place less than thirty-six hours ago? What was the caller’s relationship to the Reverend? To the crime itself? Was he a family member? Could it have been Colt Rogers, the attorney? And how did he get Dantzler’s unlisted home number?
One other question had to be considered: could the call have been instigated by the Reverend as a way of increasing the odds Dantzler would get involved?
Dantzler had no answers to any of his questions except the last one. He discounted the possibility that the call was made at the Reverend’s behest. The Reverend had made it absolutely clear during the meeting that he didn’t need outside assistance. He was certain Dantzler would re-open the case.
With that one out of the way, Dantzler was left with one final thought, one that had nagged at him since leaving the prison: an ever-growing belief that the Reverend may well be an innocent man.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dantzler was in his office by six-thirty Monday morning. He had no particular reason for the early arrival, other than the need to feel like he was doing something constructive. Idleness wasn’t his cup of tea. He was like the shark that must keep swimming or die. It wasn’t lost on him that his much-longed-for leisure time had once again become a victim to his work, his need for action. So much for getting off the speedway.
Dantzler was surprised to find Eric Gamble standing by the coffee pot, holding an empty Styrofoam cup in his hand. The bags under his eyes were testament to his lack of sleep.
“I hope you don’t feel as bad as you look, Eric,” Dantzler said, plucking a cup from the stack on the table. “Because if you do, you might as well be pushing up daisies.”
“Do I really look that bad?”
“Dead man walking.”
“Man, I’m this close to finishing my novel,” Eric said, pinching his thumb and forefinger almost together. “I just can’t get the ending the way I want it.”
“Maybe you need to step away from it for a while, put some distance between you and the story. Then, at some point, attack it again. Maybe you’ll come back to it with a new and fresh perspective.”
“I tried that, already,” Eric said, shaking his head. “Didn’t work. I put it away for two days, tried to forget about it, but then I felt compelled to get back at it. It’s like a fire in my brain and it’s consuming me. I have to finish the damn thing.”