“I can’t let it go,” he said.
“I know you can’t.” Lola gave him a long look. “What does your intuition tell you about the killer, Harry? I can sense that you feel something.”
Harry shook his head. “Very little, except that at times he feels very close. Sometimes it’s almost as though he’s standing right next to me. I’ve never felt that before.”
“Maybe it’s your past that’s standing next to you, Harry,” Lola said. “Think about that possibility, Harry. Think about it very seriously.”
The First Assembly of Jesus Christ the Lord was located on Keystone Road, close to the Pinellas-Hillsborough county line. That also placed it only a few miles from the Brooker Creek Preserve. The church was a sprawling complex that included the church itself, an elementary school, a gymnasium, and several smaller buildings, including one clearly marked as a teen center. All the buildings were connected by a covered outdoor walkway. There was also a sizable parking lot, attesting to a large congregation. As a young deputy Harry had occasionally been assigned to Sunday traffic control at various large churches throughout the county. The congestion created by those churches prior to and at the conclusion of services rivaled that of weekday rush hours. Harry called ahead but was told the Reverend John Waldo was in the sacristy “preparing” Sunday’s service. He decided to come early and catch the reverend when those preparations ended.
Harry climbed a wide cement stairway that led to a series of glass doors opening into a reception area. Across a twenty-foot expanse were another set of doors that opened into the church proper. Beyond those interior doors Harry found himself standing beneath an enormous arch that ran the entire length of the sacristy. But the focal point of the church was a vast stage that took up one entire end and faced out to rows of pews that would hold well over five hundred parishioners. There were lights suspended above the stage, and only the pews and the arched ceiling and a large golden cross that hung on the rear wall made him feel he had entered a church. Without them he would have felt he’d just walked into a large theater.
A man stood center stage his body fixed in a spotlight. Above him, to his right and left, his image was projected on two massive television screens, as the words he spoke ran in a scroll beneath. To his left, well off to the side, a group of musicians listened respectfully. Harry noted the instruments-organ, piano, three guitars, a drum set, a conga drum, two saxophones, two trumpets, and a flute. To the man’s right stood a choir of twelve men and women, each appearing equally intent on hearing every word the man spoke. At the front of the church, high above the pews, Harry could see a director’s booth hidden behind darkened glass. He assumed that the projection screens and all the stage lighting were run from there, an assumption that was confirmed when the man standing center stage interrupted his sermon at several points and spoke directly to the booth, asking that the cameras be brought in tight for close-ups at those specific points. As far as church services went, it was beyond anything Harry had ever envisioned, and he realized he was watching a rehearsal worthy of a professional theater.
The man at the crux of that rehearsal, who Harry assumed was Reverend Waldo, was railing against a gay pride parade that would be held in St. Petersburg the following Sunday, terming it a “celebration of sodomy” and urging his flock to join protestors throughout the county to speak out against “this public glorification of sin.”
Harry felt a hand on his shoulder, the pressure light but distinct. He turned and found a man, perhaps in his late twenties, standing behind him. He had blond hair of an unnatural color that fell almost to his shoulders. He was tall and slender, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that bore the logo Jesus Now and Always. He had a square face and a flattened nose that looked as if it had been hit more than once; his eyes were cobalt-blue and despite a wide smile were clearly unfriendly.
“Can I help you?” he said, his tone holding no offer of help in it.
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I’m looking for Reverend John Waldo. Are you him?”
The smile faded. “Who are you? ”
Harry took out his credential case and held it up.
“A cop,” the man said.
“Good reading,” Harry responded. “Now who are you?”
“Bobby Joe Waldo,” the man said with a smirk. “I’m Reverend Waldo’s son and one of the associate ministers here. Reverend Waldo’s the man up on the stage.”
“How long before Reverend Waldo will be finished with his rehearsal?” Harry asked.
“We don’t call it a rehearsal.”
“What do you call it?”
“We call it preparing the way.”
Harry nodded, as if digesting a heavy bit of information. “Well, when do you suppose he’ll be through preparing the way?” Now it was his turn to smirk.
The younger Waldo glanced at his watch. Harry’s tone had turned his face into a sneer. “About ten minutes. Right now I have some stuff to do up on the stage. If you want, you can stay here and I’ll let him know you’re waiting on him. But don’t start wandering around. It distracts him, and he doesn’t like it when that happens.” He hesitated, offering as hard a look as he could muster. A bit of face saving, Harry thought. “He’ll wanna know what it’s about,” the man added for effect.
Harry smiled up at him, thinking how pleased Pete Rourke would be. “Just tell him it’s police business,” he said in an unmistakable fuck you tone. Maybe Rourke wouldn’t be pleased.
“I’ll be sure to give him that message,” the young minister snapped back.
Harry watched him as he headed toward the stage, trying to keep a bit of swagger in his walk. He made a note to check Bobby Joe Waldo for a rap sheet. Instinct told him he’d find something.
Ten minutes later, as predicted, Reverend Waldo wrapped up his preparation, and Harry watched his son walk up to him and whisper in his ear. The older minister nodded and looked out to where Harry was seated. After giving some final instructions to the director’s booth and the people on the stage, he started toward Harry. Almost immediately the choir began its preparation of “Amazing Grace.”
Waldo wore a broad salesman’s smile when he reached Harry. But the smile never carried to his eyes which were narrowed and wary. He was a short, rotund man, no more than five-seven, Harry guessed, and he was pushing two hundred pounds hard. His son obviously got his height, slender frame, and sneer from a different member of the family. Waldo was easily in his mid- to late-fifties but there was no visible gray in his full head of hair. He was wearing a vibrant Tommy Bahama floral print shirt and sharply creased tan linen trousers that broke over gleaming, glove-soft Italian loafers, and there was a gold Tag Heuer watch on his wrist. It was high-end casual and Harry estimated that Waldo was wearing more money on his back than Harry spent on clothing in an entire year, maybe two.
“Well,” the minister began, “deputy is it?”
“Detective,” Harry said, opening his credential case. “The name’s Harry Doyle.”
“Well, Detective Doyle, my son tells me you need to speak to me on police business.”
“That’s right, reverend. It’s about Billy Hall. I believe the boy was once a member of your church.”
“Still is, far as I know.” A sudden edge came into the minister’s voice and he quickly masked it with another faux smile.
Harry took out his notebook and wrote the time, the date, and the minister’s name. When he looked up Waldo was shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. “If this is going to take some time, why don’t we adjourn to my office where we’ll both be more comfortable? The church secretary brews a good cup of coffee and I can always use one after a long session of preparing the way.”
Waldo’s office was like the man himself, oversized and expensively furnished. After passing through an outer office that housed a secretary and two assistants, they entered a twenty-by-twenty-foot room. With his first step Harry sank into a full inch of thick Berber carpet and his nostrils were filled with the scent of expensive leather and recently applied furniture polish. The room was dominated by a massive desk that was easily eight feet across, the surface empty except for a leather blotter and a gold pen set. Behind the desk was an equally large credenza that held a telephone console, a flat-screen computer monitor and keyboard, a photograph of a middle-aged woman who Harry assumed was the minister’s wife, and a solitary, well-worn Bible. Above the credenza a large picture window looked out on a pond that had been meticulously designed. There were bulrushes at one end and flowering lily pads at another. One bank held a large royal poinciana tree, its wide branches and flaming red flowers reflecting in the pond’s surface; another offered a white crape myrtle and a golden rain tree, while a third held a towering jacaranda, heavily laden with purple bell-shaped flowers and rich fernlike leaves. If the landscape architect was shooting for serenity, Harry decided he had hit the mark squarely.