"Is that…"
The line read: Loverne is also reported to have been ro mantically involved with Henry Parker, a junior reporter at the New York Gazette who himself was the focus of a murder investigation just last year.
Amanda felt a terrible lump rise in her throat.
"That…that's your boy trouble?"
Amanda laughed softly, didn't know why, then nodded, heard a patter as the first droplet hit her keyboard. Darcy's face was a mix of sympathy and confusion. That's your man?
Amanda leapt from her seat without turning the screen off, threw on her coat and fled the office, running into the New
York night where the lonely streets awaited her.
48
I walked to my desk without stopping for any hellos, any questions, queries or anything. I ignored everybody. I sat down at my desk knowing eyes were watching me, waiting to see what would happen, debating whether to offer support, taking mental wagers on who would be the first to break the seal and open conversation. I turned on my computer and immediately ran a search for the words Quien es and Billy the
Kid.
I found several matches. And that vague Spanish line took on a whole new meaning.
When Pat Garrett allegedly killed Billy the Kid, the Kid's last words were Quien es. They were supposedly uttered in the dark, before Garrett put a bullet through Billy's heart. Words spoken from Billy to Pat Garrett, and now William Henry Roberts to me.
I was his Pat Garrett. The man who would make Roberts famous.
Quien es.
Who was this killer?
I opened up my files on William Henry Roberts.
From the corner of my eye I could see someone approaching. Turning, I expected to see Jack, but was surprised to see
Frank Rourke standing in front of me.
"Hey," Frank said. He had a day's beard growth, red eyes.
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry about your girl."
"Thanks," I said.
"And I'm sorry about the dog shit, too. That was pretty low."
"Don't be. It was funny."
"Right," Frank said. "Funny. Listen, if you need anything-"
"Gotcha," I said, then turned away.
Frank took the hint and left.
Mark Rheingold. The famous pastor. I didn't buy that he was at the Roberts ranch simply for evening tea.
As I scanned the articles, I looked at the framed picture at the right of my desk. Amanda and I had taken it last fall after a concert at Jones Beach. Her hair was wet; the skies had opened during the encore, rain and thunder making the music seem that much more powerful, one of those nights you wished would never end. We were glistening wet, arms wrapped around each other, smiles big and bright. That night we went home and made love for hours. When the photo was developed Amanda pinched my butt, told me we needed more of those nights, especially if they all ended like that.
I turned the frame facedown. I couldn't have Amanda watching me. I couldn't think about her. I had to lose myself in the work. Finally, I had to listen to Jack. Which was apt, because Jack was heading toward my desk.
I stopped typing, turned around. Jack was wearing a suit that looked recently dry-cleaned, and breath that smelled recently minted. There was no red in his eyes or his cheeks, so the previous night was likely spent solely in the caffeinated company of his friend Juan Valdez.
He took up his familiar perch on the side of my desk. My face was blank. I didn't want him to be there; didn't want him to leave. I was ambivalent about his entire existence at that moment.
"How you holding up, kid?"
"How's what holding up?"
Jack's mouth twitched. "Come on, Henry, you know what
I mean. How's Mya?"
"She's in the hospital with a hole in her head and pins in her hip."
"Heaven help us," he whispered, running his hand over his beard. "Are you okay?"
"I'm just peachy."
"You don't sound peachy."
"Trust me, I'm peachy."
My face must have conveyed emotions that were definitely not peachy.
"Look, Henry, about that talk we had a while back- about Amanda…"
"She's out of my life. You did your job. You were right."
"That's not my point, I know you kids had a good thing going…"
"I'm not your kid, Jack. I'm not your boy, sport, tiger, son or anything. I work with you. If you want to give me advice on how to do the job better, I'm all ears. If you want to tell me how to live my life, save it. I've heard it. It's done. Now unless you want to help me figure out what the hell Mark
Rheingold was doing at the Roberts residence the night it burned to the ground, I have nothing to say to you."
"Mark Rheingold," Jack said. His eyes had strayed from me, rolled back into his head, combing his memory. I stopped talking. Jack knew something, heard something. Now I wanted him to stay. "Rheingold…Pastor, right? Had that bigass congregation down in Texas?"
"Houston," I said. "That's right."
"What house are you talking about? Is this Roberts related to William Henry?"
"A ranch belonging to his parents," I said, "caught fire about four years ago. The mother, father and sister were all killed, along with Mark Rheingold. The sheriff claims William Roberts also died, but I just spoke to the justice of the peace in Hamilton and after some prodding he admitted William's remains were never found. They buried a coffin with no body. So what I'm trying to figure out is why Rheingold was there in the first place."
"Rheingold," Jack said, "guy was making boatloads of cash, gave about ninety percent of it to the church and various charities. Wife was a hottie, too, but that's beside the point. Big rumor was that Rheingold was taking kickbacks from his parishioners."
"Why would he take kickbacks if he was making so much money?"
"Henry," Jack said, shaking his head. "Kickbacks aren't always about money. Sometimes you can get back things that have no monetary value."
I thought for a moment. "You're saying he was sleeping with members of his congregation."
"I'm saying a lot of people thought he was, but there was never any proof to back it up. The women would never tell because they were 'laying closer to God' or some bull, and their husbands kept their mouths shut because either they felt the same way, or didn't want the world to know their wives were better satisfied by a man who's a servant of the
Lord."
"So you think Rheingold might have been doing the humpty Jesus dance with Meryl Roberts?"
"I don't keep a list in my pocket of all the church honeys
Rheingold might have bedded, but you put two and two together chances are it's gonna add up to four."
"Unless one of those variables doesn't equal two."
"I was never very good at physics."
"That's math."
"I was an English major," Jack said.
"Me, too."
Jack laughed. "No wonder you work here." His smile died with the conversation. "Give Mya's family my best. I hope she pulls through."
I nodded thanks, and Jack walked away.
As soon as he left, I pulled up a LexisNexis search for "Mark
Rheingold" and "Meryl Roberts." It came back with four hits.
The first was an article in the Hico News about the second annual Texas Steak Cookoff, sponsored by the Hico High football team, featuring a special appearance by none other than
Pastor Mark Rheingold. Meryl Roberts, whose daughter
Martha was captain of the Hico girls' soccer team, was quoted as saying, "Hico is proud to welcome Pastor Rheingold. We know his presence will foster faith and support for our wonderful community, and lead these boys to the state championship."
The second and third articles celebrated the $7,000 raised by the event to help defray the cost of new football uniforms for the Hico Marauders. Leftover donations went toward purchasing new textbooks, as the school hadn't bought new ones in nearly a decade. The article ran next to a photo of Hico quarterback John Runyan. He wasn't holding a textbook, but his uniform looked spiffy.