After, she drew a warm bath and led him to it. She lit candles in the darkened bathroom. With her knees on a folded towel she leaned over the tub to work the shampoo into a lather, scrub the sponge up and down his back. And later to cup the handfuls of fresh water over his head.

“It may be time to settle on a partner,” she said.

“I want you to take over if anything happens.”

“No, David. We would lose the congregation. Properly prepared, they’ll follow another man. But they won’t stay with a woman.”

“I feel like giving up.”

“Of course you do,” she said. “But in the morning you won’t. You’re a fighter and a warrior and a man of God. You have power in your heart. I’ve seen you down and you always get back up. Always.”

He felt the water running down his head. Heard the splash of it around him. Smelled the soap and conditioner and melting candle wax.

“I’ve narrowed down the candidates to two,” said Barbara. “Either would be fine. Edmond has age and intelligence. Whitbrend has youth and ambition. They would both bring modest congregations. They’re both amenable to the base agreement and incentive scale and escalators. They’re both keenly aware that the way the congregation is growing, the sky is the limit, and that television will take us there. Literally. Look, David, here we are hardly moved into the new chapel and it’s time to think about a larger one. The television ministry that you are so afraid of? It must happen, David. It will take your congregation from a thousand to millions. Millions. You are a very powerful and charismatic minister, Reverend Becker. You have a responsibility to provide for your worshipers like you do for your family. As an employer would for his workers.”

“I know.”

She wiggled one of his earlobes. “And you should benefit from your hard work like anyone else. God in heaven certainly does.”

“I don’t presume to understand Him.”

“No. You’re right. I won’t, either.”

He sighed. Listened to the music of water hitting water.

“Call the younger one tomorrow morning,” he said quietly. “Whitbrend. He had an interesting look in his eye.”

18

JANELLE VONN’S PALE BLUE Volkswagen Beetle sat in the shade of the impound yard. Hood up, engine compartment open, a layer of windblown dust on the windows. Nick and Lucky Lobdell looked down on it in the brisk fall morning.

It was Monday, October 14, thirteen days after the murder of Janelle Vonn. Nick could feel his case was cooling off. His evidence wasn’t adding up. The clues still out there had scurried under rocks and were going to be harder and harder to find.

He was losing his momentum in this case and he knew it. Made his guts feel jerky and his head feel crowded.

And all of this after he was sure he’d caught the break he needed. When Red turned out to be the Reverend David and Ho turned out to be Janelle’s benefactor Howard Langton. An absolute gift from heaven, delivered by his own brother, Andy.

But even that had dribbled off into uselessness. The date-David and Barbara, Howard and Linda, Janelle and whatever guy she might choose-had been canceled. No one knew why. The evening itself would have been nothing unusual. They had had dinner dates before.

So Nick couldn’t escape the sinking feeling in his guts. First-case jinx? Maybe he wasn’t ready for his own case? Maybe he was too careful?

Maybe he didn’t have the experience to connect things or ask the right questions. Maybe he didn’t have the stamina it took to miss your wife and kids and not sleep well and go over the same bits of evidence over and over and over. He thought of Sharon and his whole soul groaned. Because he missed her, too, and because he wished he’d never touched her.

And maybe it was just him, but Nick thought the captain was humoring him at the homicide detail wrap on Friday. And the assistant sheriff was subtly dismissing his efforts at the Crime Against Persons roll call on Thursday.

“What exactly are we doing?” asked Lobdell.

“I wanted to see this car again.”

Lobdell ran his finger across a back window. Left a dark streak in the dust.

“Your case,” said Lobdell.

“Yeah, I know.”

Nick stood by the driver’s-side door and read again the responding officer’s report on a suspicious vehicle. Filed five days after the murder. Lemon Heights Sporting Goods owner made the call, said the car had been in the lot out front since the night in question. Hadn’t moved. He had seen it come across the lot that night, late, maybe nine. Cute little Beetle. Shiny under the lights. Went to the far side of the parking lot where there weren’t any cars. The owner looked out a few minutes later and saw the car still there and this girl standing beside a white Caddy talking to the driver. Got in the Caddy about ten minutes after nine and the car drove off.

Lemon Heights Sporting Goods was in a shopping center less than two hundred yards from the SunBlesst packinghouse.

The Beetle was only one year old. Nine thousand miles according to the impound report. No dents that Nick could see. Good tread on the tires. He checked the tread grooves for the odd bit of gravel or dirt that might be revealing. Found nothing.

Lobdell shook his head and sighed. “I gotta call Shirley.”

Nick sat on the passenger side and looked at the fingerprint dust on the dash, door handles and window cranks, the shifter, hand brake, and steering wheel. The silver powder showed up best on the black plastic. All the prints had been processed. All were Janelle’s.

Nick got down on his knees with a magnifier and tweezers and went over the floor mats. ID had done it once but he wanted to do it again. Hair. Fiber. Small gravel. The bright red point of what looked like a liquidambar or maple leaf. October, he thought, right color for the time of year. He didn’t collect, he just looked. Then the passenger’s side and the back. Nothing unusual.

He sat in the front passenger seat. The glove compartment had a pair of sunglasses, a small pump bottle of Orange Sunshine air freshener, and a clear plastic makeup bag. Inside the bag Nick found base and blush, three lipsticks. Two brushes, two eyeliner pencils, and mascara.

He sprayed the air freshener toward the open door and whiffed. The smell was faint and familiar. Sprayed some on his fingertips and rubbed it with his thumb. Not strong, really. Just a hint of orange blossom. Sprayed and rubbed again. No, not like those late winter mornings when all of Tustin used to smell that way. Paradise would be like that. Nick had always thought if he could bottle that smell he could make a million. His mother used to say so. He and Clay had tried it one day, mashing up the blossoms and adding water. By the next morning, through some alchemical magic that bewildered them, the solution retained no smell whatsoever. But here in sixty-eight, thought Nick, somebody had finally captured a little of that smell.

He saw that Janelle had replaced her Blaupunkt radio with a Craig eight-track tape player/radio combination. Pretty nice one. Eighty, a hundred bucks installed. There was a shoe box of tapes on the passenger-side floor. Nick looked at the titles and set it down.

The side map pouches had more eight-tracks. A pencil and two pens. Two books of matches-Five Crowns from her job a year ago, and one from Bob’s Big Boy. No maps.

The ashtray contained an alligator roach clip with a decorative thong of leather and three beads attached. The tray itself had a light dusting of ash.

Nick got out and lifted the front trunk door. Neat and practically empty. A spare tire, jumper cables, and a first-aid kit. The engine compartment was clean, no leaks or bad hoses that he could see. Nick looked at the tiny little motor. Air-cooled and practically powerless. A guy at his high school put radiator coolant in the oil reservoir, blew his engine. You could get a new VW for under two grand and they went forever on a tank of gas. But gas was cheap and there was no way to argue with V-8 power.