“That’s rhetorical, right?”
“Yeah,” Cindy said. “I’m thinking out loud.”
Cindy stood behind Conklin as he knocked on the door, touched the butt of his gun, then knocked again, this time louder and with meaning.
Cindy’s hands were shaking as she cupped them and peered through a sidelight. Then, before Conklin could stop her, she pushed in the door.
A startled cry came from inside, and piles of rags rose up from the floor, ran toward the back of the house. A door slammed.
“This is a crash pad,” Conklin said. “Those were squatters, crackheads. It’s not safe, Cindy. We’re not going in.”
Cindy rushed past and headed for the staircase, ignoring Conklin, who was yelling her name.
She’d made a promise.
The air was damp and cold, smelling of mildew and smoke and rotting garbage. Cindy ran up the stairs, calling, “Rodney Booker? Are you here?”
No one stirred, not even a mouse.
The top floor was brighter and more open than the floors below. The windows were bare, and sunlight lit up the one large bedroom.
A brass bed was centered on one wall, the mattress covered with dark-blue sheets. Books were scattered everywhere. A crack pipe was on the top of a scarred dresser.
“Cindy, I don’t have a search warrant. Do you understand?” Conklin said, coming up behind her. “Nothing we find here can be used as evidence.” He gripped her shoulders, gave her a little shake. “Hey, do you hear me?”
“I think Bagman Jesus lived here until he died.”
“Really. Based on what?”
Cindy pointed to the mural behind the bed. It was crudely drawn in black and white on plaster, images of writhing people, their hands reaching upward, fire and smoke swirling around them.
“Read that,” Cindy said.
Here was the proof Cindy had been looking for, that Rodney Booker and Bagman Jesus were one and the same.
Written within the hellish scene were two words in the same primitive lettering Cindy recognized from Flora Gold’s tattoo.
The letters spelled out JESUS SAVES.
Chapter 48
CONKLIN AND I were working the phones at half past six p.m. when Jacobi stopped by our desks, took a twenty out of his wallet, put it on my desk with a stack of take-out menus, and said, “I’ll check in with you later.”
“Thanks, Boss.”
It was discouraging work.
We still didn’t know if the Baileys’ deaths were an accident, a homicide-suicide, or a double homicide — only that Claire’s consultants had come up with nothing and the public was having a collective heart attack.
So Conklin and I did all we could do. We worked our way down the Baileys’ endless list of friends and associates and asked the questions: When did you last see the Baileys? How were their moods? How did they get along? Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to harm Isa or Ethan Bailey?
Do you know of anyone who would have wanted them dead?
I was dialing a number when I heard my name, looked up to see Cindy breeze through the wooden gate in front of our assistant, Brenda Fregosi, Brenda calling out, “No,” stabbing the intercom button, her voice blatting over the speaker on my desk.
“Cindy’s here.”
Waving a newspaper, Cindy floated around the day crew, who were putting on their coats as the night crew punched in. She plopped down in the side chair next to my desk, angling it so she could look at Conklin, too.