Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(64)
“Great. Well, when he gets out, be sure to tell him NYPSD attempted to speak to him here, get his cooperation on record before this all blows up in the media. You have one of those whatever days yourself.”
She turned, took two steps back to her car.
“You can wait in your vehicle while we check to see if Reverend Wilkey is available.”
She just nodded, and to be pissy, leaned against her car instead of getting back in.
She watched two people walking on what she assumed were paths between buildings.
A woman came out of one building followed by about a dozen kids in knee-length navy shorts and white shirts. She, in her navy skirt, white shirt, navy blazer, crossed to a bench under one of the trees.
The kids—all white, she noted—sat, neatly in two rows, on the grass facing her.
The gatekeeper came back out.
“Pull inside the gate and then over to park.”
The gate opened, a slow, silent sweep.
“This place already gives me the creeps,” Peabody muttered.
“I think it can get a lot creepier.”
She parked as instructed.
“Please place your weapons inside your vehicle, then secure your vehicle. A cart will transport you to Reverend Wilkey’s residence.”
“My vehicle is secured, and our weapons stay with us.”
He smirked at her. “Weapons are not permitted in the compound.”
“Do those include the one on your left hip, the second on your right ankle?”
He stiffened. “I’m security.”
“Hey, so are we. Our weapons stay with us.”
She had a dead-eyed stare of her own. With it she saw temper burn across his face.
As an electric cart hummed toward them, he turned on his heel and marched to it. It stopped just far away enough Eve couldn’t clearly hear the conversation—though she did catch the gatekeeper’s bitches before the driver—Hispanic, early forties, light brown uniform—waved the air in a chill-it-down gesture and drove the rest of the way.
“Lieutenant, Detective, welcome. I’m Cisco. Why don’t you take a seat in the back? I’ll take you to Wilkey House.”
They got in, and the cart took the road to the left. Eve glanced back to see a second man come out of the gatehouse and join the first in studying her car.
She figured they planned to bypass the security, do a search, try to access data from her nav system, her comm.
Smiling to herself, she settled in. They were in for an unpleasant surprise.
She saw more buildings now, and a half court behind one of them where a group of boys—all black—played some round ball. Red shorts, white tees.
Beyond stood a small chapel-like building with stained-glass windows and a little fountain burbling out front. A statue of Wilkey stood over the water, arms spread in benediction.
Yes, creepy.
More buildings, then a screening of trees before another wall, another gate.
A compound within a compound, she thought as the gates slid open.
The house, bride white, the carved white pillars rising across its expansive covered front porch, reminded her of pictures of plantations in the old South. Trees spread shade on the manicured lawns. Gardens flourished in a kind of regimented march of color.
A woman in a flowy floral dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat busied herself weeding it along with the two young girls flanking her.
None of them looked over as the cart rolled by.
Three stories, and Eve decided she’d term it palatial. Another porch spanned the second floor, and both porches had deeply cushioned chairs, iron tables, urns of flowers.
By the way the sun reflected on the windows and glass doors, she recognized one-way glass.
Eve and Peabody got out opposite sides when the cart stopped.
“Someone will escort you inside. I’ll be available to transport you back to the gate when you’re ready. Enjoy your visit to Wilkey House.”
Even as the cart rolled away, the right side of the double white doors opened. A woman stepped out.
She wore a light blue suit, quietly and conservatively cut, with low-heeled shoes. Though she looked older, Eve knew Wilkey’s daughter, Mirium, was twenty-four.
The older came from the cut of the suit, the dull brown hair worn in a thick roll at her nape—and the look of profound annoyance.
She tried to mask the last as Eve and Peabody started up the spotless white stairs to the porch.
Her welcoming smile didn’t hit sincere.
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. I’m Mirium Wilkey. On behalf of my father, welcome to our home. My father will join us as soon as possible. Since it’s such a lovely day, we’ll sit on the veranda.”
Without waiting for an assent, she led the way to the cushy chairs around a round table.
“I serve as my father’s personal assistant and domestic staff manager. Is there any way I can help you today?”
“Have you been in New York recently?” Eve asked. “Say, Monday night?”
“Monday?” Blue eyes, as quiet as her suit, turned contemplative. She reached up absently to toy with the little pearl stud in her ear. “I was on campus—as we say—Monday, as I have been all week. We’re holding a retreat. I do have a pied-à-terre in the city, as we often have business in New York.”
Two women came out onto the porch—one in her late teens or early twenties, the other nearer sixty. Both wore navy skirts, white shirts buttoned to the neck, with small navy bows at the collars.