Pretty Girls Dancing(100)
At the end of the hall, he ascended a half set of stairs and pushed at a door that swung inward to the vestibule of the church. To his right were more steps, with cords roping across them and a No Entrance sign attached. Mark stepped over the barrier and made his way cautiously down the stairs.
The place was in as bad shape as the secretary had indicated. It was more cellar than basement and looked as though it extended only beneath the church. The walls were cracked and crumbling in places. It took just a few minutes to ascertain that he was probably the only person who had been down here in years.
He made his way to the stairway and climbed up to the vestibule again. Where Laura Mikkelsen confronted him.
She made an imposing figure in her long, dark dress, arms folded across her wide chest, chin jutted like an army general ready for battle. “Mrs. Mikkelsen.” Mark stepped over the cords. “The secretary mentioned that we wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing either you or your husband today. I’m happy she was proven wrong.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Long also told you that no one was allowed in the basement.”
“I thought maybe there was a restroom down there.”
She half turned and pointed in the opposite direction. “That way and well marked.”
Mark’s gaze followed the direction she was indicating. Sure enough, there was signage on two doors behind her. “I know what you’re up to, Agent Foster.” The woman’s lips were tight. “We’re aware that poor Herb Newman is sitting in the county jail with the sheriff refusing him even the most basic consideration.”
“That’s not true, ma’am. Mr. Newman has been afforded all his legal rights.” Which included access to counsel and a speedy arraignment. The judge had sided with the prosecutor’s argument that the man was a flight risk and set bail at a level Newman still hadn’t been able to meet. Hence his continued guest status at the Allama County jail.
She shoved her face close to his. “We’ve seen this sort of thing before. Godly people being persecuted by nonbelievers. Our Tri-County Ministry is even now trying to come up with the funds to free Mr. Newman so he may return home.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate your efforts, ma’am. I know how much he’s helped out around here. He told me about the times he’s loaned the church his laptop when you needed an extra one.”
He’d managed to surprise her. “I’m sure he would loan it, if asked,” she said finally. Easing away, she added, “Fortunately, our circumstances have never required such a generous sacrifice. Now, I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Interesting. Mark headed toward the front door of the church. Either Newman had lied about that, or Laura Mikkelsen was lying right now. Which meant one of them had something to hide.
Or both of them.
“That was a bust.” Sloane turned the key in the ignition. “The spaces I looked through were cramped, and if there’s a janitorial closet, I didn’t see it.”
“I found a couple of buckets in a coat closet. And another one that was locked.” Hard to believe that only Newman would have access to the area, though. “Laura Mikkelsen caught me coming out of the basement, so that conversation went as expected.”
She began backing out of the space. “I’m sure my discussion with the church secretary was more illuminating. She verified that Newman had allowed them use of his laptop. But she said it hadn’t happened in the last few years. Most of the students have school-issued notebooks, so if they need extra computers, they call the kids to help out.”
So he’d been right. Mark narrowed his eyes. Laura had been lying. But why?
The alert for an incoming text sounded. He pulled out his cell. “Newman’s financials have come through.” The bank had taken their time complying with the warrant. “I want to get back to my computer and start going through them.” Mark was hoping the data would show where the custodian spent his money. The man had no credit cards. Few clothes. His car was only a few years old, but a dog would turn up its nose at Newman’s home. For someone working a full-time and a part-time job, he should have more disposable income.
“I think one of us needs to take a look at that empty church where Reverend Mikkelsen used to be pastor.” Sloane straightened the car on the road. Braked to a stop.
“How do we know it’s still there? They may have torn it down after the congregation dissolved.”
“It’s still standing,” she explained smugly, “according to Cindy Long. ‘Boarded up and empty, which is such a shame because the building wasn’t in that bad of shape. A lot better shape than their church, according to what Pastor Mikkelsen says.’ Cindy and I bonded over our fifteen-year-old daughters’ attachment to their cell phones and disreputable boyfriends.”
Shocked, Mark stared at her. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.” Would never have guessed it. Sloane was the least maternal female he knew.
“I don’t. But Cindy opened up quite a bit when she thought I did. She said the church is about a mile outside of Tillgy Springs. You and I have been looking for isolated properties connected to someone of interest in this case, so . . .”
Mark did a rapid mental calculation. “That’s two hours each way.” Could Newman have heard about the property from Mikkelsen? Sloane was right; it needed to be checked out. “Okay, I’ll take Newman’s financials, and you go look at the old church.”