Steve Roman rocked back and forth, shirtless, on the motel bed.
His name was all over the news. The police would be monitoring his credit cards as they searched for him. The second he heard his name on the car radio, he made a quick cash purchase on the streets of South Central L.A., then found a fleabag dive willing to accept cash for a room, no ID necessary. He counted the remaining bills in his wallet. Twenty-three bucks. Not much he could do with that.
A used-car ad blared at him from the crummy television set on the dresser. He flipped the channel in search of more news about his arrest warrant. He halted at the sight of a familiar face. It was Martin Collins, standing in his front yard in a throng of reporters.
“It has come to my attention that the LAPD is searching for a man named Steve Roman. Some of you have already gleaned from the Internet that he is a member of Advocates for God. I founded this church a quarter century ago. In that time, Advocates for God has gone from a car full of good people willing to help the downtrodden, to thousands of believers who sacrifice every day to help their fellow man. I do know Steve Roman and truly believed he had reformed himself through the healing power of God’s goodness. But I’ve been speaking with the police, and, unfortunately, it seems that a disturbed individual found his way into our flock. But that shouldn’t reflect on our group as a whole. Our church is doing everything within our power to apprehend this criminal.”
“Reverend Collins,” a reporter called out. “We have sources who say the arrest warrant for Steve Roman is related to the attack this week on a producer for the show Under Suspicion. They are in town covering the Cinderella Murder. What is the connection between your church and the unsolved murder of Susan Dempsey?”
Martin placed his hands on his hips, as if this were the first time he had really contemplated the question. “It’s not my place to speculate about the motivations of a sick mind. But our best guess is this person—obviously ill at some level—was making a misguided attempt to protect Keith Ratner, another AG member who has been unfairly under suspicion all these years in the death of his former girlfriend. That’s all I have for now, folks.” He gave a friendly wave and retreated into his mansion.
Steve pulled on a white undershirt, warming himself as the air-conditioning unit rattled in the wall beneath the motel window. A disturbed individual? Criminal? Ill? Misguided?
Steve had always done whatever Martin asked of him. Yet now Martin was selling him out, feeding into the worst stereotypes of their church, for his own benefit.
Steve clenched his fists. He felt old impulses rising in his blood, the way he felt when that neighbor found him in Rosemary Dempsey’s yard, when the production assistant had surprised him in the house in Bel Air. He needed a punching bag. He needed to run.
He left the motel room, checking first that no one was watching. He made his way through the parking lot to his pickup truck and then popped the glove box.
He retrieved his newly purchased nine-millimeter. It was small for his hands, but it had been cheap. He tucked the gun in the back of his waistband.
He had made some mistakes in recent weeks, but that was because Martin Collins had treated him as an errand boy. He was feeling levelheaded now. He was in charge.