“You been in the shanties, Lieut?” Grip turned his head slightly, keeping an eye on the road while speaking to Westermann, who sat in the backseat of the prowl car.
“No.”
“It’s different in there.”
“Grip didn’t like it so much,” Morphy said.
“I have no problem admitting it.”
“Can you explain?” Westermann asked. Grip didn’t have a problem with Negroes, so far as Westermann knew, and was never reluctant to get in the face of anyone he thought had some Red in them.
“I don’t know.”
Morphy said, “It’s these narrow, little alleys that get confusing, and the symbols and pictures they’ve painted on their doors and walls. Nerve-racking. And hot as hell.”
Grip nodded. “That’s not the only thing, though. Something weird.”
“A lot of reefer being smoked,” Morphy suggested.
“Maybe,” Grip said.
“Any luck?” Westermann asked.
Grip shrugged. “Not really. We talked to some older ginks in the shanties and they sent us to these guys that fish down by the riverbank. Said if anyone’d seen a body on the rocks, it would have been them. Went down and found about a half dozen and talked to them one by one. They didn’t have much. One guy said he saw someone down by the rocks the night that the second girl was killed—said he was drinking at the time—but that the guy was too far off to give any kind of description.”
Westermann felt the tension ease in his shoulders, but kept on with the questions. “Nothing? White? Negro? With a girl?”
“I gave you the whole thing, Lieut. Someone on the rocks—too dark to see anything else.”
Westermann saw Morphy nodding along to Grip’s account. “So, nothing useful.”
“No,” Grip agreed. “But that feeling about the shanties, something about it …”
“Okay,” Westermann said, trusting Grip’s instincts, wondering what he was picking up on and if it had anything to do with Lenore. “Pull over here.”
Morphy pulled to the curb on the edge of Godtown, behind two other prowl cars.
Westermann had sent Plouffe off to work on getting a warrant to bring back to Prosper Maddox’s church. In the meantime, Westermann wanted to let Maddox know that he wasn’t going to be backed down, so he’d returned with his men to canvass the neighborhood. Grip and Morphy moved down a block and Portillo and Breda worked the houses across the street. Westermann was with Dzeko, who normally paired with Plouffe. Dzeko was tall and lean with narrow shoulders; a gray mustache under a beaked nose. He was a somber guy, Westermann thought, or maybe just dull.
They banged on two doors without reply and then on a third—a purple row house with a periwinkle door. They waited, not expecting anything, but the door jerked suddenly open, then closed, then opened again. Westermann saw the broad, red face of a woman through the crack in the door. Her eyes showed panic.
“What do you want from me?” Her voice was tremulous, pitched high.
“Ma’am,” Westermann said softly, “my name is Lieutenant Westermann with the City police.”
The door closed and then opened again. The door shook as she held it open with unsteady hands. From inside came the smell of boiling potatoes.
“Ma’am?”
“What do you want from me?” Her voice approached hysteria.
“Ma’am, what’s your name?”
“Mary Little. What do you want from me?”
“I’m with the—”
“In the name of Jesus—” Something over his shoulder seemed to catch her attention and she went suddenly silent. He kept his eyes on her, trying to get a read from what he could see of her through the crack in the door.
“Lieut?” Dzeko said.
Westermann turned toward the street to see Breda and Portillo, holding his cigar at his side, facing a big man with a blond military cut and Prosper Maddox. The door closed again. Westermann and Dzeko crossed the street toward Prosper Maddox. Two other men were converging, too, hats low, one carrying a bulky square bag.
Shit.
“Mr. Maddox,” Westermann said, extending his hand.
“Dr. Maddox,” Maddox corrected, shaking Westermann’s hand with a fixed smile but hostile eyes.
“I see you’ve met Detectives Portillo and Breda. This is Detective Dzeko.” Westermann looked past Maddox’s shoulder; Deyna and his cameraman, ten yards off. The cameraman was unpacking his camera.
Maddox ignored Westermann’s pleasantries, but kept his smile in place. He seemed unaware of Deyna’s presence. “Lieutenant Westermann, my understanding is that you were going to return with a warrant. Your detectives indicated to me that you do not, in fact, have a warrant.”
“We’re canvassing the neighborhood, Mr. Maddox. It’s fairly routine in these types of cases. No one has been compelled to talk to us, we’re merely asking questions.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to desist.”
Westermann looked at the big blond man, thinking it was probably he who had initially opened the church door on Westermann’s first trip to Godtown. “Who’s this?”
Maddox’s smile was nearly gone. “Do not ignore me, Lieutenant.”
Westermann darted a look at Deyna, who met his eyes. Back to Maddox, keeping his voice down. “I’m not ignoring you. I hear your every word. I want to know who this is.” He pointed hard at the big man. “Who’s this?”
Something about the big man had Breda and Portillo on edge; maybe his stance, as if he were waiting for something to happen. In the periphery of his vision, Westermann saw the two detectives, hands hovering by their holstered pistols. Their attention switched from Maddox to Deyna. Back and forth. Back and forth. Their nervousness made him nervous.
Maddox said, “Ole Koss. He’s with the church. Now Lieutenant Westermann, I insist that you stop questioning my people.”
“Your people?”
“Yes. Everyone in this neighborhood is in the congregation.”
“And because of that, you speak for them all.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Many of these people are country folk, Lieutenant. They, quite honestly, do not have the guile that comes from a lifetime in the City. They will not weigh their words.”
“What’s to weigh, Mr. Maddox? Our questions are very straightforward. Do they know Mavis Talley or a woman named Lenore? No guile required. Are you afraid of something?”
Deyna’s partner was snapping photos. Maddox saw Westermann’s distraction and turned to see the two Gazette men for the first time. He turned back to Westermann.
“Newspaper,” Westermann said.
Maddox’s eyes widened. “First it is the police and now the newspapers? This is your doing, this intrusion of the world—your world of vice and sin—into our little congregation. You and your detectives have brought the world that we have worked so hard to protect these holy children from.”
Behind Maddox, Westermann could see a prowl car heading their way. Maddox and Deyna both turned to see the car.
Westermann said, “It was nice talking to you, Mr. Maddox. We’ll be back to the church with a warrant. Right now, we have some more doors to knock on.”
Maddox smiled. “You may want to wait a minute.”
Westermann watched as the car entered their block and pulled up to them. The driver rolled down his window.
“Lieutenant Westermann?”
Westermann stepped to the car and leaned over, one hand on the roof, aware of Deyna and Maddox watching, photos being taken.
The driver said, “Y’all’ve been called back to Headquarters.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re to stop the canvass and come back to Headquarters. Orders are to do it right now.”
“Orders from who?”
“The Chief.”
“You sure?”
The driver nodded.
Westermann heard Maddox’s voice from behind him. “Lieutenant, I believe it’s time for you to go.”
Westermann turned to him, teeth clenched, furious. Maddox’s smile was back in place, Koss smirking next to him.
“We’ll be back,” Westermann said.
Maddox’s gaze shifted over Westermann’s shoulder, his eyes unfocused. “I’m sure you will, Lieutenant. I’m sure you will.”
Climbing into the back of Grip and Morphy’s prowl car, Westermann saw Deyna, notebook open, speaking with Maddox.