12

Mills has tried to reach Bennett Canning for two days now. He’s left messages. He’s texted the guy. He’s tried to get his attention on Twitter, for Christ’s sake, and Mills avoids social media the way most people avoid the sun on a 111-degree day in Phoenix (which it is outside presently). Yeah, social media is a necessary evil, eh, not so evil, when it comes to tracking people down; it helps, and it has really become an asset for cops, but man, the shit you have to weed through can pretty much knock your brain out of commission. Really numbing, all the minutiae people care about. And the pets! Jesus, the pets! He’s got nothing against animals, but come on, do you really, really think your cat can lip synch the words to “Dancing Queen?” Or should? Really?

He can’t put it off any longer. He pushes himself from his desk, and it’s out into the oven of Phoenix. Midday, no less. Preston joins him for the drive out to The Cliffs Resort and Spa. It’s far north in Scottsdale, abutting Thompson peak. But it might as well be anywhere. With its sun-splashed paint job, its tile roof, the palm trees and brick thoroughfares, the place looks cut from the very same cookie mold as so many other resorts in the valley. There are fountains everywhere cascading over Mexican tile and sculpture, as if water were as plentiful here as zinc oxide. Handsome and stately palms line the driveway to the check-in lobby and valet where Ferraris and Maseratis and one social-climbing BMW wait for their owners. At the front desk, they’re asked to wait for a hotel manager. Mills observes the guests and members come and go. It’s the low season, but judging by the business suits, capitalism can take the heat. Lots of tans and jewelry. A woman approaches. “I’m Nicole Harper,” she says. “I hear you’ve been asking about an employee.”

“Former employee,” Mills tells her. “Bennett Canning.”

“Right. Mr. Canning no longer works here.”

Mills introduces himself, then Preston. She seems disinterested to know them. Her eyes and the tightness of her face suggest she’s already onto the next meeting in Outlook, as if she’s about to charge into a conference room and cut ten percent of the staff.

“Care to tell us the circumstances of his departure from the Cliffs?” Mills ask her.

“I’m sure you know that’s confidential.”

“Sorry. We thought you’d might want to cooperate with the law.”

She smile-frowns and clasps her hands in front of her waist. “All I can say is that Mr. Canning’s work ethic was not compatible with our policies and priorities here at the Cliffs.”

“Can you give us an example, or three?” Preston asks.

“No,” she says, batting her eyelashes, her annoyance well-crafted and implied. “I’m not at liberty to do that. If you wish, you can contact our legal team.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Mills tells her. “We’d just like to know more about him. I’m sure we can find some of his former colleagues who might be more forthcoming. Unless, of course, you have some kind of corporate gag order.”

“We don’t. That’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous is that we’re trying to find out who killed Bennett’s mother and you seem unwilling to help us,” Preston says.

“Like I said, you’re welcome to contact our legal team if you want access to Bennett Canning’s employment records.” She predicates her thought with a double cough, the suggestive, mocking kind.

“I see where you’re coming from,” Mills assures her. “We’ll be on our way.”

“Can I treat you two to lunch?” she asks.

Mills says thanks, but no thanks, and offers the woman a cordial handshake.

Out in the car, the air-conditioning blasting, Mills says, “Let’s go find Bennett. He gave us two addresses. What do you think? The Bilt-more condo or the house in Arcadia?”

“He has a house in Arcadia?”

“Gus’s neighborhood,” Mills says. “I don’t see Bennett there. I don’t know why. But it’s too adult. He’s a high-rise condo kind of guy. Floor to ceiling windows. Wears his sunglasses inside.”

Preston belts out a laugh. “I think you nailed him! To the condos we go.”

At the condos, a cluster of midrise buildings of unimaginative steel and glass, they find nothing except for a cheery concierge and cheery foliage in the lobby. And, of course, a fountain, floor to ceiling, sucking even more water from the Colorado River. They take the elevator to the eleventh floor. The hallway smells perfumed. Mills knocks. A woman answers the door, wide-eyed, her mouth agape, as if she’s never answered a door in her life. Kind of bunker looking. Agoraphobia lurking on her face. Mills guesses she’s in her early twenties. Five-three. Maybe five-four. No makeup. Long, limp blonde hair. Beautiful in her simplicity, striking even. Mills flashes his badge and asks if Bennett Canning’s at home.

“No,” she says. “He doesn’t live here, really.”

“Do you know him?” Mills asks.

“I know Bennett,” she says. “But he doesn’t live here. He lives in Arcadia.”

“What’s your name, ma’am?” Mills asks her.

“Ashley. Ashley Pepper. Opposite of salt.”

Mills doesn’t have the heart to tell her that pepper, technically, is not the opposite of anything. Instead, he introduces himself and asks her how she knows Bennett Canning.

“We dated for a while. He got me this place. His parents didn’t approve of us living together at his house.”

“But you lived together here?” Mills asks.

“No. I told you he lives in Arcadia. That’s not to say he didn’t spend many nights here. I’m not going to lie.”

“So, I take it you’re no longer dating?” Preston asks.

She leans into the doorframe. It’s only now Mills realizes she’s standing there in a camisole and panties. It strikes him, not because of her stage of undress and her lithe physique, but because he hadn’t noticed, because she was, ultimately, just another face at another door among the blur of thousands of faces he’s seen and thousands of doors he’s knocked on.

“Why are you interrogating me?” she asks.

“We’re not interrogating you,” Mills says. “I’m sorry if we made you feel that way. That wasn’t our intention.”

“I don’t know why we broke up. I just think it wasn’t working. And I also think that he’s a player. You know, the minute he settles down with you he’s already on to someone else.”

“Understood,” says Preston. “How did you meet?”

“At church.”

“Church of Angels Rising?” Preston asks.

“That’s the one.”

Preston asks if she’d give them her phone number, says he might want to follow up with her later. She recites it and both men enter it into their phones, thanking her. “So sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” Preston says.

The Lady of GPS directs them to Bennett Canning’s address in Arcadia. This is the swanky part of Arcadia, not Gus’s part of Arcadia, which is more Arcadia Light than anything (modest, older homes, with great vegetation but outdated façades, respectable but certainly not luxurious); this part of Arcadia, however, is where money goes to relax against the mountain, Camelback, to be specific, not far from Aunt Phoebe, but not high up there intruding on the beast. This is what Gus Parker calls “the lap of the camel.” In the lap sit modern ranch homes behind walls and the occasional gate. Big windows gaze up to the mountain. Slanted roofs at clean angles salute the sun, commemorating the work of Frank Lloyd Wright. Completing the tribute are decks and railings and the tendency for these homes to sort of disappear into the terrain. Except they don’t fully disappear. The owners make concessions to their own vanity and make sure the walls aren’t too high. What’s the point of making all this money if you can’t show it off? Sure enough, Bennett Canning’s Mercedes, as gleaming as it ever was, sits in the circular driveway at his Arcadia address. Mills can hear movement inside the house after they ring the bell. The movement is distant, but it’s there. He rings again. The sound from within comes closer. There are footsteps and then the door swings open, revealing a diminutive woman with dark eyes and a hesitant smile. She’s wearing an apron.

“We’re here to see Mr. Canning,” Mills tells her.

“Mr. Canning? I believe he’s still sleeping.”

Mills looks at his watch. Twelve-forty-five.

“And you are?” Mills asks her.

“Juanita. I’m Mr. Canning’s housekeeper.”

He flashes his badge and she blanches. He identifies himself, mentions Preston.

“I see,” she whispers. “Well, I’m making his breakfast. I was planning on waking him soon.”

“Could you wake him now?”

“Yes, of course,” she says. She bows her head. “Please wait here.” She closes the door and Mills turns to Preston and says, “Must be nice to sleep past noon on a weekday.”

“Well, his mom did just croak,” Preston reminds him, to which Mills responds with a shrug.

They wait a while. A while longer than Mills would have expected. It’s not such a large house. How long can it take to get someone out of bed? When Bennett Canning appears in the doorway, Mills gets his answer. It could take a long time to drag this deadbeat scarecrow from slumber and bring him back to life. Black circles surround his eyes like bruises. His hair is straw and matted. The insignia of sleep stretches across his face in the form of sheet and pillow lines. His lips are chapped. His breath is atrocious when he opens his mouth and says, “What are you doing here so early?”

Mills can’t help himself. He laughs. “Seriously, Bennett. It’s past noon.”

“Thought you might be out job hunting,” Preston says.

The guy drops his head to his chest, rolls it from one shoulder to another, and blows out another torrent of sewer breath. “You’d expect me to be looking for a job at a time like this? I mean cut me some slack.” “No, that’s not what we’d expect,” Mills assures him, fully aware that this overindulged scarecrow has been given a lifetime of slack. “We need to follow up on something, Bennett. May we come in?” Bennett leads them in and asks them to wait in the sunken living room, a square of chrome, glass, and leather befitting a gigolo. It’s all image for Bennett Canning, an aspiring GQer, who obviously uses this room itself as part of his seduction. But today he’s not seducing anyone; he smells like he hasn’t showered since last summer. “You mind if I clean up a bit? It’ll only take me a minute.”

Mills suspects it will take longer than a minute for the scarecrow to transform himself into the Mercedes-driving, tennis-pro ladies’ man, but he says, “Fine.”

The magazines under the coffee table: Men’s Journal, Architectural Digest, Town & Country, Condé Nast Traveler, and, aha, GQ. The art on the walls is big and abstract, the kind that Mills has seen in museums but doesn’t understand. What is it about a small purple circle on a big white canvas that makes this thing art? Or the one where the painter apparently tripped over her can of paint and decided the accident, like colorful blood spatter, was a masterpiece?

The housekeeper reappears and asks if the men would like some iced tea, maybe, or even a cocktail. The men decline. Bennett returns. He’s sprayed down his hair with something and he’s slicked it back. His tight t-shirt, emblazoned with an image from The Walking Dead (so appropriate, but probably lost on Bennett Canning), shows off his trim waist and bulging pecs and biceps. “Rough night?” Preston asks him.

“No. I’m mourning. Remember?”

“So, you haven’t left the house?” Mills asks.

“I didn’t say that,” Bennett replies, taking a seat on a slender leather recliner. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“I’ve been calling and texting you,” Mills says. “But you never replied. So I had no choice but to show up.”

The guy nods but says nothing.

“We’re here to follow up on a few things,” Mills tells him. “First, the jewels.”

“I told you. I took them,” Bennett says. “I couldn’t just leave them in the house with all your people picking over her stuff like it was some kind of garage sale.”

“That’s what we do,” Preston says. “We pick over stuff. It’s called a homicide investigation, young man.”

Bennett leans forward, shaking his head. He utters a laugh, then says, “Rule number one, don’t condescend to me. OK?”

Mills leans forward as well to neutralize the space and says, “As far as the investigation into your mother’s death goes, my friend, we make the rules. Now why don’t you tell us where the jewels are?”

“In a safe deposit box,” he says with a scoff.

“You’re going to need to give us access so we can take appropriate inventory,” Mills says.

Bennett Canning laughs again. “What? You think I’m selling them? How could you be so cold?” Then he sniffles, like he’s on the edge of tears, and clears his throat. Mills can’t tell whether he’s witnessing bullshit artistry as it unfolds, or whether the kid is just in over his slicked-back head. “Those jewels were her treasures! Our treasures! Part of the family fortune. I couldn’t just leave them there. I wasn’t so worried about your people pocketing a brooch or two as I was scared that someone would break into the house and steal everything . . .” “Break into the house?” Preston asks.

“Everyone knows she’s dead,” Bennett says. “And any criminal with half a brain has to know that the house might be unoccupied and full of valuables. I mean, come on, think about it from my perspective. You can’t say this wouldn’t have occurred to you.”

Mills looks at him. He says nothing, but he just looks at the guy who’s sitting here in the lap of his parents’ luxury, his whole fucking house a designer man cave, uttering lamentations about brooches and treasures and fortunes. It’s a fucking soap opera. He shifts his gaze away from Bennett Canning and toward the built-in bookcases across the room that house macho novels of espionage and shadow governments. Big, thick, bestselling thrillers of international intrigue. Not a classic among the collection. Without looking at Bennett, Mills says, “Your mother has some very valuable books in her library. Why didn’t you take them?”

“Like what?”

“Leather bound editions of the classics, some first editions. And there’s at least two shelves of ancient texts behind glass. What about those?”

“Yeah, she said she had some expensive books. You know, collectibles, I guess. But they’re not my thing. And who would steal books, anyway?”

Mills laughs. “You’re right. Who would steal books? Nobody reads anymore,” he says, mocking the kid. “You disturbed a crime scene.”

“So arrest me,” Bennett says, folding his arms across his chest.

“Don’t tempt me,” Mills says. He sees a sixteen-year-old Trevor in this twenty-nine-year-old asswipe. Apparently, money stunts your growth.

Preston gets up, walks to the bookcases, removes a book, and turns back. He’s holding Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, which, if asked, Mills would concede is a classic in its own right. “You read this?” Preston asks Bennett. “You like Le Carré?”

“I don’t know,” Bennett says with a shrug.

“You don’t know if you read it?” Mills asks. “Le Carré is a master!”

“Or is this whole book collection just an image thing for you?” Preston persists.

“I answered your questions about the jewelry,” Bennett says. “My book collection is irrelevant. If you have any more questions you can talk to my attorney. His name is Darren Styles, in Central Phoenix.”

The guy stands up, as if he’s prompting them to leave, but Mills stays planted on the couch. Preston returns to the couch and sits as well. You work with someone long enough, you learn how to choreograph on the fly, and this choreography seems to infuriate Bennett Canning, who throws his arms out wide and cups the air. His face turns a raging crimson. “I said you could call my lawyer if you have any more questions.” His voice is crisp, imploring.

The men say nothing. They stare at him.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

The men look at each other, then at him again. But they remain silent.

“Oh my God,” Bennett cries. “Don’t I have the right to ask you to leave?”

“Please sit down, Bennett,” Mills says finally. “Please. We won’t be a bother much longer. I promise.”

Bennett complies, returns to his recliner. “Just tell me what you want.”

“Look,” Preston says. “We’re here to help. We know it doesn’t seem that way but, ultimately, we’re the best friends you can have right now.”

Bennett scoffs.

“I’m serious,” Preston insists. “We’re going to nail whoever did this to your mother. That’s our job. Sure, we’re intrusive, and we’re pests. We know that. But you want us to be intrusive and you want us to be pests, because that’s the only way we’re going to bring the killer or killers to justice.”

“Wait,” the kid says. “You think there could be more than one killer?”

“I was speaking rhetorically,” Preston says. “Anything’s possible.”

Bennett exhales an enormous sigh, as if, maybe, he’s reconciled to the cops being in his face.

“What was your relationship with your mother like?” Mills asks him.

The guy shrugs and says, “I don’t know. What do you mean?”

“Were you close?” Mills asks.

“I guess . . . I mean, she was a good woman and a good mother and obviously,” he says, waving his hands around, “very generous.”

“Obviously,” Mills says. “Did you know she left everything to the church?”

Bennett hesitates. He fidgets. Then he curls his lip and says, “How did you know that?”

Mills explains that his team has started combing through Viveca’s computer, that they found the will.

“For real?” Bennett asks, a warble of doubt in his throat. “I mean, it was a running joke in the family, but . . . are you sure?”

“As sure as the will itself,” Mills tells him.

“It may not be her final will,” Bennett says. “That’s definitely something you should talk to the lawyer about.”

“We plan to,” Preston assures him.

The kid puts his head in his hands. And Mills allows him the gathering of grief and confusion, a particularly daunting mix of emotions. There might even be remorse. Mills can’t be sure. There’s a part of Bennett Canning that always remains aloof, as if the detachment is a learned skill, something to master. But these silences are important. They’re always important. Sometimes they yield nothing, but oftentimes they drag up a wide net of details. Silence makes some people nervous. Nervous is good. Nervous people talk.

Bennett, however, is not talking. He’s breathing heavy, but he’s not saying a word. Mills can hear the guy’s sniffling again and suspects that, now, the grief is authentic, not for show. “So you were unaware that your mother had left her money to the church?” he asks.

Bennett doesn’t look up. But he shakes his head. “I was not aware,” he says.

“Does this upset you?” Preston asks.

“What do you think?” Finally, Bennett shows his face. “It was her choice to do what she wanted with the money, but I don’t know why she wouldn’t take care of my sister and me. It’s confusing.”

“I’m sure it is,” Mills tells him. “Do you think she was brainwashed?”

“Huh? Brainwashed?”

“Yeah. By someone at the church? Or threatened? It’s a rather large bequest,” Mills says.

The kid nods absently. Then he asks, “How much do you know about the church?”

“Only what we’ve read in the paper, seen on TV,” Mills says. “Some people call it a cult.”

Bennett laughs. It’s a big belly laugh followed by a “sheesh!” “What’s so funny?” Preston asks him.

“The whole cult thing. I’ve been a member of the church all my life, guys. It’s not a cult,” he says. “Yes, we’ve all heard the whispers around town and such, but the truth is we’re just private people worshipping in a private, humble way.”

Now Mills is close to a belly laugh and a “sheesh!” but he tightens his core and restrains himself. “Yeah, well, with a cathedral that ginormous, it’s hard for a megachurch to stay humble. Don’t you think?” “We attract many people to our faith,” he says, his voice cool, the rest of him aloof again. “We’ve grown to accommodate the faithful.” “When you say ‘we,’ are you suggesting you have some kind of leadership role in the church?” Preston asks.

“No,” he replies. “It’s a form of speech. My mom was on the board of directors for many years. She would say ‘we’ all the time.”

“What role do you play in the church?” Preston persists.

“I hope to be an elder someday. But I’m really not at liberty to talk about church business. The Church of Angels Rising rarely does interviews.”

Mills clears his throat. “This isn’t an interview, Bennett. This is an investigation.”

“Then maybe you should talk to Gleason Norwood.”

“We did,” Mills tells him.

“You did?”

“Yes,” Mills replies. “You sound surprised.”

“You think maybe he should have warned you?” Preston asks. “Warned me? What do you mean?”

“Never mind,” Preston tells him. “It does strike me odd because from what we know of your mother, she doesn’t seem to fit the profile of a cult member . . .”

Bennett stands again, abruptly. “It’s not a cult. I don’t like the implication, gentlemen. In fact, it was never her idea to join the church. All my life I was told it was my father’s plan. Or rather, demand. He’s the one who brought us to the church and insisted we worship there. My dad was kind of a nutcase, but not my mother.”

“A nutcase with a brain for making money,” Mills says, getting up.

“A lot of wealthy, powerful people are psychopaths,” Bennett says.

“We’re aware,” Preston tells him, then rises as well.

As the men drift to the front door, Mills turns to the young scion-of-nothing and says, “One more question, Bennett. Were your parents separated before your father’s death?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. That’s all. I wasn’t sure what kind of stress might have led to his heart attack.”

“I have no idea. I didn’t ask questions. I’m not even sure it was stress.”

“Thanks for your time,” Mills says.

Bennett Canning says nothing. He shakes his head, disgusted, lips tightening and curling inward. A stray wad of slicked hair comes loose and dangles over his forehead. His posture collapses. The kid’s on the verge of tears. He’ll completely buckle once the door is closed. That’s a privacy Mills can afford him. And so he ushers Preston out quickly, giving Bennett the right to grieve in his own space. Besides, Mills has to make a call.

He’s in the car Googling “Darren Styles, Attorney, Phoenix,” when his phone rings. It’s Gus Parker.

“Gus Parker!”

“Hey, Alex.”

“How the fuck are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“We’re in your neighborhood! You must be psychic!”

Gus laughs. “Yeah, that’s what they tell me.”

Mills lowers his shades and cranks the A/C. “Hey, I’m sorry we couldn’t make it to Seattle for the funeral, man.”

“I told you it wasn’t necessary, Alex.”

“Yeah, I know. But still,” Mills says as clumsy as a shy date. “Hey, you free for dinner tonight?”

“I get off work at 5:30.”

“Rosita’s Place? 6:30?”

“Sure,” Gus says. “But this isn’t just a social call. I have some business to discuss.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I have someone who wants to meet you.”

“I’m happily married,” Mills says, fawning over his own humor. “Right. Never seen a happier couple,” Gus tells him. “But this isn’t a hookup, dude. Just someone who might know something about an investigation you’re working on.”

“I’m intrigued,” Mills admits. “The Viveca Canning case?”

Gus replies affirmatively.

“Intrigued, Dr. Psycho, but I got some important calls to make now,” Mills tells him. “Can we pick this up at Rosita’s?”

“Sure,” Gus says. “See ya’ later.”

As soon as Mills is off the phone, Preston hands him his tablet with the home page of Styles, Styles, Styles, and Berman loaded on the screen. Mills calls, can’t reach any of the Styleses, or the Berman, for that matter, so he leaves a message for Darren Styles with a polite receptionist who says she’ll do her very best (not just her best) to get Mr. Styles the message by the end of the day.