disinterred, their resting places desecrated. Wild animals had been killed. But none of this seemed to make any sort of impression on either Rossiter or Cash.
It was almost as though they considered events in Rio Verde too trivial to be taken seriously, the province of children rather than adults, hardly worth bothering with.
He half considered calling up both men's superiors and leveling a charge of racism against them, claiming that they were dragging their feet because Manuel Torres was
Hispanic. That would get a response.
Only he wasn't sure he wanted any deeper involvement from those people. The FBI had installed a fax machine in his office, a direct line to the federal building in Phoe nix so he could send copies of all reports and paperwork.
That was enough meddling in his business, as far as he was concerned.
]
He would keep them informed of his progress, let them know when something was discovered, but that was it.
The intercom beeped, and Robert moved away from the window and back to his desk. He held down the white
'Talk' button, leaning into the receiver. 'What is it?'
Steve's voice came through clear and strong. 'We have a slight, uh, situation. I think you'd better come out here.'
'Be there in a sec.' Robert let go of the button, wiped his nose with the wet handkerchief, and collected the forms and pamphlets the FBI agent had left him, carrying them out to the front office.
In the waiting area, six or seven people were clustered on the other side of the counter near the front door. They were standing close together, obviously upset. At the receptionist's desk, Lee Anne was trying to look busy, shuffling through recently typed papers, not looking up. Robert scanned the group of people and noticed that they were all from the Central Arizona Bank.
Almost as one, the faces turned toward him. Robert dropped the handful of pamphlets on Steve's desk and bent down. 'What is this?' he asked quietly.
Steve shook his head, grinning. 'I'll let them tell you.'
'Mr. Johnson wants us to wear underwear Tammette Walker said.
'Uniforms!' Maxine Gilbert added.
Robert straightened up and stared at them uncomprehendingly. 'He wants us to wear uniforms made out of underwear!'
'He's gone crazy! There must be a law againstm' Robert held up his hands for silence. 'Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on now, just hold your horses. One person at a time.' He nodded toward Maxine. 'Maxie? Why don't you try telling me what this is all about?'
The elderly teller pursed her lips and nervously clicked the clasp on her handbag open and shut. 'Mr. Johnson has not been himself lately, not for the past week or so. Usually, he's very involved in the operation of the bank, but for the past several days we haven't seen him at all. He just stays cooped up in his office. This morning, though, when we arrived, he was there waiting for us, and he had his ..
. uniforms on display.'
'It was disgustingl' Tammette said.
Robert held up his hands. 'Let Maxie finish. Please.' He nodded at Maxine. 'Go on.'
'They were---' She shook her head, as though unable to come up with an adequate description. 'They're made out of underwear. He sewed pan des and bras and boxer shorts all together, into pants and shirt swell they're not really pants and shirts, but they sort of have sleeves and legs and necklines---and he calls them uniforms. He said that all bank employees now have to wear one of his uniforms. He said if we don't wear them, we'll be fired.'
'I think they're made from used underwear,' Mort Emerson added, grimacing. ''They have stains on them.'
Robert cleared his throat. 'I don't quite understand what you want me to do about this.'
'Pee Wee would know what to do,' Stephanie Bishop said through pinched lips.
'I'm not Pee Wee.'
'We want you to arrest him!' Tammette said. 'It's not legal to force us to wear uniforms made out of underwear.'
'I don't think an actual crime has been committed here. I'll go over and talk to Mr. Johnson if you want, but I can't arrest him. My suggestion would be to call the head office and talk to the bank president, tell him your problem-'
'There is no head office,' Mort said. 'Sophocles Johnson is the president.'
'Well, if worst comes to worst, if Mr. Johnson really does fire you, you may have to take him to court--'
'We need our jobs,' Tammette said. 'And what do you mean court? Isn't there a law against forcing your employees to wear uniforms made out of underwear?'
'Used underwear?' Art added.
Robert sighed. 'I'll talk to Mr. Johnson. I'll try to get this cleared up. If I can't, I'll call the Better Business Bureau and the state wage and hour commission. I'll get this thing sorted out, okay?'
'He's crazy,' Maxine said. 'He won't talk to you.' 'It sounds as though he's a little whacked out,' Robert admitted, 'but I'll see what I can do. Right now, why don't all of you leave your numbers with Lee Anne over there at the front desk. I'll give you a call this afternoon.'
Maxine clicked and un clicked her purse clasp. 'What about the bank?
It's going to stay close?'
'I can't afford to lose a day of work,' Janice Lake said. 'I'll do what I can,' Robert told them. 'I'm going to go call Mr. Johnson right now. Just leave your numbers with Lee Anne He turned away, forcing the receptionist to deal with the bank employees. He looked over at Steve, who was still grinning, rolled his eyes, and walked back down the hall to his office.
The first thing he saw when he strode through the door was the fax machine on his side table.
This was turning out to be a hell of a day.
Before he retired and moved back to Arizona six years ago, Bill Covey had been an architect. Senior Architectural Supervisor at Sippl, Doyle and Dane in Irvine, California to be exact. He never had any illusions about himself, and he would have been the first to admit that his architectural efforts had been less than inspired. Many of the small stores and restaurants that he had designed in the fifties and sixties had, in fact, been bulldozed over and replaced with splashier, more eye-catching structures in the wave of redevelopment which swept over Southern California in the seventies and eighties. The con doming ium plans he had laid out before retiring, his last project for the firm, were probably the best work he had ever done, yet even they were hardly original.
Now, however, he was inspired.
Covey, pumped up with caffeine from the massive amounts of coffee he'd been gulping all evening, raced through one sketch after another, not bothering to do cleanup work, not bothering to smooth out the rough edges or draw to scale. He was creating here, setting down ideas for the Church of the Living Christ, the future physical home of the Son of God on earth, and he could not be bothered with petty technical details. He could fix the small stuff later, right now he was on a roll, and he had to try to record these ideas as they came to him, before they were lost.
He had never been a churchgoing man, had always thought of belief in a higher power as a crutch used by people who couldn't manage their own lives, but some thing had made him start attending Pastor Wheeler's church a few weeks ago, and he was prepared now to admit that it was the hand of the Lord guiding him. When he'd heard the pastor describe his plan to build the ultimate house of worship right here in Rio Verde, Covey had known that the reason he had been put on this earth was to design Christ's church.
He'd talked with the pastor after the sermon, prepared to beg for the assignment if need be, but he hadn't had to say much at all. It was almost as though the pastor had been expecting him to approach and volunteer his services
They'd met once since then, a single quick informal conversation. They had not talked specifics, but the two of them had understood each other. He knew what the pastor wanted without being told, and when he'd explained a few of his ideas, Wheeler too had realized how closely aligned were their goals.
