“You know sambo? That’s one to kill with. You maybe came in too late to see the takedown.”
“What’s sambo?”
“How’s your Russki?”
“
“A Russian acronym, Detective. Stands for self-defense without weapons — sambo, in their language.”
“Now I know what you’re talking about. It was a top-secret Red Army technique to create a deadly kind of hand-to-hand combat after the Revolution, right?”
“Entirely. Didn’t even make it to the US until recently. Focuses on getting your opponents to the ground, Detective, no matter how you do it. It’s all about submission,” Kelner said, almost gloating at the way he had suckered Mike into his pitch. “Now, is one of these martial arts how your mysterious killer works, Mr. NYPD Homicide Detective, or can I go back about the business of building God’s army?”
“No sambo, Reverend. Don’t even think there was kickboxing involved.”
The truth was we had no idea how Naomi and Ursula had become hostage to the maniacal killer. Neither body bore the bruising of the mixed-martial-arts takedown, and the toxicological tests were still days away from yielding clues.
“Then why y’all coming around my church, stirring up my men, Chapman? We’ve been scapegoated for just about everything in town, one place or ’nother.”
“You think this idea of yours is gonna fly in the big city, Rev?” Mike asked. “I can point you to more fighting fools than could fill up your benches.”
“Bring ’em on, Mr. Chapman. I’ll lead them to the Lord.”
“You know if there’s an extreme ministry anywhere near Atlanta?”
“Quite a few on the outskirts.”
“How about eastern Kentucky?”
“You bet. Kentucky and West Virginia. We’re growing like hayseed down South.”
Mike had printed out the photograph from Daniel Gersh’s driver’s license. “Ever seen this guy?”
Kelner pretended to give it his best shot. “Not one of ours.”
“How about a tall man, maybe long dark hair, his face kind of scarred with blemishes of some sort?”
Kelner thought about it but gave a firm no.
“Many other of these churches in town?”
“Not yet, Mr. Chapman. But we’ll take hold. We have a way of doing that where we’re most needed,” Kelner said. “Meanwhile, you might try across the river. We’re becoming real popular in south Jersey. And you might give some mind to being a bit more prayerful yourselves — all three of you.”
“Thanks for your help,” Mike said. “Peace to you.”
Reverend Kelner just grinned and stood his ground, making sure we were on our way.
I wondered how much blood had been mopped from the floor of the church in the short time it had been in existence. It would be a forensic nightmare for Crime Scene to try to sort out the samples if someone was actually killed in the deep recesses of the old garage.
We were halfway down the center aisle of the jury-rigged church when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I retrieved and opened it. The woman on the other end was trying hard not to sound hysterical.
“Alex? It’s Faith Grant.”
“Yes, Faith. What—”
“Chat called. She’s in trouble.” I could hear now that she was crying. “I wasted time ignoring your concerns and now she’s in desperate trouble.”
“What do you know? We’ve got an entire police department ready to mobilize. What did she say?”
“It was impossible to understand her. The words were all slurred. Nothing made sense. She sounded like she’d been doing drugs.”
That would have been the first step in the killer’s routine — more likely to have been administered involuntarily.
“Did you make out anything at all?”
“It was so hard, Alex. I tried to get her to keep talking, but either the cell went dead, or someone grabbed it away from her. She kept telling me she was cold.”
“Cold?”
“Yes, freezing. That’s the clearest thing I could make out.”
“Did Chat say where she was?”
“Believe me, Alex. I asked all the questions I should have. First she said something about a truck. But then she said it was a train. Everything was muddled and confused.”
I was playing with the letters of the words that Max had strung together from the Gersh papers. Train had been one of them. Truck was a longer shot. What would there be to connect the two?
“It will take us about twenty minutes to get up to you, Faith. Are you safe? Are you still at the seminary?”
“Yes. I’ve got two faculty friends with me. They know everything.”
“What number did Chat call on? Your office phone?”
“No, no. My cell.”
“Did she say who was with her? Did you ask her a name?”
“No names. She wasn’t listening to me. She was just trying to talk. A bridge. Chat said something about a bridge. Then a truck and a train.”
“What bridge, Faith? Think.”
We were out of the church now, and I was jogging behind Mike and Mercer as we ran to the car. The island of Manhattan was linked to the rest of America by bridges and tunnels. Picking the right one would be crucial.
“She didn’t say,” Faith said, trying to regain her composure. “There’s something about Chat I didn’t tell you, Alex.”
This was real life. There was almost always something the most well-meaning witness decided not to tell me. In this case, the omission was probably to protect a loved one.
“I know she’s a free spirit, Faith. Don’t worry. If it’s about drugs, it’s not a problem. We’ll find her.”
“It’s not drugs, Alex. That was never one of Chat’s problems.”
“She strikes me as gutsy. Chat had a little attitude going with Mike this morning. If she’s got some fight in her,” I said, hoping to bluff some confidence into our operation, “she’ll hang on till we get her.”
“She’s got fight in her all right,” Faith said. “My sister left Kansas because she killed a man.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
“MURDER’LL make you a black sheep in any town,” Mike said, after we excused Faith’s friends from her suite and closed the door to talk.
We had raced uptown with the siren blaring, Mercer and I fortifying ourselves for the long night ahead eating the sandwiches Max had ordered to the office before we left, while Mike drove.
“It wasn’t murder,” Faith said. “It was self-defense.”
It was my turn to get Mike to push back and let me talk. “Will you tell me what happened?”
“I should have done that this morning. There I was, worried about myself, and all the time it was Chat who was in danger.”
“You can’t go in reverse, Faith. Just tell us everything that might help to find her.”
We couldn’t know whether Chat’s abduction, if that’s what this was, was connected to her past. But if the killer was targeting pariahs, then he might have found another victim to suit his appetite.
“I’ve counseled a lot of women who’d been abused as teens. I should have seen the signals in Chat’s life, but I was too close to the situation.” Faith had dried her eyes and was trying to regain her composure.
While we talked, Mike had put the tech guys to work triangulating the cell activity from Chastity Grant’s
