There was someone behind it. Lynch couldn’t see the guy, but he could hear him singing to himself…badly.
“I feel like a woman! Bap Baaahh na na na!”
As it was pointless to shout, Lynch moved closer and took a peek behind the cabinet finding the khaki-covered rump of the church custodian.
“Bap Baaahh na na na!”
He was on his hand and knees, scrubbing the floor with industrial strength solution…
“Woooo!”
… and listening to Shania Twain on his iPod. His name was Nate, although the subject of his name never came up.
Lynch gave Nate’s foot an apologetic kick. His demeanor gave him away as a local.
“Hi there, sir! Sorry, I didn’t hear you. I can’t get back here with the buffer. Can I help you with something?”
“I just wanted to ask if was okay to use some of the gravel from your walk way.”
“I’m not a member here, but I’m sure it’s okay. If they can afford all this stuff, I’m sure they can spare some gravel.”
“True enough.”
One of the dollies holding twenty or so chairs was parked nearby. A sheet was thrown over the entire stack with a sign on top that read “Hands Off! (signed) Damien.”
These are Damien’s chairs. No one better touch Damien’s chairs. Damien needs to get over himself.
Gomez had two of the guns gutted and separated when his partner returned. The little Craftsman multi-tool from his keychain was poised on a fence post with the Phillips-head screwdriver extended.
“You aren’t done with those yet?”
“There are like seventeen screws holding each of these little pieces of shit together.”
“Well, if anyone gets pissed at us for using the church’s gravel, I’m blaming the cleaning guy.”
“How mature of you.”
The scheme worked half as well as Lynch had hoped and twice as well as Gomez had expected. The weight was off; the size was off, but at least now the weapon was the right shape.
“Ready?”
“Ready, amigo.”
Point, stomp, aim, bang, run, toss, splash…same result.
“Goddammit!”
They heard a door slam on the other side of the church. Nate had moved to a different part of the building.
“Hang on a second, Jaime. I have a thought.”
“I hope so, man. All I have right now is a side stitch.”
“When Eddie turned tail, it was a survival instinct. The drugs were leaving his body. That’s why he was looking for quick cash and stuff to pawn. He needed to score. He was probably having trouble processing more than one thought at a time. That’s why he didn’t toss the gun until he was way over here. He forgot he had it. Getting away and ditching the evidence was too much for him to think about all at once.”
Somewhere in the church, the floor buffer whirred up to full blast.
“So, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking something distracted him. Something took his mind off of running, so he slowed down.”
“Like what?”
“How the fuck should I know? Come on. The endorphins are kicking in. I’m thinking better. I want to get my hand sweaty and run with my eyes closed this time.”
They decided to keep at it until the water pistols ran out, regardless of the outcome.
Point, stomp, aim, bang, run, toss, splash.
“Dammit!”
Point, stomp, aim, bang, run, toss, splash.
“Son of a…”
Point, stomp, aim, bang, run, toss, splash.
“I’m getting pissed.”
Point, stomp, aim, bang, run, toss.
“…”
They finished the fifth run, the eighth if they counted the three with the rocks. Lynch’s lungs burned, his feet were swollen, his hair was sticking to his forehead, and in his hand was a fistful of Eddie’s hoodie. He could barely speak through his own wheezing, but the words he managed were those of amazement.
“Dear God, I caught you. What happened?”
Gomez, also fighting for air, made a quarter turn and looked out over the river.
“The tip of my finger hooked around the trigger. Plus, my arm is so tired, I followed through too much, and the gun took a weird arc close to the wall.”
“Is that why you slowed down?”
“No …”
With a smile, the handsome Puerto Rican from North Philly slapped his hand over the back of his partner’s neck to emphasize the profundity of what just happened.
“…I didn’t hear a splash. All the other times I knew I was close to the stopping point when I heard the splash. That was it. Eddie didn’t hear one either. His mind switched from running to ditching the gun. He expected to hear a splash, and he didn’t. That’s why he stopped.”
They wearily stumbled to the fence and stuck their heads over the edge. Lynch spoke as he considered regurgitation.
“Where’d it go, then?”
Gomez craned out to follow the arc of his toss.
“Not sure…”
He pointed.
“…there maybe?”
Lynch looked.
“No way.”
The church had a dock. They didn’t see it on their last visit because it was under the walkway and obscured from view. Tied to the dock, there was a boat. They didn’t see it on their last visit because it wasn’t there.
The laws of physics disallowed anything thrown from the walkway to hit the dock. Under the boat’s port gunnel, however, there lay a cheap, gravel-filled, piece of green plastic from Wal-Mart.
“I’m not bumping your fist.”
“I didn’t put it up.”
“You were thinkin’ about it.”
A narrow mahogany staircase took the detectives from the church lobby to an area beneath the sanctuary, untouched by gadgetry. The room, complete with a full kitchen, appeared to be used for social events that required food. The floor was hardwood on top of concrete. A beautiful stone fireplace made up the center of the south wall. The middle of the room was barren, except for Nate who was working the floor buffer…
“Any man of mine better be proud of me!”
…and listening to Shania Twain.
The detectives left him oblivious as they exited the building though a pair of French doors on the church’s river side. They found themselves standing on a granite
