CHAPTER TWELVE #2
“She said that his orphanages, hospitals, schools—they were mostly smoke and mirrors. A few show homes in La Paz and Lima for visiting donors, a model village in the jungle, with a little school and a clinic. But the majority of people were only marginally better off. Worse, says Phillips, when you take into account what he did to their beliefs.”
“Which was what?”
“They’ve got religions in those places that go back thousands of years.
Shamans, nature spirits, gods of the trees, the wind and the waves.
Harper’s goons strong-arm them into renouncing the old tribal beliefs and converting to his particular brand of Jesus.
Only, it’s not strong-arming, it’s something worse.
It’s a deal. Give up your old beliefs and you can have the clinic.
You can have the water tap. You can have the school, the new road.
That would be bad enough on its own, right?
But the schools and the clinics and the roads…
they’re mostly not being built. Not at a rate that can keep pace with all the souls he’s converting.
But Harper doesn’t care. He’s back home in his studio, telling his affluent, fundamentalist customer-base that he’s brought another hundred, another thousand, ten thousand heathen souls into the light of Christ’s promise, and they’re reaching for the check-book to keep the Good Work going. He’s duping them, too!”
Kate felt the air drain from her lungs. Whitfield had been a con artist. Harper had played savior. Both had deceived millions.
“But I’m guessing it’s hard to prove all of this.”
“Various agencies have been on his case, in one way or another, since 2009. He’s got the money to silence witnesses, pay off officials… he can probably make it rain.”
“What I don’t understand is… well, there are several things I don’t understand. Like – what’s he doing with the money? It was obvious what Whitfield did: he wore it, slept in it, ate it. But Murray Harper… where’s the gargantuan villa? He didn’t even have a half-decent watch.”
“Part of his USP. What crook would steal millions of dollars and not spend it? To plenty of people, that’s proof enough of his innocence. However…”
O’Malley held up a finger. He flipped his laptop open and typed a search term. Images came up: a picture-perfect island with white sand and azure sea. Coconut palms and lush green hills, cradling a long, low building that was mostly made of windows.
“Kini-Koro. Ten minutes by seaplane from the largest of the Solomon Islands. Briefly part of the German empire. Then British. Annexed by Japan during World War Two, an Australian protectorate for three decades afterwards. When the Solomons became independent in 1978, the new government auctioned off a number of uninhabited islands to raise cash. K-K went through various pairs of hands, until we believe Murray purchased it, via a string of dummy corporations and foundations, in 2015. The house was completed in late 2017, and he visits the Solomons twice a year. An intercept by the Solomons equivalent of the FBI has captured a couple of conversations in which he’s discussed his retirement and what he calls his ‘next big birthday’.
Given his current age, fifty seven, we think he’d been planning to get out of the game in three years’ time. ”
“The Solomon Islands have their own FBI?”
“Trust me, they need it. The Pacific is far from peaceful.”
“Someone like that,” Kate mused, almost to herself. “Do you think he started out with good intentions? Then he realised how much money he could make, and he just lost the way?”
“It’s possible,” O’Malley said. “Money has a way of poisoning things. But you’d do best talking to Dr Philips about that; she’s studied him close-up for a number of years, though she’s less interested in the fraud aspect, more in the toxic impact on traditional belief systems. It was what made her ditch missionary work. ”
Kate looked again at Harper’s desk. The carved verses glared back, hard and unyielding. Zechariah. Ezekiel. Condemnation in steel.
Midnight deaths. Ritual precision. Tongues taken, scripture left behind.
Somebody out there believed they were delivering judgment. And Kate knew, with a cold certainty, that further judgment was coming.
+ + + + +
A long day followed. Pulling together CCTV feeds from the building and the surrounding area, in an attempt to spot the killer en route or departing.
Efforts to contact Angela Philips, which were equally fruitless.
Interviews with Harper’s sizeable staff, who like his producer, LaRonne Roberts, seemed stunned that a man so apparently good could have met with an end so thoroughly evil.
In between all of these solid, patient, obligatory steps, they endured a long wait for the autopsy, which revealed much the same information as the one performed on Pastor Whitfield.
A muscle relaxant and a strong sedative had been deployed, once again by means of a barely-visible injection behind the left ear.
There was no doubt that they were dealing with one killer, who had a precise, finely honed m.o.
, considerable skill with a very sharp, possibly surgical instrument, and a solid knowledge of the Bible.
They reached a point, as every investigation must, when they could do no more for the day.
They were weary and crumpled, they smelt of sweat and coffee, fatigue and frustration.
Marcus gave Kate a ride back to her mother’s, and they spoke little on the journey, Kate resting her forehead against cool glass of the passenger window, watching a little trickle of rain as it forked and descended like some ancient river system.
“Their silver and gold shall not be able to deliver them in the day of the wrath of the Lord,” said Kate suddenly.
“That’s what I always say,” Marcus quipped. “What’s that, one of the Bible verses?”
She nodded. “Ezekiel 7:19. The other one’s much shorter. ‘Though shalt not live, for thou speakest lies in the name of the Lord’.”
“The quotes are all kind of the same: harsh judgement for lying, money can’t save you.”
“But two very different victims.”
“Are they, though? Aren’t the differences just little details? I mean, they ripped people off in different ways, but at the end of the day…”
“They still just ripped people off. And called it the opposite of what it was. They called it good. They said it was what God wanted.” She sighed.
“I don’t know. I feel as if I get Pastor Whitfield, a hundred percent.
There’ve been dozens of Whitfields, huckster-preachers dipping into the collection money, not practicing what they preach.
It’s practically a cliché. But Murray Harper?
He wasn’t married, didn’t have a girlfriend even.
A workaholic. What was he planning to do on his private island? What did he need all that money for?”
“That’s true of a lot of very rich people, though. They don’t need more money, but they can’t stop making it. There’ll be something in his background. Great poverty, or… who was that guy we put away last year, the Armenian?”
“Manoukian?”
“Him. Under communism, he grew up like a little prince. Houses, servants, cars, holiday visas… everything he wanted. Then his old man fell out of favour with the Party bosses and they lost everything overnight. If that happens to you, you’ll be terrified it could happen again.
So you devote yourself to stashing the cash away.
Long after you stop needing it. You can’t help yourself.
It’s in your DNA. Harper same as Manoukian.
People call those kinds of guys driven, ambitious, tenacious, hard-working.
Really they’re trapped. Which doesn’t mean I feel sympathy for them. I’m just saying.”
The streets were quiet, sodium lamps casting dull pools of light across the tarmac.
When they pulled up outside the short row of townhouses, the front path lay in shadow.
The bulbs in the low garden lights had long since burned out, and Kate had been promising to replace them since she’d first moved in with her mom.
“Walk me up?” she asked as she unclipped her seatbelt. “The lights are still out.”
Marcus smirked. “What, Agent Valentine scared of the dark?”
“Just being practical,” she said, climbing out. “Besides, if I trip and break my ankle, you’ll be writing all the reports solo tomorrow.”
That settled it. He fell in step beside her as they headed up the path, their voices low in the cool night air. It smelt of damp leaves and bonfires; she remembered being excited by this combination as a kid, its promise of trick or treating and then Christmas.
“So,” Kate said, “tomorrow. First thing we need is Angela Philips. If she blew the whistle on Harper, she’ll have more to tell us.”
“Already flagged her,” Marcus replied. “According to the university librarian, she often works in her office over the weekends. I suggest we show early tomorrow.”
“And we need to re-interview a couple of Harper’s staff,” Kate added. “Roberts was too polished. Almost scripted. And that security guard… did you see his tattoo?”
Marcus grunted agreement. “The five dots. Either a gang or a jail sentence, or both.”
They reached the porch. Kate hesitated with her keys, then glanced at him. “Wanna poke your head in, say hi to my mom? She adores you, you know.”
He shook his head, stepping back toward the drive. “Another time. I’m beat, and I smell like I rolled in something. See ya!”
She laughed at his departing form, and then turned the key in the lock. But the smile froze on her face as a movement caught the corner of her eye. A rustle followed as a figure burst from the bushes to her right.
Startled, she screamed.
Marcus was back there instantly, instincts snapping him forward. He caught the man by the arm, spun him hard against the siding, one hand already reaching for cuffs.
“What the fuck, fella?”
Kate blinked, heart hammering—then recognition flooded her.
“Wait! Marcus, wait—it’s Mike!”
Her neighbor froze, wide-eyed, a bottle of wine slipping from his grip and shattering on the path.
“Who’s Mike?” asked Marcus.
“Oh God,” Kate muttered. “Mike, I—I’m so sorry.”
Mike’s face was a mix of alarm and hurt. “I thought… we had dinner tonight?”
Kate’s stomach dropped. She’d intended to cancel, then forgotten completely, tangled up in crime scenes and confessions. “We did. We did, I just—oh, Mike, I should’ve called. I’m sorry.”
Marcus eased his grip, muttering an apology of his own.
Mike flexed his wrist, shaking off the sting, then bent to stare at the broken glass.
“Well, that was a good Rioja. I couldn’t get an answer,” he went on.
“And you weren’t picking up your phone. So I was going to try one of the neighbors to see if I borrow a pen and leave you a note, but nobody answered when I knocked, so. ..”
Kate tried for a sympathetic laugh, but the sound came out strained. “Come inside. Please. At least let me get you a drink.”
Mike nodded, still cautious, then noticed Marcus’s Yankees cap hanging from his back pocket. “Wait—you’re not home watching the game?”
“Game?” Marcus repeated, blankly. Then it dawned on him. “Ah, shit, man, this job. I forgot!”
“You forgot the Yankees facing down the Redsox. Are you even a man?”
Marcus grinned. “I’ve got an excuse, pal. What’s yours?”
Mike raised his brows. “Well, I thought I had a dinner date.”
Kate groaned inwardly. She pushed the door open and gestured them both inside. “Fine. Both of you. Beers in the fridge. Make yourselves at home while I shower. I smell worse than Marcus.”
Upstairs, under the hiss of hot water, Kate cursed herself.
She’d treated Mike abominably, left him standing in the shadows like a prowler.
She hadn’t moved forward on telling her mom about leaving, either.
Always the job, always the late nights, always putting her personal life last. No wonder Murray Harper had spooked her so badly.
She was just like him—a lonely workaholic, married to the grind.
The only difference was, he’d had a whole empire, a private island to retire to.
She just had case files and sleepless nights.
And why had she invited Marcus in? It had all just got messy and confusing now. She barely knew Mike, but beyond that short bit of baseball banter, she couldn’t imagine him and Marcus having anything in common.
She hurried through her shower, envisaging the stiff silence she’d find downstairs—Marcus probably sulking into his beer, Mike humiliated and wordless.
But when she padded back down, hair damp, pulling her sweater over her head, she stopped short.
On the sofa, Marcus and Mike sat side by side, bottles clinking together, eyes glued to the flat screen. The Yankees had just hit a double. Both men whooped in unison.
“Red Sox can’t pitch worth a damn,” Marcus crowed.
“You kidding?” Mike shot back. “That bullpen’s solid. Just you wait.”
Kate leaned in the doorway, astonished. The tension she’d braced for was nowhere. Instead, the two men were laughing like old friends, trading jabs, the wreck of the evening forgotten. There was booze in the refrigerator, a cassoulet in the oven, a game on the tv…
She smiled to herself. Things rarely went the way she expected. Sometimes, they turned out better.