Brother Abram was tall and looked strong enough to kill. Brother Michael was a smaller, slimmer man. Somehow, he didn’t look like the kind of guy who could overpower a bunch of high-school jocks—even drunk jocks, and even in the dead of night.
Luke typed in the name of the sect church and was surprised to find that it still existed, that it even had a welcoming Web page. Those who were lost and seeking the real truth of God were invited to a potluck supper on Thursday night.
Luke sat back. He’d always found it fascinating to explore the mind-sets, religions and philosophies of people the world over. A potluck dinner would be a perfect opportunity to see what made the Church of the Real People tick.
He drummed his fingers on his desk. He wasn’t sure why he had such a fascination with Chloe’s ten-year-old horror. He had a job to do, two cases to work, and he didn’t see how the dinner was going to get him any closer to finding out the truth behind Colleen Rodriguez’s disappearance, but he had to eat—and he couldn’t fight the desire to know more about Chloe Marin.
He searched until he was able to go back ten years, then made a list of known members of the cult at the time of the murders, but nothing he tried got him to a site where he could find a list of current members. In fact, for the five years following the massacre, the church hadn’t kept any kind of a Web site at all. Now, however, the Church of the Real People had been revived.
As he contemplated that, he heard a car coming down the path. He closed the page and went topside.
He didn’t need to go see Stuckey. Stuckey was coming to see him.
“You busy?” the cop asked.
Shirtless, barefoot and in swim trunks, his hands on his hips, Luke said, “I think I can spare a few minutes.”
Stuckey hopped down onto the boat, wiping his hand across his brow. “Hot out here today, huh?”
“The cabin is air-conditioned,” Luke said.
“You could just live in a house, like normal people do,” Stuckey told him.
“I could. But I like the boat. I can leave without packing whenever I get the urge.”
Shaking his head, Stuckey ducked and went down the steps to the cabin, heading straight to the refrigerator, helping himself to a beer before flopping down on the sofa. Officially, Sunday was his day off. Unofficially, he was a workaholic and used the weekends for the cases that weren’t technically his to solve.
“I got a present this morning,” Stuckey told him.
“Oh?”
“A food basket. Rene Gonzalez’s folks sent it. They think you can save Rene, and they wanted to thank me for sending them to you.”
“So you got the food basket and I got nothing?” Luke said, then helped himself to a beer as well, and sat down across from Stuckey.
“Can you really do anything?” Stuckey asked him. “Is she even in danger? None of us believe Colleen just disappeared, but we can’t prove any differently. So maybe we’re wrong. Maybe it’s a publicity stunt.”
“A six-month publicity stunt?” Luke asked.
“Right. I know. And not that it would change anything where Rene is concerned. She’s hell-bent on going out to that island.”
“And she’s over twenty-one, so if she wants to go, she can.”
“And that leads me to my point. She will go on the photo shoot, but so will you.”
“So far, so good,” Luke said. “As long as Miss Marin doesn’t give me away.”
“Chloe Marin is as solid as the day is long,” Stuckey assured him.
“Yeah, I’ve been reading up about her. Why the hell didn’t you tell me who I was dealing with?” Luke demanded, shaking his head. “That she survived a massacre like that? The kind of work she does? That she’s not just some wannabe?”
“You know, in hindsight, I should have told you about her and what she was doing at the mansion for us. She was raised by her uncle—A.D.A. Leo Marin—so she learned a lot from him, and she comes in when we need her to sketch for us. It started the night of the massacre. She drew a likeness that helped us identify one of the cult members found dead in the Everglades.
“She has something that’s close to a photographic memory, and an eye for detail.” He shook his head. “The night of the massacre … I can only imagine the terror. Chloe got Victoria out of there, and Brad and Jared were there and survived, too. The four of them have been close ever since, but it changed their lives in ways I don’t think they’ll ever completely get over. Victoria could have done a dozen fashion shoots in Paris, but she didn’t accept. You know why? She works down here because she can be with her friends. Not one of them has ever formed a serious romantic relationship. They pretty much lose themselves in their jobs. Brad has a trust fund and his boat business, and he and his cousin Victoria stand to inherit a fortune when their maternal grandfather dies. Jared trades stocks. And Chloe counsels trauma survivors, in addition to her work for us.”
“I should have known all this before I went into that house.”
“Other than the fact that Chloe was there to listen in for us, what does the past have to do with a missing girl in the Keys? With a father who worries about his daughter, since it was her best friend who went missing?” Stuckey demanded. “Besides, you said you wanted total anonymity. In my defense, you’ve been worried that Chloe is going to spill the beans about you. If she didn’t know about you, she couldn’t have said anything.”
“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have known about her. And now that she does know about me, how the hell am I going to keep my anonymity if Chloe Marin is as close as you say with the others?”
“I told her not to say anything, and she won’t,” Stuckey insisted.
“Not even to Victoria—who’ll end up telling someone else?”
“No. Believe me. Chloe’s rock solid. So what’s your next move?” Stuckey asked.
“Let’s go back for a minute. You were sure, absolutely sure, that the men who committed that massacre were the two men found in the Everglades?” Luke asked.
“Why are we back on the past? I’m sure. The killers were found, along with a bag holding black, hooded dive suits, one with the mask ripped, and knives covered with dried blood from the victims were found. Not to mention that one of the men matched Chloe’s sketch. Yeah, we’re sure. Why?”
“Those ‘killers’ just didn’t look the type, that’s all,” Luke said. “Especially the smaller guy.”
Stuckey shrugged. “They were found two days after the murders, with enough evidence to put my grandmother away. And the suicide note—the Church of the Real People denied any involvement, of course. They were devastated, claiming they had never condoned murder, that the killers must have been insane. The church pretty much fell apart after that, though it started rebuilding a few years later.”
“What I find interesting, if not out-and-out suspicious,” Luke said, “is that the kids were all killed with knives, but Abram Garcia shot Michael Donlevy, then himself.”
“What would you rather do? Cut yourself or die clean and neat from a bullet to the head?” Stuckey asked.
“So Garcia shot Donlevy in the head?”
“Yep. Point-blank range. Then himself.”
“He didn’t put the gun in his mouth?” Luke asked.
“No, shot himself in the temple.”
“Hmm.”
“Why ‘hmm'?” Stuckey sounded annoyed.
“I just find it odd. Suicides have a tendency to eat