She shoved her face close to his. “We’ve seen this sort of thing before. Godly people being persecuted by nonbelievers. Our Tri-County Ministry is even now trying to come up with the funds to free Mr. Newman so he may return home.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate your efforts, ma’am. I know how much he’s helped out around here. He told me about the times he’s loaned the church his laptop when you needed an extra one.”
He’d managed to surprise her. “I’m sure he would loan it, if asked,” she said finally. Easing away, she added, “Fortunately, our circumstances have never required such a generous sacrifice. Now, I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Interesting. Mark headed toward the front door of the church. Either Newman had lied about that, or Laura Mikkelsen was lying right now. Which meant one of them had something to hide.
Or both of them.
“That was a bust.” Sloane turned the key in the ignition. “The spaces I looked through were cramped, and if there’s a janitorial closet, I didn’t see it.”
“I found a couple of buckets in a coat closet. And another one that was locked.” Hard to believe that only Newman would have access to the area, though. “Laura Mikkelsen caught me coming out of the basement, so that conversation went as expected.”
She began backing out of the space. “I’m sure my discussion with the church secretary was more illuminating. She verified that Newman had allowed them use of his laptop. But she said it hadn’t happened in the last few years. Most of the students have school-issued notebooks, so if they need extra computers, they call the kids to help out.”
So he’d been right. Mark narrowed his eyes. Laura had been lying. But why?
The alert for an incoming text sounded. He pulled out his cell. “Newman’s financials have come through.” The bank had taken their time complying with the warrant. “I want to get back to my computer and start going through them.” Mark was hoping the data would show where the custodian spent his money. The man had no credit cards. Few clothes. His car was only a few years old, but a dog would turn up its nose at Newman’s home. For someone working a full-time and a part-time job, he should have more disposable income.
“I think one of us needs to take a look at that empty church where Reverend Mikkelsen used to be pastor.” Sloane straightened the car on the road. Braked to a stop.
“How do we know it’s still there? They may have torn it down after the congregation dissolved.”
“It’s still standing,” she explained smugly, “according to Cindy Long. ‘Boarded up and empty, which is such a shame because the building wasn’t in that bad of shape. A lot better shape than their church, according to what Pastor Mikkelsen says.’ Cindy and I bonded over our fifteen-year-old daughters’ attachment to their cell phones and disreputable boyfriends.”
Shocked, Mark stared at her. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.” Would never have guessed it. Sloane was the least maternal female he knew.
“I don’t. But Cindy opened up quite a bit when she thought I did. She said the church is about a mile outside of Tillgy Springs. You and I have been looking for isolated properties connected to someone of interest in this case, so . . .”
Mark did a rapid mental calculation. “That’s two hours each way.” Could Newman have heard about the property from Mikkelsen? Sloane was right; it needed to be checked out. “Okay, I’ll take Newman’s financials, and you go look at the old church.”
“I’ll do some calling on my way down to the county sheriff and the editor of the newspaper.”
“Why the newspaper?”
“What better way to get the dirt on Mikkelsen and maybe learn the names of some former members of the church to talk to?” She made a shooing motion with one hand. “You can get back to West Bend on your own, right?”
She was actually pushing him toward the door. “With my Superman cape?”
“The mental image of you in underwear and tights is amusing. But I don’t have time to run you back to town.”
Disgruntled, Mark got out of the car. “I suppose I can call . . .” She was pulling away before he’d finished shutting the door. “Rossi,” he finished, staring after her taillights.
Interesting. Mark leaned back in his chair in the motel room, still studying the spreadsheet on the computer screen. According to Herb Newman’s bank records, the man was receiving income from only one source: West Bend High School. Cyber forensics weren’t finished with his phone yet, but they’d learned he had a mobile bitcoin wallet, where he received a few hundred dollars a month. Mark was willing to bet they’d discover it was payment for downloads of the photos he’d uploaded to the web. The bank records showed that until four years ago, he’d received a salary from Tri-County Ministry. Newman and Mikkelsen had both indicated that the custodian worked for three churches. So he was volunteering his services?
Mark speared a hand through his hair as he considered the monthly notations for checks in the amount of $500 to Trinity Baptist Church. Despite Laura Mikkelsen’s assertion, Newman didn’t strike him as the altruistic type. And her husband had even indicated that the churches paid for janitorial services. So who was lying? And why?
Because he thought better on his feet, he rose. Walked the length of the motel room. Back again. Sloane had said the secretary had indicated they hadn’t needed to borrow Newman’s computer for years. Maybe there was a reason for that. Could someone have gotten into the man’s locked picture file? Or even discovered the link to the web address Newman uploaded them to?
That would mean Newman had agreed to clean the churches for free in return for silence on the issue. Or, given the monthly checks to the church, that he was being blackmailed to do so. Either way, the Mikkelsens must know about the man’s pastime but hadn’t reported his crime.
Checking the clock, Mark grabbed his coat. He had time for another visit to Mikkelsen’s church if he made it quick. Shoving his arms into the sleeves, he shrugged it on. Zipped it up. If the pastor wasn’t there, he’d level the questions at his wife. He was pretty sure she knew everything that . . .
His cell rang. Checking the screen, he saw it was his SAC, Todd Bennett. Two hours earlier than their scheduled conference call about the day’s lab results. Adrenaline surging, he answered. “Foster.”
“Mark.” The note of excitement in the man’s voice sparked his own. “I know we have a phone conference in a couple of hours, but another lab result just came in. During the forensic examination of the victim’s body Monday, the pathologist found a hair on her clothes. The lab ran the DNA. We’ve got a positive match.”
Mark got out of his car and walked to the sidewalk, where the local police chief and another uniform joined him. Silently, they walked up to the house. Rang the bell. It was best that night fell early this time of year. He’d ordered the cruisers to roll up silently. At least the family would be spared the additional trauma of the neighbors witnessing the upcoming scene.