to her family. It was Faith who had described her sister to us as the black sheep of the Grant clan, who told us it was so difficult for her to go home that she hadn’t made it back for Christmas, who alluded to a troubled past that might benefit from my counsel.
“I understand you’d like to have her help you figure out who was at the play that night. Is there anything else, for now, besides that and locating Jeanine Portland’s congregation?”
“Thank you. That’s all I need.”
“Then I’ll call you later.”
It was prosecutorial cynicism that had my wheels spinning. “Chastity Grant is the fourth woman in this photograph. Different hair and stuff, but it’s Chat, all right.”
“What’s your point?” Mike was standing over Max’s shoulder, playing with the words and partial phrases she had cobbled together from Gersh’s scraps of paper.
“Faith isn’t bothered by that at all.”
“Why should she be?”
“Think about what she told us. That they’re often mistaken for each other because they look so much alike.”
“Brilliant, Coop. What next?”
“I’m wondering about the guy who was following Faith to the apartment last night.”
“What of it?”
“That when he finally came at her face-to-face, like he was going to do something to her, he looked at her instead and the only thing he said to her was ‘sorry.’ ”
“The word means nothing out of context.”
“That’s why I’m trying to frame it. Maybe he was sorry because he had mistaken her for Chat. Maybe he was after Faith’s sister because of the contact they had at the playhouse in December. Maybe what’s driving him—”
“Maybe if your aunt had balls, Coop, she’d be your uncle. Stop with the spooks and speculation.”
“I don’t want a third corpse.”
“Nobody does. So far, no churches, no synagogues, no mosques heard from today. Let’s concentrate on solving what’s been done.”
“Anybody want to go to a service?” Mercer said, towering over us as he got to his feet.
“A prayer service?” Mike asked. “I’m ready to get me some inspiration, Rev. Nothing else seems to be working. Where to?”
“Avenue C.”
“Alphabet City,” Mike said. “Same ’hood as Naomi’s apartment.”
“My minister’s been doing his own research on these characters. Said if we want to know more about it, the closest operation to this office is in the back of a converted garage. Just look for the orange neon sign and the big cross.”
I stood up, anxious to do something more proactive than brainstorm in the conference room. “I’m in. What’s it called?”
“X-Treme Redeemer,” Mercer said. “The church where fists and faith collide.”
THIRTY-SIX
“HARD punches! To the head! Again, to the head!”
The man’s voice was yelling commands to someone farther back, out of sight, in the cavernous, dark space. An old garage had been split into a series of large open areas, the one through which we entered decorated like a primitive church.
“Work the head! Finish him now!” The shouts were loud and delivered with fierce direction, incongruous as the words were within a house of worship.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see the makeshift altar and the white cloths draped over it. Brass stands held tall candlesticks, not lit now, on the floor at the end of a few dozen rows of benches without backs.
We followed the voices past the pews, through an open, undecorated area, winding up in a brightly lit corner of the garage where a handful of men who appeared to be in their twenties and thirties were noisily cheering on the two figures punching at each other on a raised platform that resembled a boxing ring.
“Punch again! Finish him!” The screamer was older than the others, dressed in a sports jacket and slacks, while the onlookers, like the pair in the ring—were in black T-shirts and gym pants, all heavily tattooed and well-muscled, with shaved heads and carefully shaped goatees.
No one noticed us until Mercer stepped up to the side of the group. All the spectators stared at him, then at Mike and me. I didn’t know whether the hostility of their expressions was because we so obviously looked like law enforcement or because Mercer’s ebony skin was so different from the complexions of the all-white onlookers.
“Whoa! Hold it right there,” the man in charge called out, wanly smiling at us while he ordered his subjects to stop throwing punches.
The obvious winner of the round didn’t want to be halted. He continued to pummel the guy who was on his back on the platform floor.
Two of the men vaulted up into the ring to