“That’s the guy. He wanted to know what Zoe Bentley said about the case, and I said I couldn’t divulge any information and asked how he knew you were involved. And he said that he knew you. You shouldn’t have told him anything; I don’t care if you’re buddies. We agreed—”
“He’s not my buddy, and I didn’t talk to him. You got played.” Zoe wanted to punch something. She’d forgotten that among the two and a half million people in Chicago, there was one Harry Barry. To her chagrin, he was writing a book about her. She’d even given him a lot of the material herself. And now he’d tricked Detective O’Donnell into admitting Zoe was involved in this investigation as well. Damn it, that meant Glover knew as well. He’d be more careful, possibly more dangerous.
“What do you mean, I got played?” O’Donnell’s voice shifted. The anger was still there, but it lacked a target.
“He was fishing. He had no idea I was involved until you told him.”
“Shit. But how did he—”
“Harry Barry is a pain in the ass,” Zoe said, annoyed. “Listen, I’ll call you back later—we’ll decide how to handle this.”
“Okay.”
Zoe hung up and checked the Chicago Daily Gazette’s website on her phone. She found the article easily enough; it was a classic H. Barry headline: Renowned Profiler Advises Police in Pastor’s Daughter’s Murder. Trust Harry to mention Zoe, the church, and the murder in one sentence. She tapped the link and skimmed the contents, irritated to see her picture above Glover’s. The least he could do was put Glover first. That was the important part.
“Mancuso won’t be pleased,” Tatum said, looking over her shoulder at the phone. “And O’Donnell’s boss probably won’t be thrilled either.”
“Well, it’s done,” Zoe muttered. “I’m more worried about Glover’s reaction. This might make him more erratic.”
“Well, he might end up making a mistake.”
“Yeah.” Zoe didn’t feel convinced. She scrolled the article up and down, alternating between her own picture and Glover’s.
Tatum plucked the phone from her hand. “Come on,” he said. “No point in worrying about this. Let’s go check out the church.”
The air wasn’t much warmer inside the empty church. To the right of the entrance was a bulletin board, a large portrait photo of Catherine Lamb pinned in the middle. Above it was the inscription In Loving Memory, in a curly delicate font, and below the picture, in the same font, Catherine Lamb 1991–2016. Dozens of pictures were pinned around it, the details hard to make out in the dim light. Against the wall under the bulletin board was a table holding a large wreath. Around it lay numerous bouquets, lit candles, and handwritten notes.
Zoe examined the photos on the board. All of them were of Catherine with other people, presumably belonging to the congregation. In some they were standing together, smiling at the camera, while in others, the photographer had caught them in various activities. Painting a wall, Catherine holding a large brush, specks of white paint on her face. Tending to a weedy garden, Catherine on her hands and knees, dirt up to her elbows, talking to a young teenager who worked by her side. In a large kitchen, Catherine smiling at a woman who was tending to a large pot. The photos had obviously been chosen because Catherine looked attractive in them, and whoever had chosen them had paid little attention to the other subjects. In many photos, the people around her were blurry, or blinking, or occasionally just captured with a weird face conversing in midsentence. It didn’t matter, because this was about Catherine. But it gave the entire collage a strange effect. As if Catherine was sharper, more real, more alive than the others.
“Church looks empty now, but the candles have been lit recently,” Tatum said, looking at the table. “Maybe they did some sort of memorial for her earlier this morning, before people went to work.”
He was right. The flowers were fresh too. White lilies and carnations dominated the table, and Zoe got the sense that the majority had been supplied by the same shop. Maybe one of the congregation members was a florist.
Another board, which had a monthly schedule and a few other notices, hung next to Catherine’s shrine. A list of handwritten names was posted on it, and inspecting it more closely, Zoe realized they were volunteers who listed themselves to cook for Pastor Lamb in the difficult days ahead. There was a notice