Page 12 of Buried Too Deep

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 11:15 A.M.

ALAN LOOKED DIRECTLY INTO THE camera, his lips curved into the smile he used with his parishioners. It was nonthreatening. Nonjudgmental. And the most likely to boost donations. They’d done research.

“Now, brothers and sisters, I’m not asking you to give if it’s a financial hardship. But if God has laid it on your heart to give, we would very much appreciate it. Any little bit helps. A thousand dollars. A hundred. Even fifty, if you have it to spare.” More than half of their gifts came in amounts less than fifty dollars, but those small sums sure added up. “If you have a special ministry you’d like to support, mark it on your check. Or if you’re technologically savvy like my grandson, Sage, you can give through our website.”

And, speak of the devil, there was Sage, slipping in through the door in the back of the sanctuary. Alan hoped he’d been successful. The alternative had been causing Alan sleepless nights for the past two weeks.

He wanted to stop the filming, to demand to know what Sage had discovered that morning, but they were making videos for the church’s website, and every second cost money. You had to spend it to make it, though, and that was what these video spots were all about.

He leaned into the camera, making his smile self-deprecating. “Now me, I’m not tech savvy at all. I still write checks.” Actually, he didn’t donate to his church. He hadn’t needed to in years. Between his local congregation and his TV shows, he had fifteen thousand members all over the United States and abroad, many of whom gave faithfully every week. “You can choose to support one of our many missionaries, our mental health services, or our center for drug rehabilitation. And of course, if you want to support the church itself, we will use your donation to keep the lights on and to feed New Orleans’ hungry.” And to pay Alan’s mortgage. God didn’t want his servants living in hovels, after all. “Thank you all, and may God bless you and keep you. May his countenance shine bright upon you and bring you peace.”

He held the smile until he heard the director say, “And…we’re good. Nice job, Reverend Beauchamp. We got it in one take.”

Which was Alan’s norm. He’d been making that same speech for his entire adult life. He could do it in his sleep at this point.

“Thank you. I’ll be in my office, planning this Sunday’s service with Sage.”

Gesturing for Sage to follow, Alan stepped away from the pulpit, fighting the need to rub at his temples. The lights hurt his eyes more every day. Macular degeneration was slowly robbing him of his eyesight, but he could still see his beautiful multimillion-dollar sanctuary with its gleaming wooden pews and shining stained-glass windows.

He didn’t need to see to find his way to his office. Again, he’d been walking these halls for years. He sat behind his desk and shook out a few painkillers. His heart sank when Sage entered, a scowl marring his grandson’s perfect features.

Unsuccessful, then.

“Well?” he asked the younger man. “Did you get the letters?”

“No.” Sage drew a breath. “She got away.”

Alan prayed for patience. “How?”

“She ran. I followed her, but she disappeared somewhere in the Quarter.” He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a black bag. “I got two of Broussard’s laptops. I figured these were more valuable than she is, so I came back.”

Alan wasn’t so sure about that, but it wasn’t like he could go chasing Cora Winslow through the Quarter. Not anymore. His degrading eyesight forced him to depend on others for jobs such as this.

“Did anyone see you?”

Sage’s gaze dropped for a moment before lifting to meet his. “Yeah. The receptionist was there. But I didn’t think she posed a threat. She was in a wheelchair, for God’s sake.”

Alan abruptly leaned over the desk. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain,” he hissed.

Sage rolled his eyes. “For goodness’ sake.”

Then Sage’s words sank in. “You didn’t think she posed a threat? What does that mean?”

Sage shrugged. “It was an electric chair. I yanked the battery pack so she couldn’t go anywhere. I smashed the office phone so she couldn’t call out for help and I took her cell phone. It’s in the bag, too, by the way.”

“But?”

Sage dropped his gaze. “But she had a gun. I was in Broussard’s office, searching for a folder with Winslow’s name on it, but I heard women’s voices in the lobby—Winslow and the receptionist—and ran out of the boss’s office with his laptop. The door to the stairwell was closing, and the bitch in the chair had a gun pointed at me.”

“Did she shoot you?”

Sage took off his overcoat, revealing the black clothing he’d worn into the PI’s office. He unbuttoned his shirt and held one side out.

Light shone through the round hole.

“I’m wearing Kevlar, but it hurts like a bitch, let me tell you. And don’t tell me not to swear,” Sage snapped before Alan could do just that. “I got shot for you today, old man. I’ll swear if I goddamn want to.”

“Shh,” Alan hissed. “If you’re going to be crude, at least do it quietly.”

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