Page 41 of Girl, Accused

‘I don’t know. He said people confessed to him, but there are lots of places to do that these days. Doesn’t have to be in churches.’

Ripley asked, ‘And where did these meetings happen?’

‘St. Augustine's Community Center. The basement. Every Thursday night. The group was called Baptism Of Fire.’

Ella’s feet were itching. She needed to get out of here and find this Lazarus gentleman. ‘When did you last see him?’

‘Not since last year, now.’

‘And you’d recognize him if you saw him again?’

‘Definitely.’

Ella gathered her papers and nodded to Ripley. They had a silhouette now. Not yet a face, but a shape moving in darkness. Ella was all but convinced that Jeremy Caldwell was not their unsub, which meant the hunt would continue, and the next stop on the tour might just be a community center basement.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Rebecca Torres had a recurring nightmare where her teeth fell out one by one. Her dentist called it stress-induced bruxism, but tonight, as she chewed her pen into tiny confetti, she just called it election season.

The city council chambers had emptied three hours ago, so now Rebecca could operate on her own time. The quiet of the municipal building at night allowed her to concentrate without the endless parade of staffers, constituents, and reporters vying for pieces of her time. Exactly how she liked it.

And from now until the election next week, Rebecca’s task was simple: milk this cow dry.

Rebecca’s approval rate had hit rock bottom since the power station debacle, so the chances of her being re-elected next were less than zero. The people of Granville wanted a real leader, and Rebecca couldn’t blame them. Because while Rebecca smiled for photographs and said the right words on camera, her heart wasn’t in this. Had never been in this. These days, politics was a transient game, and if you were smart, you got in, got out and just hoped the next person screwed up as much as you did.

She’d never admit this, not even to those closest to her. To everyone else, Rebecca was the presentable, relatable, middle-aged politician who longed for the days of Granville past, back when you could leave your most valued possessions on your front lawn and they’d still be there by morning.

Of course, this had never been the case. Granville – and probably no place on earth – had ever had this kind of luxury. But Rebecca said it anyway, because language was the politician’s favorite sleight of hand.

Rebecca had mastered this particular magic during her first term, learning how to transform self-interest into public service through the careful application of focus-group-tested terminology.

And right now, that language was talking spreadsheets, allocations, appropriations.

Numbers.

Beautiful, flexible numbers.

Combine it with the right words, and you have a recipe for an easy life.

Because while council presidents in towns like Granville typically served for two or three terms at most, the savvy ones knew the real payday wasn't printed on their official checks. With the right connections, the right contracts, and just enough plausible deniability, you could walk away with seven, sometimes eight figures in your back pocket.

The numbers on her spreadsheet in front of her danced in defiance of logic, particularly those earmarked for the power station overhaul. Six million dollars allocated, but the receipts tallied to only $5.1 million. $600,000 had taken a detour through a series of shell companies before landing in an offshore account under a name that most people in America couldn’t pronounce. Then there was the extra $300,000 in technical writing, inspection services, consulting fees. They all sounded like real things, sure, but only Rebecca and a few close confidants knew they were nothing but fugazi.

Corruptionwas such a dirty word, so Rebecca thought of herself aspragmaticinstead. After all, wasn't politics just the art of resource allocation? And weren't elected officials chronically underpaid for their sacrifice? She’d been working for this town for ten years in total, and wasn’t that worth a little compensation? And didn't the town benefit too? The power station would still function. Maybe not quite as efficiently as promised, but Granville would still get cheaper electricity.

But even with cheaper electricity for the whole town, plenty of citizens were still up in arms about the power station overhaul. Not because they suspected embezzlement, but because of the increase in noise, pollution and destruction of historic properties. The environmental impact statements, the religious zealots from First Light Assembly, the preservationists with their ‘Save Historic Granville’ signs. It was the same tired NIMBY battle that plagued every infrastructure project in America.

Rebecca sat back in her chair. Something clanged in the alleyway outside her office. Usually, it would annoy her, but Rebecca was secure in the knowledge she wouldn’t have to endure this view for much longer. She’d be at home, in her sunroom, overlooking the water without having to worry about employment rates or police budgets ever again.

The thought reminded her of this morning’s meeting with Detective Westfall from Granvillle PD. He’d mentioned two murders in three days, and how he wanted to keep the details on the down low. Rebecca agreed, and not just because the last thing she needed was mass hysteria. The whole thing gave her the creeps. She'd leveraged her position to get details the public wasn't privy to, because information was currency, and Rebecca Torres never entered any transaction without maximum advantage. Westfall had assured her that the investigation was proceeding with the help of the FBI, but Rebecca knew better than to trust Westfall. That idiot couldn't find water if he fell out of a boat.

Rebecca’s cell buzzed on the desk in a tight, angry circle. She grabbed it. A text from her husband.

Coming home tonight?

Rebecca didn't bother responding. Frank knew the answer. The last week in office meant late nights until they peeled her out of her chair. Their marriage operated on a series of silent understandings, his primary one being that making money came first. Frank had long made peace with being a political spouse, and Rebecca was sure he’d reap the rewards with her once this stint in office was over.

Movement suddenly caught her eye – a flash of light from the window – followed by another clang. Rebecca pushed back from her desk and peered through the blinds. She looked out into what the building manager charitably calledthe service corridorbut was, in reality, a trash-strewn alleyway.

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