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    Until Proven Guilty: A Mystery Novel
    Until Proven Guilty: A Mystery Novel
    Until Proven Guilty: A Mystery Novel
    Ebook280 pages4 hours

    Until Proven Guilty: A Mystery Novel

    By J. A. Jance

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    The little girl was only five, much too young to die -- a lost treasure who should have been cherished, not murdered. She could have been J.P. Beaumont's kid, and the determined Seattle homicide detective won't rest until her killer pays dearly. But the hunt is leading Beaumont into a murky world of religious fanaticism, and toward a beautiful, perilous obsession all his own. And suddenly Beau himself is a target -- because faith can be dangerous...and love can kill.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateOct 13, 2009
    ISBN9780061758225
    Until Proven Guilty: A Mystery Novel
    Author

    J. A. Jance

    J. A. Jance is the New York Times bestselling author of the J. P. Beaumont series, the Joanna Brady series, the Ali Reynolds series, six thrillers about the Walker Family, and one volume of poetry. Born in South Dakota and brought up in Bisbee, Arizona, she lives with her husband in Seattle, Washington.

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    Reviews for Until Proven Guilty

    3.5/5

    247 ratings22 reviews

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    • 3/5
      Awesome book.
    • 4/5
      If you have ever read and enjoyed any of the books from the J.P. Beaumont series you really need to read this one. A 5-year-old is murdered and Beau investigates the strange cult in which she and her mother live, immediately becoming suspicious of the self-absorbed cult leader. Another part of the plot deals with his relationship with Anne Corley, a beautiful woman who enters his life and changes it forever. Anne Corley is mentioned in almost every succeeding book, so to understand how Beau got his Porsche and lives a lifestyle which differs from most everyday detectives, it is necessary to read this one.
    • 3/5
      good read, the plot may have been a little implausible but i liked the main character, j p beaumont, so much, it didn't matter. since this was the first in a series that began in 1985, i can only imagine ms. jance has improved with age! will want to read more in the series.
    • 3/5
      Why can't the hero of a detective series ever get the girl? It was only when Ross Macdonald knew he had to end the series that Lew Archer got his girl. I knew this book was going to end bad as soon as Beaumont falls in love. A good read, but I hate this kind of story.
    • 3/5
      I read this book as part of the All You Can Read challenge I started with a fellow BookNerd. This is a story about Detective Beaumont of the Seattle PD, investigating the murder of a small child. The investigation leads him to a cult-like religious group. This a good story with plenty of mysterious elements and a good leading character. I give it three stars because, while I liked it, I'm not sure I enjoyed it enough to warrant 4 or 5 stars. I do, however, recommend it to anyone who enjoys a good mystery.
    • 3/5
      Started off with a bang, slowed me down somewhere in the middle, picked up again at the finish, had me guessing for sure.
    • 3/5
      I got this book for .99 from B&N, and I thought, why not? Although somewhat dated (first printed in 1985!), it still held my interest with predictable characters and cliched sex scenes. It made for a good Lazy Labor Day read.
    • 3/5
      Awhile ago, I read the most recent book, the 20th, in the J.P.Beaumont and enjoyed it a good deal. So when I saw a really good deal on this book, the first in the series, 99 cents on Barnes an Noble for a Nookbook, I could not pass it up. Well, the results were mixed.I liked the character of Beau in both books and we get, in this first book, to learn a good bit about his backstory. The problem is that this particular part of his backstory is quite bizarre. The first part, where the body of a young girl is found and police start their investigation, starting with the fundamentalist cult her mom is a part of, is good. We meet his new partner, Ron Peters, a guy that has his own trouble past, some other officers and the oh so sleazy newspaper man Maxwell Cole. Since Beau does not own a car, we also get an interesting walking tour of Seattle. I will admit that maybe one other reason I like this series is the northwest setting. Rainy day are always a plus in my book.But then, at the girl's funeral, we meet the Woman in Red, Anne Corley in her red dress, with her red Porsche, it is love at first sight and things take a huge turn for the improbable. You know what your mom said...if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. Well, I guess Beau's mom never mentioned that to him. Where there is smoke, there is fire..love is blind...so may cliches come to mind.It is not a bad book, but honestly, if this was the first in the series that I read it may have been my last. Good characters...no doubt, one of the strengths of the series...a great setting, love that rain!...and a totally unbelievable plot. I will say that the ending wrapped everything up nicely and set up the future of the series nicely, but you have to hang on to get there.
    • 4/5
      This was an interesting story. A murder mystery, complete with a religious cult, pulls in a side romance which is itself a mystery. What kept this from being a five star book were 1) the "voice" in the first quarter of the book was a choppy "Dragnet" style voice and it irritated me, 2) the language didn't successfully paint good pictures for me, and 3) the ending seemed manuafactured, like it was quickly and arbitrarily tying up loose ends. Oh, and of course, as Dad would say, "this is completely unbelievable!" That said, however, I will try book two in the series before deciding what I think about the series as a whole.
    • 2/5
      Read 9/16. Found when looking for Dance of the Bones (2015 Shamus Award Finalist). J.P. Beaumont series, #1. The basis of the series, Homicide Detective Beau meets Anne Coorley. when working a child murder case. Largely a romance, not the series for me.
    • 4/5
      PLOT OR PREMISE:Beaumont finds himself investigating the apparent murder of a little girl, five years old. When the investigation leads to the girl's home, and the cult that her mother is part of, things start to get a little weird. Add in the fact that he is still getting to know his partner, and the introduction of a rich and beautiful stranger to J.P.'s social and professional life, and the story starts to get a little odd..WHAT I LIKED:I liked the woman in the story, and her obsession with those who murder little children. She shows up at the funeral, and you can vividly picture her arrival from the excellent prose..WHAT I DIDN'T LIKE:The bits with the journalist are a bit stale in this book in the series, and some of the "getting to know your partner" tension is simply boring. Unfortunately, too, the "cult" comes off rather comical without any real depth as to why people might have gravitated towards this life..BOTTOM-LINE:Not the best in the series, but a killer ending.DISCLOSURE:I received no compensation, not even a free copy, in exchange for this review. I am not personal friends with the author, nor do I follow him on social media.
    • 4/5
      These books I just ploy thru - once I start I can't stop!
    • 4/5
      J. P. Beaumont, known as Beau to his friends, has been a homicide detective for fifteen years and has seen it all, but the murder of a child still upsets him. When five year old Angela Barstogi, daughter of one of the members of the Faith Tabernacle, is found murdered with evidence of previous child abuse, the group's leader, Pastor Michael Brodie, will not allow his followers to speak to the detectives. It isn't until Beau and his partner, Ron Peters, threaten to arrest Brodie does Angela's mother, Suzanne and the other members agree to answer some questions.

      When Beau attends little Angela's funeral he's intrigued by a mysterious woman in red who places a red rose on the child's coffin. Beau has never seen this beautiful woman before but he knows she isn't a member of Faith Tabernacle and no one at the funeral seems to know who she is. He feels compelled to speak to her, and so into his life walks Anne Corley.

      Although this first book is not the best in the series, it's still an interesting book for a couple of reasons. First, the murder story is skillfully woven. The reader is given lots of possible suspects and we see how Beau and his new partner learn to depend on each other. Second, the reader learns where Beau got all his money and it's one of the building blocks of Beau's character in future stories. Don't give up on J. P. Beaumont, the rest of the books are far better and well worth reading.
    • 4/5
      A little girl's body is found discarded along a road, and JP Beaumont , "Beau", is assigned to find her murderer. He and his partner discover that the child's mother is a member of a religious cult that believes in strict discipline that includes beatings and humiliation. Members of the cult are uncooperative, and getting good information is a chore. While attending the child's funeral, Beau meets a beautiful woman in red. He falls head over heels in love with her. As a result of this whirlwind romance, he loses some of this focus on the investigation. I have been reading JA Jance's books for years now. This book, written back in 1985, is the first in the JP Beaumont series. I fell in love with Beau in later books, so really looked forward to reading this story and getting filled in on details from his past. I must say that if this was the first book I read, I may have been tempted to not read any others in the series. It was entertaining, but weak. Ms Jance's writing has improved considerably over the years. While I do feel it is worth reading, if just to get Beau's backstory, it is certainly not one of the best in the series.
    • 4/5
      It started well and ended well, but the middle was a bit long. The woman in red had several plot points start to develop but disolve in a few pages, so pointed to some critical involvement. The mystery wasn't solved by the main character, but solved itself around him. I almost stopped reading in mid-book. But the ending enticed me, I might read the next one and give it another shot.
    • 3/5
      A five-year-old girl is dead and Seattle police detective J.P. Beaumont will not let that stand. When his investigation leads him into a cult of religious fanaticism, he finds that nobody wants to help him and his new partner bring the killer to justice. But while Beau is battling the silence of a cult and his partner’s checkered past, in walks a mysterious woman in red that J.P. is suddenly obsessed with. But is she really interested in love, or does she have her own agenda?Until Proven Guilty was written in 1985 by J.A. Jance and is the first of a series featuring J.P. “Beau” Beaumont that spans 20 volumes to date. The story really takes shape early on with a dead young girl at the center of a religious cult that is much more interested in silence and obedience than in finding the killer. Jance’s writing is solid, and her scene setting is a real gift. I particularly enjoyed reading of a cop’s life before the days of Google and cell phones. However, while the characters start out interesting, Jance spends so much time delving into their little personality quirks and what they like to eat that the middle of the book really bogs down and becomes uninteresting. Then we have the entrance of “the woman in red,” Anne Corley. This is where the story started to fall apart for me. Her whole backstory made no sense at all and Anne and Beau’s actions made even less sense. I know that love is blind, but this is pretty blind, deaf and dump for someone who is an investigator. Even so, I could look past that since love can make people do some pretty strange things. But then the implausible descended into the downright ridiculous. Several subplots were dropped as quickly as they were brought up and then ending wrapped up so quickly and neatly – with the key character to the murder being dropped in straight from outer space – that it seemed like several chapters had been cut right out of the book. There are 19 books in the series after this one, and they seem to be very popular. While the others may be much better, it is difficult for me to get past the bad taste left by this first installment. Forced to stand on its own, Until Proven Guilty simply doesn’t measure up to other books in the genre whether written today or three decades ago.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 3/5
      J. P. Beaumont is a police detective, divorced with kids. He gets assigned to investigate the murder of a young child, which leads him to a cult where the child’s mother lives. At the child’s funeral, he meets an usual and intriguing woman. They both want justice for the dead child, and over dinner, discover they have even more in common. The mystery is a good one, but the romance is really far fetched. It’s hard to believe that a seasoned detective would be so gullible to fall so fast for a stranger, especially one who keeps secrets. Still, it’s not bad for the first book in a series. Beau - and his new partner - are interesting, and since this is the first of 25 books and counting, the series must be a winner.
    • 3/5
      An interesting little book, but not so much in a good way. I have read enough J.A. Jance novels to now see that all her main characters are the same, they are essentially cut from the same cloth. This book illustrates that best. J.P. Beaumont is a creation of a whole series of improbably events; one improbable event followed by another improbable event and another and another and so on. Also, all of the main characters lives have been formed by other characters that randomly appear through said improbable events.Since I rarely read books in order I knew a lot of background on Beaumont, but I was shocked to find the first book in the series laid it all out in one fell swoop. I think the improbabilities of the character development stacked up on the negative end of the spectrum. Other writers might introduce and then develop a character over several books. Nope, in this one we get a fully developed Beaumont in one whole shebang.That's all I can say about this book. The story itself was entirely forgettable, I literally cannot tell you what the crime and / or mystery is / was a day after finishing it. Only the Beaumont bits I remember.
    • 3/5
      Mouth watering
    • 2/5
      This book was supposed to help me decide my direction with this writer. Sadly, it did establish my opinion.The gruff, blunt, frugal detective. The new partner (not a rookie, but might as well be). The murder investigation that rattles at least one of the two. The whole set up feels so cliché it's not even funny.I can see partners growing as the book progresses. I'm okay with that. Also, for an older novel, things are flying through the time line, since the entire book took a little over a week. There were whole chapters that could have been reduced, just because it gave too much details to things that didn't advance the plot much. Oh, way to open a series, blame it on a cult. And one who all changed their names to join. Even better, have a character reveal a conflict of interest...The publisher's chosen narrator may have added to my dislike of the character. He makes the main character sound so disgruntled. That may be coloring my opinion of the book. You know, when we first met the Lady in Red (also a cliché), I suspected. Now the writer confirms, at least partially. I'm just waiting for the suicide. And sadly, I called it. Death by cop. So much of this book felt cliché, overdone, and just difficult to suspend disbelief for, I'm not sure I want to read the rest of the series.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 3/5
      A good read but a little predictable. A gripping story nonetheless with strong characters
    • 5/5
      Wow. Another one. Told from a male perspective, and I did guess the end. But it was gripping and I read every page! :)

    Book preview

    Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance

    Chapter 1

    She was probably a cute kid once, four maybe five years old. It was hard to tell that now. She was dead. The murder weapon was a pink Holly Hobbie gown. What little was left of it was still twisted around her neck. It wasn’t pretty, but murder never is.

    Her body had rolled thirty feet down a steep embankment from the roadway, tossed out like so much garbage. She was still tangled in a clump of blackberry bushes when we got there. As far as I could see, there was no sign of a struggle. It looked to me as though she had been dead several hours, but a final determination on that would have to wait for the experts.

    My name is Beaumont. I’ve been around homicide for fifteen years, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to puke. I was careful not to think about my own kids right then. You can’t afford to. If you do, you crack up.

    My partner, Ron Peters, was the new man on the squad. He had only been up from burglary a couple of months. He was still at the stage where he was long on homicide theory and short on homicide practice. This was his first dead kid, and he wasn’t taking it too well. He hadn’t come to terms with the idea of a dead child as evidence. That takes time and experience. His face was a pasty shade of gray. I sent him up to the road to talk to the truck driver who had called 911, while I prowled the crime scene along with a small army of arriving officers.

    After the pictures, after the measurements, it took the boys from the medical examiner’s office a good little while to drag her loose from the blackberry bushes. If you’ve ever tried picking blackberries, you know it’s easy enough to get in but hell on wheels to get back out. By the time they brought out the body bag, I was convinced we weren’t going to find anything. We slipped and slid on the steep hillside, without finding so much as a gum wrapper or an old beer can.

    I climbed back up and found to my relief that I had waited long enough. The swam of killer bees that calls itself Seattle’s press corps had disappeared with the coroner’s wagon. I like reporters almost as much as I like killers, and the less I have to do with them, the better off I am.

    Peters’ color was a little better than it had been. He was talking with a man named Otis Walker, who was built like an Alaskan grizzly. In the old days people would have said Walker drove a sewage truck. These are the days of sanitary engineers and environmentalists, so Walker told us he drove a sludge truck for the Westside Treatment Center. That may sound like a high-class detox joint, but it isn’t. A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but if it looks like a sewage plant and smells like a sewage plant, that’s what I call it.

    However, Otis Walker had a heavy, square jaw and a nose that showed signs of more than one serious break. His biceps resembled half-grown trees. I chose not to debate his job title. Despite his fearsome appearance, he was having a tough time talking to Peters. The words stuck in his throat, threatening to choke him.

    You gonna catch that SOB? he asked me when I appeared over Peters’ shoulder. I nodded. I got a kid of my own at home, you know, he continued, almost her age. Wears the same kind of gown. Shit! He stopped and swiped at his face with the back of one meaty paw.

    That’s our job, I told him. I wondered what kind of murder this was. The easiest ones to solve are the hardest ones to understand, the husbands and lovers and wives and parents who murder people they ought to cherish instead of kill. The random killers, the ones who pick out a victim at a football game or a grocery store, are easier to comprehend and harder to catch. That’s the problem with homicide.

    I turned to Peters. You about done here?

    He nodded. Pretty much.

    Walker pulled himself together. You guys through with me?

    For right now, Peters told him, but don’t go out of town without letting us know where to find you. With all this timely-trial crap from the Supreme Court, we may need to get ahold of you in a hurry.

    Walker looked dolefully at the blackberry clump halfway down the hill. He shook his head. I wish I never saw her, he said. I wish I’da just driven past and never knew she was down there, know what I mean? He climbed back into the huge blue tractor-trailer and started it, waving halfheartedly as he eased past where Peters and I were standing.

    What now? Peters asked.

    Not much doing here as far as I can tell. Let’s go get something to eat and come back for another look later. The call had come in about eleven in the morning. It was now well after three. I’m one of those guys who has to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or I begin to foam at the mouth. I was getting close.

    Peters gave me a reproachful look. How can you think about food? Where are her parents? The medical examiner says she died sometime around nine or nine-thirty. Someone should have come looking for her by now.

    Somebody will come, I assured him. With any kind of luck it will be after we finish eating. As it turned out, they found us before we even got out of the car in the parking lot at G.G.’s. A marked patrol car pulled up beside ours. The officer rolled down his window. His name was Sanders. I had seen him around the Public Safety Building on occasion.

    What have you got? I asked him.

    Missing child, he replied. A girl. Five years old.

    Brown hair, in braids? I asked him. Holly Hobbie nightgown, pink?

    He nodded. The call came in a little over half an hour ago. I went to check it out before calling you guys in. It could have been someone who forgot to come home for lunch.

    She missed lunch, all right, I told him. And it looks as though we will too. What’s the address?

    Gay Avenue, he answered. Forty-five forty-three. I’ll lead you there.

    Peters wheeled out of the parking lot behind the patrol car. Why the hell didn’t someone call us right away? he muttered. We could have been there a long time ago.

    Peters sometimes reminds me of an Irish Setter—tall, reddish hair, good-looking, loose-jointed, not too bright at times. "Calling us on the radio would have been as good as taking out a full-page ad in the Post-Intelligencer, I told him. We just got rid of that mob of reporters, remember?"

    Peters’ jawline hardened, but he said nothing. Our partnership was still new and relatively uneasy. We drove through Magnolia without the fanfare of lights and sirens.

    Magnolia is set apart from the rest of Seattle by a combination of waterways and railroad tracks. On this warm day in late April, flowers in well-manicured lawns were just coming into their own. Magnolia is mostly an older, settled, residential neighborhood. Some of the houses are stately mansions with white columns and vast expanses of red brick. I think I had a preconceived notion of the kind of house we were going to, but I was in for a rude awakening. Gay Avenue was anything but gay in every sense of the word.

    The patrol car led us to a hidden pocket of poverty just off Government Way a few blocks east of the entrance to Discovery Park. The house at 4543 Gay Avenue was a ramshackle two-story job that had formerly been someone’s pride and joy. It had fallen on hard times. Once-white shingles had deteriorated to a grubby gray. Here and there a missing one gaped like a jagged, broken tooth. Two giant stubs of trees gave mute testimony that there had once been a front yard. Yellowed newspapers and old tires littered the weedy grass. It was a perfect example of low-rent squalor plunked down in an otherwise acceptable neighborhood. If I had been one of the neighbors, I would have considered suing whoever owned that eyesore.

    At the sound of the cars a band of barefoot, ragtag kids came racing around the house. One pressed a runny nose against Peters’ window and stared in at us as though we were gorillas in a zoo. Peters turned to me. Well? he asked. Are we getting out, or are we going to sit here all day?

    I’d rather take a beating than knock on a door and tell some poor unsuspecting soul his kid is dead. I always think about how I’d feel if someone were telling me about Scott or Kelly. There’s no way to soften a blow like that. Don’t rush me, I growled. It’s the worst part of this job. I got out and slammed the door.

    Sanders came up just then. What’s the name? I asked him.

    Barstogi. Mother’s name is Suzanne. Kid’s name is Angela, but they call her Angel.

    Father?

    I didn’t see one. There’s some kind of meeting going on in there. Probably ten or twelve people.

    Peters ambled up. He glanced at his watch. What time did you say the call came in?

    About two forty-five, Sanders answered.

    Five hours after she’s dead, somebody finally notices she’s missing. Peters’ voice was grim.

    I pushed open a gate that dangled precariously on one rusty hinge. Gingerly I threaded my way through the debris and climbed some rickety wooden steps. The bottom one was gone altogether. Most of the others were on borrowed time. We stood on a tiny porch with those kids silently staring up at us. None of them said a word. It struck me as odd. I would have expected a barrage of questions from a group like that.

    Don’t these kids talk? I asked Sanders.

    He stopped with his hand poised, ready to knock. Not to me and probably not to you either. I meant to tell you. It seems to be some kind of religious cult. The kids aren’t allowed to talk to anyone without permission. Same thing goes for the adults.

    He knocked then. Through a broken windowpane in the door we could hear the low murmur of voices inside, but it was a long time before anyone answered.

    The woman who opened the door was in her mid to late twenties. She was about five-six or so, solidly built. She had long dishwater-blonde hair that was parted in the middle and pulled back into a long, thick braid that hung halfway to her hips. With a little makeup, a haircut, and some decent clothes she might have been reasonably attractive. As it was, she was a very plain Jane. She looked very worried.

    Did you find her? she asked.

    Sanders didn’t answer. Instead he motioned to me. This is Detective Beaumont, ma’am, and Detective Peters. They’ll be the ones helping you now. He backed away from the door as though from the entrance of a cave full of rattlers. He didn’t want to be the one to tell her. Peters hovered in the background as well, leaving the ball in my court.

    May we come in, Mrs. Barstogi? I asked.

    She glanced uneasily over her shoulder. She looked as happy to have us on her doorstep as we were to be there. Well, I don’t know…, she began hesitantly, stopping abruptly as someone came up behind the partially opened door.

    I thought I told you to get rid of them, Sister Suzanne. The unseen speaker was a man. His words and tone held the promise of threat.

    I did, she said meekly. I sent the first one away like you said. There are two more. Before she had looked worried. Now she seemed genuinely frightened.

    Your faith is being tested, he continued severely. You are failing. Jesus is watching over Angel. You have no need to call on anyone else. Jesus wants you to trust in Him completely. Haven’t you learned that yet? Are you still leaning on your own understanding?

    She shrank from the door at his words. I think she would have slammed it in our faces if I hadn’t used my old Fuller Brush training and stuck my foot in the way. We need to talk to you, Mrs. Barstogi. Is there someplace where we can be alone?

    I moved inside and Peters followed. The man who had been standing just out of our line of vision was a heavy-faced, once-muscular man in his late forties who was well on his way to going to seed. He was a little shorter than I am, maybe six-one or so. He was wearing one of those Kmart special leisure suits that went out of style years ago. On his chest hung a gold chain with a heavy gold cross dangling from it. The suit was electric blue. So were his eyes, glinting with the dangerous glitter of someone just barely under control.

    He placed himself belligerently between Suzanne and me.

    We’re all family here, he said. No one has anything to hide from anyone else. Privacy and pride are Satan’s own tools.

    Are you Angela’s father? I asked him.

    Of course not! he blustered.

    Then I have nothing to say to you. I looked around. The living room was furnished with several period pieces in the Goodwill-reject style. There was an assortment of degenerate chairs and worn couches. The gray carpet was mottled with stains and soil. Seated around the room was a group of women. They could have been sardines from the same can for all you could tell them apart. None of them spoke. All eyes were riveted on the man who stood between Suzanne Barstogi and me.

    Is your husband here. Mrs. Barstogi? Where can we reach him?

    She glanced surreptitiously at the man’s face before answering, as if expecting him to tell her what to say or whether or not she should answer at all. I don’t have a husband, she said finally, looking at the floor.

    The four of us had been standing in a muddy vestibule, just inside the door. Now Peters moved swiftly around me. He took Suzanne Barstogi’s elbow. Before anyone could object, he led her out onto the porch. The man made as if to follow, but I barred his way.

    We are going to talk to her alone, I told him. If you don’t want to end up in jail, you’ll stay right here while we do it. I turned and left him there, closing the door behind me.

    The children, standing in an ominously quiet group, were still watching. Peters was attempting to shoo them away as I came out the door. He maintained a firm grip on Suzanne’s arm. I think he figured she might try to dash back into the house if he let her go.

    Mrs. Barstogi, I said. When is the last time you saw your daughter?

    When I put her to bed. Her eyes were wide with fear as she answered. I couldn’t tell if it was fear for her daughter or fear of the consequences that would greet her when she returned to the house.

    What time was that? This, unsurprisingly, was from Peters. I never met anyone so concerned about time.

    Suzanne paused uncertainly. It must have been between three and four.

    In the morning? Peters asked incredulously.

    She nodded. She fell asleep at church. I carried her in from the car and put her to bed. She spoke as though there were nothing out of the ordinary in the hour.

    What was she wearing?

    I told the other man all this. Do we have to go over it again?

    Yes, I answered. I’m afraid we do.

    She was wearing a pink nightgown, one she got for Christmas last year.

    We’ll need you to come downtown, Peters said.

    Now? she asked.

    Yes, now, I told her. Peters propelled her off the porch. He opened the door and helped her into the car, motioning for me to follow. I’ll drive, he said.

    It figured. If he drove, I would have to tell her. I’m not the kind to keep score or hold grudges, but about then I figured Peters owed me one.

    I followed her into the backseat. She scrambled as far as she could to the opposite side of the car. She looked like a cornered animal. Who is that man in the house? I asked as Peters turned on the ignition. Is he a relative of yours?

    She shook her head. That’s Pastor Michael Brodie. He’s the pastor of our church, Faith Tabernacle. I called him when I couldn’t find Angel. He said the best thing for us to do would be to turn it over to the Lord. He brought the others over, and we’ve been praying ever since. Wherever two or more are gathered together—

    What time was that? Peters interrupted. He was beginning to sound like a broken record.

    I got up about eleven and they got here a little before noon, she said. Peters made a sound under his breath. I couldn’t hear, but I don’t think it was too nice.

    Angel does that, Suzanne continued. She wakes up before I do. She’ll have breakfast and watch TV. She stopped suddenly as though something was just beginning to penetrate. Why are we going downtown? It was the moment I had been dreading. There was no way to postpone it further.

    I believe we’ve found your daughter, I said gently.

    Where is she? Is something the matter?

    A little girl was found in Discovery Park earlier this morning. I’m afraid it may be Angel. We have to be certain. We need you to identify her.

    Is she dead? she asked.

    I nodded. I deliberately didn’t tell her about the gown. I didn’t want to dash all hope at once. She needed some time for adjustment. I expected tears, screaming, or wailing. Instead, Suzanne Barstogi heard the words in stunned silence. She closed her eyes and bowed her head.

    It’s my fault, she whispered. It’s because I called you. Pastor Michael is right. I’m being punished for my lack of faith.

    We were at a stoplight. Peters turned and looked at her. She was dead long before you called us, he said bluntly. Your lack of faith had nothing to do with it. The light changed, and we went on.

    Suzanne gave no indication that she had heard what Peters said. I disobeyed, too, she continued. I snuck upstairs to use the phone so no one would know. She lapsed into silence. We left her to her own thoughts. It seemed the decent thing to do.

    By the time we led her up to the slab in the morgue, Suzanne Barstogi was a study in absolute composure. When the attendant pulled back the sheet, she nodded. I killed her, didn’t I? she said softly to no one in particular. She turned to me. I’m ready to go home now.

    Chapter 2

    When we brought Suzanne back to Gay Avenue, the place was crawling with people. It seemed to me there were even more Faith Tabernacle people than earlier in the day. Evidence technicians had gone over the house thoroughly, searching for trace evidence, dusting for fingerprints, looking for signs of forced entry or struggle. Everything pointed to the conclusion that Angel Barstogi had left the house willingly, wandering off maybe with someone she knew.

    So who did she know? I looked around the room. All these folks, certainly, including Pastor Michael Brodie himself, who was holding court in the living room. He was very angry. His parishioners were walking on eggs for fear of annoying him further, abjectly catering to his every need.

    Sergeant Watkins brought us up to speed on the situation. Police procedures notwithstanding, Brodie was accustomed to being in charge. He didn’t want anyone talking to his people outside his presence. It was only after Watkins threatened to jail him for obstruction of justice that he finally knuckled under. He sat by the door, still silently intimidating those who filed past him. One by one our detectives took people to separate rooms to record their statements. They were not eager to talk. It was like pulling teeth. We could have used some laughing gas.

    Peters and I took our turn in the barrel. The other officers had pretty well finished up with the adults and were going to work on the grungy kids. I took one of the boys, the one who had pressed his nose against the car as Peters and I drove up the first time. We had to walk past Pastor Michael. He shot a withering glance at the kid. The boy seemed to cower under its intensity.

    "What’s

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