The Sign Painter Page 2

  “The church acquired this property two years ago. Volunteers converted it into nineteen studio apartments.”

  Kimmie protested, “Mommy, you’re squeezing my hand!”

  Amy swept her daughter up into her arms. She did not trust herself to speak.

  Lucy fished a key from her pocket and unlocked a door. “The family in here until the day before yesterday has been moved into a home built by Habitat for Humanity. Normally, I only give our apartments to church members, or families recommended by a local relief group. But just before you showed up this morning, I felt God whisper to me.”

  The studio apartment was freshly painted and had a kitchenette and a real dining table. There was a door with a lock and pale curtains and a foldout sofa and a sleeping pallet rolled up in the corner. There was a bathroom. With hot water. And a shower.

  It was a palace.

  Kimmie whispered, “Mommy, is this for us?”

  Amy could only nod.

  “Let me down! Let me down!”

  Amy allowed her squirming daughter to slip from her arms. She had no choice. Her strength was gone. She could scarcely hold herself erect. She felt tears course down her face.

  Lucy had clearly seen it all before. “Why don’t I leave you folks to settle in. You can come by later and we’ll go through the forms.”

  Amy managed, “I need to go see about this new job.”

  “So call me when you get back.”

  “I have no idea when that will be.” Amy heard her voice break over the words and did not care. “All these jobs are rush-rush.”

  “Girl, believe me, I don’t serve with this ministry so I can work from nine to five. Your daughter is welcome in our day care. We run a special after-hours service for working moms.” The outreach director set the key on the table by the sofa. “Welcome home.”

  When the door shut, Amy did not so much fall to her knees as feel the carpet rise up to meet her. Kimmie was suddenly in her arms. The little one was crying, too. Her daughter’s joy was as great as her own.

  This was another lesson the road had taught them both. How much it could hurt to hope again.

  CHAPTER 2

  Paul Travers waited in Lucy Watts’s office, surrounded by the din of a vibrant church community. Two walls were glass from the waist up, granting Paul a clear view of a social room with a massive sound system, and a study room filled with computer gear and a wall of books. The books looked well worn, and the computer terminals were decorated with so many stickers that it was hard to see their original color. Paul figured the outreach director was an expert at riding herd over teens.

  When Lucy Watts walked into the office, Granville Burnes, the man who had asked Paul down for this meeting, asked, “You gave them the place?”

  “I did. Yes.”

  “The board is gonna ask you some hard questions.”

  “It will be a pleasure, dealing with the board.”

  Granville was a former detective who now ran the church’s security program. His voice was a comfortable growl. “So it was like you said. A miracle.”

  “Before my first cup of coffee.” Lucy turned his way. “Paul Travers, did I get your name right? Come on in. Granville, why don’t you join us?”

  Lucy and Granville both carried the hard-edged wisdom of the street. They gave Paul a penetrating inspection as he settled into the chair opposite Lucy’s desk. The director’s walls were decorated with degrees in counseling and ministerial studies. There were pictures of her sharing big grins with various people, breaking ground on the building where they sat, Lucy accepting some award, and her standing with families before different houses.

  “My power wall,” Lucy said, following his gaze. “All of the people you see there are miracles in the making. People who have come back from nothing and made genuine successes of their lives and their families. Helps remind me of what we’re doing here.”

  “It’s a beautiful sight,” Paul agreed. “And important on the bad days.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “What do you know about bad days, Mr. Travers?”

  “Call me Paul. I know a little.”

  “You ever been homeless, Paul?”

  “No.”

  “Ever gone hungry?”

  “Yes, but not how you mean. Never from need.”

  Lucy was big-boned and strong and handsome. And she did not like him. Paul assumed she had a thing about cops. Many people with street experience could smell a cop at fifty paces. For them, the fact that Paul worked exclusively for churches and religious organizations did not mean a thing. Lucy asked, “Why are you here?”

  “My pastor said you had a problem. I came.”

  “Paul’s pastor and I have been prayer partners for years,” Granville offered. “He and I share a lot of secrets.”

  Lucy’s gaze remained iron-hard. “Did Granville tell you what our problem was?”

  “No.”

  “But you came anyway. Just dropped everything and flew down from Baltimore.”

  “Actually, I drove.” Paul knew she was probing and did not mind. “I do this a lot.”

  “Do what, exactly? Sorry, Granville hasn’t told me much about you. When I asked, he said he wanted me to meet you first. Which, you’ve got to understand, is not exactly the sort of answer that would reassure me.”

  “I was a federal agent for nine years. First at headquarters in Washington, then at our Baltimore field office.”

  “Why did you quit?”

  “Four years ago, I was injured while on active duty. I was given a medical discharge. While I was getting back on my feet, I got a call from my pastor. He told me about a problem a religious organization was having.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Sorry. I can’t say. Just like I’ll never talk about yours. If I can help.” Paul gave an easy shrug. “I’ve basically been troubleshooting ever since. You can call it my personal ministry, if that makes you any more comfortable.”

  Lucy drilled him with a gaze, dark and tense. “You a believer, Paul Travers?”

  “I am. Yes.”

  “You recognize the passage I spoke about this morning?”

  “Sure. The Samaritan woman who met Jesus at the well. You gave a great talk.”

  “You have any further thoughts about that particular passage?”

  Paul liked how she tied this to faith. Clearly, the church was experiencing a problem, something that troubled these two very much. Something big enough and dark enough that they did not want to take it to their elders. Paul guessed they feared going to the local authorities. If they did, some church leaders might use it to threaten the outreach center’s very existence. He had known such situations before. There were always congregation members who disliked any activity that was not directly tied to the regular services. So Lucy and Granville were sitting here, alone and vulnerable, desperate for someone they could trust with their secret. And what they wanted to know most of all was did he share their need for Jesus. He did not know them, but he liked them both. A lot.

  Paul replied, “I’ve always liked how this outcast woman became his first real missionary. The fourth chapter of John, verses thirty-nine through forty-two, describes how she tells other Samaritans about her meeting with Jesus. Her own personal transformation and testimony are so powerful that many of the Samaritans believe even before they meet with Jesus. They go out and find him because of her. Jesus stays with them for two days and brings even more of them to faith. All of this within the community of outcasts.”

  Lucy glanced at the burly man seated next to Paul, then said, “To answer your question, Paul, we have a problem. A huge one.”

  “We don’t have enough evidence to prove anything,” Granville added. “But it’s real.”

  Paul nodded, glad he had made the trip. “How can I help?”

  CHAPTER 3 />
  Amy left Kimmie in the church’s day-care center and drove slowly past the front of the car dealership. She did not stop. She had no intention of letting anyone there see her ride. To do so would reveal how desperate she was for this work. Especially now, when there was a chance to give Kimmie a real home again.

  But she wouldn’t think about that now. She had been forced to pull over and cry twice on the way from the church. The joy would sweep over her in sudden waves. Amy took a hard breath and said to the sunlight on her windshield, “Get a grip, girl.”

  She found a parking space on the road behind the dealership. She cut the motor and slipped back into the camper. She brushed her hair, a few shades darker than Kimberly’s, more coppery than blond, with some distinct red highlights. She fitted a leather-knit belt over the starched white short-sleeved shirt and cinched it tight. Her lace-up boots were badly worn, but her jeans were long enough to hide most of the scars. Amy climbed up on the little plastic stool and pulled her second backpack, the one with her art tools, from the top cabinet. She opened the zipper and did a quick check to ensure that she had all she needed. Then she gave her reflection a hard look and repeated what she had said to her daughter that morning. “What are we going to do when we get inside?” She gave the mirror her brightest look and exclaimed happily, “Smile and be nice!”

  She climbed down to the street, locked her camper, and started along the sidewalk. What she had seen in her reflection dogged her every step. But there was nothing she could do about the jagged edges in her gaze.

  Bob Denton, owner of Denton Chevrolet, was a man made to smile. Only he wasn’t smiling now. He was gaping. At her.

  Amy knew she was still attractive. Her beauty had once been a source of confidence. Nowadays, more often than not, it made her feel vulnerable. But Bob Denton did not threaten. He simply stared.

  Denton had the ruddy cheerfulness of a good old boy and spoke with a distinct Florida twang. Amy’s father had been born and raised in Perry, a small town in the center of the state, about halfway between Jacksonville and Tallahassee. Both of Amy’s parents had been only children, and the grandparents were long gone. Bob Denton sounded a lot like the kin she no longer had.

  Bob asked, “Where are you from?”

  “My husband and I called Alexandria home. That ended two years ago.”

  “And now?”

  “Basically, I go where the work takes me. I hope to be staying here.”

  He asked, “In Orlando?”

  “Brentonville, more like. We’ve made some church friends. We feel welcome.”

  “You and your husband?”

  “No, my husband passed away two years ago. Now it’s just me and my little girl.”

  She could see his Adam’s apple working and knew he was nervous. Which, oddly, left her feeling calm. He said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Mr. Denton, could we talk about the work you have for me?”

  “Oh, right, sure thing. I, ah . . .” He opened a file and pulled out some sketches, all without taking his eyes off her. “These are just some rough ideas.”

  It was pretty much as she expected. The company was getting rid of excess inventory with a blowout sale. They wanted this message emblazoned on their windows. “Sure, I can do this, no problem.” Amy flipped through the pages, basically to give her something to do other than return his stare. “I did pretty much the same kind of display for Vickers Cadillac in Tampa. You know Mr. Vickers; I believe he called you.”

  “That’s right, he did.” His swallow was audible. “Which church?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Where your friends are. In Brentonville.”

  “First Methodist.”

  His eyes grew round. “That’s where I go.”

  She dropped her gaze back to the sheets. “When do you need this work done by?”

  “The sale starts Sunday, day after tomorrow.”

  “That’s tight, but I can do it. I’ll need to work at night. Can you please make sure your security people are aware that I’ll be working outside of normal hours?”

  “Sure. I mean, you’ll be here all night?”

  “To get this done on time, I’ll need to work more or less around the clock. Tonight I’ll leave and get my little girl fed and settled, then I can come back and . . .” She hesitated, then decided there was no reason not to say, “Mr. Denton, isn’t this the point when you ask me about my price?”

  He jerked back. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . How much?”

  Normally, this was when Amy’s desperation showed. But today was different. Maybe it was how the man kept staring; maybe it was the miracle she had just experienced at the church. Whatever the reason, she stayed calm enough to take the price she had come in with and double it. “Twelve hundred dollars for the rush job. Like I said, to get this done on time, I’ll be working flat out from now until Saturday morning.”

  He did not even blink. “Fine.”

  “I’ll need half now, please.”

  He scribbled on a form and handed it across his desk. “Give this to my assistant.”

  “Great.” Her smile was genuine. “Thank you, Mr. Denton. You’ll be getting my very best work.”

  He rose with her, which had not happened in so long that Amy felt uncomfortable with Bob Denton’s manners. She felt his gaze on her as she started for the door. “Ms. Dowell.”

  “Yes?”

  He swallowed again. “Nothing. Thank you for coming in. You’ve made my day.”

  For twelve hundred dollars, the man deserved the truth. “That makes two of us, Mr. Denton. Really.”

  CHAPTER 4

  At three that afternoon, Paul was parked in a car four blocks from the church. The street was typical for many tourist towns, a seedy afterthought that remained well hidden from the hordes taking aim for the shiny delights at the end of the money rainbow.

  The four-door Mercury’s front seat was as comfortable as a sofa on a lazy Sunday. Granville Burnes, the retired Brentonville detective, sat behind the wheel. The car’s color was faded and unimportant. Paul’s door had two rust measles, but the shocks were reinforced and the massive engine was in top form. Granville asked, “You ever sat stakeout before, Travers?”

  “Many times.”

  “Yeah? Where was that?” Granville peeled the lid off a 7-Eleven coffee and slurped. “Some uptown mall? Check out the juvies pulling wheelies on their boards?”

  “Mostly Baltimore. But I was occasionally sent out on assignment from the home office. When I begged enough. I worked stakeouts in Atlanta, LA, Philly, and a terrible two weeks in Mexico City.”

  Granville took his time fitting the lid back on. “You carry?”

  “No.”

  “What, you got a thing against guns?”

  “I figure if I need a weapon, I can find something local.”

  “You got that right.” He slurped again. “Open the glove box, tell me what you see.”

  Paul did as he was told. He did not need to remove the pistol from its well-worn holster to reply, “Remington thirty-eight, short-action trigger, eleven in the clip and another in the chamber.”

  Granville nodded, and Paul assumed he had passed the man’s form of preliminary inspection. “Okay, our target is the house across the street and two doors down.”

  “You have binocs?”

  Granville slipped a small pair from his jacket pocket. Zeiss. Professional grade. Paul had used them before. He adjusted the clarity, and the house jumped into view. “Reinforced steel overlay on the front door. You’ve got to assume they’ve armored the door frame as well. Barred windows, shutters on the inside. Two kids on bikes doing guard duty.”

  “Actually, the kids are the sales staff,” Granville corrected.

  “What are they dealing?”

  “Rock and meth and coke and the big H. They cove
r all the bases.”

  Paul scanned the scruffy yard. “Motion detectors and infrared cameras covering the perimeter.”

  “I didn’t see those.”

  “They’re there.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes.” Paul continued his scan. “Are they cooking?”

  “No idea. Probably.”

  “So call your friends on the force and take them out.”

  “There’s a problem.”

  Paul watched a Porsche Cayenne pull up to the kid on duty to the right of the house. The window rolled down. A yuppie in a striped dress shirt and power tie and suspenders offered a bill to the kid, who exchanged it for a trio of plastic bags. The window went up and the Cayenne drove away. The kid went back to lounging on his fancy banana seat, the gold chains bumping on his little chest as he rocked to the beat on his iPod. He could not have been over ten years old.

  Granville went on, “Soon as they moved in, I went downtown and had a word with my buddies. They said they’d take care of it pronto. So I waited. And nothing happened. I went back downtown. I had another word. And I was told to back off.”

  Paul lowered the glasses.

  Granville pointed down the street. “Four houses down on your left. The place with the old Plymouth covered by weeds.”

  Paul lifted the binocs and gave it a careful inspection. “I don’t see anything.”

  “They’re in there.”

  “Who?”

  “DEA. Four months they’ve had this place on surveillance. Looking for a connection to the biggie. They want to ID the people controlling central Florida’s drug trade.”

  Paul felt his anger building. Four months. With a church and a school and a day-care center and a teen outreach operating under a mile away.

  Granville went on, “In that time, the neighborhood’s problems have gone out of control. We’ve got the worst kind of people moving in. This house you’re looking at has become the eye of a hurricane. And the leading edge is sweeping up the most vulnerable of the kids in our church programs.”