Part 16 (2/2)

I walked over to the dining table and picked up a chicken breast and wrapped it in a paper napkin to eat in the car. I also grabbed a frosty can of diet cola. ”Listen, Lucy, I can't stay. I got a lead on the witnesses and have to go over to this church in Van Nuys. I came to see if you wanted to come with me.”

”Sure. Let's get Birdie.”

Carl hunkered toward Birdie with an animated expression. ”. . . and we only missed running into the sucker by an inch. Man, that was a good ride.”

Birdie smiled at him. ”You were so brave, dear. I'm sure the driver will never forget such a close call.”

Carl beamed.

I gave them a little wave of greeting. ”Sorry to interrupt, Birdie. Lucy and I are going to run an errand and want to know if you'll come with us.”

”All right, as long as I don't have to walk. My knees are shot from standing all morning. Where are we going?”

”To church.”

We drove in Lucy's vintage black Caddy. Lucy's husband, Ray, was a successful auto mechanic, who had a string of shops and a wide collection of loyal customers. He loved to restore old cars, and this one purred like a panther in love. I sat in the creamy leather backseat and read directions out loud between hungry bites of savory chicken.

The storefront church was situated in a strip mall on Vanowen Street, surrounded by three-story apartment buildings with FOR RENT signs in Spanish. Next to the church sat a convenience store, a panadera, and a liquor store.

Although the overwhelming majority of Latinos were Catholic, various Protestant denominations had made inroads in Latin America. Consequently, many immigrants brought their Protestant traditions with them and small, independent Christian churches emerged in the Latino community of Los Angeles.

We parked on the street and walked toward the sign saying IGLESIA CORAZN DE SIN. Music flowed from within-singing accompanied by the sound of guitars, drums, and a trumpet. I looked at my friends. ”I didn't expect there'd be an actual service going on.”

Birdie lowered her voice as we neared the door. ”So many little churches are like families. They spend all day Sunday together. They wors.h.i.+p in the morning, and then they eat lunch together and have fellows.h.i.+p in the afternoon. Some of them have evening services or Bible studies to top off the day.”

”I'm impressed with such commitment.”

”It's a tight little community, dear. So tight, they may not be willing to hand over your witnesses. You'll have to be careful how you approach them.”

The windows and gla.s.s door of the storefront were covered with beige privacy drapes. Lucy pulled open the door and we immediately stepped into a small white room, with around fifty dark-haired men, women, and children sitting in folding chairs facing a six-inch raised platform at the end. Two tall oscillating fans swept the crowded room, working hard against the heat.

The wall behind the platform featured a hand-painted mural. Christ stood on a hill in a light blue robe with a spiky yellow halo behind his head. His arms were raised in blessing over a crowd of people and animals. Parked discreetly behind the Savior, on a side road, was a red truck with SANDOVAL CONSTRUCTION lettered on the side. Maybe Mr. Sandoval donated the money for the mural.

A middle-aged man, with nut-colored skin, sweated in an electric-blue suit and stood behind the lectern at the side of the platform. He sang and clapped along with his flock to the music of four musicians. Happy voices sang in Spanish, and I caught the words ”Dis,” ”gracias,” and ”bendicin” (”G.o.d,” ”thanks,” and ”blessing”). Three men who sat in the back row quietly stood and gave us their seats.

When the singing ended, the pastor gestured to the back of the room and boomed out, ”Bienvenidos. You are welcome in the name of the Lord.”

All heads turned and one hundred eyes focused on the three Anglo ladies sitting and smiling self-consciously. Birdie waved her hand. ”Thank you so much. We feel most welcome.”

Everyone clapped as the pastor gestured for us to stand. I regretted I hadn't thought to wear something dressier than just my clean jeans. Then again, I hadn't expected to walk into a religious celebration.

As we stood to be acknowledged, I leaned over to Birdie and whispered, ”What exactly is going on?”

”Anglo visitors are uncommon, dear, especially in such a small Spanish church. I think they just want us to feel at home.” Her eyes teased. ”Smile big, or they may try to convert you.”

We sat and the singing continued for the next ten minutes. Little children craned their necks to get a good look at us. I scanned the room. Were any of the couples the one we were looking for? Finally the singing ended and the pastor began to speak in Spanish. I understood about 30 percent of the words, but I couldn't string them together into anything meaningful.

Lucy leaned her bright orange head of hair in my direction and whispered, ”What's he saying?”

I shrugged. ”I don't really understand. Something about Jesus.”

Lucy just looked at me. ”Duh.”

Were Javier and Graciela in this group? When I ruled out those mothers with children, a dozen couples still remained. Which one were they?

The service ended at around four and the pastor made his way to the back of the room to shake the hands of his flock as they left the storefront. I imagined they were all going home to prepare dinner.

Finally he turned to us with a smile and big question marks in his eyes. His English was only slightly accented. ”I am Pastor Luis Sandoval.”

Oh. That explains the red truck.

”Did you ladies enjoy the service?”

I spoke up. ”We certainly did.”

”Even though you don't speak Espanish?” His voice was unmistakably wary.

”We very much enjoyed the music,” answered Birdie.

He looked at me; a sharp intelligence sparked his eyes. ”You aren't dressed for church. Ladies of your generation normally wear their good clothes to church. My guess is you didn't expect to encounter people actually wors.h.i.+pping. When you did, you decided to stay, anyway, because you really came here seeking information of some kind. How am I doing?”

Lucy and Birdie looked at me as I took a tiny step forward. This man was astute. ”You're right so far, Pastor.”

”How can I help you, seora?”

I didn't waste time. ”Six days ago, I discovered the body of a man who was murdered, not too far from my house. One of my neighbors is being blamed, even though he is innocent. The police have already questioned him once and they may arrest him soon. I want to prove he couldn't have done it.”

”How does that involve my church?”

”A homeless couple was camping nearby on the riverbank. I found out their names are Javier and Graciela Acevedo.”

Luis Sandoval's eyes went dark. I was in the right place.

”Somebody told me the couple is staying with someone from this church until they can find a ride out to Mountain View. I need to speak to them before they go. If the Acevedos saw the killer, they can tell the police it wasn't my friend. They might even be able to identify the real killer.”

”If these people do exist, seora, their lives would be in danger. They wouldn't be safe talking to the police. Even if they could be protected from the killer, once they were exposed, they couldn't be protected from immigration. If they were deported back to their country, they'd be executed. They're political refugees.”

”I've got a lawyer who could help them for free. What if this lawyer could get someone in the US Attorney's Office to grant them political asylum? If the Acevedos were given refugee status, they wouldn't have to return to their country.”

”That would be a wonderful thing. Such a thing would guarantee their safety in a very important way. In that case, seora, they most certainly would be able to tell the police what they saw. They might be able to identify the killer.”

”So they did see the killing?”

He said nothing.

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