He latched onto it like it was permission to breathe.Steam fogged his next words.“He said it was just a survey.Who works Sundays.Like… like a church project.He cares about the Sabbath.That’s his thing.”
“What kind of thing?”Kate asked.
“He talks about rest,” Tommy said.“How people forgot how to stop.How God says stop.And how bosses make you work anyway.He said it was wrong.I figured he was gonna… I dunno… write a letter to thepaperth.Shame a few guys.”
“The Reverend,” Marcus said, flipping a page.“Describe him.”
Tommy made a face like concentration.“Short guy, umm… black, never missed a dinner.Kind of a high voice…”
“Bullshit, Tommy.You’re lying.”
“I ain’t!”
“Last chance.”
Tommy sighed, cornered.On his face, they watched him make a deal with himself.
“He’s tall.Kinda craggy face.Long silvery grey hair.Pale blue eyes.”
Marcus and Kate exchanged a glance.“Good,” Kate said.“You’re doing really good, Tommy.Does he have an accent?”
“Sometimes.Some words.Sounds Southern sometimes.”
Kate watched him closely.“What do you really think he’s doing with the names?”
“I don’t care,” Tommy said, too fast.Then, softer, “Didn’t care.”
Kate slid two photographs across the table — crime scene stills, Brennan and Kellerman’s hands nailed and spread, the glossy print flattening the blood to a dark wax.The room temperature seemed to drop.
Tommy recoiled, chair scraping.“Jesus.”
“Not Jesus,” Kate said.“Two people who were alive until the person you call Reverend decided otherwise.Look at their hands.Look at their throats.You helped him pick them.”
“I didn’t—” His voice cracked.“Lady, I didn’t kill nobody.”
“You helped,” Kate said.No heat, just fact.“And help is enough for a long, long prison stay, Tommy.”
He stared at the photographs like he could will them to change.When he looked up again he had the desperate shine of a man who’d sprinted to the cliff edge and found no more ground.
“What do you want to know?”he asked.
“Everything,” Marcus said.“Start with how.”
A shaky exhale.“My idea,” he admitted, a flicker of pride lighting through the fear.“The delivery guys.DoorDash, Grubhub, the bike boys… they know who’s in the office on a Sunday.If you tip right, they’ll tell you.That’s how I did it.I’d hang near Kenzo, near Chop Chop, near that salad place on 56th — catch ’em when they came out the lobby.Or on thecornerthwhere they all wait up.Twenty bucks for a name and a floor number.Twenty bucks for me.Easy.”
Kate’s gaze didn’t soften.“Who handed you the money?Who do you report to?”
“Reverend.”
“Anyone else on his crew?”
Tommy snorted, as if the question was ridiculous.
“Where do you meet him?”
“Under the bridge… we walk on a ways if there’s people there.Once he came here, to my crib.”
“When’s your next meeting?”Kate asked.
