“This church is a crime scene. Up to me, I think we’re entitled to scope it out. But my specialties are dead folk and the detritus of their late, lamented lives, Mr. Gaskin. Ms. Cooper’s your law jock. Ask her what you’d like and the decision’s up to you.” Mike started toward Audley, who moved out of the way of the door, as I leaned forward to express my opinion.

“That’s all right, Detective. I don’t want to hold things up. Suit yourselves.”

“How many people have keys to the church?” Mercer asked.

Gaskin pointed a finger at Amos Audley, who answered, “Ain’t but a few that can unlock the front—”

“How many, exactly?”

“I said a few,” Audley snapped at Mercer Wallace. “I can’t give you a number. But there’s more than a dozen to the entrance on 114th Street, right by the pastor’s office.”

“A dozen people with keys?” Mercer repeated the number.

“Last I knew. The pastor hisself, his assistant, his secretary. Then there’s the choir director and his number two. A couple of parishioners who help with the finance business. Not sure who all else got them.”

“There must be a list?” Mike asked.

“Surely,” Gaskin said, “when the office opens in a few hours. We’ll get you that.”

“Have you had any problems recently? Any feuds that were brought into the church?” Mercer asked.

“Any psychos showing up to pray?” Mike added.

Wilbur Gaskin shook his head. “Nothing I’m aware of. Amos?”

“Not my business, Mr. Gaskin. Not none of my business who comes for the Lord’s word.”

Every now and then I could hear the footsteps of the detectives, climbing stairs to the choir loft or opening doors that led from the chapel. Audley’s head turned at the same sounds. The mass of keys on his belt clanged against one another whenever he moved. “You mind if I step out, Mr. Gaskin?”

“I’d prefer you stay close, Amos. You’ve got more answers than I do.”