Unlike the other visit, when security guards chased away Coyote and me, those who noticed me today acknowledged my presence with friendly smiles. I didn't see any guards, but I did spot black plastic globes tucked among the shrubs. We were all being watched-for our safety, I'm sure.

The concrete path split three ways over a lush grassy incline. The paths left and right led to the wings of the complex. The glass and chrome buildings reflected the blue sky and green lawn in wavy, distorted patterns. The center path curved between tidy flower beds toward the wide steps of the main entrance.

I pushed open a billiard table-size glass door and entered a carpeted vestibule large enough for a game of basketball. An air-conditioned breeze fluttered against me, and I paused for a moment to refresh myself.

On the far wall, announcements in LED lights scrolled across a message board. To my right, a map indicated YOU ARE HERE with an arrow. I knew where I was; I didn't know where Lara Phillips was.

I opened the magazine I'd brought from Lara's home and read the calender. "Jumping for Jesus" exercise class was taught in the Samson Room, which the map indicated was in the adjoining north wing to my left.

I followed the hall where it curved around the main chapel. Doors wide as garage bays opened onto the sanctuary, which was the size of a soccer stadium. Maintenance workers vacuuming between the pews were projected to heroic size on the JumboTron behind the altar.

Another hundred feet and two left turns later, I passed through a connecting hall and entered the north wing. This building lacked the regal opulence of the main chapel. Plush maroon carpet gave way to beige linoleum. The ridiculously tall doors and walls shrank to human proportions. Commercial fluorescent tubing replaced the gigantic smoked-glass lighting fixtures.

At the end of the hall I found the Samson Room, deserted and quiet. I peeked through the open door and saw a typical exercise studio-stereo at the front, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a rack with multicolored hand weights, and stacks of platforms for step aerobics. A poster on the back mirror had the face of a cartoon Jesus with a headband (instead of a crown of thorns). The caption under the smiling Savior was: WWJD? WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? EXERCISE, SWEAT, PUT AWAY HIS STEPS AND WEIGHTS.

I heard the clatter of metal lockers behind me. I turned around. A placard on the wall indicated the entrance to the women's shower and changing room. Female voices came from around the corner of the entrance.

I could romp inside. I was curious to see what shape these devout Christian women kept themselves in. Wouldn't want the Lord to get a hernia snatching them heavenward during the Rapture, after all.

Two women came out of the changing room, carrying gym bags and smelling clean as wet soap. They walked side by side and chatted into their cell phones.

Was one of them Lara? I asked if they knew where I could find her.

The brunette pulled the cell phone from her ear. "The instructor?"

"I guess." How many Lara Phillips were here?

She shrugged. "Dunno." She elbowed her friend. "Lara. The instructor. Where is she?"

Her blonde companion stopped in midsentence and looked at me. "Try the terrazzo." She motioned out the door and cocked her thumb to the right. The two of them resumed their cell phone conversations and walked around me.

I went out the door and followed the walkway to the back side of the main chapel building. The heat from the mirrored glass turned the space into a convection oven. The sun's rays bore upon me from every direction.

Rectangles of roses and boxwood shrubs broke up the monotony of the perfect lawn. Sycamore trees surrounded an oblong shape of terrazzo that spilled from the back entrance of the building like a tongue. Patio chairs and tables were spread about the terrazzo. An older teenage boy in an apron tended a juice cart under a large umbrella.

A petite brunette busied herself at the closest table. She moved within the circular shadow cast by the table's umbrella. She wore a long, pastel green sundress with spaghetti straps over a yellow T-shirt. Glossy shoulder-length hair spilled from under a ball cap. She peeled clementines and arranged the sections on a plate next to cookies. A metal pitcher on the table sweated droplets. Red punch and ice filled two glass tumblers. A writing pad, spreadsheets, pens, and a Palm Pilot sat beside the tumblers.

I stepped close, the table remaining between us. The brow of her ball cap was embroidered with Eternally Fit for the Lord. Her scent was of moist hair, lilac shampoo, and "Ocean Breeze" sunblock.

"Excuse me," I said.

The woman looked up, startled. Square mirrored sunglasses reflected the glass and greenery.

She had Roxy's dimples and chin but her nose was shorter and her lips narrower and more full. Maybe she wasn't Roxy's sister.

I said, "I'm looking for Lara Phillips."

"Yes? May I help you?"

What I knew about Lara was a big question mark. I introduced myself and advanced with a calm face, my hands open and the palms facing her. "If you are Lara Phillips, I wanted to ask you a few questions."

"About what?"

"I'm a private investigator. Katz Meow hired me to find out what happened to your sister."

Even with her face darkened in shadow, I could see her blanch. She retreated a step and bumped against an adjacent table. The woman's expression became hard, like clay baking in this heat. "What about my sister?"

Then she was Lara Phillips.

The kid at the juice cart looked at us, averted his eyes, and pretended to act busy.

I said, "I'm looking into the circumstances of her murder and-"

"Why? She's dead." A rising anger stiffened Lara's voice.

She whisked the sunglasses from her face. The color rushed back into her complexion. She squared her shoulders, all five feet of her standing ramrod straight. The motion tightened the dress across her small breasts.

Her blue eyes-Roxy's were brown-stared as if she were about to hypnotize me. "I'm asking again, what about my sister?" Her voice was as toxic as lye.

"Like I said, I want to help."

"Help? It's too late for that," Lara replied. "You should've been here while she was still alive."

"Lara?" a deep masculine voice asked from behind. A tall man walked between the row of chairs and tables and circled around me. Sunglasses rode atop the mass of his well-groomed silver hair. The craggy lines of his ruddy face extended to a prominent jaw and a dimpled chin. He wore a loose short-sleeved shirt in a red tartan pattern and khaki trousers.

The question mark hovering above Lara got even bigger. I recognized this man from photos and his television show. He was Reverend Dale Journey.

The two of them exchanged looks that implied more than a casual working relationship. Her eyes cut back to me while his gaze lingered on her.

Journey stepped beside her and faced me, hands gripping the back of a chair. He wore a wedding ring. During his sermons, Journey often mentioned he was a widower and the gold band reminded him of promises kept to his now departed wife and to God.

"Your name, sir?" he asked in a measured soothing tone.

"Gomez," I replied, moving around the table and extending my hand. "Felix Gomez."

Journey and Lara stared at my fingers as if the digits were soiled from wiping my ass. Neither moved other than to raise their faces toward mine.

I could zap them both right now. I reached to remove my sunglasses. Then what? Juice boy watched us. Things could get complicated. I lowered my hand.

Lara whispered, "He asked about Freya."