Justice Denied

CHAPTER 7

People who go missing of their own volition usually do so because they’ve got something to hide. People who go missing against their will usually disappear because someone else has something to hide. At that point I had no idea which of those causes applied to Elaine Manning. But if I was going to find her-as I had been ordered to do-then it made sense to start asking questions in the last place she’d been seen.

On my way to the King Street Mission I had been concerned about what I’d say to the Seattle homicide cops I was liable to run into who would also be there working. Turns out I needn’t have worried on that score. No one was there. It was Wednesday. LaShawn Tompkins had died on Friday. His death may have made a big media splash over the weekend, but by Wednesday his death was old news. Not only that, the clock had ticked far beyond those first critical forty-eight hours when a case is most likely to be solved-if it’s ever going to be solved. Homicide cops don’t necessarily have a short attention span, but police departments can and do, especially if something else comes up in the meantime.

So J. P. Beaumont had the King Street Mission pretty much to himself. When Pastor Mark turned his back on me and then disappeared into an office on the far side of the front desk, he didn’t tell me I should move along. So I didn’t. I went into questioning mode, starting with the almost toothless Cora.

On the one hand, it was hard to look at her. On the other hand, it was hard not to stare. For her part, Cora seemed to be totally unaffected by her tragically flawed physical appearance. She had finished doing whatever she had been doing on the computer. An open Bible now lay on the desk in front of her.

“I’m looking for Elaine Manning,” I said. Cora glanced cautiously over her shoulder, as if to make sure Pastor Mark’s door was closed before she answered my inquiry.

“Like Pastor Mark said,” she told me, “Sister Elaine left.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

Cora shook her head. “No. She just took off.”

“Are you here at the desk most of the time?” I asked.

“Oh, no. Just today. It’s my chore for the day-minding the front desk.”

“And who was minding it when Ms. Manning left?”

“Sister Elaine, you mean. That was Saturday morning. As it happens, I was on the desk then, too. I had lunch-cooking duty and I traded with Brother Samuel. I hate cooking.”

“What time was it?”

“Right after breakfast. Around nine or so. The cops had come by the night before and talked to Pastor Mark. They told him what had happened to Brother LaShawn. The rest of us didn’t hear about it until breakfast, when Pastor Mark made the official announcement.”

“And how did Sister Elaine react to that news?” I asked.

“About the way you’d expect. She was very upset, crying and everything,” Sister Cora said. “But then we all were. Brother LaShawn was just the nicest person you’d ever hope to meet.”

“And Ms. Manning left right after that?” I asked.

“Almost right after,” Cora verified with a nod. “She left the table while the rest of us were still there. When she came back downstairs, she had a suitcase with her. Well, not a suitcase, actually, a duffel bag. She went into Pastor Mark’s office and talked to him for a few minutes. I was sitting here at the desk by then, so I heard them-their voices, anyway, not exactly what they were saying. They were yelling. I heard her say something about how dare he do something or other, but I didn’t hear the rest of it.”

“Could it have been related to Mr. Tompkins’s death?”

Sister Cora shrugged. “I suppose so,” she said. “A few minutes later Sister Elaine came out and asked me to call her a cab. Then she left.”

“Did she happen to mention to you where she was going or where the cab would be taking her?”

Sister Cora shook her head. “She just said ‘Get me a cab,’ and I did. It was green, I think.”

But I happen to know that cab companies have records. They keep track of where and when they pick up fares; they also know where they drop them off.

“Tell me about Friday night,” I said. “Were you here at dinner?”

Sister Cora nodded. “We all were. The only excuse for missing dinner is if you’re working at an outside job. With Brother LaShawn it was different, though. He was taking care of his mother, so that was all right. He had an excused absence, but everyone else was supposed to be here, and they were.”

“How many people is that?” I asked.

“Without Brother LaShawn and Sister Elaine, we’re down to thirty-six. We can hold forty max.”

“The King Street Mission isn’t exactly on the beaten path. How do people find this place?” I asked. “How do they know to come here?”

“My parole officer told me about it,” she said. “Praise God for that,” she added. “Otherwise I’d probably be dead by now.”

But LaShawn Tompkins is dead, I thought. So that was small comfort.

“How does this place work?” I asked.

“Work?” she asked.

“Do you pay rent, or what?”

Sister Cora shook her head. “There’s no rent,” she said. “But we have to obey all the rules. If you break one, you’re gone-O-U-T.”

“And the rules are?”

“No booze. No drugs. No cigarettes. You do your assigned chores. You attend classes, work at the thrift store, do whatever needs to be done. We’re here to better ourselves. To learn to make better choices.”

“How long do people stay?” I asked.

“As long as it takes,” Sister Cora answered. “Sometimes it’s only a couple of months. Sometimes it’s longer. I’ll be leaving in another month or so, after I get my new teeth.”

“New teeth?”

“I get fitted for them next week. A dentist volunteered to fit me for free. I can hardly wait.”

Without teeth Sister Cora looked like an old woman, although she was probably only in her midthirties. I tried to imagine how she’d look with new teeth. She’d most likely still look like she’d been rode hard and put up wet, but not as bad as she did right now.

“What about money?” I asked. “If you’re doing all this volunteer work and taking classes and studying the Bible, what do you do for spending money?”

“We don’t need spending money,” she said simply. “The Lord provides for our needs while we’re here. We earn credits for the chores we do and for however many classes we take. If we do work at outside jobs, we turn that money over to the treasurer, who holds it until we leave. Then, when it’s time to go, we have that money and whatever is in our credit account to use to get started outside-for an apartment deposit or whatever. It’s like a little savings account.”

Yes, I thought. At the bank of Pastor Mark.

I wondered what kind of interest rate the good pastor paid, or if he paid any at all. Sister Cora’s impending teeth notwithstanding, I kept trying to figure out if this wasn’t some kind of scam. Maybe King Street Mission was the sort of place where if Pastor Mark directed the residents to swill down a cup of arsenic-laced Kool-Aid, they would all say “Bottoms up” and guzzle away.

The front door opened. A man in a suit and properly knotted bow tie slammed his way in through the door and then strode across the room. I had him pegged for an attorney long before he opened his mouth.

“Is this man disturbing you, Sister Cora?” he demanded.

She looked at him in some confusion. “Not at all, Mr. Ramsey. He was just asking a few questions.”

I recognized the name. That would be Dale Ramsey, of Ramsey, Ramsey, and something else, a name I vaguely remembered from some of the published legal papers regarding God’s Word, LLC. Which meant Pastor Mark had run up the flag for help and here was Mr. Ramsey riding to the rescue.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now, Mr. Beaumont,” he said. (Pastor Mark’s careful study of my ID had obviously allowed him to remember my name with uncanny accuracy. He had also duly reported it.)

“Sister Cora has work to do,” Ramsey continued. “You’ve kept her from it long enough. Furthermore, Pastor Mark tells me that you’re from the attorney general’s office. Our people have spent all weekend answering questions for investigators from Seattle PD concerning the unfortunate death of Brother LaShawn. Unless Ross Connors’s office has some reason for horning in on someone else’s jurisdiction, I see no reason for this to continue.”

Ramsey was pushy in a stilted, officious, and overly formal way. It’s no wonder I took an instant dislike to the man. But for Ross Connors, deniability was still everything. If I made even the slightest objection, phone calls would be made to Seattle PD downtown. Questions would be asked. Attention would be paid.

“Of course,” I said, equally formally, and bowed slightly in Sister Cora’s direction. “You’ve been most helpful.”

Pastor Mark emerged from behind his closed office door in time to watch me leave. With his tattooed arms folded across his chest, he stood and smiled-smirked, really-at my being ejected. I nodded and sent my own half-baked smile in his direction, just to make sure we were even.

It doesn’t matter if we’re talking bars or missions. I don’t like being run out of places before I’m ready to go. It rubs me the wrong way. In this case it made me think that God’s Word, LLC, had something to hide. But thanks to Sister Cora, I wasn’t walking away empty-handed. I knew which Seattle cab company had green cabs, and since they keep records, that meant that, whether the folks at God’s Word liked it or not, I also had a lead on Elaine Manning’s whereabouts.

I had left my cell phone in the car while I visited King Street Mission. I had been inside for far longer than I had anticipated, and again the phone was awash in messages. I hurried through them one by one.

“Hi, Dad,” Scott said cheerfully. “Mel wanted me to call you with our flight information, but we’ll be renting a car, so you don’t need to worry about coming to pick us up. By the time we get our luggage, it’ll probably be close to six-thirty or so. Are there dinner plans? Should we go there directly or just check into the hotel and wait for marching orders?”

The next caller was Mel: “Where are you?” she asked. “Why aren’t you picking up? Did you remember to order the flowers?”

Next was one from my son-in-law: “Hello. It’s me. Jeremy.” He sounded nervous, and I can understand why. We hardly ever talk on the phone. “We’re in Salem at the Burger King,” he continued. “Kelly’s in the restroom changing Kyle’s diaper. We’ll probably be in Seattle around two or so. I guess we’ll be coming straight to the house. I think that’s what Kelly wanted me to tell you. If it isn’t, I’ll call back.”

If Kelly had charged her husband with calling me, did that mean she and I weren’t speaking, or at least she wasn’t speaking to me? If that was the case, it would make the occasion of my grandmother’s funeral more than a little awkward.

Mel again: “Harry wants to know if the funeral is a private affair or if it would be all right if some of the SHIT guys came along,” Mel said. “I told him it was fine, but now I’m wondering. Should I have checked with Lars? Do we know how many people really are coming? Had we better order some food and reserve the party room? Call me.”

Awkward and complicated. This was beginning to sound like putting on a wedding-minus the bride and groom.

Next was Men’s Wearhouse: “Mr. Beaumont, when you were in on Monday, we were told that you needed your tux in time for Friday. It’s ready now. Could you please stop by at your convenience and try it on? That way, if any additional alterations are required…” Checking on a tux for Friday seemed like a very low priority.

Mel again: “I’ve been trying to think of where we should go to dinner with a new baby and all. I finally decided that we’d be better off eating at home. So I’ve called that new catering place, Magical Meals, and I’ve cleared it with the doorman. They’ll deliver a roast beef dinner with all the trimmings to the condo, complete with someone to serve and clean up. They’ll be at the house at six. If you think that’s a bad idea…” In fact, it seemed nothing short of brilliant.

Then a message from Lars: “Ja, sure,” he said. “If you have time, give me a call…”

I hadn’t been writing anything down, and by then my head was spinning. I called Lars back first. “What’s up?” I asked.

“I t’ink I’d like to go to another meeting,” he said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’m on my way,” I said.

I called Mel back and breathed a small thank-you when I reached her answering machine instead of her. “Busy with Lars,” I said. “Taking him to a meeting. Dinner sounds great.”

I forgot about the tux, but on the way to Queen Anne Gardens I remembered to call the flower shop and got the flowers ordered. Several different arrangements. Big ones. Spare no expense. So I may not be great, but at least I’m not entirely useless. In between all that I even managed to call the cab company and started the process of tracing Elaine Manning’s Saturday-morning ride.

Lars came out to the car looking like death warmed over. I’d managed to find another noontime meeting, this one over on the east side at a place called Angelo’s. I’d been there before, years ago. So had Lars.

“Thank you,” he said, once he got in the car.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I cannot believe t’ose women,” he said. “The first one knocked on my door this morning to see if I needed someone to help me with breakfast. Ja, sure, I can eat my own breakfast! And it’s been that way all day long, one of them after another.”

Are we going to a meeting just to get away from a bunch of pushy women? I wondered. Or is he afraid one of them will haul out a bottle of booze and slip some to him?

So we went to the meeting. Then, because Lars was in no hurry to go home, we went by and picked up my tux. And then, because he still didn’t want to go back to Queen Anne Gardens, I took him along on a jaunt through the grocery store to stock up on essentials and then home to Belltown Terrace with me, where he settled into my recliner and snored like a jackhammer for the remainder of the afternoon.

I did my best to work around him. The dispatcher from the cab company called to say Elaine Manning had been dropped off at the YWCA on Fifth. I called there and made inquiries, but to no avail. It’s a lot easier to tell someone to buzz off when you’re talking to them on the phone than it is when they’re standing right there in front of your desk. So I figured I’d try talking to the ladies at the YWCA another time when I didn’t have Lars Jenssen underfoot and a whole contingent of company bearing down on me from every point of the compass.

Then, because the house was still quiet-relatively quiet due to Lars’s Olympian snoring-and because I couldn’t think of anything more to do about LaShawn Tompkins right then, I called up LexisNexis one more time and, just for the hell of it, typed in the name Anthony David Cosgrove.

All right. So I complained about computers for years. Resisted using them. Griped about having to use them. But now I’m a believer. Within seconds of typing the name, there it was-a whole list of hits concerning Anthony David Cosgrove. To my surprise one of them was only two months old. It came from an obscure magazine called Electronics Engineering Journal. It was a long, amazingly dull article on corruption and payoffs among defense contractors. The reference to Cosgrove came near the end of the article.

According to industry analyst Thomas Dortman, payoffs with dollar signs on them are the ones that gain big headlines, but payoffs that result in job offers are almost standard operating procedure. One of the earliest Dortman recalls happened at Boeing in the early eighties. In that instance charges came to nothing, however, when the alleged whistle-blower, electronics engineer Anthony David Cosgrove, disappeared in the Mount Saint Helens explosion.

That was it. But still, it was intriguing. The missing persons report had said nothing about Cosgrove being involved in any kind of at-work investigation. And DeAnn hadn’t mentioned anything to me about it either, but she had been a little girl at the time. Something could well have been going on at work without her having any knowledge of it. The wife would have known, however, and I was interested to see that she had made no mention of it.

I jotted down Thomas Dortman’s name. If, as he claimed, he had personal knowledge of what was going on at Boeing in the early eighties, maybe he had personal knowledge of Anthony David Cosgrove as well.

The next listing for Anthony Cosgrove predated the previous one by almost twenty years. It turned out to be the 1988 announcement in which the man was declared legally dead. It seems to me that being declared legally dead would be enough to get your name removed from a missing persons list, but bureaucracies really are bureaucracies, and the right hand often has no idea what the left is doing.

I would have plowed on. I was about to put Dortman’s name into my search engine when the phone rang.

“Okay,” Detective Kendall Jackson said. “Thought you’d want to know that you’ve flunked Miss Congeniality one more time. You’re back on everybody’s bad list again.”

“Me?” I asked with feigned innocence. “What have I done this time?”

“Stepped on somebody’s toes hard enough that we’ve been told we’re not to share information about LaShawn Tompkins’s murder with anyone, most especially anyone with the initials J.P. So what did you find out?”

“I found out that the King Street Mission gives me the creeps,” I replied.

“I hear you loud and clear on that one,” Jackson said.

“And I wouldn’t trust Pastor Mark any farther than I can throw him.”

“Ditto on that,” Jackson agreed.

“I learned that King Street Mission will be holding a memorial service for LaShawn on Thursday night, and I know I can’t attend.”

“No problem,” Jackson said. “Hank and I already have that one covered.”

I had saved the best for last. “And I’ve traced Elaine Manning as far as the YWCA on Fifth Avenue, arriving at ten-oh-six on Saturday morning. I have no idea where she went from there.”

“That’s something I didn’t know,” Jackson said. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll check it out.”

“So you and I are still good, then?” I asked.

“As far as I know,” he replied. “Your name’s Beau Beaumont, right? Never heard of anyone named J.P.”

Detective Kendall Jackson was indeed my kind of guy.

About then I thought everything was in good shape, but before I could return to LexisNexis, the phone rang. It was the doorman calling to let me know that my daughter and her family were downstairs. Could he send them up?

“Of course,” I said. After that, everything went straight to hell. In a handbasket.

I expected Kyle to be a handful. After all, he was only a month or so old. And Lars? Of course he would need attention. His wife had just died. And Kayla? She’s four. What could you expect, especially considering the fact that my penthouse condo is anything but kid-proof. (Then again, when it comes to four-year-olds, is anything ever really kid-proof?) What I didn’t anticipate was that Kelly would be more of a pain in the neck than all of the rest of them put together.

Because, as I had gathered from our nonphone conversation, she really wasn’t speaking to me. She spoke to Lars. She spoke to Jeremy, who looked as though he would much prefer being anywhere else in the universe to being cooped up in his father-in-law’s domicile. Kelly spoke to Kayla. When she went into the guest room to feed Kyle and put him down for a nap, I went gunning for Jeremy. I found him hiding out in the family room with Kayla, who was watching a cartoon about someone named Elmer or Elmo-something like that. Kayla and Lars were both engrossed in watching the TV. Jeremy was dozing. Like Kelly, he, too, had that dim, chronically sleep-deprived look which, as I remember, is part and parcel of having a newborn in the house. I woke him up.

“What’s going on with Kelly?” I asked.

Jeremy shook his head and shrugged. “Beats me,” he said miserably. “All I know is I can’t do anything right.”

“That makes two of us,” I said.

At which point Kelly suddenly reappeared in the doorway. “Let’s go,” she announced.

Jeremy said, “Where?”

“To the hotel,” Kelly said. “Obviously that’s somebody else’s room! I wouldn’t want to be in the way.”

“No!” Kayla wailed. “I don’t want to go!”

In actual fact, it was someone else’s closet. Mel didn’t use the bedroom at all, but with Mel’s clothing and makeup clearly evident in both the bathroom and the closet, I could see how Kelly might have gotten that mistaken idea into her head.

“I thought we were going to stay for dinner,” Jeremy objected.

“We’ll eat at McDonald’s,” Kelly said firmly. “Kayla will like that better anyway.”

“I don’t wanna go!” Kayla said. “I want to stay here. With Gumpa.”

Lars said, “Is there a problem?”

Dutifully Jeremy began collecting things-the diaper bag, the baby carrier, and all the other little necessaries that go with being parents of young children-while Kelly simply headed for the door with the blanket-swaddled Kyle in her arms. By then Kayla was wailing at the top of her lungs and stamping her feet. “Don’t wanna go. Don’t wanna go.”

At which point the telephone rang again. “Your caterer is here,” the doorman announced. “Should I send her up?”

Why the hell not? I thought. “By all means,” I said.

Kayla was still screeching as the elevator headed for the lobby. It was enough to make me long for the old days and the relative peace and quiet of the Seattle PD homicide squad-even if Captain Paul Kramer was the guy running the show.