“Absolutely,” he responded, “but it may tell us where to go looking for solid information.”
“As in where the bodies are buried.” That’s what I said aloud. I was thinking about Angel Barstogi and a man left dead in a Hammond, Indiana, alley. It seemed to me that God wouldn’t frown on our using a little ingenuity to even the score. God helps those who help themselves. Besides, there was a certain perverse justice in the idea of dredging the truth out of Pastor Michael Brodie’s very own sermon. Somehow that seemed fair.
I
n the final analysis, we weren’t able to get it under the pulpit, but we got close enough. Suzanne Barstogi was still in the Penitent’s Room when we returned from Kirkland with Peter’s tiny sound-activated tape recorder. By this time her knees must have worn out. She was lying prostrate on the floor, sound asleep.
We were alone in the sanctuary. Peters sat down casually on a front bench and attached the recorder under the seat. He handled the equipment with well-practiced competency. As soon as it was concealed, I went past the sleeping Suzanne and knocked on the door to Brodie’s study. We had agreed to beard the lion in his den. We wanted to turn up the heat on Pastor Michael Brodie. We could at least give his self-confidence a good shake.
“What are you doing back here?” he demanded in a voice that caused Suzanne to stir and struggle once more to her knees. He looked around, presumably for Carstogi. “What do you want?”
“We want to ask you a few questions about your whereabouts on Thursday morning.”
Brodie’s florid face twisted. “Are you accusing me…” He broke off abruptly. “I was here, at the church, in my study. Are you listening to that heathen’s accusations?”
“You mean Carstogi? No, we’re just doing our job. Did anyone see you?” I prodded.
“I told you I was here by myself. Nobody saw me. Almighty God is my witness.”
“Have you ever been in Hammond, Indiana?” The tone of Peters’ question was deceptively mild. He leaned casually, almost insolently, against the entrance to the Penitent’s Room.
Brodie’s red face went suddenly slack and ashen. He recovered quickly. “What does that have to do with this?”
“Oh, nothing,” Peters said. “I was just wondering.”
“I know what you’re trying to do. Andrew is making trouble. He is a man with a burden of vengeance in his heart. He blames me for his fall from grace. You tell him from me that Jehovah sees into his vile soul. He will rot in hell for his unjust accusations.”
“So you claim you were here all Thursday morning, or at least until Suzanne Barstogi called you? Is that right?” I continued.
“That’s what I said. Twice.” His fists were tight and so was his voice. He was losing control.
“Why did you change her name? Are the others using different names too?”
I could tell that Peters’ roundabout questions were having the desired effect. Brodie’s eyes shifted uneasily back and forth between Peters and me as if he were watching an invisible tennis ball. We were developing into a team. I liked Peters’ way of approaching issues in an off-the-wall manner.
“We’re starting new lives with new names,” Brodie explained.
“And new wives,” Peters added. “What about your name? Did you change yours too, or only the names of your followers?”
“I want you out of here,” Brodie ordered. His voice dropped to an ominous whisper. “I want you out of here now!”
Peters uncrossed his legs and stretched. There was no sense of urgency in his movements. He stepped around Suzanne and approached the open Bible, running his finger down the page. “It might be worth your while to go looking for someone who can remember your being here on Thursday morning. Maybe there was a cleaning woman around or a neighbor who saw you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Peters shook his head. “You can call it that if you like. I call it a friendly suggestion.”
With that Peters ambled out of the room. I followed, wishing Peters’ little recording device had a remote listening capability, because I was sure all hell was going to break loose the moment we were out of earshot.
We made it into the office by one forty-five and found stacks of messages. Tom Stahl had called again. I had left the phone bill payment envelope with the outgoing mail before I left the Royal Crest that morning. I resented his calling me at the office about it, but then, I never was available at home during business hours. I gave the yellow message sheet a toss.
There was a call from Maxwell Cole. I wadded that one up and threw it in the trash along with the first one. Cole had more nerve than a bad tooth to call me for anything. Detectives don’t speak to the press. That dubious privilege belongs to the supervisors.
Captain Powell and Sergeant Watkins wanted to talk to Peters or me. We drew straws. Peters lost and took off for Powell’s fishbowl. There was one more message, one that intrigued me. It was from a woman who said she would call back around two. There was no name on the message, nor was there a number I could call.
I looked at the clock, drummed my fingers on my desk, then reached for the phone. I had made a mental note of the number on the slip of paper in Anne Corley’s back window. I called Motor Vehicles and asked them to get me some information on the Porsche.
Two o’clock was just around the corner. I hauled out a form and started working on a report. I can deal with the creeps. It’s the bureaucratic garbage I can’t stand. I dictated a brief summary of our activities for the day and put Michael Brodie’s and Benjamin Mason/Clinton Jason’s names into the FBI hopper. There was an off chance they had a record somewhere, maybe even an outstanding warrant or two. I phoned Hammond, Indiana, to see if Brodie was still under active investigation in the case Carstogi had mentioned.
My phone did not ring at two o’clock. At two-fifteen, though, I looked up to find Anne Corley being led to my desk by Arlo Hamilton, the public information officer, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat. Look what I found, his face seemed to say. Visitors on the fifth floor are kept to a minimum. I think Anne Corley’s looks had a whole lot to do with the visitor’s badge that was clipped on her jacket. Heads turned in her wake. If there was a grin on Hamilton’s face, I’m sure mine mirrored it. No way could I disguise the pleasure and surprise I felt at seeing her again.
“Here you are, Miss Corley,” Hamilton was saying as he led her to my desk.
“Thank you very much, Arlo,” Anne responded graciously. “I appreciate your help.”
“Think nothing of it. The pleasure was all mine.” Hamilton looked at me. “I was giving her some information for her book,” he explained. “Of course, you know all about that.”
“Yes,” I said. I did know about the book. “How’s it going?” I asked.
She smiled. “Fine. Arlo here has been a world of help.”
Anne sat down on a chair beside my desk. For a few moments Hamilton wavered, uncertain whether to go or stay. Finally he made the right choice and left. Anne was wearing a navy blue suit with an innocently ruffled blouse and a daring slit up one side of the skirt. When she crossed her legs, the skirt fell away, revealing a length of well-formed thigh. A few more heads waggled in our direction. The boots she had worn the day before had obscured two of Anne Corley’s most notable assets.
“Hello, Beau,” she said. Elbows propped on the arms of the chair, she rested her chin on clasped fingers and regarded me with a level, gray-eyed appraisal. “You’ve been busy.”
“Peters and I have had our hands full,” I admitted. “Have you had lunch yet?”
She shook her head. I hurried to my feet in hopes I could spirit her out of the building before Peters returned from his debriefing. It didn’t work. He caught us in the elevator lobby. There wasn’t much I could do but invite him to join us. I’d as soon have bit my tongue, and I could have belted him for not saying a polite no-thank-you. Now I owed him two.
It was still misting out. We walked to a little Italian place in Pioneer Square. Anne was able to talk enzymes knowledgeably enough even though she didn’t seem particularly prone to eat them. As a dedicated processor of junk food, I couldn’t hold my own in that conversation. She and Peters hit it off, making me more than a little resentful. I was also painfully aware that he was much closer in age to Anne than I was. They chatted amiably and laughed, while I did a slow burn through lunch that had nothing to do with indigestion. Peters was the life of the party. I wanted to choke him.
Toward the end of the meal, he leaned back in his chair and said, “Beau says you’re working on a book?” I had made the mistake of mentioning it to him.
Anne gave Peters a clear-eyed look that nonetheless put distance between them. “I come at this through the eyes of the victims. That’s the name of my book,
Victims.
How do children become victims, and what happens to them or their families afterward? I had some personal experiences with that sort of thing in my own family. I’ve made a lifelong study of it.”
“You make it sound as though you’ve been working on this book for quite a while.”
“I have,” Anne said. “All over the country.”
“Making any money at it?” Peters asked. There was a classic cut to her clothing, elegant and expensive. They spoke of style as well as money.
Anne laughed, easily, comfortably. “If I were in it for the money, I’d have quit a long time ago. No, it’s strictly a labor of love.” The laughter disappeared from her face. She regarded Peters seriously. “Why do you think Angela Barstogi is dead?”
Peters shrugged. “No logical reason; she just is.”
The light dawned slowly. I’m not a fast learner. Hearing Anne questioning Peters about the case, I realized that I had been nothing more to Anne Corely than part of her pet research project. It was an ego-bruising realization. I reached for the check, ignoring the fact that neither Anne’s nor Peters’ coffee cup was empty.
I walked too fast, making it difficult for Anne to keep up. Let her dawdle along with Peters, I fumed. She probably had a whole string of questions to ask him. As for me, I had better things to do with my time than answer questions for some half-baked author. I felt suckered, used. I squirmed a little too. I remembered the previous evening’s dinnertime topic. I had shot my mouth off royally, all the time thinking Anne Corley was interested in me when in fact she had only been fishing for information. It would have been easier for me to handle if I had been a rookie. No veteran cop should have been so stupid.
Peters and Anne caught up with me in the elevator lobby on the first floor. Peters excused himself because he had to run an errand. I waited for the notoriously slow elevators, fervently wishing one would come quickly so I could escape Anne Corley’s quizzical look.
“Are you angry?” she asked, her question unnervingly direct.
“No,” I said quickly, defensively. “Of course not. Why should I be?”
“But you are,” she replied.
A bell rang and a door opened. People filed into an elevator, but I didn’t. “Yes,” I admitted at last. “You’re right. I am angry.”
“Why?” she asked.
“It’s a long story,” I answered. “I thought you were…Well, I mean I…”
“Why aren’t you listed in the phone book?” she asked. “I changed my mind about the drink after I dropped you off, but there was no way to call you.”
“I’m a homicide detective. We don’t have listed numbers.” I felt a momentary flash of pleasure that she had tried to call me, but then I remembered her subterfuge and was angry all over again. Another elevator showed up, and I made as if to get on it. She put one hand on my wrist. Her touch nailed my feet to the lobby floor.
“I’m not here about the Barstogi case, Beau,” she said. “I came because I wanted to see you.”
“Come on, Anne, there’s no fool like an old fool. I’ve been saying that to myself all day. If you want to ask questions, do it aboveboard. Don’t play games.”
“Will you meet me after work?” she asked.
“Do you want me to bring Peters? We’re both working the case.” I couldn’t resist a dig.
She responded in kind. “Bring a chaperone if you want, but that wasn’t what I had in mind.”
I swallowed the bait like a starving mackerel. “Where?” I asked.
“Meet me in the lobby of the Four Seasons,” she said. “We can have a drink there. About five-thirty.”