by G. M. Ford
He handed me back the papers.
"So you went to see Anne Siemons."
"Right. She told me essentially the same story that the trainee told me about the party and the girl exposing herself and all."
He folded the glasses and returned them to his shirt pocket.
"So Stan and I are all excited. I mean none of this actually advanced the investigation, but we figured it was just too weird to ignore."
He patted the glasses as if to confirm their presence.
"Well, to make a long story short, the chief didn't agree."
"Not with the missing stuff, the newspaper ad, the Lund kid, the whole sports banquet scene. Not even with all of that?" Carl asked.
"You gotta understand. Petersen was under a lot of pressure. The family had big-time clout, and we had absolutely no hard evidence. Nothin'. We didn't even know for sure that anything was missing. For all we knew it burned up in the fire. And now we were mucking around in an incident that could have been embarrassing to the university. And listen fellas, if there's anybody in this town you don't want to get on the bad side of, it's the university. They own this town. They're the only reason this town is here. Making them look bad was not a good idea."
"But you had corroboration of the Lund kid's story," I said.
Connley shook his head sadly.
"Not as far as the chief was concerned. Petersen was from the old school He didn't make distinctions about drugs. As far as he was concerned, the Lund kid was a drug addict. Which again, as far as he was concerned, left us with a partially corroborated story of a junkie as our only lead. I can't say as I blame him. He just wasn't willing to take any more heat on what we had. He said that was the end; we shut it down."
"And that was the end of it?" I asked.
"That was it," he confirmed. "After the insurance paid off, I sent a list of the coins and stamps out on the national wire, just to see if any of it would show up, but it never did."
"That's not surprising," I said. "Most serious collectors aren't like your Mr. Miles. They don't collect the stuff to share with others. They hoard it strictly for themselves. Stuff that rare would just disappear into a private collection and never be seen again."
"Probably the wackiest case I ever worked on," he said. "Well, Leo, you want to share the rest of this with me or what? You got me curious now."
I started at the beginning and laid it out for him. He sat with his big hands folded in his lap, listening intently. When I'd finished, he retrieved his cane and struggled to his feet. He checked his watch.
"I'm helpin' out. Relieving the dispatcher tonight. They figure I can still handle that. I gotta go."
We both thanked him for his time. He started to go, then stopped.
"So you think it's the same girl?" he asked.
"It's the same girl," Carl said flatly.
Connley looked to me. "Believe him," I said. "If Carl says it's the same girl, it's the same girl."
He took half a minute to digest the information.
"And you know for sure that she's the one bilked this guy out of a bunch of money in this real estate deal a while back."
"Yes."
"Last summer."
And it's the same girl who married this friend's son?"
"It's her," Carl said again. "That happened this year." Now Bill Connley turned to face me. "And your friend, he didn't think she went down with the ship?" "No, he didn't." "Any particular reason?"
"Nothing worth talking about," I said. "Same kind of vague maybes you guys had about the fire."
"Quite a gap in there. Between nineteen eighty and ninety-five. Fifteen years is a long time. Even supposing she did burn up the old lady and got off with the stuff, the best she could have hoped for was maybe ten cents on the dollar for identifiable stuff like that. A kid probably didn't get that much. Maybe two hundred thousand if she was lucky. That's not enough to last fifteen years."
"Not, it's not," I agreed.
"What do you suppose she's been doing all these years?"
"I don't want to think about it," I said. "Probably not working at McDonald's," mused Carl.
We watched as Connley crabbed down the polished ihall and disappeared into the elevator. Carl started to speak, changed his mind, and instead pushed the forward button on his chair. His sudden reticence lasted through the hotel, through, leaving the van at the airport, all the way until we had heeded the first call to board. We sat in the back of the plane, watching the first-class passengers stowing their gear.
"She's like lions," he said, as a stout woman in blue jeans wrestled a plaid overnighter into a distant overhead compartment. "She hunts the weak. She spots 'em, cuts 'em off from the herd, runs 'em down,
devours 'em, and then returns to the shade with a full belly to sleep it off."
"I've been trying not to think that."
"Think it," he said.
"Kinda makes you wonder if she went down with the ship."
"Doesn't make me wonder. Lions don't go down with the ship. Wildebeest go down with the ship."
17
In two short days, my answering machine had gone into meltdown. The more messages it collects, the shorter it gets with the callers. As it approaches the end of its tiny tape, you have about five seconds to leave a message before it cuts you off. The last three messages were all from my attorney, Jed James.
"Leo. Give me a call when you get a chance. Things have—" Glick-hummmm.
"Why don't you fix that damn—" Glick-hummmm. "Call me, Leo, you—"
From his offices in Pioneer Square, Jed terrorized the local law enforcement community. His years as the ACLU's chief litigator back East had given him both a firm grounding in litigation and" a combative politically incorrect manner seldom seen west of Chicago. Jed was the champion of rights. No particular kind. No agenda. Just rights. No cow was too sacred. No infringement too slight.
Facing the prospect of reversal, judges made it a point to have pressing matters that prevented them from presiding over Jed's cases. Knowing Jed's penchant for media attention, the King County prosecutor's office made it a point to plea-bargain with unusual vigor. Having been pummeled in the past, most experienced private attorneys took substantially less and settled out of court.
"James, Junkin, Rose and Smith."
"Hi, Suzanne. It's Leo."
"Hisself has been most upset by your absence."
"Hisself is usually upset."
"We wouldn't have it any other way. Hang on. I'll see what his majesty is doing." He started right in.
"You ever thought that just maybe you got your money's worth out of that answering machine, Leo. Come on, 'fess up, how long you had that thing?"
"Better part of fifteen years."
"And the idea of maybe replacing it with something just a bit more technologically proficient doesn't come immediately to mind?"
"It still works," I protested.
"Christmas," he said, partially covering the mouthpiece. "Suzanne—-!" I could hear him shouting. "Mark it down. For Christmas this year, Leo gets a new answering machine."
"Oh, now you've spoiled the surprise," I pouted.
"The Boys are going to lose the house."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"Defeatism is unlike you, Jed."
"It's realism. O.J.'s defense team couldn't save 'em now. They never actually owned it anyway."
"How's that?"
"The old lady hadn't paid the taxes for the past twelve years. Property with unpaid taxes can't officially change hands until the taxes are paid."
"So, if they paid the taxes—"
"Thirty-four thousand in taxes. Another seventeen in assessments? And that's just the tax end of it. The house has got a clogged sewer line spewing effluent into their neighbors' yards. The city won't fix it because of the unpaid assessments. Their neighbors are in the last stages of a public nuisance complaint
that I'm also out of appeals on. They're going to win. It's a don
e deal. The old lady's estate is going to get the house back. The city is going to sell it at a fire-sale price, pay itself off the top, and let the Boys and the rest of her relations fight it out for the rest." "How long?"
"There'll be a seal on that place in under two weeks." "Have you told them?"
"For all the good it's done. I stopped over night before last. You can't call anymore, you know. GTE cut the phone off."
"Really?"
"Yup. And the city is shutting down their services one at a time. So I stopped by to give them the bad news."
I could hear him chuckling on the other end. "I'm afraid to ask."
"They were just hammered, Leo, I mean twisted, knee-walking drunk, playing cards back there in the kitchen. I used that same line I just used with you— that the place was going to have a seal on it within two weeks. They started doing seal impressions, you know barking and slapping their arms together, tossing slices of pizza at each other like fish. By the way, did they tell you about the pizza?"
"Yeah, they did."
"They were still barking when I left." "Sorry," I said.
"Not to worry, Leo. I've gotten to be as fond of them as you are, but we're at the end of the line here. Make sure they understand, okay?"
"I'll take care of it," I assured him.
"New subject," he said. "Can you handle a skip trace for me?"
"Nope. Sorry."
"It's easy money."
"I've got something important going on now. I'm going down to Portland this afternoon."
"What could be more important than easy money?"
"Lions."
"I'm not going to ask. Bye, Leo." "Bye, Jed."
Rebecca was in a meeting. Marge was not taking phone calls. No way I was returning Cousin Paul's calls. He wanted me to confirm a Monday luncheon at his club. There were four messages from H.R. McColl, first two from a secretary, followed by two from the great man himself. Fishing for an address for my severance check, I guessed. Unfortunately for Mr. McColl, Mr. Waterman was, quite regrettably, going to be away from his desk.
The Reverend Swogger, according to the church secretary, would be just delighted to meet with me at four-thirty this afternoon, no matter what I wanted, sandwiching me, she said, between his meeting with the board of governors and his weekly taping, whatever that was.
Somehow it had gotten to be nearly three in the afternoon. Mark had been waiting when Carl and I, after a four-hour layover in Salt Lake City, had rolled down the Sea-Tac gangway a little after two in the morning. For some reason I'd arrived home wired and unable to sleep. I hadn't rolled out until nearly noon. My internal clock was way off. A four-thirty appointment, twenty miles away had seemed easy. Now I felt rushed.
18
Whatever the Reverend swogger was doing, it was working. I don't know whether he'd been saving any souls, but he sure as hell had been saving his pennies. On the north side of the road, inside a large fenced enclosure, an enormous old Quonset hut crouched beneath the old-growth firs like an ancient armadillo, its ribbed metal shell mottled by rust and awash with tree debris. A red banner emblazoned with news of a revival meeting the following Friday adorned the side. My guess was that this had been the original church building. No more.
Diagonally, across the street to the east, sat what the secretary had modestly called the new church. Without the blue glass spire pushing heavenward like a prow of some celestial ship, the building could just as well have been a shopping mall. Steel and rock and glass, the five connected buildings occupied a full suburban block.
The block immediately to the south was occupied by the Evergreen Christian School, four freestanding buildings surrounded by playgrounds, basketball courts, and a full-size baseball field. The two compounds were connected by a massive parking lot—a rough estimate suggested about five hundred or so spaces. Figure two-point-something true believers per car, and the church probably held somewhere in the vicinity of twelve hundred souls. The wages of sin obviously were not frozen.
I pulled to a stop in the main parking lot. A large green sign offered a map and a campus directory. Youth hall, gymnasium, and swimming pool to the left of the church in the big square building. Youth office and Krupp Hall on the second floor. The matching building on the far right held the activity room, the choir room, the sanctuary, the chapel, and the church offices. Behind the complex, a small rectangle was labeled PRIVATE. Some wit had added an S.
Predictably, I'd parked on the wrong side of the building and had to cover three full sides before I came to a black metal door marked "Church Office." It was open. Behind me now, one block over, a residence made of the same materials as the church sat on the corner. A long way from the traditional rectory, it looked like it belonged on a golf course. The sign on the gate also read PRIVATE. No S this time.
Turning away from the house, I stepped inside the office and shook the mist from my hair. Neutral, off-white walls, thick cream-colored carpet. The beige oak desk was unoccupied. The anteroom was empty. I checked the place out.
There were three pictures of Jesus and five of the Reverend Swogger. The bookcase on the near wall held several piles of brochures. Another picture of the Reverend Jeffrey Swogger adorned each. Schedule of church services. Six every Sunday in the new church and six more across the street in the old. At six-thirty, a sunrise service with country-style music. A traditional service at nine with a sixty-voice choir. At ten-thirty the modern service, which included a ten-piece band, sixteen vocalists, and three interpretive dancers. A broadcast schedule for the TV program. Food bank applications. A large yellow four-fold with all of the church's summer programs for youth. I pocketed one of each.
"Hello," I said as loud as I could without screaming.
"Come in," resonated from the depths of the building.
I followed the carpet down a short hall toward, appropriately enough, the light. He met me at the door, hand out.
The Reverend Swogger was going to his grave with the same wide-eyed, adolescent face he'd been born with. The intervening fifteen years had only served to solemnize his boyish features; a slight thickening here, a thin web of lines there, but otherwise he could still have been twenty.
He was bigger than I expected, six-two and a solid two-ten or so, more of a linebacker now than a defensive back. The clump of curly brown hair had long since been tamed by fifty-dollar haircuts. Thousand-dollar blue suit, rounded collar, custom-made shirt, plain burgundy tie, gold cross tie tack.
"You must be Mr. Waterman," he said, indicating a red leather chair to the left of the desk. "Please, sit down."
I confirmed that I was and took a seat. Only the black lacquer desk in the near right-hand corner of the room suggested an office. The decor was more like an amiable front parlor—lace curtains and flowered chintz, deep sofas and landscapes, comfort for the body, succor for the soul.
He settled comfortably into his black high-backed chair.
"Mary said you wanted to see me on a personal matter." "Yes," I said.
He smiled warmly and spread his hands. "How can I be of service?"
"This is quite a church you've got here," I said for an opener.
"Between eleven and fifteen thousand people attend our services every week," he said with obvious pride. "That's in person. It's hard to get an accurate TV count."
"Going to church has come a long way."
"The message hasn't changed," he assured me. "It's only the packaging that's different. Willow Creek Community up in North Everett had an Easter program where they dramatized the Passion of Christ. The whole thing took twelve minutes, and you didn't even have to get out of your car. Drew nine thousand."
When I looked dumbfounded, he gave me the canned speech.
"We minister to the secular suburbs, to the unchurched, to those who quit organized religion years ago. The papers like to call us megachurches. We see ourselves more as missionaries. Quitting church does not eliminate the need for the spiritual. The need for religion is something we all carry inside.
Modern churches merely seek to service the need in its present form. It's all about servicing needs."
I was polite. I said, "Interesting," instead of "bullshit."
"Now what personal matter can I help you with?"
"Actually," I said, "it's not personal about me, it's personal about you."
"Me?" He smiled and folded his hands on the desktop. "Have we met before?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"You're not one of my parishioners." It was a statement. "You know all of them?"
"At least by sight. I don't get around to the shut-ins as much as I should. These days, we use the TV program for that, but I'm sure I'd remember you if you were."
"You attended the University of Wisconsin?" He leaned slightly forward. "Briefly." "Played football?"
He was genuinely amused. Not in the least threatened, just curious.
"Also briefly. You seem to know quite a bit about me, Mr. Waterman. May I ask what you do for a living?"
"I'm a private investigator."
"From Seattle?"
"Yes."
I pulled my license from my pocket and slid it across the desk, where he gave it a cursory glance before sliding it back.
"May I ask what it is that you are investigating?"
"I'm not quite sure, Reverend. It could be—"
Over my left shoulder, next to the wall of windows, the door at the far end of the room swung open. His eyes moved to the door.
"Excuse me, but I'm—" the Reverend said.
A tea cart tinkled as it pushed through the opening, followed by a woman in a white blouse and a denim jumper. She was tall, her long dark hair streaked with gray.
"Oh," she said when she looked up and saw me. "I'm sorry. I'll come back. I was—"
She was the dark-haired beauty in the banquet picture.
"Oh, it's you. No. No. Come in," he said.
He turned to me.
"This is my wife, Katherine."
We exchanged long-distance greetings as she pulled the cart the rest of the way into the room to her husband's side with an elegant economy of motion usually only seen in models.
