by R. R. Irvine
“And the helmet is mine, no matter what?”
“I’ll bring it to your office myself.”
“No fucking way. You mail it to my house. I don’t want to be seen with you.”
“It’s a deal.”
“I can give you a name. That’s all.”
“I’m listening,” Traveler said.
“Maria Gomez. And one more thing. You’ll need a goddamned lawyer to see her.”
14
REED CRITCHLOW called himself a philosopher and chronicler of local history. He‘d been a tenant of the Chester Building for forty years, long enough to observe its evolution from one of Salt Lake’s more fashionable addresses to near-derelict and back again, to its present nostalgic elegance. He was Martin’s age and, like Martin, semiretired when it suited him. His legal advice had kept Traveler out of jail on more than one occasion. His office, at the opposite end of the hall from Moroni Traveler & Son, had a western exposure, looking out at the Great Salt Lake and the Oquirrh Mountains, masked in blue-gray haze from the copper smelters. The furniture was pioneer pine, battered and scarred. But his law books were up to date.
“I know that look of yours, Moroni,” he said from behind his desk. “At this stage in my life I don’t need the kind of troubles you attract.”
“It goes with the job, Martin always says. Yours and his.”
“Both of us should have been put out to pasture years ago.”
Traveler smiled grimly. “Have you spoken with my father in the last couple of days?”
Critchlow sprang out of his chair like a young man. “Your tone tells me he’s in trouble. Whatever it is, I’m ready to help.”
“There’s nothing either of us can do.”
“Come on, Mo. I’ve known you since you were small enough to spank.”
Traveler hesitated. If Critchlow, one of Martin’s oldest friends, hadn’t been informed about the tumor, then it wasn’t Traveler’s place to do it.
“We’ve got a difference of opinion concerning the case I’m on,” Traveler said. “Martin would like me to drop it. Unfortunately I can’t because someone else has threatened me if I don’t.”
Critchlow sank back into his chair and propped his feet up on the desk, sighting at Traveler between his wing tips. “If it’s advice you need, fine. Just so I don’t have to go out in this damned heat.”
His casement-mounted air conditioner, located in the outer office where his part-time secretary worked, was fighting a losing battle against glass-intensified sunlight coming in through the western window.
“It could be murder,” Traveler said.
Critchlow shifted his feet, sat up straight, and lit one of the cigars he and Barney Chester had in common. “I haven’t had a murder case in years. Who’s our client?”
“That’s the problem. One minute I’m looking for a missing missionary and the next thing I know Willis Tanner is claiming church prerogative and talking about murder. It’s something to do with those two women who’ve been killed.”
“Goddamn,” the attorney said, his eyes lighting up. “Jack the Ripper and Mormons. I love it.”
Traveler quickly summarized the situation, concluding with the name he’d been given by Sergeant Rasmussen, Maria Gomez. Critchlow fired smoke rings at an upraised finger. “All we need now are polygamists.”
“One last thing,” Traveler said. “I’m here because my contact at the police department said I’d need a lawyer.”
“Why?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know.”
“What do you want from me then?” Critchlow asked.
“Your company at the police station.”
******
Critchlow stepped inside the police building, took one look around, and said, “I’ve been coming here, or places like it, damn near every day of my life. So they can’t fool me. Something very strange is going on.”
“A maniac’s killing women,” Traveler reminded him.
“I’ve been through worse.” The lawyer’s head swiveled from side to side as he studied the mix of people in the main lobby. Traveler did the same. Considering the location, the college-age men in suits were more likely to be federal agents than missionaries.
“See anybody you know?” Critchlow asked.
A 250-pound Polynesian, much like the ones surrounding Willis Tanner, was standing next to the metal detector. Traveler pointed him out and explained his sudden preoccupation with Tongans.
“You stay here. I’ll check him out,” Critchlow said.
The lawyer struck up a conversation with one of the uniformed officers supervising the security checkpoint. Judging by the back-slapping generated, they knew one another. The cop even let Critchlow borrow his phone.
The attorney returned after a lengthy, somewhat animated conversation. “Your man is with the feds, supposedly here as an observer, but nobody knows what he does exactly.”
“Maybe I’ve got Tongans on the brain.”
“Forget about him. I was right. All hell is breaking loose. I’ve had to call in some markers just to get us inside to see the Gomez woman. Even then, we may need the ACLU before this is over. The story they’re putting out is that she’s an illegal alien who’s being held until the Immigration people get here. But if that were the case, I wouldn’t have had to spend favors. From now on stick close and keep your mouth shut until I say otherwise. Let them think you’re a colleague I’ve brought along as a consultant. Remember, in all likelihood we’ve only got a few minutes before word gets out and the shit hits the fan.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Traveler said. In slacks and pullover shirt he looked like anything but a lawyer.
Critchlow led the way to a holding area Traveler had never seen before. By jail standards, the cells were spacious and the usual antiseptic smell was missing. A small table with two facing chairs was set up in the linoleumed corridor outside the cells.
“I’m here to represent Maria Gomez,” Critchlow told the female jailer who met them.
She nodded. “The front desk called to say you were on the way.”
When she turned to open the cell door, the lawyer winked at Traveler.
The woman inside the cell was very young, no more than seventeen or eighteen, and still wearing her own clothes, faded jeans that were baggy around the knees and tennis shoes that looked like Goodwill hand-me-downs. Her dark, Indian skin faded when she moved under the corridor’s bright fluorescent lights. Despite disheveled hair and red, swollen eyes, she had a serene beauty about her. But that gave way to fear when Critchlow spoke. “I’m an attorney, Maria. I’m here to help you.”
Her pleading eyes looked at the jailer, whose only answer was to point at one of the chairs. When Critchlow pulled it away from the table, Maria eyed him warily as if suspecting trickery instead of politeness.
“Sit down,” he said. “Please.”
Her eyes turned to Traveler.
“We’re both here to help you,” Critchlow assured her.
She sat. “I have no money to pay you.” She surprised Traveler by speaking without an accent.
“Everyone is entitled to a lawyer whether they can pay or not.” Critchlow slipped into the chair across from her. The jailer walked far enough away to be out of earshot, but still close enough to keep an eye on all three of them.
“I was told not to talk to anyone.” Her eyes went to the jailer.
“Anything we say here is privileged information,” Critchlow said. “Do you understand?”
“I watch television. I know about the law. That’s why I want to be a citizen, too.” Her eyes glittered. “I wanted to do what’s right. But I should have known better. Rosie warned me but I wouldn’t listen.” She blinked tears.
“Who’s Rosie?”
“She’s my friend. We were walking to catch the bus this morning, on our way to Federal Heights where we do housework.”
Federal Heights, high in the foothills east of the Avenues, was old money and mansions. Originally
it had been the bastion of Salt Lake’s richest nonconforming families, Catholics, Presbyterians, and Baptists seeking sanctuary from the omnipresent LDS. The Heights, it was said, guaranteed asylum because of its proximity to Fort Douglas, a federal garrison positioned on high ground in the late nineteenth century as a reminder to Brigham Young that polygamy would no longer be tolerated.
“These people you work for in Federal Heights, did they pay for you to come into the country?”
She nodded. “Five years ago.”
“You were only a kid,” Traveler blurted.
“Mo,” Critchlow warned without taking his eyes from the woman. “Now, Maria, these people you work for, what are their names?”
“They’ve been good to me. They let me watch TV. That’s how I learned to speak English. I don’t want to get them in trouble.”
“What about Rosie, then?” Critchlow persisted. “How can we find her?”
Maria shook her head. “Times are bad. I see that on television. There are people who have no money at all, no jobs, and no place to live.”
“We’ll find her sooner or later.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How?”
“You said that you and Rosie both work in Federal Heights.”
She nodded warily.
“We can search every house if necessary if you don’t talk to us.”
Maria closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross. “Every day we leave very early, when it’s just starting to get light. It’s shorter if we walk across the park. That’s where we saw the body. Rosie told me it was none of our business. But I couldn’t walk away and leave that poor girl lying there. She was naked. I kept thinking that children might come along and find her like that. So I called the police like they tell you to on TV.”
She sighed and opened her eyes. “Now they say they’re going to keep me locked up here until the INS decides what to do with me.”
“Bullshit,” Critchlow said, turning to Traveler. “Having illegals as housemaids in Federal Heights is a status symbol. Everybody looks the other way. So why the hell are they playing games with Maria?”
Until recently illegals weren’t all that common in Utah where the church, through its vast missionary program, was able to recruit cheap labor. But such converts, even the most zealous, become citizens sooner or later. After that, they wanted decent wages like everyone else.
Critchlow scratched his head hard enough to produce dandruff. “There’s only one explanation I can think of.”
Traveler had thought of it, too.
“You and Rosie must have seen the killer.”
“No,” Maria said, but her voice betrayed her. She’d seen something.
Critchlow reached out to comfort her. Down the corridor the jailer came to attention.
The lawyer removed his hand. “Help us, Maria.”
A door slammed in the distance. It sounded like the same one Traveler and Critchlow had come through to reach the holding area.
“Tell us,” Critchlow urged.
“I’d seen the dead woman in the neighborhood before. I think she was a prostitute.”
“Her name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Her friends?”
Maria shook her head in ignorance.
“What then?”
Her eyes dropped.
Another metal door opened and closed. Footsteps were coming their way.
“How can I tell a man such things?”
“Please,” Traveler said.
“There was a note sticking from her body.” She looked at her own lap, shifting uncomfortably. “It was down there.”
The final door opened. Traveler saw two uniformed officers, followed by two young men who could have been missionaries or agents.
Maria stared at the newcomers and whispered, “I didn’t touch it. I didn’t. Something was written on it in blood.”
15
CRITCHLOW WENT searching for someone who might be dumb enough to issue a writ for Maria Gomez, while Traveler got into line in the lobby to make a phone call. The man ahead of him looked familiar, but Traveler couldn’t place him until he made his call. He was a reporter for the Tribune.
“They’ve clamped the lid on here,” he said. “Some lawyer beat me to it and they’ve decided to move her. Where? If I knew that, I’d be there, wouldn’t I? What I’ve got is rumor, not even a goddamned informed source if you ask me. At the moment my guess is she’s some kind of material witness. An illegal. If they really want to get cute, they could ship her out of the country on the next plane. I heard someone suggest it. Mexico, Guatemala, someplace like that. I don’t know for sure.”
Traveler tapped the man’s shoulder.
“In a minute,” the reporter snapped without bothering to look at the detective. Into the phone he said, “Not you. Some clown wants the phone.”
Traveler tapped again, this time harder. The man swung around, his free hand thrust out in a fist. When he saw the size of Traveler, he unclenched his fingers and waved them to show he meant no harm.
“I’ve got to hang up now,” he said into the phone. “Sure, sure. I’ll call as soon as I get anything.”
Smiling apologetically, he cradled the receiver.
“I heard you say something about a woman being sent out of the country.”
Obsequiousness gave way to immediate suspicion. “Are you with the Deseret News?”
“I’m a private detective.”
“Sure,” the man said, and fled in the direction of the nearest uniform.
Traveler dialed his office. Martin answered so quickly he must have been right next to the phone.
“I could use some help,” Traveler told him.
“What is this, therapy to keep the old man busy?”
“You’re the one with the contacts at the Federal Building.”
“Are you still after the missionary?”
“That’s the way it started out.”
“The feds don’t worry about missionaries, except maybe the State Department.”
“Something’s going on with a woman named Maria Gomez. She’s an illegal who found the body of that woman in the park, and now there’s talk of deporting her for it.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Ask around. Find out what the INS plans to do. Will there be a formal hearing before they send her back? That kind of thing.”
“I’ll do it in the morning.”
“And if they ship her out tonight?”
“Come on, Moroni. You know better than that. Those people never do anything in a hurry. Besides, I was about to leave for Kamas.”
Traveler groaned inwardly. Orson Pack, the man who recognized devils by the touch of his hand, had said his Saints of the Last Day were headquartered there.
“For God’s sake, Dad.”
“Exactly.”
Only a couple of days ago such a response would have been indicative of Martin’s humor. Now the tone was wrong. In it Traveler heard desperation and fear. Or was that himself he was listening to?
“I’m an old man,” Martin said. “Old men get cautious. They like to hedge their bets.”
“With Orson Pack?”
“I know what you’re thinking, that he’s just another of Utah’s religious screwballs. You could be right, but he seemed sincere to me.”
“I’ve met a lot of lunatics who were quite sincere in their insanity.”
There was a long pause. Traveler could hear the squeak of the desk chair as his father swung around to look out the window. Probably he was staring up at the Angel Moroni, their namesake.
Martin sighed. “All right. I’ll make a couple of calls before I leave. Where can I reach you if I get anything?”
“I’m at the police building now, but you’d better leave me a note.”
“Fine.”
“Drive carefully, Dad.”
“Sure.”
When Traveler turned away from the phone, Critchlow was waiting for him. “It’s out of m
y hands, Mo.” The lawyer spread his fingers as if to prove the point. “There’s nothing more to be done.”
“What kind of bail have they set?”
“I may not go to Sunday School, but I’m still a member of the church.”
Traveler blinked in surprise. “I smell something more than cigars on your breath.”
“Originally I became LDS for my wife’s sake.”
“And now?”
“For her sake I have to walk away from this.”
“Who got to you?”
Critchlow sighed and shook his head.
“You promised the Gomez woman that you’d help her.”
“She’s not really a suspect, so she doesn’t need a lawyer.”
“She’s a victim. You know that as well as I do.”
He ducked his head. “Come on. I’ve set something up for you. It’s the best I can do. After that you’re on your own.”
“Look me in the eye and say that.”
When Critchlow did as requested, Traveler saw no sign of guile. But then lawyers were like actors, reflecting truth to suit the occasion.
Traveler followed him past the metal detectors and down a long, first-floor corridor that ultimately led to the office of chief of police. They stopped in front of the chief’s door and the lawyer knocked quietly, with a single knuckle.
Miles Beecham opened the door and smiled. “I’m glad you came, Moroni. We need to talk.”
“What the hell is going on?”
Beecham thrust out a chubby hand in greeting.
Traveler ignored the offering to glare at Critchlow, who half bowed at Beecham before walking away.
“Don’t blame him, Moroni. He follows orders like the rest of us.”
“And who’s giving you orders?”
“Willis Tanner asked me to help. As a friend of the family I’m glad to do it.”
“I understand. The church speaks and even the chief of police goes fishing.”
“Not at all. I merely borrowed his office for a few minutes. Now, if you don’t come inside and talk I’ll be forced to have you arrested.”
As a representative of the Council of Seventy, Beecham probably had the power to have the chief himself arrested.
“Why not? I like to talk,” Traveler said, crossing the threshold as nonchalantly as possible.
