I leaned forward. "Why? What have you been doing?”
“You know that Portland has a serious problem with homelessness right now.”
It was common knowledge. Men, women, and families all living on the streets. Whole tent cities had sprung up along Johnson Creek and under the bridges. It was Hooverville all over again, only this time with drugs, violence, and huge piles of trash making everyone angry at the homeless instead of the government.
“There is so much disorganization. Not just Metro, but the rest of the city, the shelters and food pantries, soup kitchens. We pulled together a group to manage it all. To work together. Our primary goal is to get every child off the streets by Thanksgiving.”
“That’s no small task.” In fact, it sounded insane. Admirable, but impossible. “Why would anyone want to stop you from doing that?” I had a pen out and a spiral notebook. I preferred paper in an investigation. Tape recorders freaked people out, and phones and tablets had a way of getting hacked that good old-fashioned paper was resistant to.
“I’m afraid the murder investigation will throw light on how we run our little group of volunteers, and that would be the end of our work.” Her words were carefully chosen and accompanied by another room-scanning glance.
I hadn’t noticed anyone listening in, but it was obvious Linda was scared.
I laid my pen down. She needed to give me something concrete or we’d never get anywhere. “Would you rather go to my office? I can swear by the privacy there.”
“No, this is better.” She worried at her thumbnail, scratching at her French-tipped manicure.
I picked the pen up and let the tip rest lightly on the paper, ready to write, if she would just say something. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s the problem?”
She leaned forward, letting her hair fall around her face like a shield, then spoke so quietly I could barely hear her. "We direct public funds to people who help the homeless. Most of the organizations we work with are religious in nature."
I didn't roll my eyes, but I wanted too. With all the real troubles in the world, this was what she was freaking out about? Who cared? Public funds went all sorts of places.
"Some of the money we give directly funds people who are evangelizing—proselytizing—converting people as their focus. That is strictly prohibited. But they are also doing amazing work getting people off the streets. I swear they are. But if anyone found out that we made certain exceptions to the separation of church and state, that would spell the end for us."
"Are you sure you aren’t overreacting?" I kept my tone neutral. I was sure she was overreacting.
“I just need to know what Adam’s been doing.” She dug into the pocket of her rain jacket and pulled out a business card. “He just turned thirty-nine. He lived near Reed College, and professionally, before he was elected to Metro, he was in fundraising and development.”
I took the card. “Any family?”
“Unmarried. Recently broke up with a long-time girlfriend. I don’t know why.”
“What was her name?”
“Trisha…something. I don’t remember. I only met her a few times.”
“What about parents or siblings?”
“None in town.”
“How far away did they live?”
She scratched the back of her hands, then fidgeted with her fingers. “I think Northern California, but it’s been so long since we talked about anything personal, I don’t remember.”
“Hobbies? Side interests?”
“No. Our project was all consuming. Neither of us have had time for any kind of life for at least a year.”
“Do you think your program may have been what got him killed?” Linda’s agitation seemed extreme. She had just lost a friend in a terrible way, but there was a level of paranoia about her response that made it seem more personal somehow. Like she thought she might be next.
“No, it couldn’t be. All we do is help families and children get off the streets.” She set the cup down. Elbows on the table, she rested her head in her hands. “All we do is good, Maura, I swear.”
“You’d better give me the names of the committee members.”
Linda didn’t respond.
“And maybe some of the street families, too.” A group of do-gooders probably wouldn’t kill one of their own, but maybe they had served someone who hadn’t wanted help.
“Why would they do that to his hands?” She looked up finally, her dark eyes full of unshed tears. Her face bloodless. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It was awful.”
I didn’t have an answer, and I wasn’t in the mood for handing out platitudes, but she needed reassurance, or she was going to have a break down in the middle of the coffee shop. If she did, I would, too. After this morning, I was holding it together by sheer will. “I’ll find out.”
She held the crumpled napkin under her eyes again, dabbing delicately.
“Maybe we had better get to his office now, before the police decide its off limits.” I had to get this woman up and working. She was useless like this.
And I was no better off.
* * *
Portland’s city council called itself Metro and handled more facets of city life than I thought possible. I glanced at the directory as I followed Linda into the network of offices and meeting rooms and saw both Pioneer Cemeteries and Portland 5 Center for the Arts listed, with hundreds of other names on the wall as well.
Adam Demarcus kept a tidy office. He had one desk with no drawers and a blue exercise balance ball on wheels for an office chair. One wall was glass and one was bookshelves, half books, half black Bankers Boxes.
The books were a mix of decorative classics, with matched spines collecting dust, and self-help hardbacks with the tattered covers of well-loved books.
I pulled out one of the boxes and popped the lid. Pretty normal looking files inside, tabs dated and initialed. The first file was for Albertsons, the grocery store. I flipped through the pages—mostly receipts for food donations. The rest of the box was similar. Different stores and people making tangible donations like food, clothing, and hygiene supplies.
Two of the boxes were empty, but the fourth one was full of plastic ponchos that folded up into little triangles. The last box had more files. I removed one and read through it. A lengthy profile of the city’s oldest homeless shelter. A quick look through tabs showed the rest of the files were similar. “You don’t have his computer and password, do you?” I put the top back on the box. The room was so barren I suspected you wouldn’t even find his fingerprints on the phone.
“He carried it back and forth.”
“Of course, he did.” The cheap laminate desk held a corded multi-line office phone and a leather-like blotter to protect the top of the desk. I ripped a sheet of paper out of my notebook and laid it over the center of the blotter. I rubbed a soft pencil lightly across it, just to see. To my surprise, I got an impression. I put another sheet next to it and tried again. A little more writing popped up on the second sheet. At least I wouldn’t leave the office empty-handed. “You said I could have the list of committee members and maybe some contacts with the families, right?”
“Of course.” Linda drummed her fingers on the desk like she was trying to remember. “Let me go print something for you.” She paused in the doorway. “And I’m sure if you ask Rick, he might be able to think of someone useful.”
I flinched. His name was like a punch in the gut.
Linda didn’t register my reaction. She exited, presumably to her office.
I flexed my hands, trying to refrain from breaking something.
I held the desk top rubbings under the light to see if I could read anything. It was the kind of jumble I had expected. Words over words, as though he generally put his paper in the same spot when he wrote.
Linda came back with two sheets of paper. “One is the team, and the other has some of the families, like you asked.” She set the papers on the desk. “I have to go call…so many pe
ople. The police are contacting his next of kin, then they will report his name in the news. I need to call the team. Get them together, but it would be so much easier…” She looked up at me with big brown eyes. “Rick has been a part of the team from the beginning. Such a friend to Adam. Could you tell him? It would be so much easier for poor Rick, coming from you.” She reached her hand out, clearly looking for me to take it, and tell her I would ease her burden.
I clenched my jaw, shoving back the emotional bile that threatened to overtake me at the mention of his name. Controversial new committee? Of course he was on it. Secret from his wife? Of course, it was.
“You wouldn’t be breaking confidentiality, since he is one of us. Oh, could you? And ask him if he can be here tonight for an emergency meeting?” She paused for a moment. “Could you tell him to be here at seven? And can you come with?” She pressed her pink lips together. “I just don’t know how to tell everyone.”
“Of course.” The words fell out of my mouth against my will. I even picked up her hand to give her some comfort.
“Thank you.” She lingered, staring at me, holding my hand in hers like a lost child.
I gave her one of those “closing prayer” squeezes that indicated we had held hands long enough. “I’d better take these back to the office and get to work.” I nodded as I spoke, helping her agree with me, even if she didn’t want to.
“Thanks much.” Her words trailed after me as I left.
Call Rick and comfort him over the loss of his friend and partner in the important work he was involved in but had told me nothing about?
Shoot me now.
Chapter Two
I took one look at my office—the overnight bag of dirty clothes from the retreat, the damaged wallpaper border, the cat lying on the love seat I’d have to sleep on for the next several nights—and turned around. I’d be spending enough time in that space for the foreseeable future.
Besides, detective work didn’t happen at a desk. I had a list of names to contact, but first I needed to see the scene of the crime, and see who, if anyone, might have witnessed something.
Ethan Cameron, my building super, was putting a notice on the door of my neighbor. “Mornin’.” He gave me his usual cheerful, crinkly eyed, Ned Flanders smile.
“Morning.” I held my satchel in front of me like a shield. The vibe I wanted to give off was busy and important.
He waved a paper in my direction to stop me. “Tenant meeting tonight at six. Please don’t miss it.”
I snatched the paper and kept walking.
“Maura, hold up.”
I stopped. Ethan was a friend. I should not take out my rage on him. He couldn’t help it that I didn’t like nice people today. “What?”
“I know nothing and see nothing, but the landlord will be here tonight, and she knows and sees all. So, if, you know, there were any animals around that you know about, you might want to make sure they weren’t still around by six.” He gave me a wide-eyed, innocent grin, and went back to clipping notices to doors.
I left.
Poor Rhoda.
I’d lock her in the bathroom before the tenant meeting. Nobody would ever know.
* * *
The body of Adam DeMarcus had been discovered by tourists this morning at Crown Point in the Columbia River Gorge. Vista House was the fanciest rest stop in America, as far as I was concerned. An old stone building put up by turn of the century egotists who expected Oregon to become more important than it ended up being. That aside, it had great views, and nobody ever expected to pull over, use the toilet, snap a picture, and find a body.
The drive out to the Gorge reminded my back I had already sat in my car for two hours this morning, but it was better than sitting in my office waiting for Rick to show up and make a scene.
Lawyers were expensive. Many, many clients had told me so, in anger, after I had given them the proof of infidelity they had hoped I wouldn’t be able to find.
Funny how so many wives had just known their husbands were cheating but were so mad at me when I confirmed it.
I rubbed my thigh where the bullet had gone in two years ago. It had healed, leaving me with only a scar that let me know how dangerous a woman scorned could be.
The drive to the Gorge was too long. I had too much time with my own thoughts. Four days ago, I had driven out to the beach for a retreat with the female staff and wives of staff of Grace Community Church.
I had wanted to tell them all that Rick was probably cheating on me and that we’d be divorcing. They knew I didn’t buy into their Jesus business. They knew I didn’t have a spiritual shackle holding me to my husband, but they also knew that I loved him, and didn’t want my fears to be true. They knew that I wanted reassurance more than escape, and they had given it to me, with a bow on.
I wasn’t a woman scorned, capable of doing damage to someone.
I was a sucker.
I pulled off onto the quiet mountain road that would take me up the hill to Crown Point.
Maura Garrison was not a fool.
Usually.
Just twice now. Once, on my nineteenth birthday, when Rick had convinced me to run away to Vegas with him, and this last week, when I had let the older, wiser women convince me he wasn’t shagging his intern.
I kept my eyes on the edge of the road, looking for a house with a good view of the street. This Adam character had been taken to Crown Point dead or alive. Someone might have seen an unusual bit of traffic in the night.
About half a mile from the historic view point where Adam had been killed or dumped, I spotted a two-story farm house close enough to the road that someone inside could have seen something.
I pulled into the driveway and went to the door.
A tiny, frail man opened it before I could ring the bell.
“Barbara isn’t in.” His thin, craggy voice echoed in the empty morning air.
“That’s okay.” I held out my private investigator’s license for him to examine. “My name is Maura. Have you heard the news about the man they found up the road at Vista House?”
He sighed, his breath rasping in his chest. “Nice to meetcha, Mary. I’m Lars Olson.” He gave me his dry, cold hand to shake. “That was some real bad news.”
“I’m looking into the circumstances of his death. May I chat with you a little?”
He shuffled to the side and pulled the door open. “Come in, then.” He led me into the kitchen, a dark, old-fashioned room that smelled like fresh coffee.
He pulled a chair out for me, and poured a cup of coffee, carefully, not spilling though his hands shook very slightly.
When he sat down, he spoke again. “Sad thing.”
“Yes.” I warmed my hands on the mug. “My client was a good friend of his, and she is very sad.”
“And she wants you to solve the murder?” He had a pleasant look on his pale face, as though the thought amused him.
“She would like me to learn whatever I can.” I sipped the strong coffee. “You didn’t see anything, did you?”
“I was up late last night, usually am.” He held his coffee but didn’t drink it. “Don’t sleep much anymore. Listen to books on tape, mostly.”
“Did you notice anything unusual last night?” I didn’t suspect I had lucked into a witness on my first stop, but I crossed my fingers, at least mentally.
“Oh yes. Yes, that tractor that drove through real late.” He frowned, and his sparse eyebrows drew together.
“A tractor?”
He chuckled. “That’s what I thought. Who drives a tractor in the middle of the night? Ain’t right.”
“Did you see the tractor?”
“No, by the time I got to the window, it was too far up the road to be seen. It’s real dark on that road at night, and my vision isn’t what it was.”
“What about other cars? Anyone else drive by last night?”
“Folks don’t drive up here in the night all that much. We’re pert lonesome.”
“But the
re really was a tractor?”
“That’s right. I don’t suppose anybody would drag a body through the hills with a tractor, though.” He grinned.
I returned his smile, appreciating he could find humor in the absurd picture.
“About what time did you go to bed?”
“Round three, I guess. Mostly I just fall asleep in my chair, like you do.”
“Sure do." I tapped my fingers on my mug. It wasn't likely that someone used a tractor as a murder get-away vehicle, but then, it wasn't normal for someone to be driving a tractor around in the middle of the night, either, so it was worth thinking about more. "Do many of your neighbors have tractors?”
“Most folks out here do.”
“Would someone know who was out driving their tractor last night?”
“Suppose they would. I told the officers that came here this morning about it, too. I figger they’ll get to the bottom of the tractor.”
“Ah, of course. The police detectives are very good at their job.”
“Sure ‘nuff.”
I finished my coffee with one more long drink and excused myself.
I drove out the rest of the way to the Vista House on Crown Point. Two police cars stood at the driveway preventing access to the scene. I parked on the edge of the road and walked up instead.
I offered the first young officer my PI license. “Sorry to bother you.”
He smiled. Must be too new to have heard of me. “What’s up?”
“What do you know about tractors coming by last night?”
“You spoke with Mr. Olson?”
“Yeah…but…a tractor?” I tilted my head and smiled, hoping a little sweetness would soften the young cop.
“We’re looking into it, but, yeah. Don’t think the killer brought him up here in a tractor.”
“So perhaps he was brought here later? After three?”
“Might be.”
“Or came up from the other side?”
“Don’t think so. Demarcus was in Portland as late as one in the morning, at a bar. Witnesses confirmed it. What with the estimated time of death, I don’t think he could have gotten around to the other side of the mountain and up here by the back side.”
The Book of Judges Page 2
