He had a long drink from his glass of water and then gazed at me.
“Are you from around here?” I asked.
“No. From Iowa. Terrible winters there.”
“Have you been around here long?”
“About twenty years.”
It made me smile, the way you are always from home, even if you’ve lived for two decades somewhere else. “People here at the Paris seem pretty nice.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “They make a nice dinner.”
“Got any friends here?”
He shook his head. “I keep to myself.”
A large woman with thin hair and a dull grey wool overcoat snorted. “Don’t lie to her, Ansel. You always eat with a pretty girl. Every time. Keep to yourself? Ha.” She took a big bite of her cornbread.
Ansel scowled.
“Listen you,” the woman said to me. “Don’t get any ideas about him. He looks sweet, but he hits girls. All of them.”
He wouldn’t look up at me.
“He sent little Maria to the hospital and then came here for soup acting like nothing happened. That’s what the drugs will do to you. I don’t go with any man that’s not clean.” She shook her head resolutely. “Lots of street men are clean. Not all of them are dirty creeps like Ansel.”
Ansel’s face had gone white, and the knuckles gripping his plastic spoon had as well. I could guess that the signs of hard living on his face, and missing teeth were the result of methamphetamines. And his nearly-bubbling over rage gave proof to her abuse claims.
“I can say it,” the woman continued. “Because I’m at least twice as big as he is. Ain’t no way a scrawny little tweeker like him could knock me over. Not many men could anymore.” She chuckled, her head tipped back.
Ansel flung himself up, knocking his water over. “I’m having a nice lunch with a nice lady, Jez, so shut your big, fat mouth.”
Jez stood up, half a head taller than him. “You wanna say that again, to my face?” She bustled forward, using her ample breasts to push him backwards.
He clenched his fist, his arm tense and ready to swing. An older gentleman, short and stocky, at the table behind us, stood up slowly.
“Time for you to get outa here, Ansel.” The old man’s voice was strong and musical. “You’ve had your meal, and none of us want trouble.”
Ansel looked from Jez to the old man but ignored me. Then, like a balloon with a small hole, he seemed to deflate, retreating from us, without turning around. Gone in a breath.
I had kept my seat, watching the drama unfold. It was fascinating, but it didn’t get me any information about Adam. Almost like maybe these folks had their own complicated issues that had nothing to do with a wealthy bachelor city councilman.
Nonetheless, I decided to ask Jez. She seemed to be a woman who liked to talk. “Did you know Adam Demarcus?”
“That good looking yuppy with all the hair?” Jez grinned. “Sure, I did. Who didn’t? Mmm mmmm.” She made a happy sound of appreciation.
“I just can’t imagine who would kill him…” I shook my head sadly.
“Then you need a new imagination.” She smirked. “He was breaking hearts left and right, you know.”
“You don’t say?” I hadn’t expected her to take this route. I couldn’t picture our determined do-gooder seducing homeless women.
“I do say. Every woman who laid eyes on him was heartbroken that he didn’t take her home. At least I was.” She tilted her head back and cackled. “Then again, most of us would go home with anyone.”
“Know anyone who didn’t like him?”
“Nope. Adam Demarcus was good people.”
The room had cleared out. I wanted to get Jez to talk to me about drugs, if I could, so I scooted a little closer and lowered my voice. “He was good looking, but did he deliver?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You aren’t spreading nasty rumors about our Adam, are you? Because he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s not one of them men who say they are going to help but just want to do you in the back room.”
“Oh, yeah. I know, but what kind of help was he giving? Everyone loved him so much it had to be more than a hot and a cot.”
“Ahh.” She gave me a knowing look. “It wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. The man had a little aspirin when we needed it. Or maybe a bottle of water, you know? He was a guy who could fix you up with what you needed if it was simple enough. He didn’t have the heart to say no.”
“How simple?”
She stood up, her tray in one hand. “Mr. Adam with the good hair only ever gave us what we needed, and that’s not a thing anyone would kill him for.” She hustled to bus her tray. I watched her but didn’t follow. It was a confirmation, but not a confirmation. And if everyone was as grateful as Jez, no one at the shelter killed him. That said, perhaps someone’s family didn’t appreciate him doling out “aspirin”.
* * *
Back at my office, Google alerted me that Adam Demarcus’ murder was in the news again. I followed the link to the local television station’s website and watched with a strong sense of foreboding.
The newscaster explained how Adam Demarcus was well-loved in the religious community, which wasn’t a secret we could’ve kept. Then they explained his passionate advocacy for medical marijuana.
I had a feeling Linda was not going to like that.
The news piece moved to an interview. I was not surprised to see they had chosen to feature Rafe Winter. Of all the people they could’ve interviewed, they went with the emptiest head they could find. Not clean cut, family friendly Bruce Michael of The Bulletin, or rough-around-the-edges but fatherly Mac Barber from the Old Paris Mission, or shoot, even my handsome and charming snake of a husband. They had to go with Rafe, who appeared to be wearing a flowered scarf as a headband today. His face was especially scrappy with several days of blonde beard growth. They stood outside the barn door of his church. He spoke like a So-Cal surfer guy as always. “Adam was a treasure—a man we couldn’t do without. I can’t tell you how much we’ll miss him. Adam was the seeker, man. Do you know what a seeker is?” He leaned in to the newscaster.
She smiled and said, “Why don’t you elaborate.”
“A seeker is someone who longs for the truth but can’t find it on their own. That’s what our church is here for. Seekers. He was spiritually homeless. He worked so hard for the people with no physical home, but really, he was the homeless one.” He bowed his head, his hands folded for prayer.
They cut back to the newsroom. The anchor, a man with slick black hair and a bland, ageless face, took a count of two and a half to pull himself together, a sign he was as bewildered as I was. “That’s the newest on the murder of city councilman Adam Demarcus. Now to the weather desk.”
I turned off the video feed and read the attached article. So far so good. I’d call it good, anyway, but Linda might have a different opinion. Tying his name to the early movement for legalizing medical marijuana was going to open doors that I knew Linda would want to keep closed, but no ill had been spoken of the dead. He was called a compassionate pioneer. Someone everyone missed.
But whatever it was Linda would think of this, I knew I had to call her.
She answered on the first ring and sounded like I ought to have called her earlier. “Maura, what are you doing? I’m paying you good money to hush this up.”
There were so many ways to respond to this that I was frozen for a moment. First, though I had her deposit check safely in my bank, it was hardly enough to be called generous. Second, I had been clear about what I could and could not do. Third, this was hardly the first time this story had been on air. Why was she so angry now? “I understand your concern.” Starting with gentle lies usually worked. “But things aren’t as bad as they seem. Portlanders kind of like their marijuana, so really, any news related to his successful work regarding that is helpful. Paints him in the light of a hero.”
I could swear I heard her grit her teeth. “Only if it is spun right. You need to g
et down here right now and correct this.”
“You have talented PR people to handle things like this for you, trust them.” This time there was clear sniffling. She wasn’t teeth-grittingly angry after all, just scared and teary as she had been since day one. “All I can do is give you the information I’ve gathered so far. You need to trust your experts on presenting it.”
“I have no one I can trust.” She swallowed a sob at the end of the sentence. The woman needed happy pills far more than she needed a detective.
“You can trust me. Let’s talk this through. We’ve known for a long while now that he likes to distribute things to help the sick. He helped a lot of people. He was friendly with a lot of people. There is nothing to be scared of in any of that, am I right?”
“If only the news would stick to that story.” Her voice was still fluttery, but she had stopped the sniffling.
“You know who is good at press releases? Mac down at the Old Paris.”
“Yes…” She paused to cry a little. For cripes sake.
“Call Mac, Linda. I know he can help you. You know you can trust him.”
“But if he won’t help?”
“Never mind Mac, then. Call Rick. You know he will help. Rick loves to help.” The words were bitter in my mouth, but so true. Rick couldn’t pass up a weeping woman.
“You’re right. Of course, you are. I’ll call Rick. Thank you so much.”
When I finally got her off the phone, I tried getting in touch with Trisha, Adam’s ex, again. She didn’t seem to answer her phone and never returned calls. This time I sent a text to introduce myself.
When she responded later in the evening, I called. We made arrangements to meet at Starbucks the next night, after her shift there ended.
* * *
Trisha looked like a sandy haired version of her daughter. It was funny, but I would have recognized her anywhere. When I told her I was supposed to say I had gotten her number from her ungrateful brat of a daughter, she smiled.
“That’s her own nickname for herself. She’s actually a delight.”
“You may be the only mom of a teenage girl to say that in the history of the world.” We settled into the large leather-like chairs in the back of the restaurant with free decaf cappuccinos.
“Maybe so. Some of the things the moms of her friends say make me livid. They’re all good kids. Do you know Seda goes down to the community center with her little grandmother every week to stuff grocery sacks for the needy? What kind of kid does that?”
“You don’t have to make her?”
“Not at all. And, to be honest, after being married to her father for ten years, I would rather her not be around all those handsome middle-eastern boys.”
“Hard marriage?”
She nodded. “It’s a pretty big cultural bridge to gap. When you are young, you both think you can do it, but once kids come, religion, and male and female roles become much more important. But I think I knew we weren’t going to make it before we had Seda.”
“I need to start asking you about Adam Demarcus. Do you mind?”
“It’s why we’re here.”
“Seda says that Adam moved on?”
“He cheated.” She sipped her coffee. “It hurt.”
“You’re preaching to the choir.”
Trisha raised an eyebrow. “You, too?”
“If you would believe it, I caught them a week ago.” I set my coffee on the table. “You’d think that as a private detective I would have realized sooner.”
She smiled, sympathetically. “You knew, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“I knew, too. We weren’t married, and we didn’t live together. In fact, it was a kind of old fashioned romance, if you know what I mean.”
“No kidding?”
“You would think he’d have gotten bored long before seven years.” She sighed. “It was working for us, and every year that passed, I figured marriage was around the corner.”
“But another woman was around the corner.”
“He started to leave dinner earlier, to come over less frequently. We still went out on dates, but he was less involved in Seda’s life.”
“She misses him.”
“He took her to her father daughter dance in ninth grade. He taught her how to drive. He was her father, for all intents and purposes. Ahmed has been in Turkey for years. I doubt he’s ever coming back.”
“Did Adam attempt to stay in her life after you broke up?”
“Nope. He was just done.”
“How did that make you feel?”
She leaned forward. “I think he was ashamed. His new girlfriend was only four years older than Seda. I am sure that was why he wouldn’t talk to her anymore. He was just embarrassed.”
“You sound really calm about this all.” She had ignored my direct questions about her feelings, but she also didn’t seem to have anything to hide.
“I’ve had a lot of counseling. We broke up well over a year ago. It does get better.”
“It feels so raw right now.” The words slipped out. I was usually good about keeping things professional. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You have a tough road ahead. You should see my counselor. He’s amazing.”
I doubted I was ready to spill things to a stranger who would use all of Rick’s favorite tricks on me. She must have sensed the doubt.
“Just save his number and call him when you are ready. Don’t rush yourself.” She scribbled something on a napkin and passed it to me.
I folded the paper and stuffed it in my pocket. “You’re the only person I’ve talked to who had a deep and lasting relationship with Adam. Who do you think he crossed?”
She pursed her lips. “He was squeaky clean, on the surface.”
“I’ve noticed. Was there a rotten underbelly?”
“He used to smoke pot, but I got him to quit about two years before we broke up. I didn’t like it around Seda.”
“No kidding.” I drummed my fingers on my notebook, agitated. “The only thing anyone can say about him is this connection with marijuana. That he sold it or distributed it to the homeless, or whatever, but you are saying he got out of it?”
“He never sold it. Far from it.”
“He gave it away?”
She took her time answering. “Sometimes.”
“I know he was very active in the medical marijuana movement.”
“That was it, mostly. He had friends with dispensaries and he’d pay tabs, pay bills. But he didn’t do anything hands on with it. He kept his arm’s length distance.”
“But people knew.”
“Word gets around.”
“Do you think anyone resented this? Maybe family who were hoping to get their loved ones off the streets?”
“That’s what you would think, but he was very particular about whose bills he paid. In fact, once he quit he got active in helping addicts quit.”
I sat up. “This is news.”
“No one has mentioned it yet?”
“No.”
“He would drive folks to their AA and NA meetings. He sponsored people. He only used to smoke for his migraines, and believed in it as medicine, but that’s all. And when I asked him to quit so that he wasn’t sending mixed messages to Seda, he did.”
“I have never investigated a more all-around good guy. So far no one in the world had any reasons to kill him.”
“Except me.” Trisha’s face paled.
“Not even you.”
She exhaled.
“People get cheated on all the time. It doesn’t magically turn a person into a killer.”
She nodded.
I stood up. “Thank you so much for meeting me. You’ve given me some great information.”
“You’re welcome. I loved Adam for a long time. I am very sad that he is gone.”
“Before I go--”
“You want the name of his lover?”
“Yes please.”
“Morgan Melisse.”
“She’s the one. A regular journalism prodigy.”
“I guess so.”
“I’m sure she has a contact email on their website, but they only lasted about six months after we broke up. He wasn’t seeing anyone recently, as far as I know.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll email her anyway. You never know what side of Adam she knew.”
I went straight back to Christine’s after my visit with Trisha. I had some emailing to do.
Chapter Nine
Somewhere, just out of reach, was a question I wasn’t asking. I grabbed my list of main players.
Trisha the scorned lover. So much motive, so little crazy. A more reasonable scorned lover I couldn’t imagine. And I could not imagine her chopping off anyone’s thumbs. Besides which, I had no reason to believe she was inclined to turn to any ancient text for murderous inspiration.
But I’d been surprised before.
Then there was Ansel from the shelter whose known temper made him stand out to me. But what motive did he have? Especially compared to Trisha. Then again, if I was confident that the murder was a…weird one…then the motive didn’t need to seem logical to me.
And speaking of illogical, what about Rafe? He still didn’t strike me as having enough oomph to get around to killing, but behind his nonsense words was clear and open disdain for Adam. The kind of disdain that would leak Adam’s sins to the press despite the way we had all promised Linda we’d keep quiet. He would have done it, I thought. If he could muster up the energy. Plus, Adam was helping people get off drugs. If pot was an important part of the services at the Universal Temple, our little cult leader might not have liked this.
What about Berk, the almost-Muslim extremist? Someone at the community center had sent me a message—one with striking similarities to the message the killer had sent. The text on the rock was about being blinded by the light, and our teenage poet was still waxing five-seven-five about death-by-flashing light.
And what about the rest of the committee members?
The Book of Judges Page 9
