Justice Denied jpb-18

by J. A. Jance

  “The suspect just went into a bank branch here in Kent,” I told him. “Most likely picking up some cash.”

  “All right,” Don said. “SHIT’s got a standing mutual aid agreement with Renton, so I’ll let them know what’s up and that we’ll need units on the ground there at the airport. And Haley wants you to know she just passed the Kent/DeMoines Road exit coming north, so she’s making good progress.”

  I rang off and gave Mel the lowdown on what Don had told me. Then, silent once more, Mel and I sat and waited. Again. She hadn’t given me an outright no to my impulsively impromptu proposal, but she sure as hell hadn’t said yes, either, and I had far too much male pride to bring it up again. Instead I sat there and wondered how slow the bank tellers could possibly be and wished to hell I hadn’t had so much coffee earlier in the morning.

  When my phone rang again, I expected it would be Don Hastings, calling to give me a minute-by-minute update on Haley Mitchell’s progress. It wasn’t.

  “You son of a bitch,” Detective Kendall Jackson said. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just had a call from Larry Crumb at the crime lab. He got a hit.”

  “A hit on what?”

  “On the weapon that killed LaShawn Tompkins. And guess what? Where do you think it came from? From you, you worm. From a case in Mexico! What the hell-?”

  “Sorry, Kendall,” I told him. “Gotta go.”

  I dialed Don back. “Is Ross Connors there?” I asked.

  “No, but-”

  “Never mind.” I hung up and dialed Ross Connors’s cell. He answered after only one ring. “What?” he asked. “Is there some other problem besides the plane?”

  “We’ve got to move on those rape kits,” I told him. “Now! If there’s any media coverage at all of the plane takedown, it’ll be too late.”

  “Done,” he said. “I’ll put the DNA lab on an immediate lockdown. No phone calls in or out. No e-mails, either. Now where’s that blasted list thing you were telling me about?”

  “Todd Hatcher has our copy.”

  “How soon can he have it there?”

  “I have a better idea,” I said. “Send someone to pick up Analise Kim at her house and take her to the lab. It’s her list-the one we have is only a copy. She’s the one who organized the whole storage system, and she’s the one who’ll be able to find what we need.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’m on it. Where are you?”

  “In Kent, waiting for Trudy Rayburn to finish up in the bank.”

  Which happened almost at the same time I said the words. Trudy emerged and headed for her van. Once Trudy’s vehicle had merged into traffic, Mel pulled in behind her. The minivan was tall enough that we were able to stay several car lengths back. Within a matter of seconds it was clear Trudy was headed for Highway 167.

  “What was that all about?” Mel wanted to know.

  “Larry Crumb got a hit. The gun that killed Richard Matthews is the same one that killed LaShawn Tompkins.”

  Without warning, Mel jammed her foot on the accelerator. The BMW shot forward, passing several of the intervening vehicles and putting a permanent whiplash-style crink in my neck.

  “I hate vigilantes,” she muttered.

  “So do I,” I agreed. “But please don’t kill us in the process.”

  She eased off on the gas, slowing a little and dropping back into the right-hand lane behind the minivan. “Okay,” she said.

  I thought she meant okay, she would slow down. I didn’t get it at first.

  “I meant okay, I’ll marry you,” Mel explained.

  “Oh,” I said.

  Don’t think I wasn’t grateful-ecstatic would be a better word-but Mel Soames is not the world’s best driver.

  “Great,” I told her. “But how about if we discuss this later? Right now, shut up and drive.”

  CHAPTER 25

  In the world of law enforcement, takedowns can go either way, very good or very bad. The one at Renton Municipal Airport went off without a hitch. The blue van pulled up to the security gate, and after a pause was allowed onto the tarmac. Soon the van disappeared behind a long line of hangars, but I wasn’t overly concerned. Once the gate closed behind her, I knew for sure we had her. In a post 9/11 world, the Freestyle wouldn’t be coming back through that secured gate, not unless someone opened it for her. And I knew their plane wouldn’t be taking off, either, not without clearances from the FAA, which, I was sure, wouldn’t be forthcoming.

  Haley Mitchell, waving frantically, pulled up behind the BMW in her Jeep Cherokee. I hopped out and hurried back to collect the search warrant, which she held out the window for me. As I started back to the BMW, another vehicle pulled into line behind hers-a Suburban-and I was gratified to see the remainder of Squad B-Harry I. Ball, Brad Norton, and Aaron Oliver-come spilling out of it.

  Harry strode up to the BMW. “Where are these turkeys?” he demanded.

  “They went around the building.”

  By then Mel had negotiated with the keeper of the gate. And, because she’s a female, she had asked for and received directions. “We go around the end of this building and then turn right,” Mel said. “Anita Bowdin’s hangar is at the far end.”

  “Okay,” Harry announced. “I’m in charge here. Renton already has units inside the airport grounds, but they’re waiting for me to give the word. If necessary, they’ll surround the aircraft and make sure it doesn’t go anywhere.” He looked back at his little band of SHIT squad soldiers. “Everybody wearing vests?” We all nodded, Haley Mitchell included. “Okay, boys and girls,” Harry said. “Lock and load, back in your vehicles, and let’s hit it.”

  The gate opened-with an astonishing lack of speed or urgency, but in the long run, I think slowing our approach actually worked in our favor. There were no sirens and no lights, nothing to alert Trudy Rayburn and Diane Massingale to our impending arrival. Once we came around the near end of the building we could see the van parked at the far end, where two people were engaged in hauling things out of the back and carrying them into the hangar. They never saw us coming.

  Because Mel and I were leading the way, we got there first. In the movies and on TV, cops always arrive in a squeal of tires and a spray of gravel. Mel brought the BMW to a smooth and silent stop directly behind the van where Trudy Rayburn was leaning deep inside to pull something from the far end of the cargo area. Trudy was the one with the concealed weapon permit, and I didn’t want to take any chances. I tackled her and brought her down before she ever knew what hit her. Once she was on the ground, Mel removed her weapon.

  By then Haley, Brad, and Aaron were out of the Suburban. They rushed into the hangar, where Diane was coming back from the plane for another load of luggage. She hit the tarmac when ordered to do so and placed her hands on the back of her head. It was a by-the-book operation, over almost before it started, which was fine by me. Kevlar vests are okay in their place and in theory, but I prefer not to field-test them if at all possible.

  One of the things we good guys have going for us is that most crooks are under the mistaken impression that all cops are stupid. Trudy Rayburn and Diane Massingale were true to type. They both seemed thunderstruck to think someone had actually caught on to them. As the ranking officer present, Harry enjoyed introducing himself and taking charge of the two suspects. Their consternation at hearing his name was well worth the price of admission. As I’ve said before, people who regard Harry I. Ball as some kind of joke do so at their peril.

  By then a whole phalanx of Renton PD patrol cars had appeared out of nowhere. Harry ordered the handcuffed suspects into two of them. Then, with Harry leading the way in his Suburban, a mini-motorcade set off for the King County Justice Center, where the suspects would be held for questioning.

  Armed with our search warrant and several eager helpers, Mel and I turned our attention to Anita Bowdin’s slick jet-November eight six one Alpha Bravo. We empti
ed the Hawker’s cargo hold. One by one we went through all the pieces of luggage we found there and inventoried the contents. From the amount of clothing we found there and from the amount of money stashed in Trudy’s confiscated briefcase, it soon became clear that their trip wasn’t planned as a short south-of-the-border getaway. It was a real getaway. Trudy and Diane had expected to go to Mexico and stay there.

  For a while it seemed as though our search wasn’t going to uncover anything particularly incriminating. By the time we had finished sorting through the plane and its contents, I was growing discouraged. That was when I turned my attention to an unlocked footlocker in a relatively dim far corner of the hangar.

  When I pulled up the lid, the first thing I saw was a cardboard box-a large shipping box. The printed label was still visible: “Display and Costume Supply.” I recognized the name at once. When I first moved to the city, Display and Costume Supply was located in the Denny Regrade neighborhood, just down the street from my first condo in the Royal Crest. Years later, as the neighborhood changed, they moved their operation out to the burbs somewhere, and I lost track of them.

  But I still have happy memories of the owners, Dallas and Suzie Carlton. Back when I was newly divorced and the Doghouse Restaurant was my home away from home, they tended to show up there around Halloween-and the Fourth of July, Saint Patrick’s Day, and Easter-dressed in costumes from their apparently never-ending supply and bringing their unfailingly good spirits with them.

  So I knew something about Display and Costume Supply before I ever lifted the lid on the box. That corner of the hangar wasn’t well lit. And when I first opened the box, it was almost like looking into a black hole. When I reached inside, I touched fabric-black fabric-yards of it. And when I pulled some of it out, I knew at once what it was-a nun’s habit. Not a real nun’s habit, a phony nun’s habit. No wonder none of the samples from the various convents in Utah had matched up with the black-thread trace evidence. Those were real. This was a costume, a disguise.

  Mel came up behind me. “What in the world…?”

  But by then I already had my phone in my hand and was dialing information. Within seconds I had Dallas Carlton on the phone. With a little prodding he remembered me-or at least he claimed to-and when I told him I was looking at a shipping box loaded with nun’s habits, he knew right away what I was talking about.

  “Oh, those,” he said.

  “So you know about them?”

  “Of course. We usually get orders for five or six nun’s habits at Halloween. Fewer of them now that that popular Capitol Hill production of The Late Night Catechism closed. But I do remember ordering that one whole carton. It was a special order-the only one I’ve ever done.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to remember who was it for?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Dallas said. “Anita Bowdin’s a good customer of ours. She said she was working with a school somewhere that was putting on a production of The Sound of Music. I was able to get her a really good price.”

  “Thanks,” I told him. “Thanks so much.”

  I turned to Mel. “Guess who ordered a case of phony nun’s habits?”

  “Who?”

  “Your friend and mine, Anita Bowdin.”

  “Let’s go get her, too,” Mel said. “She lives in Laurelhurst.”

  “Do you have the address?”

  “I don’t need the address,” Mel returned. “I’ve been there.”

  Ross called while we were on the road and brought us up-to-date. “The DNA lab is secure. With the help of several Washington State Patrol Internal Affairs officers, Mrs. Kim is in the process of gathering up the rape kits in question. Yolanda Andrade is in custody for possible evidence tampering. Destry Hennessey has been relieved of her duties, and she’s in custody as well. I’ve asked for the suspects to be housed separately at the Justice Center until we have a chance to interview them. So far Destry is the only one calling for a lawyer. What about you?”

  “We’ve found a whole boxful of fake nun costumes, purchased by Anita Bowdin and stored in her airplane hangar at Renton Municipal Airport. Mel and I are on our way to pick her up.”

  “Excellent,” Ross said. “Once you have her in custody we’ll settle in for a game of Let’s Make a Deal, and we’ll see which of these ladies is interested in spilling the beans.”

  We drove to Anita’s humongous waterfront villa on the edge of Lake Washington in Seattle’s tony Laurelhurst neighborhood. Just as at Renton Municipal Airport, we entered Anita’s property through a remote-controlled security gate. When we rang the front door a uniformed maid greeted us and then led us through to the back of the house. (Or the front. With waterfront houses I’m never sure which is which.)

  There, on a sun-drenched sunporch, we found a sweats-clad Anita, iPod earphones clapped to her ears, jogging along at a very fast clip on a high-tech treadmill.

  “Mel, Beau,” she gushed, taking off the earphones. “What a pleasant surprise. Have a seat. I’ll be done in a minute. Dory,” she added for the maid’s benefit. “Do bring our guests something to drink.”

  Her arrogance was such that I don’t believe it occurred to her for one moment that we were onto her or that the jig was up. When Anita finished her workout she grabbed a towel, slapped it around the back of her neck, and then came toward us smiling.

  “To what do I owe the honor?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry, Anita,” Mel said. “You’re under arrest on suspicion of murder.”

  Anita Bowdin was shocked. “No!” she exclaimed. “I’m under arrest? That’s insane. What for? You can’t possibly mean-”

  “Oh, but I do mean it,” Mel said grimly. “Hands on your head. Now!”

  Anita Bowdin did as she was told without further protest. By then I think she knew we knew and there was no need for any further discussion.

  Halfway between the sunporch and the front door we met up with Dory. She was carrying a silver tray laden with a complete coffee service along with an ice bucket, glasses, and a selection of sodas.

  “Call Calvin,” Anita snapped at the maid as we went past. “He’s at the office. Tell him I need him.”

  We walked on. Behind us we heard the tray crash to the floor, glasses and cups shattering as they fell.

  CHAPTER 26

  Mel Soames and I had both worked high-profile cases before, but nothing could have prepared us for the storm of controversy we’d fallen into this time. It’s one thing for a derelict pig farmer to be murdering folks society is ready to label throwaway prostitutes. Cops who bring down a guy like that are heroes while, through some warped logic, society views those kinds of victims as somehow complicit in their own deaths-as in, they were asking for it. As for the killer? He’s a nutcase, to be sure, but he was also doing some of society’s dirty work, so let’s put him away somewhere and move on.

  Anita Bowdin and her gang of female vigilantes turned that whole scenario on its ear. She and Destry Hennessey were and are well known and ostensibly respectable women in Washington State, with plenty of people who, without knowing any of the story, were ready to back them to the hilt. As far as those folks were concerned, the two of them could do no wrong, whereas Mel and I were nothing but a pair of malcontents who should never have brought any of this up. Ditto Todd Hatcher, who, I learned much later, did indeed turn his fifteen minutes of fame into a whopping two-book publishing contract.

  What really ended up pulling all the various threads together, however, was a young IT wizard, also a friend of Todd Hatcher, who, search warrant in hand, went on a mission through Anita Bowdin’s computer’s hard drives. The information he uncovered there was nothing short of a gold mine.

  Destry Hennessey’s initial position-that she had been duped the same way Mel had-went bye-bye when we uncovered and decoded a secret recording Anita had made of a telephone conversation between her and Destry. In it the two women not only discussed exactly when Juan Carlos Escobar was due to be released from jail but also how serendipitous it was that both
Destry and her husband would be in Washington, D.C., at the time. Ambrose Donner of Bountiful, Utah, was especially pleased to hear about that one.

  Anita was someone who liked to keep score. Several weeks into the now-public investigation, Mel and I found ourselves scrolling through one of Anita’s files that the IT guy had lifted from her computer. It was a chilling rogue’s gallery of the people she had successfully targeted and had taken out. With the exception of Richard Matthews, who had never been arrested, the record for each man came complete with mug shot, copies of fingerprints, and rap sheets. No doubt all that official information had been obtained with the help of Destry Hennessey. And side by side with each mug shot was a second photo of the same face, often a postmortem one, taken by a grainy cell phone camera and annotated with a caption that listed the date of death.

  As we worked our way through the list by Analise Kim’s preferred LIFO fashion, the names we saw were far more familiar to Mel than they were to me. After all, these were “her guys”-violent sexual predators-who were dead now for crimes they had committed but for which they had never been either officially tried or convicted. It was only when we scrolled down to the last one-the earliest one-that we found another record missing its mug shot.

  “What’s he doing here?” Mel demanded.

  I had gone to refill our coffee cups. When I returned I was looking at the head-shot photo of a pleasant-faced balding man in a jacket and tie. The caption beneath it read: “Professor Armand P. Bowdin.”

  “I thought he committed suicide,” Mel added.

  “So did I.”

  We went back through the now dog-eared collection of papers Todd Hatcher had amassed for us the day we started closing in on the truth. Searching through them all, we came up with nothing more than “died unexpectedly in his home.” A call to the Ann Arbor Police Department didn’t add much to what we’d already surmised. Armand P. Bowdin had committed suicide by taking an overdose of prescription medications.