Justice Denied Read online

  “I seem to remember you prefer finding your newspapers in pristine condition,” I replied. “I’m only thinking of you.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  When it comes to lying, I’m getting better all the time.

  Mel collected her papers. Then she went over to the window seat, wrapped a throw around her shoulders, and settled down in one corner to read the headlines and await the end of the coffee-brewing cycle. On a clear day someone sitting in the window seat can see Mount Rainier to the south and east and the Olympics to the north and west, with a vast display of water and/or city in between. This was March. The only thing visible was rain—lots of it.

  “Did you get the flowers?” she asked.

  The puzzled look on my face must have been answer enough.

  “For Beverly’s funeral,” she reminded me. “You were going to order more, right?”

  “Right,” I said. “But Ballard Blossom isn’t open right now. It’s too early. I’ll have to call later.”

  “And then you should probably drag home some groceries. The kids will be here at least part of the time.”

  “What kind of groceries?” I asked.

  “You know. The usual. Sodas, cereal, milk, bread, peanut butter, animal crackers.”

  “Where the hell do they keep animal crackers these days?”

  “Same place they always have, but when you get to the store, ask,” she said patiently. “Someone there will be able to tell you.”

  Mel left for work a little past seven. I went back to surfing the net, where I was still trying to track down principals in God’s Word when Ross Connors called me at home a little after eight.

  “Sorry to hear about your grandmother,” he said. “Harry told me you weren’t coming in.”

  Since he had called on my home number and not on my cell, I had already figured that out. “Thanks,” I said. “But I’m still working. It would be a hell of a lot easier on me if I could talk to Mel about this Tompkins situation. I don’t like sneaking around on her. It feels like cheating.”

  “Indulge me,” he said. “I’m not ready to start connecting the dots yet. What have you found out on LaShawn so far?”

  “According to Detective Jackson at Seattle PD, it could be nothing more or less than an old-fashioned love triangle with both LaShawn and Pastor Mark from King Street Mission going after the same girl.”

  “Who also happens to be missing at the moment,” Ross supplied.

  In other words, I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. So why did he need me?

  Ross answered the question without my asking it. “Find her,” he said. “There is nothing that would make me happier than to know LaShawn Tompkins is dead because he fell in love with the wrong girl.”

  This was not a throwaway comment. There was an urgency in Ross’s voice that I recognized. Something was going on—something Ross was not yet prepared to divulge—and LaShawn Tompkins’s murder, inconsequential as it might seem in the big scheme of things, was somehow the tip of that iceberg.

  “You know,” I said, “it might be easier to fix this problem if I knew what the hell was really going on.”

  “Just find the girl,” Ross said. “Find Elaine Manning. Maybe this is nothing more than what Kendall Jackson says it is, a love story gone awry, and maybe I’m just over the hill, full of crap, and pushing panic buttons for no reason. That’s what I’m hoping.”

  I knew for certain that Ross Connors was anything but over the hill and full of crap, so I kept my mouth shut. When he hung up, he left me with the sure knowledge that I’d better hit the road and do what I’d been ordered to do—find Elaine Manning. And the first place to look was King Street Mission.

  For years Ross Connors has been a big-time political player in the state of Washington. That means he comes complete with lots of connections—political, financial, and otherwise. The fact that God’s Word wasn’t up-front about who all was involved made it seem likely to me that we were dealing with some pretty heavy hitters. Otherwise why would Ross be worried—or personally involved?

  So I closed the computer, showered, dressed, and headed out for the King Street Mission. It’s not the kind of place you stumble into by accident. The only way to get there is on purpose—because that’s where you mean to go.

  The mission was situated in a squat, unimposing old brick building set in a mostly industrial and dying warehouse area that was so far out of the downtown core that parking was actually free. It faced a generally freight-bearing rail spur. With its back pressed up against the noisy roar of I-5’s southbound lanes, the building itself as well as the neighborhood as a whole would probably defy all efforts of gentrification for generations to come. It was located too far from the easy panhandling of tourist-teeming Pioneer Square and the sports-crazed fans that populate the area around Safeco and Qwest fields. King Street Mission was clearly a place for people serious about recovering from whatever ailed them.

  The hand-lettered sign over the front door, complete with crosses on either end, exhorted new arrivals to “Abandon all dope ye who enter here.” I took that to mean King Street Mission was probably one of those trendy faith-based organizations that sets out to rehabilitate folks the state gave up on long ago—probably for good reason. There was no stand-alone ashtray next to the outside door and no scatter of nearby cigarette butts, either. The one or two I saw in the gutter had probably come from passing vehicles. I remembered what Detective Jackson had said about King Street not tolerating smoking. From the looks of the front entrance the people inside were making that rule stick both inside and out.

  I stepped into a brightly lit multipurpose room that served as dining room, lobby, and library. The white tile floor was polished to a high enough sheen that it would have put most hospital corridors to shame. At one end of the room was a series of tables equipped with several desktop computers. Behind them were shelves lined with books and a series of couches and easy chairs. If somebody had been selling lattes, that part of the room could have passed for a Starbucks franchise. At the other end was a dining area already set with two dozen or so places. Behind a pair of swinging doors came the sounds of a kitchen crew hard at work, most likely preparing what would be the noon meal.

  Directly in front of me was a battered hotel desk that looked as though it had been through several wars. Behind the desk sat a young dark-haired woman who might have been attractive had it not been for her mouth—the missing and blackened teeth and swollen gums that are routinely called meth-mouth these days. Her name tag said she was Cora. Her awful visage made me glad I don’t do meth and that I see my dentist regularly. It also made me wonder what else she had done that had landed her first in prison and then here.

  “Something I can do for you?” she lisped through her missing teeth.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m looking for Pastor Mark.”

  “He’s conducting a Bible study right now,” she said. “You’re welcome to wait. He should be done in ten minutes or so.”

  “I’ll wait,” I said.

  Cora returned to her computer keyboard. She didn’t exactly put a pretty face on the King Street Mission’s mission, but then maybe she was emblematic of what they were doing—and the kind of raw material they started out with. These people were coming from way behind go.

  The wall next to the front desk was lined with a series of bulletin boards. I wandered over to them and studied the contents. One contained what looked like a duty roster and included things like cooking shifts, sweeping, bathroom cleaning, garbage takeout, et cetera. So this was a cooperative effort. People who lived here were expected to keep the place clean and running. That was refreshing.

  There was also a schedule of classes—computer skills, résumé writing, GED, literacy, et cetera, although I’m not sure how someone who was illiterate would have found his or her way to that last class. There were also three different Bible studies—one Old Testament and two New—on every day of the week: morning, afternoon, and evening. And
there were AA and NA (Narcotics Anonymous) meetings as well. This was a very busy place, with supposedly uplifting stuff happening at all hours of the day and night.

  A handwritten note next to the class and meeting schedule announced that an in-house memorial service would be held Thursday at 7:00 p.m. I made a note of that, but I already knew I had a conflict in terms of my grandmother’s services. Maybe Kendall Jackson could cover it.

  “Funeral services for Brother LaShawn will be held on Friday from 2:00 to 4:00 p.m. at African Bible Baptist on MLK Jr. Way,” the posting continued. “Anyone needing bus transportation to or from the funeral should sign up on the sheet below.”

  It was only Wednesday morning. Already fifteen names appeared on the list. I wondered if people were planning on attending LaShawn’s funeral because they wanted to go, or had they been ordered to attend…or else?

  “May I help you?”

  I turned around to see Pastor Mark standing behind me. He had arrived soundlessly in a pair of white tennis shoes that were a stark contrast to his black pants, black short-sleeved shirt, and stiff clerical collar. His graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail. His wire-framed glasses gave him the jaunty look of a with-it college professor. The array of jailhouse tattoos that cascaded down both bare arms told another story.

  I held out my hand. “My name’s Beaumont,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont. I’m an investigator for the Washington State Attorney General’s Office. I believe I saw you yesterday at Mrs. Tompkins’s home, but we were never properly introduced.”

  “You’re a cop?” he asked.

  Considering Pastor Mark’s divinity degree was of the jailhouse variety, his question was entirely understandable. Ex-cons and cops have a way of recognizing one another on sight. We tend to run in the same circles.

  I nodded.

  “Then I’ll need to see your ID,” he said.

  He studied it for a long time. “Special Homicide Investigation Team—SHIT. This is a joke, right? But it’s a little too early for April Fool’s.”

  Displaying my SHIT ID tends to have that effect on people. Once they go down that road, it’s hard to get them to take you seriously.

  “It’s no joke,” I said. “I’m looking for Elaine Manning.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, then,” Pastor Mark replied. “Sister Elaine’s not here.” Something steely came into his tone. I recognized that as well.

  “You have no idea where she might be?” I asked.

  “None at all.”

  “When did she leave?” I asked.

  “Sometime Saturday morning. I’m not sure when.”

  “And what about Friday evening?” I continued. “Where were you around seven p.m. or so?”

  Kendall Jackson had told me that was the approximate time LaShawn Tompkins had been shot.

  Pastor Mark gave me a slow but confident smile—a Cheshire cat kind of smile, as though he knew way more than I did. “I was right here,” he said. “I was here with everyone else eating dinner between six and seven. Seven sharp is the beginning of Evening Bible Study, which I conducted myself that evening. New Testament, Book of John, chapters six and seven. Cora can give you a list of the people who were at dinner as well as the people in my study session if you wish. Beyond that, however, I’ve been advised to answer no additional questions without my attorney being present. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Clerical collar or not, Pastor Mark Granger was an experienced but oddly polished ex-con, a felon who knew exactly when it was time to lawyer-up. I noticed something else about him, too. Underneath that polished exterior lurked a seething anger that he managed to hold in check—but only just barely. And men like that—the ones with explosive tempers lurking right beneath the surface—are often the most dangerous, especially when thwarted in any way.

  Knowing all that, recognizing the reformed Pastor Mark for what he really was, I couldn’t help wondering how it was that Etta Mae Tompkins had managed to send the man packing in full retreat the day before. It could have been the power of her considerable righteousness. On the other hand, it could have been due to my turning up just when it did. The outcome might have been entirely different had I not arrived on the scene during their somewhat heated discussion.

  There are times I despair of ever being in the right place at the right time, but maybe that wasn’t true regarding my visit to Etta Mae Tompkins’s house. No, on that one occasion at least, I had somehow managed to stumble into arriving at exactly the right moment.

  Sometimes things just work out.

  CHAPTER 7

  People who go missing of their own volition usually do so because they’ve got something to hide. People who go missing against their will usually disappear because someone else has something to hide. At that point I had no idea which of those causes applied to Elaine Manning. But if I was going to find her—as I had been ordered to do—then it made sense to start asking questions in the last place she’d been seen.

  On my way to the King Street Mission I had been concerned about what I’d say to the Seattle homicide cops I was liable to run into who would also be there working. Turns out I needn’t have worried on that score. No one was there. It was Wednesday. LaShawn Tompkins had died on Friday. His death may have made a big media splash over the weekend, but by Wednesday his death was old news. Not only that, the clock had ticked far beyond those first critical forty-eight hours when a case is most likely to be solved—if it’s ever going to be solved. Homicide cops don’t necessarily have a short attention span, but police departments can and do, especially if something else comes up in the meantime.

  So J. P. Beaumont had the King Street Mission pretty much to himself. When Pastor Mark turned his back on me and then disappeared into an office on the far side of the front desk, he didn’t tell me I should move along. So I didn’t. I went into questioning mode, starting with the almost toothless Cora.

  On the one hand, it was hard to look at her. On the other hand, it was hard not to stare. For her part, Cora seemed to be totally unaffected by her tragically flawed physical appearance. She had finished doing whatever she had been doing on the computer. An open Bible now lay on the desk in front of her.

  “I’m looking for Elaine Manning,” I said. Cora glanced cautiously over her shoulder, as if to make sure Pastor Mark’s door was closed before she answered my inquiry.

  “Like Pastor Mark said,” she told me, “Sister Elaine left.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  Cora shook her head. “No. She just took off.”

  “Are you here at the desk most of the time?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. Just today. It’s my chore for the day—minding the front desk.”

  “And who was minding it when Ms. Manning left?”

  “Sister Elaine, you mean. That was Saturday morning. As it happens, I was on the desk then, too. I had lunch-cooking duty and I traded with Brother Samuel. I hate cooking.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Right after breakfast. Around nine or so. The cops had come by the night before and talked to Pastor Mark. They told him what had happened to Brother LaShawn. The rest of us didn’t hear about it until breakfast, when Pastor Mark made the official announcement.”

  “And how did Sister Elaine react to that news?” I asked.

  “About the way you’d expect. She was very upset, crying and everything,” Sister Cora said. “But then we all were. Brother LaShawn was just the nicest person you’d ever hope to meet.”

  “And Ms. Manning left right after that?” I asked.

  “Almost right after,” Cora verified with a nod. “She left the table while the rest of us were still there. When she came back downstairs, she had a suitcase with her. Well, not a suitcase, actually, a duffel bag. She went into Pastor Mark’s office and talked to him for a few minutes. I was sitting here at the desk by then, so I heard them—their voices, anyway, not exactly what they were saying. They were yelling. I heard her say somethin
g about how dare he do something or other, but I didn’t hear the rest of it.”

  “Could it have been related to Mr. Tompkins’s death?”

  Sister Cora shrugged. “I suppose so,” she said. “A few minutes later Sister Elaine came out and asked me to call her a cab. Then she left.”

  “Did she happen to mention to you where she was going or where the cab would be taking her?”

  Sister Cora shook her head. “She just said ‘Get me a cab,’ and I did. It was green, I think.”

  But I happen to know that cab companies have records. They keep track of where and when they pick up fares; they also know where they drop them off.

  “Tell me about Friday night,” I said. “Were you here at dinner?”

  Sister Cora nodded. “We all were. The only excuse for missing dinner is if you’re working at an outside job. With Brother LaShawn it was different, though. He was taking care of his mother, so that was all right. He had an excused absence, but everyone else was supposed to be here, and they were.”

  “How many people is that?” I asked.

  “Without Brother LaShawn and Sister Elaine, we’re down to thirty-six. We can hold forty max.”

  “The King Street Mission isn’t exactly on the beaten path. How do people find this place?” I asked. “How do they know to come here?”

  “My parole officer told me about it,” she said. “Praise God for that,” she added. “Otherwise I’d probably be dead by now.”

  But LaShawn Tompkins is dead, I thought. So that was small comfort.

  “How does this place work?” I asked.

  “Work?” she asked.

  “Do you pay rent, or what?”

  Sister Cora shook her head. “There’s no rent,” she said. “But we have to obey all the rules. If you break one, you’re gone—O-U-T.”

  “And the rules are?”

  “No booze. No drugs. No cigarettes. You do your assigned chores. You attend classes, work at the thrift store, do whatever needs to be done. We’re here to better ourselves. To learn to make better choices.”