overnight with my son and his family. That’s the one night a week I baby-sit my grandchildren.”
We asked more questions, but she could add no more details, at least not then. The doctor’s appointment had prevented her from seeing any unusual vehicles the day of the murder. I couldn’t help but marvel that so far Maxwell Cole had overlooked Sophie. I hoped that would continue to be the case, but I didn’t want to trust to luck.
“Did you happen to notice the Volvo that was at Barstogi’s house when we drove up?” I asked as we were getting ready to leave.
“A what? Oh, the brown car. I haven’t seen it before.”
“It belongs to a reporter. His name is Maxwell Cole.”
“Is he the one who wrote the article this morning?”
She was a sharp old dame. Nothing much got past her.
“Yes,” I answered. “He was over there talking with Suzanne Barstogi and Brodie when we drove up. If he comes nosing around asking questions, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything to him. I’d especially like it if he didn’t learn any of what you’ve told us.”
For the first time she looked at me as though I might possibly be a member of the human race. “You mean you think this might be important?”
“I’m sure it’s important, and I don’t want the papers to get ahold of it until after we have a chance to check it out.” Unexpectedly, Sophie Czirski started crying again. They seemed to be tears of gratitude that at last someone was taking her seriously, paying attention. I was grateful we had gotten to her first.
“I wouldn’t give him the time of day,” she said determinedly when the third bout of tears finally abated. She pulled herself together long enough to let us out. We heard her padlock the gate behind us.
It was getting on toward afternoon. The storm that had been hinted on the breeze the night before finally drifted in off the Pacific, kicking up the wind and bringing with it a drenching downpour. Seattle is used to the kind of gentle drizzle that lets people walk in the rain for blocks without an umbrella and without getting wet. This was not that kind of storm. The wind would have gutted any umbrella we had tried to use. We were glad to retreat to the car.
We had barely gotten inside when Peters picked up the preliminary report that had been carelessly dropped in the backseat. He studied it for a few minutes, then handed it to me, pointing at a paragraph close to the bottom. It was something we had missed the first time, and Maxwell Cole evidently hadn’t given it any notice either. In her death struggle, Angela’s Barstogi’s left arm had been broken. Actually a recent fracture had been rebroken. In addition, X rays revealed an old break in her right arm and one on her left leg.
“Must have been a really accident-prone kid,” I said sarcastically.
“Right,” Peters replied. He was looking at Suzanne Barstogi’s house. Like me, he was probably thinking about the living room full of kneeling supplicants. “I’ll just bet that asshole’s our man.”
“Could be,” I said. “Sounds more plausible all the time.”
“And Suzanne Barstogi’s an accessory!” Peters ran his hand over his forehead and hair in a gesture of hopelessness. For a time he was quiet, waging an internal war.
“You ever hear of Broken Springs. Oregon?” he asked at last. It was an off-the-wall question. I thought for a minute, then shook my head without making any connection. He continued. “It’le place in central Oregon south of The Dalles that’s been taken over by a cult. The peons eat long-grain rice and go without, while the swami or whatever the hell he is rides around in one of his thirty or so Cadillacs. My ex-wife and kids are there.”
He stopped. For a space there was no sound in the car but the rain slapping the windshield and the roof. I had worked with Peters for the better part of two months without a hint that something like that was in his background. Now he had dropped the whole load at once.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me too,” he responded bleakly. “I can’t understand how it happens, how people put themselves totally under someone else’s control. That’s the way it is with Suzanne Barstogi. She probably stood right there and watched, maybe even helped.” It was a chilling, sobering possibility.
Once more the sound of the rain filled the car. Peters sat hunched over the steering wheel saying nothing, gripping it with such force that his knuckles turned white. The hurt and pain were so thick in the front seat you could almost touch them. “I’ll ask Powell to pull you off the case. I think your objectivity is shot to shit.”
That jarred him out of his introspection. He sat up and glared at me. “If you so much as try to get me pulled, I’ll kick your ass till Sunday, J. P. Beaumont.”
“That’s fair enough.” I could handle him pissed a whole lot better than I could handle him grieving. “Now let’s get the hell out of here. I want to go take a look at Faith Tabernacle.”
Peters straightened his shoulders and started the car. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s not about the time we started being real partners. At least we had taken the gloves off. It was about time.
Chapter 5
It was still raining Saturday morning, so I grabbed a bus to the Public Safety Building. The lady Metro driver winked at me. I don’t think getting hit on by a lady bus driver is exactly dignified. Besides, I spent too many years with a ring around my finger to know how to handle a pass when I meet one. I consider myself a relatively cool customer. That’s why I got off the bus by the back door.
There was a whole stack of messages on my desk. I returned what calls I could. One was from a Tom Stahl. When I tried his number, I discovered it was the telephone company business office. It was closed until Monday. I’ve had calls from Ma Bell before. It usually means I’ve neglected to pay my phone bill. I looked in my checkbook. Sure enough, no check showed in April for the March bill. It was nice of Mr. Stahl to remind me! Karen used to handle that. I wadded up the message and pitched it, making a mental note to pay all my bills.
I went over the Sophie material. Who was Uncle Charlie? I pored over the list of Faith Tabernacle members. No Charles or Charlie there, only those quaint biblical names that sounded like they’d just stepped out of the Old Testament. I fed the names into the computer, looking for driver’s licenses, vehicle registrations, unpaid traffic fines. There was nothing on any of the names in the state of Washington, except for Brodie. He was the registered owner of a total of five vehicles. Not finding any information is enough to arouse any good detective’s suspicions. Who the hell were these people? I fired off another inquiry, this one to Illinois.
Afterward I waited, drumming my fingers on the desk, wondering about Uncle Charlie. No one in Faith Tabernacle had mentioned him. Whoever he was, in or out of the group, he had been important to Angela Barstogi. She had mentioned him to Sophie Czirski when she hadn’t mentioned her own father.
I looked up to find Captain Powell perched on the corner of my desk. “How’s it going?” he asked.
I guess Powell’s all right. He’s probably thirty-seven or thirty-eight. He’s what I call a young Turk, one of those guys who’s on a fast track and plans to make it all the way to the top in a hurry. The best way to handle people like that is to stay out of their way. Their ambition has a way of clobbering anyone who isn’t pushing and shoving in the same direction.
“We’re plugging,” I replied noncommittally.
“What are you finding?”
“We spent a good part of yesterday afternoon around Faith Tabernacle over in Ballard. We didn’t get inside. No one was there. The doors were locked, but we spent lots of time with the neighbors.”
“And?”
“Pastor Michael Brodie is not well thought of in that neck of the woods. People say odd things go on in Faith Tabernacle, that they sometimes hear children crying.”
“Have there been complaints?”
“Peters is checking that out right now. No one has ever been able to get close enough to the kids to talk to them.”
Powell rubbed his chin. I’m always about half-suspicious of chin rubbers. It’s the same way with deliberate tappers and cleaners of expensive, hand-carved pipes. The gestures are calculated distractions, serving to divert attention from the current topic of discussion.
