“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, resume 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.
