“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 something 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.”
“How does this place work?” I asked.
“Work?” she asked.
