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 emptied 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
“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
“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
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.
