“What are you going to do now?” Mel asked.
“Go home and put my feet up,” I said. “It was a pretty short night.”
On the way, I listened through a string of condolence calls—from Ron Peters, a former partner and a good friend; from Ralph Ames, my attorney; from Ross Connors along with several other members of the SHIT squad. In other words, Mel had put out the word.
When I got as far as downtown, I thought briefly about stopping by Seattle PD, but decided against it. It would create far less of a stir if I phoned Kendall Jackson than it would if I showed up on the premises in person asking questions. And since Ross seemed to want deniability, less of a stir would be far preferable to more of one.
Back at the condo I settled into the recliner, picked up the phone, and dialed that old familiar number that took me straight to the heart of Homicide. In the old days I couldn’t have made such a call without spending several minutes chewing the fat with Watty Watson, who was, for many years, the telephone-answering nerve center for Seattle PD’s homicide squad. But now Watty had moved on—either up or out. The phone was answered by someone whose name I neither caught nor recognized. I was put through to Detective Jackson with no chitchat and no questions asked.
“Hey, Beau-Beau,” Kendall boomed into the phone. “How’re you doing these days? Did they finally get all that glass out of your face?”
Jackson had been first on the scene after I went through the shattered wall of that greenhouse. The last time he had seen me I had been a bloody mess on my way to the ER.
“Pretty much,” I said. “Although I still find shards of it now and then.”
“You’re doing better than Captain Kramer,” he said. “You know he’s still out on disability? Everyone says he’s coming back soon now, though, probably sometime in the next couple of weeks.”
Mel and I might have saved Paul Kramer’s sorry butt, but that didn’t mean I liked him any better. “Glad to hear it,” I lied.
The words came to my lips almost effortlessly. Maybe I was starting to get the hang of it. After all, I had managed to lie to Mel. Now it looked as though I might be able to spin believable whoppers at the drop of a hat for anybody at all, no exceptions.
“What can I do for you?” Jackson asked.
“I understand you’re working the LaShawn Tompkins case.”
“Yup,” Jackson said. “Hank and I drew that one.”
Hank was Detective Henry Ramsdahl, Jackson’s partner.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Is that an official ‘how’s it going’ or an unofficial?” he returned.
“Unofficial,” I replied. “After the state made that payout in the Tompkins case, Ross Connors wants to be sure everything is on the up-and-up, but he also doesn’t want to make a big fuss about it, if you know what I mean.”
“We’re not making much progress so far,” Jackson admitted. “From everything we’ve been able to learn, Tompkins had been keeping his nose clean. We’ve turned up no sign that he was involved in any illegal activities. According to what we’ve been told, LaShawn found God while he was in prison. Once he got out, he straightened up and flew right—right up until somebody shot him dead, which, if you ask me, sounds pretty iffy,” Jackson concluded. “Old bad guys mostly don’t go straight.”
We were on the same wavelength on that score.
“With the possible exception of the girlfriend angle, though,” he added, “we haven’t found anyone with a beef against him.”
“What girlfriend?” I asked. The fact that LaShawn might have a girlfriend was news to me, and it would no doubt be news to Etta Mae as well.
“Name’s Elaine—Elaine Manning. That would be Sister Elaine Manning.”
“Sister as in she’s black?” I asked.
“That, too, but mostly sister as in that was her title at King Street Mission. Also an ex-con. Spent five years at Purdy for armed robbery. From what I can tell, that’s pretty much the prerequisite for becoming a counselor at King Street—you’ve already done your crime and your time. It’s a cachet that gives you more credibility with the clients.”
“What about Elaine Manning?” I prompted.
“We’re hearing bits and rumors that she and Brother Mark may have had something going, but that was before Brother LaShawn turned up on the scene. Once that happened, Sister Elaine more or less spun out of Brother Mark’s orbit.”
“So we could be dealing with a simple love triangle?” I asked.
Of course, love triangles are hardly ever simple.
“Maybe,” Jackson agreed. “Problem is, so far we haven’t been able to locate Ms. Manning.”
“You’re saying she’s gone missing?”