The front door opened. A man in a suit and properly knotted bow tie slammed his way in through the door and then strode across the room. I had him pegged for an attorney long before he opened his mouth.
“Is this man disturbing you, Sister Cora?” he demanded.
She looked at him in some confusion. “Not at all, Mr. Ramsey. He was just asking a few questions.”
I recognized the name. That would be Dale Ramsey, of Ramsey, Ramsey, and something else, a name I vaguely remembered from some of the published legal papers regarding God’s Word, LLC. Which meant Pastor Mark had run up the flag for help and here was Mr. Ramsey riding to the rescue.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now, Mr. Beaumont,” he said. (Pastor Mark’s careful study of my ID had obviously allowed him to remember my name with uncanny accuracy. He had also duly reported it.)
“Sister Cora has work to do,” Ramsey continued. “You’ve kept her from it long enough. Furthermore, Pastor Mark tells me that you’re from the attorney general’s office. Our people have spent all weekend answering questions for investigators from Seattle PD concerning the unfortunate death of Brother LaShawn. Unless Ross Connors’s office has some reason for horning in on someone else’s jurisdiction, I see no reason for this to continue.”
Ramsey was pushy in a stilted, officious, and overly formal way. It’s no wonder I took an instant dislike to the man. But for Ross Connors, deniability was still everything. If I made even the slightest objection, phone calls would be made to Seattle PD downtown. Questions would be asked. Attention would be paid.
“Of course,” I said, equally formally, and bowed slightly in Sister Cora’s direction. “You’ve been most helpful.”
Pastor Mark emerged from behind his closed office door in time to watch me leave. With his tattooed arms folded across his chest, he stood and smiled-smirked, really-at my being ejected. I nodded and sent my own half-baked smile in his direction, just to make sure we were even.
It doesn’t matter if we’re talking bars or missions. I don’t like being run out of places before I’m ready to go. It rubs me the wrong way. In this case it made me think that God’s Word, LLC, had something to hide. But thanks to Sister Cora, I wasn’t walking away empty-handed. I knew which Seattle cab company had green cabs, and since they keep records, that meant that, whether the folks at God’s Word liked it or not, I also had a lead on Elaine Manning’s whereabouts.
I had left my cell phone in the car while I visited King Street Mission. I had been inside for far longer than I had anticipated, and again the phone was awash in messages. I hurried through them one by one.
“Hi, Dad,” Scott said cheerfully. “Mel wanted me to call you with our flight information, but we’ll be renting a car, so you don’t need to worry about coming to pick us up. By the time we get our luggage, it’ll probably be close to six-thirty or so. Are there dinner plans? Should we go there directly or just check into the hotel and wait for marching orders?”
The next caller was Meclass="underline" “Where are you?” she asked. “Why aren’t you picking up? Did you remember to order the flowers?”
Next was one from my son-in-law: “Hello. It’s me. Jeremy.” He sounded nervous, and I can understand why. We hardly ever talk on the phone. “We’re in Salem at the Burger King,” he continued. “Kelly’s in the restroom changing Kyle’s diaper. We’ll probably be in Seattle around two or so. I guess we’ll be coming straight to the house. I think that’s what Kelly wanted me to tell you. If it isn’t, I’ll call back.”
If Kelly had charged her husband with calling me, did that mean she and I weren’t speaking, or at least she wasn’t speaking to me? If that was the case, it would make the occasion of my grandmother’s funeral more than a little awkward.
Mel again: “Harry wants to know if the funeral is a private affair or if it would be all right if some of the SHIT guys came along,” Mel said. “I told him it was fine, but now I’m wondering. Should I have checked with Lars? Do we know how many people really are coming? Had we better order some food and reserve the party room? Call me.”
Awkward and complicated. This was beginning to sound like putting on a wedding-minus the bride and groom.
Next was Men’s Wearhouse: “Mr. Beaumont, when you were in on Monday, we were told that you needed your tux in time for Friday. It’s ready now. Could you please stop by at your convenience and try it on? That way, if any additional alterations are required…” Checking on a tux for Friday seemed like a very low priority.
Mel again: “I’ve been trying to think of where we should go to dinner with a new baby and all. I finally decided that we’d be better off eating at home. So I’ve called that new catering place, Magical Meals, and I’ve cleared it with the doorman. They’ll deliver a roast beef dinner with all the trimmings to the condo, complete with someone to serve and clean up. They’ll be at the house at six. If you think that’s a bad idea…” In fact, it seemed nothing short of brilliant.
Then a message from Lars: “Ja, sure,” he said. “If you have time, give me a call…”
I hadn’t been writing anything down, and by then my head was spinning. I called Lars back first. “What’s up?” I asked.
“I t’ink I’d like to go to another meeting,” he said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“I’m on my way,” I said.
I called Mel back and breathed a small thank-you when I reached her answering machine instead of her. “Busy with Lars,” I said. “Taking him to a meeting. Dinner sounds great.”
I forgot about the tux, but on the way to Queen Anne Gardens I remembered to call the flower shop and got the flowers ordered. Several different arrangements. Big ones. Spare no expense. So I may not be great, but at least I’m not entirely useless. In between all that I even managed to call the cab company and started the process of tracing Elaine Manning’s Saturday-morning ride.
Lars came out to the car looking like death warmed over. I’d managed to find another noontime meeting, this one over on the east side at a place called Angelo’s. I’d been there before, years ago. So had Lars.
“Thank you,” he said, once he got in the car.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I cannot believe t’ose women,” he said. “The first one knocked on my door this morning to see if I needed someone to help me with breakfast. Ja, sure, I can eat my own breakfast! And it’s been that way all day long, one of them after another.”
Are we going to a meeting just to get away from a bunch of pushy women? I wondered. Or is he afraid one of them will haul out a bottle of booze and slip some to him?
So we went to the meeting. Then, because Lars was in no hurry to go home, we went by and picked up my tux. And then, because he still didn’t want to go back to Queen Anne Gardens, I took him along on a jaunt through the grocery store to stock up on essentials and then home to Belltown Terrace with me, where he settled into my recliner and snored like a jackhammer for the remainder of the afternoon.
I did my best to work around him. The dispatcher from the cab company called to say Elaine Manning had been dropped off at the YWCA on Fifth. I called there and made inquiries, but to no avail. It’s a lot easier to tell someone to buzz off when you’re talking to them on the phone than it is when they’re standing right there in front of your desk. So I figured I’d try talking to the ladies at the YWCA another time when I didn’t have Lars Jenssen underfoot and a whole contingent of company bearing down on me from every point of the compass.
Then, because the house was still quiet-relatively quiet due to Lars’s Olympian snoring-and because I couldn’t think of anything more to do about LaShawn Tompkins right then, I called up LexisNexis one more time and, just for the hell of it, typed in the name Anthony David Cosgrove.