Dance of the Bones (24 page)

AFTER I FINISHED GOING THROUGH
Amanda Wasser's digital files, I sat there for a while longer and thought about them. The first order of business, of course, would be to reinterview Calliope Horn. I still have the last phone book the telephone company sent out. It's so out-of-date now that it's close to being an antique. A check of that showed no listing for Calliope Horn. That was hardly surprising. The Kenneth Myers homicide was twenty-­five years earlier. A lot can happen in that amount of time.

Had I still been part of the S.H.I.T., I would have had access to any number of public and private databases and could have used those to track Calliope Horn down on my own. That door was now permanently closed—­officially that is. Unofficially, I still had a single ace up my sleeve: my old pal Todd Hatcher.

Todd is a smart guy, a forensic economist. They're the kind of ­people who look into small things and spot coming trends. One of my first interactions with him had come about when he showed up on the attorney general's doorstep with a dissertation in hand. The paper laid out the long-­term adverse financial implications an aging prison population would have on the state budget. I had it on good authority that Todd still had access to all those highly sensitive databases that were now closed to me. Todd is also your basic IT genius. In fact, he's the one who had used off-­the-­books methods to locate a madman's cell phone, thus allowing me to save Mel Soames's life mere weeks earlier.

This wasn't quite that pressing an issue, but with Mel still out of town, I hoped Todd could help me find Calliope Horn in a timely enough fashion that I could have my interview with her out of the way before Mel came home.

I called Todd and passed along my request. Next I dialed Brandon Walker. When he answered, I could hear the clatter of dishes and the sounds of ­people talking in the background. “Beaumont here,” I told him. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, I missed lunch, so I stopped off for an early dinner, but I'm done now. Did anything jump out at you?”

“At the time of the initial investigation here, detectives spoke to Kenneth Myers's girlfriend, Calliope Horn. She indicated that when she last saw him, he was on his way to Arizona for some reason and that he expected to come home with a sum of money from an undisclosed source—­enough money to get them moved out of a homeless camp and back on their feet.”

“A score of some kind, maybe?” Brandon asked.

“A score with a woman involved.”

“What woman?”

“Not sure,” I said. “Calliope didn't have a name, but she suspected it might have been an old girlfriend from Arizona. Kenneth apparently was seen in the company of an unidentified woman here in Seattle shortly before he disappeared. I've got someone looking for Calliope right now. If I can interview her tomorrow, I will.

“Since Lassiter was already in prison, he can't be responsible for Ken's death, but he might have some idea of who was.”

“Lassiter pointed me in the direction of someone named Ava,” Brandon said, “Ava Martin Hanover Richland. She was John's girlfriend at the time of the homicide, and she also testified against Lassiter at both trials. I know she palled around with Ken, too.”

“That's a time-­honored way to keep the cops from looking at you,” I told him. “You do everything you can to point the finger at somebody else.”

“So if you can manage to track down that old girlfriend . . .”

“Calliope,” I supplied.

“Ask her if she ever heard Kenneth Mangum Myers mention Ava Martin by name.”

“Will do,” I said. “I'll have Todd, a friend of mine who's a whiz at data mining, look into Ava's history as well. Could you give me that string of names again?”

While Brandon was repeating them, there was an audible blip in the line. “Just a sec,” he said. “I have another call coming in. Can you hang on?”

“Sure.” While he was off the line, I made a note of the list of names. One of the things I've learned from Todd Hatcher is that the Internet is no respecter of state lines. Your name is your name. A hit can come from any corner of the country—­or of the world, for that matter.

After the better part of a minute, Walker came back on the line. “That was Warden Huffman from the state pen,” he said.

His voice was different. I could tell at once that something was wrong.

“What's up?”

“There was a ‘disturbance' at the prison a while ago. The guards controlled the situation eventually, and the prison is back under lockdown. Trouble is, two ­people are dead in the incident, and John Lassiter was severely wounded. He's in critical condition and has been air-­lifted to a trauma center in Mesa.”

“Somebody tried to take him out the same day you stop by to visit?” I asked. “That doesn't sound like a coincidence.”

“Not to me, either,” Brandon said. “Anyway, I need to go tell Amanda. I asked the warden if anyone had been sent to notify her. Turns out he didn't even know she existed. She isn't on Lassiter's official next-­of-­kin list.”

“You'll go see her?” I asked.

“I will,” he said. “It's the right thing to do.”

And that's when I knew Ralph Ames wasn't wrong about Brandon Walker. A lot of ­people I know—­especially guys like Phil Kramer—­do their best to avoid having to deal with families of victims. Walker had just volunteered to break some awful news to a family member when it wasn't his job.

“Good luck with that,” I said, and meant it. “In the meantime, I'll get cracking on locating Calliope Horn. I'll also have Todd look into this Ava person. It sounds to me as though TLC has just stumbled on a hornets' nest.”

 

CHAPTER 22

THE WHITE-­WINGED DOVES TOOK OWL
to the place and showed him the sleeping girl, but Evil Giantess was awake and on guard. Once night came, Ho
'
ok O
'
oks went to sleep. That was when Owl returned. He flew softly back and forth over Shining Falls, who still lay sleeping with Little White Feather crushed in her hand.

Very gently, Owl fanned Shining Falls with his wings, and slowly
—­
very slowly
—­
Shining Falls
'
s eyes opened. And this is why,
nawoj,
even to this day, when someone is asleep and cannot wake up, the Elders
—­
Kekelimai
—­
fan the sleeping one with owl feathers.

“I'M THIRSTY,”
TIM MOANED IN
the darkness. “I'm thirsty and hungry and scared. We're going to die.”

Gabe was hungry and thirsty, too, but there was no point in talking about it. He had done his best to explore their prison. He had located the ventilation holes that he had known had to be there. They allowed air in but no light. And he had found the seam where the lid closed over them. He had been able to ease the knife blade along it until he encountered what he supposed was a metal hasp. He withdrew the blade as soon as it touched something hard. The knife was their only weapon, and he didn't want to damage it. He slipped it into his pocket. As he did so, his fingers encountered the four diamonds that he had put there hours ago—­long before this endless time in the darkness. Gabe couldn't see them, of course, but just having the stones in his hand somehow made him feel better.

“We're not going to die,” he declared firmly with a confidence he didn't exactly feel. “We're not going to.”

“I could just as well die,” Tim went on. “What'll happen to me if I live? My mom is sick. My dad is dead, and so are Carlos and Paul. Max is still alive, but he's in prison. I'll probably end up in foster care somewhere.”

Tim's voice sounded funny—­like his tongue was thick, like he was mumbling rather than talking.

“What about your aunt and uncle?” Gabe asked. “Couldn't you go live with them?”

“I don't like them,” Tim said. “And they have too many little kids. I'd end up being their babysitter.”

Moving restlessly in the darkness, Tim's hand came in contact with the back of Gabe's fist. Tim's fingers were hot to the touch, as though he was burning up with a fever. That's when Gabe realized Tim wasn't just thirsty—­he was dehydrated, and maybe Tim's assessment was right. If Henry Rojas didn't come back for them soon, Tim might die after all.

Suddenly, without knowing how it happened, Gabe was back in one of those hospital rooms. He had gone to visit an old, old woman, Mrs. Lopez. She was lying in the bed, restless and moaning. The sides of the bed had been put up to keep her from falling. Gabe had reached out to touch her hand and had known in that moment that she was going to die, that this was the last time he would see her.

How had he known that? Gabe wondered. How had he understood Death was coming?

Holding his breath, he reached out now and sought Tim's hand once more. The skin was hot to the touch, but the sense of foreboding and dread Gabe had felt in Mrs. Lopez's hospital room didn't descend on him. If Tim was dying, it wasn't happening right now. It wasn't happening yet.

Then, something else came back to Gabe from that same long-­ago hospital room. He had sat down on the floor beside Mrs. Lopez's bed, close enough that her hand could touch the back of his head through the bed rails. Gabe had sung to her that day, a healing song whose words he could no longer remember. What he did remember was that as he sang she had quieted. She had stopped thrashing in the bed, had stopped moaning. He had sung the song four times—­for all of nature goes in fours—­and when the song was finished and he left the room, she was sleeping peacefully.

Maybe that was what was needed right now—­a healing song that would let Tim José fall asleep so he wouldn't notice how slowly time was passing in the stifling darkness, so he would forget how thirsty he was.

Without knowing where the words came from—­perhaps from the four stones clutched in his hand—­Gabe Ortiz began to sing.

We are here, Elder Brother, two boys in a box.

We are alone in the dark, Spirit of Goodness,

Hungry and thirsty and asking for help.

The man who put us here is not a good man.

He pretends to be good, but he is not.

There is something in him that is evil,

I
'
itoi, something in him that is bad.

Help us to know what to do, Elder Brother.

Help us to know what to do.

You have given us a weapon, Elder Brother,

A weapon that the bad man didn
'
t see.

The weapon was a gift, a knife, that let us

Cut our bonds, and now we wait,

Wait for that evil man to return. When he does

Help us fight him, Elder Brother,

Help us fight him, that we may live.

We are two boys in a box who need your help,

Elder Brother, two boys who need your help.

Gabe sang the song through four times, and by the time he was done, two things had happened. Tim had fallen asleep, and Gabe himself no longer felt thirsty.

TODD HATCHER WAS GOOD TO
his word. Within twenty minutes of my handing him the joint Calliope Horn/Ava Martin problem, he was back on the phone. “I found her,” he said. “Her name is Calliope Horn-­Grover now—­Reverend Calliope Horn-­Grover. She and her husband, the Reverend Dale Grover, are partners in an outfit called Pastoral Outreach. It specializes in ministering to homeless shelters throughout the Seattle area.”

Having just read through the Danielson/Horn interview, I was impressed that Calliope had somehow made good on her ambitions of becoming a minister to the homeless. Good for her!

“Any idea where they live?”

“Probably only blocks from you,” Todd said. “Their address is on Elliott. I have a phone number if you want it.”

“Of course I want it.” He read off the number, and I jotted it down. “Any luck on Ava?”

“One problem at a time,” Todd admonished. “And don't expect miracles.”

Duly chastened, I dialed the number he had given me without any idea of what I'd say when someone answered. After all, I wasn't with Special Homicide anymore, and I wasn't with Seattle PD, either. For the first time in decades, I was operating entirely on my own.

“I'm looking for Reverend Calliope Horn-­Grover,” I said when a woman answered.

“Calliope?” she said. “Yes, that would be me. Who's calling, please?”

“My name is J. P. Beaumont. I've been asked to look into the death of an acquaintance of yours, and I wondered if you could spare me a few minutes.”

“Which acquaintance?”

That wasn't such a surprising question. ­People die in homeless shelters all the time. They live outside in all kinds of weather and often in less than sanitary conditions. I knew from reading the papers that over the previous winter several of Seattle's homeless had fallen victim to cold weather, especially during an unexpectedly frigid cold snap that had roared through western Washington the weekend after Thanksgiving.

“His name was Kenneth Mangum, although I believe you knew him as Kenneth Myers,” I added. “My understanding is that the two of you were close at one time.”

Her sharp intake of breath told me my assumption wasn't wrong. When she said nothing, I continued, “We could talk on the phone, or I could drop by your home or office. Your address is listed as being on Elliott. My condo is only a few blocks away from there. It's your call.”

“Why talk to me?” Calliope asked. “Kenny's homicide has gone unsolved all these years. Why is someone looking into his death now?”

“Because someone who was once a friend of Mr. Myers was viciously attacked during a prison riot earlier today. We're trying to figure out if there's any possible connection between today's attack and the previous homicide.”

“What friend?” Calliope asked.

“A guy named Lassiter.”

“Big Bad John Lassiter?” she asked.

Even after so much time, Calliope recognized the name right off and without any prompting from me. Sue Danielson had never asked about any connection between the dead man and John Lassiter because, at the time of that interview, there had been no known link between them. Still, when Sue had inquired about Ken's friends, why hadn't John Lassiter's name come up? That's when I realized Sue had asked about Ken's girlfriends but not about his male friends.

“That would be the one,” I said.

“And he was attacked?”

“Yes, in prison. He's serving time down in Arizona.”

“When did this attack happen?”

“As I said, earlier today.”

“Are you a cop?” Calliope asked.

“Used to be,” I answered, “but not anymore.”

“What's your connection to all this?”

Tenuous at best,
I thought, but I didn't want to go into any of the details, not right then. “I'm working in conjunction with a group called The Last Chance—­TLC. They specialize in solving cold cases.”

“Ken's case is cold, all right,” Calliope said with a sigh. “I suppose you're welcome to stop by here if you like, but I don't see how I'll be able to help. And my husband and I have a meeting to go to at seven. We're in the Lofts on Elliott.”

“I have the address,” I said.

“There's visitor parking in the garage beneath the building.”

I knew that, too. The building probably wasn't more than ten blocks away from Belltown Terrace. Getting there on foot would have been easy because the going part was all downhill. Coming back up one of those glacial ridges to return to the Denny Regrade would have been hell, though. Since Mel wasn't there to insist I do otherwise, I drove.

When you live in downtown Seattle, you tend to keep an eye on nearby real estate, if for no other reason than worrying about some building sprouting up and wrecking your view. Mel and I had watched the transformation of a former lowbrow manufacturing plant into an upscale residential property called the Lofts. Thanks to a long succession of bumbling developers, the building had gone through some tough times. Still, buildings in downtown Seattle that come with any kind of parking, and most especially guest parking, don't come cheap. As I parked in the Lofts underground garage and walked toward the security phone by the elevator lobby, I couldn't help but think that Calliope Horn had come a long way from living in a makeshift tarp-­covered homeless camp decades earlier.

When I called, a male voice answered and directed me to come to apartment number 502. A glance at the elevator control panel told me that floor number five was the top floor, which meant their unit was also a penthouse. Yes, Calliope Horn had indeed come a very long way.

When I rang the bell, the door was opened by a man in a wheelchair. That shouldn't have surprised me, since the door came equipped with two peepholes—­one at the regular height and one a ­couple of feet lower. One half of the man's face drooped, but he gave me a welcoming smile with the side that still worked, and the grip of his handshake was warm and welcoming.

“Mr. Beaumont?”

I nodded. Having someone call me “mister” still gives me pause. For the greater part of my life, the word “Detective” was an integral part of my name. I still miss it, although I expect I'll get over it one of these days.

“I'm Dale Grover,” the man said, “Callie's husband. Come on in.” Using a joystick on the arm of his chair, he backed effortlessly out of the way and led me into what turned out to be an impeccably decorated room. There were no rugs on the polished hardwood floor, probably to accommodate the wheelchair. The furnishings were clean-­lined and sleek, but comfortable. The place was modern without being either ostentatious or obnoxious. Dale parked his chair next to the far end of a black leather sofa and motioned for me to sit down.

“I'm afraid Callie's just been called to the phone in the office next door. She'll join us in a ­couple of minutes. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” I told him. “I'm fine.”

“She mentioned that you were coming,” Dale continued. “I believe this has something to do with an old beau of hers, Kenneth.”

“Did you know him?” I asked.

“Nope,” Dale answered. “Kenny was long before my time. Callie and I met in seminary. We were both starting over. I'd had a stroke in the course of routine surgery—­an appendectomy, for Pete's sake. It was supposed to be in and out. Didn't work out that way and I ended up having a stroke. When my wife at the time learned that I'd be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, she declined to hang around. She told me she wasn't prepared to spend the rest of her life looking after a cripple.

“Before the stroke, I had been a high school football coach. I'd always prided myself on being physically fit and setting a good example for my players. You know what they say, ‘Pride goeth before the fall.' Once I was stuck in this, I just couldn't see myself coaching from the sidelines.”

“Had to be tough,” I offered.

Grover gave me another lopsided grin. “Not really. God works in mysterious ways. Sometimes you have to be hit smack over the head for Him to get your attention. At least, that's how it was for me. Once He did, I could see only one way forward. I decided to ride my wheelchair into the ministry. That's where Callie and I met. She'd had her own personal struggles—­including losing Kenny, the guy she had thought was the love of her life. In a way, we met when we were both starting over from square one.”