Of course, Cecilia’s premonition had been proven right and the rest of us wrong—dead wrong—when, at 6:00 p.m. on Monday, July 16, in front of a nationally televised press conference, our friend Dwayne Brown of the Seattle Police Department announced to the world that Sophie’s body had been pulled out of the Cowlitz River ten days prior and had been lying on a slab in the Lewis County morgue the whole time the search had been under way in Seattle. The Lewis County medical examiner confirmed that Sophie had been strangled and dumped in the river on the evening of Thursday, July 5. A couple of fishermen discovered her body the next day, but the Lewis County Sherriff had been unable to identify her. Amazingly, even after the wall-to-wall television coverage, no one in the Lewis County coroner’s office recognized her. After a week, the sheriff sent a flyer to local jurisdictions from Portland to Vancouver, BC, in hopes that someone might know who she was. When the flyer eventually landed on Dwayne Brown’s desk, the mystery was solved. Dwayne and Gus, being missing-person specialists, transferred control of the Sophie Thoms Task Force over to the homicide detectives. The manpower was doubled and the task force focus shifted from a missing person to a homicide investigation.
Cecilia pushed a strand of her blonde hair back behind her ear and continued. “I should state at the outset that neither of our nieces cared much about decorum. They’ve grown up in an age that seems to reward outrageous behavior.”
Oliver shifted in his seat, and I glanced over at him just in time to see him make a little eye-roll grimace.
Cecilia either didn’t notice, or else she did notice and simply ignored him. “I suspect that their continued appearance on page six must have caused a great deal of embarrassment to their parents—my brother, Sir Jacob Thoms, in particular. Nicki’s sex tape with that American rock-and-roll singer was probably the last straw. It certainly would have been for me.” She shook her head. “Poor Jacob. I can only imagine he hoped that by moving the girls to Seattle, perhaps the responsibility of being on their own in a distant location would encourage them to—” she searched for the right word, “—frankly, to grow up, to live their lives in what you might call a more dignified fashion compared to the manner in which they’d been behaving in London.”
“Either that,” Oliver said softly, “or he hoped that their being half a world removed from the London paparazzi would somehow take them out of the limelight.”
Cecilia glanced at him, and then she continued. “Perhaps. In any case, Jacob sent them to us.” She paused, then added, “God help us.”
“And did it work?” I asked. “Did they ‘grow up,’ as you put it?”
“To my surprise, I’d have to say yes as regards Sophie. Less so with Nicki, although I feel compelled to admit that she has managed to mostly stay out of the newspapers here.” She paused, then added, “And out of jail.”
“You said Sophie’d grown up since she’d been here?” I said.
Cecilia nodded. “I can’t vouch for her behavior after hours—we weren’t privy to that, and I can only imagine what happened then. But she did seem to be taking her time at work seriously. She had seemed to mature some.”
“That rather undersells it, dear,” Oliver said, smiling. He turned to us. “I worked with Sophie on a daily basis, and I can say without reserve that she seemed to have a knack for relating to our donors. Sophie was quite effective.”
“Sorry,” I said, “I wasn’t clear about that—I wasn’t sure Sophie actually worked at your foundation.”
“Yes, she did,” Oliver said. “Jacob appointed her to the board, but her everyday assignment was donor relations.”
“And what is it that the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Foundation actually does?” Toni asked as she took notes.
“Our Foundation is a relief organization,” Cecilia said. “My brother formed it and named it after our mother, Beatrice Thoms. The primary mission is to help the desperate peoples in the countries of eastern Africa—Somalia, Kenya, and Ethiopia in particular.”
“You said donor relations,” Toni said to Oliver. “What does that entail?”
Oliver nodded. “Fund-raising, donor communications and interactions—that sort of thing. He paused, then added, “Of course, our initial reason for moving the fund’s headquarters to Seattle from London back in 2006 was that we’d noticed a certain degree of resonance with the technology crowd here. They tended to be relatively young and quite wealthy, with well-developed social consciences. They responded to our message with vigor. Sophie was able to tap into this—frankly, even better than I’d been able to. Her, her—” he struggled for the word.
“Vibrancy,” Cecilia said.
“Exactly. She was a natural. Her vibrancy, her passion, her youth enabled her to quickly connect with our donor base. They liked her—loved her, actually.” He smiled. “Frankly, I think they treated her like a rock star.” Oliver had been getting enthusiastic, but suddenly he sobered, remembering why he was visiting us.
We paused for a moment, catching up with our note taking. When we were done, Toni said, “Why don’t you fill us in a little about Nicki while you’re here.”
Cecilia looked at her watch. “Alright, then. We still have a few minutes.” She looked up at us. She shook her head. “Nicki. Where should I start?”
“Does Nicki work at the Foundation as well?” I asked.
“Humph,” Cecilia said, chuckling. “Technically, yes. She sits on the board and draws a decent salary—same as Sophie did.” She paused, and then she added, “But unlike Sophie, she’s rarely attended board meetings, and she seldom comes to the office.”
“So it’s fair to say that she treats her role differently than Sophie did?” I said.
“That’s one way of putting it. Another way, perhaps more to the point, would be to say that if it so much as resembles work, Nicki suddenly becomes disinterested. She has nothing like Sophie’s work ethic.”
Oliver shook his head. “I hate to say it, but I must agree. As regards our Foundation, Nicki seems to have no interest in the plight of the peoples of Africa.”
Cecilia added, “I’m not sure that she has an interest in anything at all aside from parties and social functions.”
“Got it,” I said, nodding. Unless I was mistaken, I’d seen the Nicki Thoms type many times before: wealthy parents, lots of freedom, lots of money, low expectations. Have fun, but not too much fun. Keep it quiet. Above all, don’t embarrass Mom and Dad.
“Let’s switch up. In my experience, trouble often stems from vices and bad habits. Let’s talk about drugs—was Sophie involved with drugs? Or Nicki? Any problems there?”
Oliver shrugged. “In all honesty, this isn’t the type of conversation topic that either of the girls would have felt comfortable having with us. But, from my own personal experience, Sophie never gave me any reason to suspect that she might have been high on drugs.”
“Nor I,” Cecilia added.
“And Nicki?”
“Well . . .”
Cecilia took a deep breath. “Mr. Logan,” she said slowly, “you must realize that it’s not easy for our family to open up about what we consider to be our internal affairs—our ‘dirty laundry’ as it were. We typically keep such . . . delicate matters to ourselves. That said, I suppose I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that we have reason to suspect that Nicki may have problems with drugs, and perhaps with alcohol as well. I’ve smelled both liquor and marijuana on her breath and clothing several times. She tries to hide it, but I’m not that old—certainly not the old fogey she takes me for. I was around in the eighties, you know.”
I smiled politely. “I understand.” Actually, if I worked really hard at it, I could just about picture buttoned-up Cecilia taking an experimental bong-hit as a teenager. I started to smile at the mental picture. Fortunately, Toni kept us moving.
“Obviously, our conversation is confidential,” she said.
Cecilia nodded. “Of course.”
“That said, have you provided this information to the police?”
<
br /> Cecilia nodded again. “We have.”
“Good,” Toni said.
We asked a few more background questions—boyfriends? girlfriends?—that sort of thing, but by ten o’clock, we had enough information to be able to evaluate the case. I leaned back in my chair and stared at the rain on the windows for a few moments, considering everything I’d heard. I glanced at Toni, but she didn’t notice, so I turned back to Cecilia. “Mrs. Ward, first of all, thanks for all the background information. We probably asked a few more detailed questions than I’d originally intended, but it’s easy to get caught up in the case.” I paused, then continued. “When you got here, I think you said you wished to hire us to represent the family. What is it you expect us to do for you?”
Cecilia looked at me, puzzled. “Simple. Find out who did it. Find out who killed Sophie and dumped her into the river. Help bring the bastard to justice.”
“Find out who did it,” I repeated, nodding. Sure. Piece of cake. “There are two obvious questions. First, why do you think our little firm would be able to find something that a forty-man police task force has missed?”
Cecilia gave me a hard look. “You’re good at what you do, right?”
I studied her for a moment, and then I nodded. “Yes, we like to think so. But that’s no guarantee that we’d be able to add any value to the investigation. Your money could end up being wasted.”
She gave me another firm stare. “Well, I most certainly do not agree with you, Mr. Logan. Even if you prove unable to find Sophie’s killer, you would still be representing us—the family—as the police continue their investigation. And your participation alone, even in that role alone, means our family would be doing something—not just sitting around waiting. Waiting for the police whose competence, in all honesty, is suspect. Believe me, our money would most assuredly not be wasted. My brother and I have spoken at length about this. We have a good deal of faith that you can help us. One way or another.”
I had to admit that parts of this actually made a little sense. It wouldn’t have been the first time we’d been hired by the victim’s family to essentially serve as liaison to the police. “Fair enough,” I said, “and I appreciate your faith in our firm. Second question, then. Sophie’s homicide is still an open investigation with the Seattle Police Department. As you can probably imagine, I think it’s highly unlikely that the task force would welcome us with open arms, know what I mean?” Actually, I thought we’d be about as welcome as a tax audit.
She smiled. “Mr. Logan, I’m certain that won’t be a problem. You see, it was the Seattle Police Department who recommended you to us in the first place.”
“No shit?” The words flew out before I could catch them. “Pardon me; I mean, really?”
Cecilia smiled, apparently pleased with herself that she knocked me off guard. “Indeed, Mr. Logan. I had a conversation with them at which time we discussed the possibility of bringing in a fresh set of eyes. The detective in charge of the investigation immediately recommended you.”
“The detective in charge—and who might that be?”
“Lieutenant Ron Bergstrom.”
Ron Bergstrom. We knew Ron, but only barely. He’d given us some advice on serial killers when we searched for Gina Fiore last year. Ron had seemed like a sharp enough guy at the time, but he was our one and only contact. I had no idea why he’d refer the Wards to us. Based on the way this conversation was going, though, it was starting to look like I was going to find out soon enough. Besides, if I had to guess, I’d guess that Cecilia would probably settle for nothing less. She was a formidable, determined woman.
I glanced at Toni—the other formidable, determined woman in the room. Her face was a mask—I couldn’t read her. Except for a few questions here and there, she’d hardly said a word so far. In fact, now that I realized that, her failure to raise any of the obvious questions this case posed was starting to register in my brain: she had an agenda, something she’d noticed. I looked at her, and I know she saw me, but she refused to look my way.
I turned back to Cecilia. “Okay—fair enough. You asked when I could give you an answer. If you’d be so kind, please allow us the rest of the day to talk with Lieutenant Bergstrom, check with the appropriate parties, and meet among ourselves. How about if we have you a final answer in the morning?”
She pushed her chair back. “Excellent, but do hurry.” This was our cue, and we all stood up. She reached across the table and shook our hands. “We very much look forward to working with the two of you, along with the other members of your team.” She smiled. “And—since I’m confident you’ll soon be on board, I’d like you to have a look at this.” She reached into her purse and pulled out an invitation and handed it to me. I read it quickly:
You are cordially invited to attend a private luncheon ceremony
marking the dedication of the
Sophie Thoms Memorial Fund
for African families in need of assistance.
The ceremony will be held at noon on the afternoon of
Saturday the 20th of October 2012
in the
Spanish Ballroom at the Fairmont Olympic Hotel in Seattle, Washington.
“We’d love it if the two of you could attend tomorrow. We could introduce you to some of the people you’ll probably want to speak with during the course of your investigation.”
“Tomorrow?” I nodded, surprised and trying to picture our schedule. “Okay, thank you.” I looked down at the invitation. “Assuming everything goes as expected this afternoon, I suppose this would be a good place to start.”
Cecilia nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Thank you very much,” Oliver said, stepping forward to shake my hand. “We’d be very grateful if you could help us.”
They turned to leave, and I remembered something I’d meant to ask. “You know, I do have one question before you go.”
She stopped and looked at me. “Yes?”
“Before we started, Oliver said that we came highly recommended.”
She smiled. “Allow me to explain. Does the name Andrew Hayes ring a bell?”
It did. I smiled. “MI5 Andrew Hayes?” If it was the same Andrew Hayes, we’d had the opportunity to work with him earlier this year on a different case. “Do you know Andrew?”
She shook her head. “Personally, no. But Andrew happens to be good friends with my brother—they attended Queen’s College together. When Mr. Bergstrom recommended your company to me, I talked this over with Jacob, naturally. He, in turn, contacted Mr. Hayes to check you out. Turns out Andrew didn’t need to check you out—he not only knew you, he was able to immediately recommend you without reservation. I believe he said you were ‘the bull in the china shop’ that this case sorely needed.”
I chuckled. “Bull in the china shop.”
“Exactly. It’s not meant to be derogatory,” Cecilia said. “Look at it this way. Somewhere out there, my niece’s killer is watching—laughing, even. With every day that goes by, the trail becomes one day colder, and he becomes one day safer. I’m sure you’ll agree that a bull in the china shop is exactly what this case needs.”
Chapter 2
I WALKED BACK TO MY OFFICE while Toni walked the Wards to the lobby. Logan PI was in the midst of a distressingly recurrent cash-flow crisis, and I was eager to look for solutions. When I realized that I’d left my notepad in the conference room and walked back to get it, I glanced out the conference room window that overlooked the parking lot on the south side of our building and was surprised to see that Toni had walked Cecilia all the way down to their black Mercedes. Oliver was following and holding a black umbrella for the two women. I watched them as they talked by the car for a few seconds when suddenly, I was even more surprised to see Toni lean forward and hug Cecilia and then Oliver before they got in the car.
Really? I mean, she’s known them, what, a little over an hour? And already, she’s saying good-bye with a hug? I shook my head. Toni’s about a thousand times better
with people than I am.
Could be it’s a gender thing. I didn’t used to pay any attention, but now I’m starting to notice that with guys, we tend to talk, ask questions, process information, and then move on. Not much in the way of subtleties, not much nuance—usually not much emotion unless we get pissed off for some reason. For us, things are pretty much black and white, thank you very much. Since I’ve been with Toni, I’ve learned that with women, it’s way different. They look for—and often seem to find—hidden layers of meanings, feelings, and whatnot—the kind of stuff guys like me never even see—the crap that goes right past us. Women find messages inside of messages. “What do you think she meant by that?” Toni would say after we’d leave a conversation with someone. I’d look at her, confused, and then I’d shrug. “I don’t know. Probably meant just what she said.” She’d give me a look that basically said I was completely hopeless. Fifty shades of gray? Yeah, I’d say . . . at least.
In early 2007 I was still in the army stationed at Fort Lewis. I was taking classes part-time at the University of Washington, working on my bachelor’s in law, societies, and justice—the U-Dub’s version of a criminal justice degree. I was already a senior when I met Toni. We shared several classes together that semester. I was obviously struck by her—she was drop-dead gorgeous—medium tall, slick black hair, striking tattoo on her left arm. Plus, she was smart and very nice to me to boot—something that I didn’t take for granted, since I was unmistakably a soldier and the war in the Middle East was not all that popular on the U-Dub campus back then. But the furthest thing from my mind then was that in less than six years, that beautiful woman and this former army grunt would fall in love and live and work together. I’d have sooner thought I’d win the lottery or maybe go to the moon.
Mona Lisa Eyes (Danny Logan Mystery #4) Page 2