MQuinn 03 - Lethal Beauty

by Wiehl, Lis

  The door to Bob Ho’s office opened, and the pastor stuck his head out. Ho was in his midforties, stocky, with black hair parted on one side and the hint of a double chin. “Sorry that took so long. I don’t think my insurance company is used to claims arising from a murder and its investigation. In fact, none of us is used to any part of this. Not like you must be.”

  “Every case is different,” Charlie said as he went into the pastor’s office and took a seat. “And even I’ve never had one like this.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Why don’t you tell me more about your church.”

  The man had said to call him Pastor Bob, but Charlie was trying to avoid calling him anything.

  “We’ve been around for over a hundred years. When we first started, we mostly served Chinese people who had been brought over to work on the railroads and in the coal mines. Men like my grandfather. The Chinese still come to this area of town for herbs, for advice, or for jobs. They like to go someplace where people will speak their language, where they can buy bok choi and roast duck.”

  Charlie nodded.

  “But over time Chinatown became the International District, and something similar has been happening with the church. We’ve branched out. Now we have members who are Filipino, Japanese, Vietnamese, Korean, and Thai. And there are a lot of people who just live in the neighborhood who come to services here, people who like a dynamic church. We’re growing, and not a lot of churches can say that. Two services on Sunday, Bible study classes, men’s and ladies’ groups, a youth group, even a food pantry and clothes closet.”

  “And how long has Abigail been a member?”

  “As long as I can remember. She and her late husband lived a few miles away. Jack had a heart attack when he was sixty. Died before he even got a chance to retire.” Bob let out a shuddering sigh. “I guess it’s good he wasn’t alive to see this. If he weren’t already dead, it would have killed him.” The sound the pastor made wasn’t quite a laugh. “And she’s got a daughter who lives in Missouri or Mississippi.”

  “Missouri,” Charlie supplied. “St. Louis.”

  “That sounds right. They get along well. And that girl has a daughter of her own, a three-year-old. Abigail’s always showing off new photos of her.” He shook his head. “The whole thing just seems senseless. And so wrong. The Bible says that where two or three are gathered in Jesus’ name, he is there. It’s a terrible sin, taking a life, and it was committed here in front of God.”

  Charlie went off script. “Do you believe God should have protected her?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the pastor said, “Maybe he did, by taking her in the place where she would feel closest to him. And it was fast. By the time I got to her, she was already gone.”

  After he was done with his questions, Charlie thanked Bob for his time and then kicked the man out of his own office, which he had temporarily commandeered. As he left, Charlie asked him to send in Gwen Lin.

  While he was waiting for the woman everyone agreed was Abigail’s best friend, Mia called.

  “Hey,” Charlie said, “I’m afraid I don’t have time to talk. I’m in the middle of another murder investigation.”

  “Another one?” Mia sounded surprised. It was unusual for Seattle to get two murders in a single week.

  “And this one really doesn’t make any sense. Retired piano teacher gunned down playing piano at church. It’s so public I’m starting to wonder if it was murder for hire.” There was a soft knock on the door. “Sorry, gotta go.”

  Gwen Lin wore her too-black hair pulled back in a tight bun. “We talked every morning at seven,” she told Charlie. “Two widow ladies, living on their own. It was nice to check in with someone, to have someone to talk about the news with, or who knew if you had a cold, or if your son was coming to visit. I guess I won’t have that anymore.” Her eyes, caught in a net of wrinkles, shone with tears.

  “Can you think of anything she was worried about? Anyone she was angry with or who was angry with her?”

  “You obviously never met Abby. She was all about giving. Helping people. Even though she was retired, she gave free lessons to anyone who loved music. She said it gave her joy.”

  “Did she ever have trouble making ends meet?”

  “Abby had her savings, she had her Social Security, but that was about it. So not a lot.” Gwen managed a half smile. “If you wanted to get together for lunch, it had to be a place that had coupons in the Sunday paper.”

  “Do you think she was in any debt?” Charlie asked.

  “Abby? No way. Besides, even if she did owe someone some money, what good would it do to kill her? She’s certainly not going to be paying anyone back now.”

  After Gwen left, Charlie scrubbed his face with hands. He was not getting anywhere.

  How big of a risk had the killer actually taken? Even though he had done it in front of dozens of witnesses, he had been the only one who was armed. And the only one who had seen his face was Marvella. Charlie was more and more convinced that this hadn’t been a murder. It had been an execution.

  Charlie read back over the witness statements that had been gathered the day before. And then he realized the one thing that was missing.

  He thought back to Abigail’s body, vulnerable and small in death. He had seen only one entrance wound in the victim, the one just above her ear. But many of the witnesses had described hearing two shots. Some had talked about seeing a flower vase on top of the piano explode.

  He went back out into the main part of the church. The wall behind the piano was papered with a small blue-and-white geometric print, the kind of thing that was designed not to show dirt if people rubbed against it in passing.

  Moving his head back and forth, he scanned the wall. And finally he spotted it. A hole in the drywall. Charlie took out his phone to call the crime scene tech back.

  He would make sure the guy didn’t get his saw anywhere near the bullet.

  And then he would tell Bob Ho that the insurance adjustor had one more thing to adjust.

  CHAPTER 38

  What the heck kind of glasses are these, anyway?” Warren had stopped looking around the bedroom and was now staring directly at Bo with a puzzled expression. Looking at her through her spy glasses that pretty obviously only held clear glass. How long until he noticed that the part over the bridge of the nose was oddly springy? That was the spot where the recording unit could be toggled on and off.

  “It’s just that …” Bo let her voice trail off. She had run out of lies, and a giggle would not serve her.

  The lines between Warren’s brows smoothed out. “It’s because guys don’t take you serious, right? I mean, you’ve got that rocking body, but nobody pays attention to your mind!”

  Understanding dawned. He thought the glasses were a kind of cover, that the carefree girl in heels and a too-tight sweater was the real her.

  “Exactly right.” She plucked the glasses from his face and slid them on. “How about if I go to the store and pick up a few things while you sleep in a little? Then I can come back and make you breakfast in bed.”

  The corners of his mouth turned down. “Are you just saying that because you want to get out of here? That’s okay. You can go. You don’t have to lie.”

  “I swear to you, I’m not lying, Warren.”

  He smiled, but his eyes were wary. “Then sure. And if you really want to make me breakfast, I would love it.”

  “See you in a bit,” she said as she pushed her feet into her high heels, ignoring the way they protested. She leaned down and picked up her coat.

  “I sure hope so, Song. And maybe while you’re out, you can get them to turn the sun down. It’s hurting my eyes.” Warren pulled the pillow over his head.

  Before she left, she checked out his kitchen. It was surprisingly neat, but maybe that was because he owned so few dishes, cooking utensils, or pantry items. He had the sad, half-empty kitchen shelves of a man who had no idea how to cook.

  After making s
ure it wouldn’t lock behind her, she pulled the apartment door closed. She had to get Warren talking again. And the best way to do that, it seemed, was to get him drunk. At the store, she got coffee, tomato juice, celery, Bisquick, maple-flavored syrup, a bottle of cheap vodka, and a bottle of Everclear. Warren shouldn’t be able to taste the Everclear, but the vodka would hide any lingering taste—and explain why he was going to start feeling drunk. As she walked back to his apartment, she rehearsed explanations if he saw the Everclear and asked why she had bought it. But he was still snoring gently when Bo let herself in.

  She filled one glass with tomato juice and the second with half Everclear, a splash of vodka, then the rest tomato juice, and stuck a stalk of celery in each. She mixed up the pancakes and cooked them in a frying pan she unearthed. In lieu of a breakfast tray, she set everything on a cookie sheet. Before she carried it in, she pressed the glasses at the bridge of her nose to start the recording.

  Warren woke up as she was setting the cookie sheet down next to his cigarettes. He smiled sleepily at her. He looked as happy as an American child might look on Christmas morning.

  “You came back,” he said simply.

  She handed him his glass. “O ye of little faith.”

  He smiled uncertainly, and she guessed he didn’t know the Bible verse. “What’s this?” He took a sip before she even answered.

  “Bloody Mary.”

  Groaning, he started to put it back on the cookie sheet. “Not for me.”

  “Oh, please, Warren.” She fake-pouted, leaning over to give him another glimpse of her cleavage. “A little hair of the dog, isn’t that what they say?”

  He grunted, but he did hold on to his glass and take a sip. And then another. While she waited for the alcohol to take effect, Bo asked him easy questions in between bites of pancake. About his job. About the giant spool that served as a table, which Warren told her had come from an industrial job site. He grew more animated, more red-faced, and Bo returned twice to the kitchen to pour them new drinks, upping the proportion of Everclear each time. And slowly she brought the topic back around to the trial.

  “The articles said that no one understood why you voted no.” She tilted her head. “So why did you?”

  He licked his lips, looked from side to side, then set down his plate so he could learn closer to her. “Here’s the thing.” He slurred the word thing so it stretched out forever. “If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone, okay?”

  “I won’t,” she lied. “I promise.”

  “As the trial was beginning, a man came to me. Big guy. Built like … like a mountain. He threatened me. He said I had to vote that that guy who was on trial, that David Leacham, was not guilty. He said no matter what the other jurors said, I could never change my mind. I would have to keep voting that he was not guilty.” Warren took a shaky breath. He looked around as if someone might be listening and then lowered his voice. “And he said that if I didn’t do what he said, he would have me killed.”

  Bo got to her feet. She was exhilarated, as if she were the one who was drunk. “You need to go to the police.” Now she had the proof. Now Mia would be able to persuade her boss to reopen the case.

  “No, Song.” He caught her wrist. “I need to be honest with you. There’s something else that he said.”

  “What’s that?” Her eyes didn’t leave his face.

  “He said that if I voted the way he wanted, he would also give me money. More money than I’d ever seen in my life. But if I tell anyone what happened, they’ll take that back. And then they’ll kill me.”

  “But you can’t really believe that guy was innocent!”

  “I didn’t say innocent. I said I voted not guilty.” Warren emphasized this as if it were an important distinction. “I mean, it is possible Leacham didn’t mean to do it, that it really was an accident. And besides, I was the only one who voted not guilty. There were eleven other people on the jury. Before I decided whether to do what that guy wanted me to, I looked up what would happen. If the jurors can’t all agree, it’s called a hung jury, and it goes back to trial. Basically, they just start over again. Which means that in the end, Leachman will be convicted. So no blood, no foul. Only now I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.” He managed a sick sort of grin. “I’m hoping you can help me spend it.”

  “But he’s free.” Bo crossed her arms, making sure she covered her chest in the process. “He could even be killing other girls right now!”

  “He won’t be out for long. Besides, they’ve got him on an ankle monitor. And I’m sure that wife of his is not going to let him out of her sight.”

  “But what if they don’t try that man again? They don’t have to. In fact, I’ve heard they’re not going to.”

  Warren looked stricken. “What do you mean?”

  “It is optional. It is not like the rules say they have to put him on trial. They could choose not to re-try him. And I heard that was what the prosecutor was going to do. I heard she was going to let him go free.”

  Warren was so drunk it took a long time for the information to sink in. When it did, he buried his face in his hands. “Oh no. What have I done?”

  “You can go to the authorities.” One way or the other, she would make sure the police learned what Warren had done. If he was the one who told, he would probably get in less trouble than if she did. “Tell them what you told me.”

  “I can’t do that! If I do, I’ll be the one on trial. I’ll be the one going to prison.”

  “Not if you explain that he threatened you,” she said, not knowing if it were true or not. “Not if you give the money back.”

  “Maybe,” Warren said, but she could tell he didn’t believe her. “But this guy also promised to have me killed if I told. And I’m pretty sure he meant that.”

  “Together, we can figure out what to do.” She squeezed his hands, then released them. “But first I’m going to stop by my place, change clothes, and then come back here.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you in a bit. And then we’ll sit down together and figure out what to do.”

  “What?” He stared at her blearily. “No! Let me take you.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” she lied.

  “It’s just that I still can’t quite believe that you’re real.” For some reason, his words stung.

  “I promise I am real, silly. But I think you should take a nap and I should take a cab. My apartment is kind of a mess.” She couldn’t let him see her photos of Dandan.

  “Let me pay for it, then.” She tried to argue, but he wouldn’t listen. Instead, he got to his feet with a groan, went into the bathroom, and emerged a second later with a hundred-dollar bill. Bo took it and kissed his cheek, feeling a bit like Judas. Once she was home, she would download the recording, then call Mia and tell her what had really happened at the trial.

  CHAPTER 39

  Gabe wanted to put it off forever, but he knew that once his mom came home from church with his grandfather she would ask him if he had started researching that stupid report she wanted him to write. Telling her no was not going to help his chances of getting un-grounded.

  Only once he started to research the report, it turned out not to be so stupid.

  Since his mom told him he had to cite his sources, Gabe went to different websites from the ones he had used to research exactly what steroids to take, how much, and when. Those had painted steroids as miracle drugs that piled on muscles, with few if any side effects.

  The new websites might as well have been discussing a different drug. They talked about liver damage, heart disease, impotence, sterility, breast enlargement, premature baldness, acne, benign tumors, and violent behavior. They sounded like Charlie, only scarier. The new websites made it sound as if steroids ruined your body and destroyed your mind.

  Gabe read for a long while, then went back to the original sites and message boards he had first looked at. Only now he imagined what his mom would say if he showed them to her.

  On o
ne board dedicated to taking steroids, a guy complained about how everyone around him was acting. “My gf and my parents keep saying I get more angry now, and claiming I didn’t used to be like that.” His response was to rant and swear about them online while other people on the boards urged him to ignore them and called them names.

  Gabe saw posts from other guys saying any side effects were worth it. Talking nonchalantly about taking testosterone or having to rely on Viagra. Even about having cosmetic surgery to get breast tissue removed.

  Next he checked out news websites. The pro-steroid boards all said the mainstream media exaggerated things, especially the link between extreme emotional disturbance and steroids. But it was hard to be nonchalant when he read about a guy his own age who had come home from school and told his mom he was going upstairs. Only he never came down again because he had hung himself from his closet rod with a belt. Then Gabe read about a pro wrestler who killed his four-year-old, his wife, and then, after sitting with their bodies for a while, himself. He read about men who beat people unconscious for doing things like cutting them off in traffic.

  Could Charlie be right? Could the steroids have changed more than Gabe’s muscles? Could they have changed not only his body but his mind? His mom and Eldon had said he was more angry now. Was it true?

  From where Gabe sat, he could just see the shallow, fist-shaped crater he had left in the wall. He looked from the dent to his still-swollen knuckles to the big muscles in his arms. Were they really worth it? Worth risking his own life—and maybe the lives of more people? What if he snapped again like he had when he hit the wall, only when he had something more dangerous than his own fists available to him?

  Gabe had a sickening image of himself arguing with his mom in the kitchen, the knives in the butcher block within easy reach. But he would never do that. Would he? He remembered how before he hit the wall it had been like a red mist descending. How he had gone blind and deaf and dumb to anything but the urge to do some damage. And it didn’t sound like those people who killed themselves or killed other people had been depressed or angry before steroids.