Izzy looked from side to side. We were alone. She sat next to me, a little too close.
“We both love Rick.”
I snorted.
“And I think, if we just talk, we will realize that we love him enough to give him what he wants. What he needs.”
“Are you high?” I didn’t look at her. I was unsure of my ability to not kill her.
“Greater love has no man than this, that you lay your life down…”
“You laid my husband down. That’s different.”
“If you love someone, let them go.”
“Is that what this is?” I turned to her, my phone slid to the floor. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into the flesh of my hand. “You want me to give up my husband? To willingly release him to your loving hands? Out of love for him?” I was spitting the words out through clenched teeth.
“He doesn’t belong to anyone, really.” Izzy looked up at me through lowered lids. A slow, carefully planned face that probably got her what she wanted from her daddy and her sugar daddy.
I slapped her across the face so hard my hand exploded in needles of pain.
Tears sprung to her eyes. She grabbed my hand, squeezing my fingers in her grip. “This isn’t about us.” Her shoulders shook. My handprint was red on her pale cheek.
“Nope.” I twisted my hand out of hers. “It’s about my lawyer and his.” I stood up and loomed over her. “And everything you say to me gets me another piece of our marriage pie, so please, tell me a little bit more about how you’ve been sleeping with my spouse.”
She stood slowly. “You’re making this into something ugly, something it doesn’t have to be.” She was standing too close. I could feel her breath as she spoke.
My hands popped up and I shoved her shoulders away from me. She fell back against the bench, the seat buckling her at the knees, making her sit.
She sprung back up and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. “Wake up, Maura, wake up, please. This isn’t what you want to do.”
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a uniform clad Portland Police officer.
I twisted out of Izzy’s hands.
“All I want is for you to suffer the ravages of some horrible venereal disease you catch from Rick Styles. That’s all. And to never see you again.” Some of the impact of my words were lost as I bent down to pick up my fallen phone, but it didn’t matter. I had said it, and I meant it. She could die a horrible death, and it was all the same to me.
I left, taking the steps two at a time.
The fall air hit me like a slap when I made it out of the library. A slap I needed. A wake-up call. I couldn’t ignore this mess anymore. Paycheck or no paycheck, I needed to call a lawyer.
I had let Izzy get under my skin. I was a little queasy with shame and that wasn’t fair. I wasn’t the husband stealing little whore.
When I was safely back at my office, I called Jennifer Stimpson, “John Deere’s” step-mom. “Jennifer, this is Maura, the private investigator. We spoke the other day.”
“You wanted to speak to Gina, right?” Jennifer sounded distracted.
“Yes, that’s it exactly. I’ve been waiting for her call. Is she available—”
Jennifer interrupted me, “You know what? She’s right here, why don’t you talk to her now?”
Before I could think of a response, a younger, higher pitched voice came on the phone. “This is Gina. Who’s calling?”
“I’m Maura Garrison, is this Gina Stimpson?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a private investigator. I asked your step-mom to give you my name and number. I would like to get together and discuss what you saw on Crown Point.”
There was silence, followed by the sound of walking and then a door shutting.
“I’ve been reading your poetry.” I paused thinking that I sounded like a stalker right now, and that was not the sound I was going for. “I’m trying to help the friends and family of the victim. I’m not police, just a private investigator. So far, you’re the only person who’s seen anything.”
“Okay, but I can only meet on the weekend.” She spoke in an urgent half whisper.
“That’s not a problem. I can work with your schedule. Where would you like to meet me?”
She took her time answering. “Let’s meet at dawn, Saturday morning, at Crown Point.”
I wasn’t surprised by her dramatic choice and accepted the appointment with thanks. All I needed was a little focus. I could get to the bottom of this. Rick, Izzy, none of that mess would stop me.
Chapter Ten
The next morning, I was stuck on the mutilation. Perhaps it was because of what I wished I could do to Izzy. Or perhaps it was because the key to this murder hung by the missing thumbs. Those digits had not been chopped off on accident.
I would have loved to bounce my theories off Christine. She was good at mental puzzles. Even better though, was Rick, my previous prop and comfort and regular sounding board. But though he’d probably be able to steer me to the answer, and was deeply invested in the problem, he was the last person I wanted to call. Ever.
Those ideas rejected, Bruce Michael, the man behind the little Christian newspaper, had had some pretty thoughtful ideas on the matter. Another conversation with him would probably help right now.
I dropped into his office at nine, without calling first. I had found if you could beat their first appointment you could steal a few minutes of a busy person’s time. Bruce and his secretary welcomed me with a cup of coffee.
The Bulletin was run out of a large office in a low slung, half-empty strip mall in the middle of East Portland. It smelled like newsprint, ink, and damp carpet, but the coffee his secretary handed me was unimpeachable. We Portlanders have our priorities.
“Bruce, I need help with this case.” I settled into a comfortable, overstuffed chair and let the coffee mug warm my hands. “You had tied the thumbs and toes thing to that scene at the beginning of Judges, but the scene is kind of slim. There’s just not much going on there. What about it could possibly inspire someone to murder your friend Adam?”
Bruce pulled a big, well-worn Bible off his shelf and opened it, kind of in the middle but not exactly.
I pulled my trusty notepad out and drew a line under the conversation I had had with Gina. Hopefully I’d learn something today that would make sense out of the mystery of the flashing light murder.
“Well, you see,” he began, “after wandering in the desert for forty years, a generation of Israelites who had seen God’s miracles, but still disobeyed him, had died off and God was ready to give the promised land to the next generation. Israel is about to enter a time of bloodshed and war. Lots of battles coming up. They were expected to conquer in the name of the Lord, make his name great. Dominate the Middle East for the rest of the history of the World. The Bible is very much a guy’s book at this point in time.” He shrugged apologetically. “Judges starts out with the captured enemy king who has his toes and thumbs chopped off. After this is accomplished he is brought to Jerusalem.”
“I got that much, but what does it have to do with Adam? He wasn’t anybody’s enemy king.”
“That is the question, for sure,” Bruce said. “I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit. This king, Adoni-Bessic, he had his thumbs and toes chopped off because that’s what he used to do when he conquered other countries. This was a case of tit for tat, if you will.”
I smiled at his old-fashioned phrase. “We need to find the guy Adam mutilated. At least metaphorically speaking.”
“That’s one way to look at it, but then what on Earth could Adam have done that could even metaphorically be considered mutilation?” Bruce frowned at his Bible. “And so, I can’t believe that is the right interpretation. It’s not tit for tat, this time.”
I followed his reasoning fairly well. But it didn’t leave me much. If not…tit for tat, then what? Adam wasn’t an enemy king. He hadn’t hurt a fly in his life. Where was the parallel? “Maybe someone saw him as a
metaphorical enemy king,” I offered. “From the beginning, the only black mark against him has been his Robin Hood like attitude toward medical marijuana. Doesn’t it seem like he might’ve stepped into someone’s territory?”
Bruce nodded. “Yes, that does seem like a possibility. You find a drug dealer who is very well-read in the Bible, and you have got yourself the killer.”
We both chuckled.
What were the odds of that?
“That is the only thing you and I have come up with that makes any sense, but it’s still a long shot. Would a drug dealer really consider homeless people a lucrative enough market to kill over?” Bruce closed his Bible and set it tenderly on his desk.
“Maybe. Depending on which area he was working in. You know, some of the neighborhoods near the homeless encampments have seen a huge increase in property crimes.” I had even handled a theft case that led to an arrest. A whole roll of copper wire the homeowner had stored in his shed, stolen to sell for drug money. “People find a way to pay for their addictions.”
“You’re the professional. You know more about crime than I do. However, you came here for my opinion as a religious person, and I do have another idea.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “What do you know about the West Portland Muslim Community Center? Could someone there have seen Adam and his generic protestant Christianity as a kind of enemy king, maybe in the sense of spiritual kingdoms?” His face reddened, and he sat back in his chair again. “Forget I said that. I don’t want to play into the stereotypes. Everyone I’ve met at the MCC has been wonderful.”
“I’d be happy to forget it,” I said. “If it hadn’t been one of the things I’ve been wondering about myself. But we’ll agree it’s weak, and we won’t jump to any conclusions.” I had taken up a lot of his time already and hadn’t learned anything new. I think we were both disappointed. “But if someone at the MCC had wanted to kill a protestant ‘king,’ surely Adam wouldn’t have fit the bill. He wasn’t a preacher, or pastor, or even a devout man. Right?”
“You couldn’t be more right. He was as open-minded a man as I ever met. I think when he called himself Christian, he spoke culturally. A Christmas and Easter Christian.”
“Him and me both. Before I go, is there anything else I should know about this Bible story that would help clear things up?”
He let out a heavy sigh. “I wouldn’t say so. In fact, the more I consider it, the muddier it gets. The Israelites didn’t kill Adoni-Bezek. They made him live with his injuries, at least as far as we know. They brought him back to their new capitol to make him live under them. Their goal seemed to have been humiliation. And how does that have anything to do with dealing drugs or being a half-hearted protestant?”
Humiliation was a thought I hadn’t considered yet. I sat on the word for a moment. “Would the aspect of humiliating the enemy make it a better fit with extremism in Islam?”
“Perhaps, but even so, they didn’t let Adam live, did they? So, the parallel falls apart. If they were sending a message, it has been obscured.”
“And yet, they couldn’t let him live. If they had, he would have been able to tell us who had done it.” We sipped our coffee in silence for a moment. “Thanks for letting me steal some of your time. At the very least no one is clamoring for your committee to get shut down.”
“That is the silver lining, isn’t it?”
In the lobby, Bruce’s secretary, a youngish woman dressed like she had escaped the Amish, stopped me. “Maura Styles?” She swallowed nervously.
“Close enough. What can I do for you?”
“Vivian, Bruce’s wife wanted me to give this to you, next time you came by.” She handed me a card, in a Hallmark envelope. “She’s sorry to hear about your troubles.”
I pocketed the card and gave the mousy receptionist a flippant salute.
I didn’t need any sympathy, but if the envelope held a Starbucks card, I’d accept it with as much grace as I could drum up.
As I drove home I compared the options: someone loved Arabian Nights and considered Adam Demarcus unclean, someone loved the Bible and considered Adam an enemy king, or someone out there was a nut job who just wanted to chop off digits. Of those options, I did not have a favorite.
I had two messages on my office voicemail when I got back. Bruce Michael inviting me to meet with his interns and apologizing for not thinking of it while I was there. He thought they might know something he didn’t. The other call was from Trisha, just letting me know that Adam liked to go to church sometimes, but never seemed to care which one.
* * *
That same night, the interns, Bruce, and I crowded into the reception area of The Bulletin’s office. Three men dressed like Mormon missionaries, and the mousy receptionist sat on folding metal chairs holding Styrofoam cups of coffee. I accepted one from Bruce, happy in the memory that despite other comforts he provided good brew.
Or had. This cup was bitter and strange, and not coffee.
The receptionist sipped it with care. “It’s chicory.”
“While in the discipleship program, the kids abstain from caffeine, processed sugar, and, of course, alcohol and romance.”
I assumed cigarettes and fun were also off the list. “I see, so we suffer in solidarity.” I gave it another try. “Different.”
Bruce pushed a chair out for me and we both sat.
“Thank you all for making time to meet with me. Could we start with introductions?”
“I’d rather we start with prayer, if you don’t mind.” A short young man with reddish hair and wire glasses said.
“Okay.” I had opened my mouth to say that I did mind and that I didn’t want to waste my time, but a polite agreement came out instead. Probably best since I wanted these kids to spill some serious beans for me. Obviously not coffee beans.
Red prayed. Thanked God for stuff. Apologized to God for other stuff. I’d have stuff to apologize for if I had to abstain from caffeine, sugar, and hope, too. Someone said amen and we all looked up.
“I’m Maura Garrison.” I said, by way of starting the introductions. “Please, tell me about yourselves. Who you are, what you do, how well you knew Adam Demarcus.”
I looked to the receptionist first, but she demurred to Red.
“I’m Quint Douglas. I’m finishing an online Master of Theology. I’ve been in this discipleship program for two years and hope to lead the program back home when I’ve completed school.”
“And where is home?”
“St. Paul.” He balanced his cup on his left knee. A southpaw, maybe.
“Did you know Adam?”
“Of course, I worked hand in hand with him for the last two years. We designed the distribution scheme together.” He looked up at Bruce. “With Bruce, of course.”
“You know what happened to Adam. Can you tell me anything you might have known, or seen that seemed off to you recently? Any interactions, or moods, or conversations. Anything at all?”
Red—I mean Quint looked up and to the left. I automatically dismissed whatever lie he was about to tell. “Adam seemed distant over the last several weeks, wouldn’t you say so Brit?” He looked at the receptionist.
She furrowed her brows and looked at the oldest of the interns. He shook his head slightly.
“Why don’t you explain what you mean?” Was the receptionist naturally demure or under pressure to be silent?
“I just mean he didn’t have much to say when he was around.” Quint pulled his lips together in a dissatisfied look. “He wasn’t his usual happy, chatty self.”
An older looking intern took over. “I’m Red.”
Hmph. this was going to get confusing. I made a note that the big, tall guy in the plaid shirt was Red and that the redhead with the glasses was Quint. Like Squint. I could probably remember that.
“He seemed the same to me.”
“Tell me about yourself, Red.”
“I was accepted to the discipleship program in the Spring.” He crossed his arms and
closed his mouth. He was either in a bad mood today or wasn’t especially pleased with the program. Maybe I could get him out for a drink later and loosen his jaw. He looked like a man who would rather have a beer than a cup of chicory.
The third man spoke. He had a voice that sounded like the radio. If he had been willing, I would have let him answer all the questions I ever asked again for the rest of my life. “I’m Luke. I was accepted to the discipleship program at the same time as Red. I graduated Portland State with a master’s in social work in July. I hope to move on to inner city work soon. This seemed like a great way to get my hands dirty.”
“Has it been?”
He paused, just a half a second. “Yes.”
“What can you tell me about Adam Demarcus?”
“He was a brilliant man, literally. Never forgot a name, never needed a piece of paper to solve a math problem. Had our whole distribution plan in his head. Times, locations, amounts. You name it. Brilliant man.”
“What did he think of the discipleship program?”
“Adam seemed to be into anything that worked to make people better. What do you think, Bruce?”
“Adam and I were friends and colleagues, but he wouldn’t have signed up for a discipleship program like this. Let’s just put it that way.” Bruce smiled softly, his eyes clearly lost in memory.
Red—I mean Quint—chuckled. “I’ll say. The last thing Adam would have done was deny himself something for the greater good.”
A small sob from the other side of the circle caught my attention. “Brit” of the plain face, long skirt, and practical shoes was crying.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I spoke softly in a motherly tone that sometimes worked with crying girls.
“I’m just thinking that,” she stopped to gulp awkwardly for air, “that I will never see him again.”
Bruce patted her shoulder.
“Were you and Adam in a romantic relationship?” I still used my soft voice, but I had to ask the hard question because Brit annoyed me.
The Book of Judges Page 11