THREE
“Henderson wants to see us.” Clarke poked his head into Abbie’s office. It was the morning after the biggest thing that had ever happened in the memory of anyone at the Pleasant View City Police Department. The moment she arrived at the station, Abbie felt a sense of purpose in the air.
Abbie had her own office, one of the perks of being the detective. It was clean and airy. She had furnished it herself with spare Danish furniture. There were neatly arranged books interspersed with a few well-tended plants on a bookshelf. Although Abbie had mixed feelings about displaying her professional awards and academic credentials, after some internal debate, she hung the framed degrees and awards that made her feel proud: her college diploma from Princeton, a Phi Beta Kappa certificate, and an FBI Medal for Meritorious Achievement. But what Abbie liked most about her office was her spectacular view of the Wasatch Mountains. She was lucky to have this space. The two offices on the other side of the building had views of the parking lot.
Abbie followed Clarke to Henderson’s office.
“Please close the door.” There was a sternness in the chief’s tone Abbie hadn’t heard before. Clarke did as instructed and sat down next to Abbie in front of the chief’s desk.
“I’m pulling everyone off this Ben Lomond Circle case except the two of you.” Henderson paused before he continued, “I don’t think I need to explain that the way this man was dressed, well, it’s not the sort of thing we want to get out.”
“So, I’m not the only one who thought this death looked like blood atonement?” Abbie asked.
The moment the words left her mouth, she realized how incendiary they were. Abbie wished she could have swallowed them and said something a little less direct. Clarke looked at his shoes. Henderson blanched, but ignored the question. “The fewer people involved in this investigation, the better.”
“Okay.” Abbie thought there was a second reason Henderson wanted to limit the investigation. If anything went wrong with this case, she was going to take the blame. Henderson was letting her lead the case but not giving her backup.
“Have you heard anything from the Office of the Medical Examiner?” Abbie asked. “Do we have an ID yet?”
“Uh.” Henderson looked down on the papers strewn across his very messy desk. “I don’t think we’ve heard anything from the ME yet.” He took a little too long to answer. Something was off, but Abbie wasn’t sure what. It wasn’t just the temple clothes and throat slitting. What was there about the body that was making both Henderson and Clarke nervous? Both were purposefully avoiding looking at her.
“That’s it for now. Keep me up to date.” Henderson’s tone was sharp.
Abbie stood up. Clarke followed her. As soon as they had walked into the hallway, Henderson closed the door behind them. Abbie had never seen Henderson’s door closed unless he was meeting with someone. She turned her head so that her ear was parallel to the shut door. She heard a muffled, “Hello? Yeah, I’ve got things under control, but…” Before she could hear the rest of Henderson’s side of the conversation, a fellow officer walked by. She had to move away if she didn’t want it to be obvious she was eavesdropping.
* * *
Abbie was well aware she didn’t fit in Pleasant View for a lot of different reasons: she wasn’t married, even though she still wore a plain gold band on her left ring finger; she didn’t have any kids; and, probably more than anything else, she didn’t go to church.
Clarke didn’t seem to have quite the same disdain for a woman as the other guys did, but she wondered how he felt about the fact that she had left the Church. Clarke was an RM—a returned missionary. Everyone knew Abbie was a direct descendent of the prophet John Taylor, the third President of the Church who took over after Brigham Young. Most knew Abbie’s dad, too, either from having taken his classes at the Y or from reading one of his books. It was pretty much impossible to miss Professor William Taylor’s face on the back cover of some tome or other if you walked into Deseret Books. Abbie had walked into enough conversations that stopped abruptly to be fairly confident she was the topic of some discussion in her new job. It was hard for most Mormons to understand why someone would leave the Church, particularly if they came from a family as prominent as Abbie’s. Clarke had never asked her about it, so Abbie had no idea what his feelings were on the subject.
Her status as an inactive Mormon notwithstanding, Abbie hadn’t given anyone reason to complain about her. She made it into the station before anyone else in the morning, and she was usually the last to leave. She didn’t grumble about paperwork. No one could say she didn’t pull her weight. There had been a few times when she’d had to bite her tongue, but Abbie figured it was a small price to pay for a job that—until now—had given her plenty of time to enjoy the natural beauty of her home state. There was trail running, hiking, and mountain biking in the spring, summer, and fall; and then there was some of the best skiing on the planet in the winter. Her new colleagues found her choice of Pleasant View to be odd. Most LDS Utahns didn’t consider leaving the state for anything other than college, graduate school, or a brief professional stint, because they liked living in a community where most people shared their values and lifestyle; the few who did leave usually did so because they didn’t want that, and they rarely came back. Abbie’s pat response was, “It’s nice to have room to breathe and to do some good.” If she made a negative comment about life in New York City, so much the better. The city on the East Coast was a symbol of liberal elitism.
Abbie didn’t talk about her background, about why she’d moved away from New York. The rumor, as much as Abbie had overheard, was that her husband had died suddenly. Someone had found old pictures online from charity events in Manhattan, pictures of Abbie in form-fitting cocktail dresses and Phillip in black tie. Those pictures had inspired someone, probably not Clarke, to do a little more digging. Stories about the co-op on Park, the weekend place in Garrison, and the house on Nantucket certainly didn’t help Abbie make friends in her new home.
Until yesterday, though, the whispers hadn’t bothered her. She clocked in and clocked out. There had been some burglaries, drunk driving, and a few domestic violence incidents. Mostly, though, Abbie could come in, do her work, and leave without having to spend any emotional energy. She’d come back to Utah to escape the memories that ambushed her everywhere in New York. She’d come back to spend time outside. She’d come back to figure out how to be part of her family again. She hadn’t come back to face real cases and real work.
That had all changed when they saw the body. Nobody had believed the call at first. Everyone had thought it was a prank. People died unexpectedly in Pleasant View from time to time. A few years ago, a teenage boy had flipped his Jeep Wrangler taking a turn too fast, and a year or so before that, two girls at Ben Lomond High had committed suicide. Then there were the normal deaths—old age and sickness. But not even Chief Henderson had been prepared for what they found in that closet.
* * *
Clarke followed Abbie back to her office after their meeting. He shut the door behind him. Abbie was grateful for the privacy, but she still didn’t have a good read on her new partner. No time like the present to try to establish some kind of rapport.
“So, what do you make of that?” Abbie asked.
Clarke didn’t answer at first. Abbie knew there was family history between Clarke and Henderson. That wasn’t uncommon in Utah. Henderson had gone to high school with Clarke’s dad and had spent summers working on the Clarke family dairy up in Logan.
“I, uh, I don’t know,” Clarke said finally. “This is a weird case. Everyone’s on edge because of the temple clothes and, well, you know.”
“The throat being slit?” Abbie knew she was talking about topics you weren’t really supposed to talk about.
“Yeah, I guess,” Clarke said. Both Abbie and Clarke were too young to have personal experience with penalty oaths.
“Do you know what blood atonement is?” Abbie asked.
Clarke shrugged and said, “Yeah.”
Abbie didn’t quite believe him. Clarke didn’t strike her as a Mormon history buff. Even if he was, it wasn’t likely he’d have found any books on blood atonement at Deseret Books, the LDS bookstore whose motto was “Bringing values home since 1866.”
The Mormon Reformation period wasn’t an era current Church leadership liked to dwell on. It was a time when some of the least Christlike practices had been adopted. Now excommunication was the most popular way of handling dissenters and troublemakers. No blood—or threat of blood—involved.
“We need to figure out who the dead man is.” Abbie stated the obvious. They weren’t going to get anywhere until they identified their body. The medical examiner seemed to be taking his time. Clarke didn’t say anything.
“I’ve been thinking about how we can figure out who our Mr. Doe is.” While Abbie liked her own joke of calling the dead man “Elder Doe,” she didn’t think her partner would share her sense of humor. “There just can’t be that many people in Pleasant View who wear clothes like we found. They were high-end and the trousers and blazer had been altered. He must have had a dry cleaner and a tailor. I’ve got a list of local dry cleaners. If Doe is from Pleasant View, it’s not at all unlikely that one of them will recognize these clothes.”
Clarke mumbled, “You’re probably right. Those clothes were expensive. The kind of stuff you’d definitely have to go to Salt Lake to buy, probably at one of the fancy stores at City Creek.”
“I’ve already picked out a photo of our John Doe and cropped it so you can’t see the neck, and I have the clothes from evidence. Do you want to come with me?”
Clarke looked hesitant. “I guess so, unless you think there’s something else I could be doing that would be a more efficient use of my time here at the station.” This was probably the most important case he’d ever encountered. Why would he offer to do desk work?
“Not that I can think of.”
“Okay, in that case I’d love to come with you,” Clarke said. Abbie didn’t know exactly what was going on in Clarke’s head, but she did know he wasn’t a very good liar.
FOUR
Clarke followed Abbie to the parking lot. They climbed into her green Range Rover. It was an older model from a time when the only people who drove Range Rovers were people who actually needed them. The drive from the police station to the first cleaner on the list was a short one, but it felt awkward. Every attempt Abbie made at small talk was greeted with a one-word response. She gave up and finished the drive in silence.
Since moving to Utah, Abbie herself hadn’t needed a dry cleaner. Everything she wore now could be thrown in a washing machine. It was a big change from New York, where her housekeeper had done all the laundry and dropped off dry cleaning, which was delivered back to the apartment either that same evening or the next day. There were dry cleaners on nearly every block. In the area around Ben Lomond Circle, there were exactly three. Abbie had chosen the cleaner closest to the station as their first stop.
She pushed open a glass door with the words “Prestige Dry Cleaning” printed in large, blue letters. Somewhere inside the room, Abbie heard a bell jingle. An older woman sitting at a sewing machine in the front of the place looked up and asked, “Can I help you?”
“Hi.” Abbie pulled out her badge. “I’m Detective Abbie Taylor, and this is Officer Jim Clarke, of the Pleasant View City Police Department. We’re investigating a man’s death. We think these clothes are his.” Abbie showed the woman the blazer, trousers, and shirt inside plastic evidence bags. “Do you recognize any of them? I’ve also got a photo—”
The woman responded before Abbie could pull out the picture of Mr. Doe. “Size 48 Armani sports coat? Yes, I recognize it. We don’t have many Armani blazers, let alone in a size 48.” The woman smiled. “Unless I’m mistaken, it belongs to Stephen Smith. He and his wife are extremely good customers. They have expensive taste, and they need a lot of tailoring. Mostly letting things out. Mrs. Smith is the only woman I know who wears St. John suits to church.”
While it certainly wasn’t the case everywhere, Abbie remembered the irony of people showing off at church. Peter’s admonition to be clothed with humility fell on deaf ears for a certain subset of Mormons who paraded in expensive new clothing and jewelry every Sunday.
“When is the last time you saw Mr. Smith, Mrs.…? I didn’t catch your name.” Abbie said.
“My name’s Edith Gundersen. I saw Brother Smith not too long ago. A few days, maybe? He’d spilled some gravy on a pair of taupe John Varvatos trousers. He was in a bit of a state, worried he’d ruined them. Let me check.” Mrs. Gundersen stood up and went to the computer at the front counter. “Yeah, it looks like he dropped off the pants four days ago.”
“Thanks,” Abbie said. “Do you happen to have an address for the Smiths?”
The woman looked at her computer screen and printed an address on the back of a business card.
“Here you go,” she said. “You said you’re investigating a death. Nothing’s happened? I mean, Mr. Smith is okay?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we discovered his body yesterday.” Abbie waited for a moment to let the other woman process the news.
Then she said, “Did you know him well?”
“Not really. Not to speak ill, but he was an arrogant son-of-a-gun when he came in here. He had a nice enough family, though. What happened?”
Abbie was a bit taken aback by Gundersen’s candor, but concluded the woman was old enough to have seen a lot of death. She was of an age where she probably attended more funerals than weddings. Still, Abbie wondered what it said about the deceased that someone who knew him in passing felt comfortable offering up this character assessment.
“We’re not really sure yet,” Abbie answered.
“Well, it will be what everyone’s talking about in Pleasant View.”
“Why do you say that?” Abbie asked.
“You must not be from around here. Steve Smith is … was … a larger-than-life character. He and his wife were always donating money to the kind of causes that get you a picture in the paper. His construction company built a lot of the new houses around here. I think he was in the bishopric or stake presidency or something, too. I’m not exactly sure because my ward is up in Eden, but I’m sure anyone who lives in Pleasant View would know. You didn’t?”
“I just moved here.” In that moment, Abbie knew she’d been played. Like an idiot, she had walked into this dry cleaner’s thinking she was doing real detective work when everyone in the Pleasant View Police Department already knew Elder Doe was Steve Smith. Abbie looked over at Clarke standing near the door. She saw regret—maybe guilt—on his face. Abbie was surprised Henderson had been so blatant. How could he explain that he hadn’t recognized Steve Smith? He couldn’t possibly argue that the blood and the position of the body had made it impossible to be certain, could he? Then there was Clarke. Abbie was livid. She felt betrayed. Not that she’d had any reason to trust Clarke, but she’d thought they were at least playing on the same team. Apparently, they weren’t.
Abbie went through the motions of thanking Gundersen. She handed the woman her card. Without looking at Clarke, she walked out of the dry cleaner’s. She climbed back into the Range Rover and slammed the door. Clarke quietly got in on the other side. Abbie was seething. She felt the knot of anger centered in her stomach spread through her chest and pound in her temples. If she opened her mouth, she would not be able to control what came out. She clenched her jaw and tried to focus on her breathing, counting her breaths backward from twenty-seven. Yelling at Henderson or Clarke, no matter how much they deserved it, was not going to get her anywhere. She went through all the possible reasons there were for nobody speaking up about who the dead man was yesterday: one—Henderson wanted to hamper the investigation because the death brought up uncomfortable questions about Mormon doctrine; two—Abbie’s fellow police officers wanted to make her look incompetent; and t
hree—there was no three. Was this really how they were going to play it?
Clarke didn’t say anything the entire drive back to the station. He slumped in his seat. His body language seemed both apologetic and guilty. Abbie turned on music she thought Clarke wouldn’t like as loudly as she could stand. By the time they got back to the station, Abbie was ready. She kept her expression neutral as she walked through the door.
“Chief, I’ve got a name and address for our Elder John Doe,” Abbie announced loudly enough so everyone could hear. She surveyed the room. The two most junior guys had stopped filling out the forms they were working on, but they kept their heads down even as they exchanged obvious glances at each other. One of the most senior guys kept his back to her, but Abbie saw him turn his head slightly so he could see her and Henderson’s reflection in a window. Clarke stared at his shoes as if he were willing himself to disappear beneath the floor. Henderson looked right at Abbie as the color drained from his face.
“Uh … yeah … Abbie, Detective Taylor, that’s, uh, great. How did you … track that down?” Henderson stammered.
“It wasn’t that hard.” Abbie paused and watched Henderson struggle to recover his composure. He glared over her shoulder to the officers who were listening a little too intently. The men started shuffling papers and clicking on their keyboards.
“He’s Mr. Stephen Smith of 54 West Lake Drive, Pleasant View.” Abbie projected loudly over the sounds of the office. Her voice carried. She turned to Clarke. “Are you interested in heading over there with me?” she asked. Then added coolly, “Or would you rather stay here with the guys?”
FIVE
This was messed up. How the hell could anyone think it was okay to hide the identity of the dead man? What on earth could Henderson gain—besides making her look incompetent—by slowing down the investigation? He had to know Smith’s identity was going to come out.
Abbie wasn’t sure what made her angrier: that she’d let herself be played or that Henderson had been so brazen. There was nothing to be done now. If she reported any of this to people higher up the food chain, her fellow officers would all fall in line behind their leader and she would be the one looking crazy. Henderson had demonstrated that he controlled the police force in Pleasant View. On top of that, there was the matter of her partner. How was she going to keep working with him?
Blessed be the Wicked Page 3