Abbie and Clarke walked up the stairs to Helga Boalt’s apartment. Clarke rang the doorbell and waited. A few moments later, a girl came to the door. She was wearing gray sweatpants and a light-pink tank top. It looked like she’d slept in them.
“Hello?” The girl looked Abbie and Clarke up and down. She spent more time looking at Clarke than she did at Abbie.
“Hello. I’m Detective Abbie Taylor of the Pleasant View City Police Department. This is Officer Jim Clarke. We’re here to speak with Helga Boalt.”
The girl turned her head back inside the apartment and yelled, “Hel–ga!”
A few minutes later, they were sitting in the living room on an orange hand-me-down sofa. The room was decorated in the classic college style of mismatched bits and pieces inherited whenever a family member redecorated. The sofa sat awkwardly across from a red-and-green-plaid chair with a brown stain that covered most of its back. The other chair in the small room was a black faux-leather recliner with a pink-and-yellow crocheted blanket draped across the armrest.
“Hello.” Helga Boalt was plain and serious-looking. She was dressed carefully in ironed, pleated khaki pants and a boxy, button-down shirt in a shade of teal. Her brown belt accentuated a thick waist. It was evident that she had put both thought and care into her wardrobe choices, but her roommate in the slept-in sweats and tank top looked more stylish.
“Hello. This is Officer Clarke and I’m Detective Abbie Taylor of the Pleasant View City Police Department.”
Helga asked to see both their IDs. She took her time examining them. Abbie doubted the girl could distinguish a real ID from a fake one, but that was not going to stop Helga from trying.
Finally, the girl nodded. “Why do you want to speak to me?”
“Ms. Boalt, we’re investigating the death of Steve Smith and—”
Helga interrupted, “Steve Smith is dead?”
“Yes, he is. We spoke to your father. It sounds like you know a lot about Mr. Smith. I’m hoping you can give us some of your insight into what he was like.”
“Well,” Helga said, “Steve Smith was an arrogant man who thought he could get away with things because of who he was at church. I doubt anyone in Pleasant View will tell you this, certainly not anyone who goes to church, but Steve used his position in the bishopric to bully people. You know, he and the Bishop, they’re old friends. Since my dad doesn’t go to church, he couldn’t be threatened by suggestions it might be hard to get a temple recommend. Even if he did go to church, he doesn’t care about living his life according to the rules of judgy Mormon moms and arrogant priesthood-y dads.”
No one could accuse this girl of being diplomatic, but she wasn’t entirely wrong about the judgmental nature that sometimes poisoned religious communities. Abbie had known a bishop or two who had used his church position in un-Christ-like ways.
“How well did you know Mr. Smith?” Abbie asked.
“Pretty well,” Helga answered. “You probably don’t know about this, but Steve was trying to sell this idea of a Mormon resort someplace in Central America—Belize or Costa Rica or something. I don’t think for an instant he really had plans to do anything, but it was a great way for him to get money and pretend he was paying back debts he owed.” Helga paused from her monologue for a moment. “I’m double-majoring in prelaw and accounting.”
Abbie recognized the girl’s desire to impress the police and gave her what she wanted. “Tough double major.” Abbie had come across plenty of people like Helga in both her personal and professional life. The young woman was a know-it-all, the kind of person who would point out trivial details in a casual way, like, “Well, actually, you said a month, but it really was four weeks and two days.” Helga Boalt probably didn’t have many friends, because she was the kind of person who thought being right mattered more than being nice. Abbie had dangled a treat right in front of Helga’s ego by asking her to share her “insight.”
A self-satisfied smile flickered across Helga’s face, and then she continued. “So, anyway, I never trusted Steve Smith, even if my dad claims he used to be a good guy. The guy was a snake, a jerk, and a bully. Whenever I went to see my dad on a job site and Steve was there, he would leer at my friends. It was creepy. I mean, he’s old and married. So when Steve offered my dad shares in this sham resort company instead of money, I told my dad not to accept.”
Abbie made a “hmmm” sound so as not to interrupt the flow of the girl’s monologue.
“Another thing no one else will tell you is Steve was telling people he had major investors in his resort company. He bragged that important people like Apostles and General Authorities were on board. You know, the kind of LDS leaders people in Pleasant View would respect, so they wouldn’t ask too many questions about the business plan.”
Abbie was interested in the financial angle, but the comment about leering at young girls was interesting, too. Even if it was just gossip, and it probably was, Abbie couldn’t pass up the chance to get another view on the dead man.
“You mentioned Mr. Smith made you uncomfortable by how he looked at you. Can you tell me a little more about that?” Abbie asked.
“Oh, he never looked at me. Steve liked his girls to be—how shall I put it?—superficially pretty and academically challenged,” Helga said. “Believe me, if he could do more than look, I think he would have. He was disgusting.”
“Do you think he ever did more than just look?”
“I doubt it,” Helga said. “I mean, who’d want an overweight, middle-aged married man? Even if it did seem like he had lots of money.”
“Do you think anyone else noticed Mr. Smith’s leering?” Clarke asked.
“Hmmm, I doubt it. People are pretty good at not seeing what they don’t want to see.” Helga’s voice was firm.
“And what about the Church leaders who invested in this real-estate deal? Do you have any idea who they might have been?” Clarke asked.
“Nope. Steve always talked a big game but was vague on specifics. I doubt there were any investors at all, although he claimed he went to Central America looking for the right property. For all I know, he went to St. George for the spring.”
Abbie waited for more, but Helga took a few breaths and said nothing more.
“Do you remember the last time you saw Steve Smith?” Abbie asked.
“It’s been months, at least since before the beginning of school,” Helga said.
“So you wouldn’t know how he was behaving in the last week or so?”
Helga shrugged and shook her head.
“Thank you so much for your time, Ms. Boalt,” Abbie said, “I really appreciate it. Here’s my card. Please don’t hesitate to call if you think of anything that might be useful in our investigation.”
Helga took the card and put it in the pocket of her teal button-down. “Of course.”
Once Clarke and Abbie were in the car, Clarke said, “I don’t know how you managed to be so, well, nice. Helga Boalt has to be one of the most irritating, self-satisfied people I’ve ever met.”
“Self-awareness and humility may not be among Ms. Boalt’s most dominant personality characteristics, but she was helpful. Not only do we now know that Smith probably convinced the people he owed money into taking CTS shares instead—I bet those are the numbers that didn’t match up—but we know he was telling people there were major Church authorities investing in the project.
“Maybe you’re right,” Clarke said. He couldn’t quite hide that he begrudged saying Helga might have been helpful. “I wonder if there was anything to her comment about Smith paying too much attention to attractive young women.”
Abbie didn’t say anything, but she felt pretty sure that was one observation Helga Boalt had gotten entirely right.
THIRTEEN
After talking to George Boalt and his daughter, it was time to interview the largest investor in Celestial Time Shares. It hadn’t been easy to get half an hour of Elder Kevin Bowen’s time. Abbie had been on the phone ever since she a
nd Clarke had gotten back to the station from Logan.
Elder Bowen was one of the youngest—and busiest—members of the First Quorum of the Seventy. Most non-Mormons didn’t understand how hierarchical the LDS Church was, thinking it was structured more like most Protestant churches. They would have been wrong. The First Presidency, which consisted of the Prophet and two Counselors, was at the top of a clearly defined pyramid of divine authority. Beneath the First Presidency was the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and then, beneath the Apostles, was the First Quorum of the Seventy. These men exercised global leadership of the Church. Their words held both temporal and spiritual weight for millions of Latter-day Saints around the world.
“You know the chief wants us to keep him informed about what we’re doing. Plus, he wants us to be discrete. I’m not sure talking to a General Authority is discrete. Does he know you’re going to see Elder Bowen?” Clarke asked as Abbie passed his desk.
“Yes,” Abbie lied. She expected Henderson to be angry if she spoke to a General Authority without asking his permission beforehand, but she calculated that the cost of dealing with Henderson after the fact was better than risking the possibility that Henderson wouldn’t authorize the interview at all. Abbie was beginning to like Clarke, and she wanted to spare him any potential fallout. Antagonizing the powers-that-be was not Clarke’s strong suit. Abbie was used to it.
She turned back to Clarke. “Any word from the airport?”
Clarke shook his head. “The guy who heads up security was out when I followed up. The guy I talked to just now said there was some problem with the date we want. You want me to call again?”
“Yes. Please.”
The drive to Bountiful where Bowen lived was quick. Traffic was light. There’d been a storm the night before, so the thick polluted air that sometimes sat in the valley like pea soup had been washed away. Instead of greenish haze, the sky was clear and blue. Abbie listened to KUER for the day’s news, but the radio voices just served as background noise for the thoughts circling in her head about the man she was about to meet: Elder Kevin Bowen, the telegenic face of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Bowen’s house was an elegant stone structure with a backyard abutting a golf course. Evidently, he’d been well compensated in his business career before accepting his calling to the Seventies, the shorthand term used to describe the Quorum of the Seventy. The landscaping was meticulous. No detail had been overlooked. The Bowen house had a three-car garage to the left of the entrance. A white S-class Mercedes was parked in the driveway. This house was the home of a man confident of his superior taste. Abbie assumed there was designer luggage in the closets and photos in tasteful silver frames documenting expensive family trips abroad. She pictured a mother and father who were fit and—if not actually good-looking—expensively dressed and well-groomed. This was probably a family who felt they were entitled to the better things in life and couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to live life the way they did. Abbie didn’t expect to like Bowen very much.
She rang the doorbell.
“Hello! You must be Detective Abish Taylor. Please, come in. Such a loss for our community, but our Heavenly Father works on his own timeline. I’m not sure I’ll be able to help you, but I’ll do whatever I can.”
If you’d ever looked at the leaders of the LDS Church on the official website, and Abbie had, you’d know there was column after column of smiling male faces with neatly cut hair in dark suits with red or blue ties. The men ranged in age from their mid-forties to almost ninety. All but a handful were white. Most of them had the plain good looks of salesmen.
Bowen, though, was anything but plain. He was tan and athletic with a bright smile full of perfect teeth. He had thick blond hair and intense green eyes. And he was tall. Really tall. At least six foot four. Abbie remembered hearing he had played basketball for the Y when he was in college. She believed it.
Bowen led Abbie into a beautifully appointed sitting room with a view of the Bountiful temple. They sat down.
Abbie knew her way around the friendly surface talk most Mormons learned at an early age. As young as five or six, children stood up in church meetings to bear their testimony that they “know the Church is true.” By adulthood, most Latter-day Saints were able to engage in conversation using key phrases, smiles, and well-timed tears to convey religious conviction (even when there was none, Abbie thought cynically). Bowen’s phrase “but I’ll do whatever I can” was code for “I won’t help you very much.”
“This conversation is routine,” Abbie said, “We’re speaking with everyone who invested in Celestial Time Shares. According to our records, Mr. Bowen, you were the largest investor in the company. Ten million, eight hundred seventy-five thousand dollars? Is that right?”
By calling a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy “Mister” instead of “Brother or Elder,” Abbie had made it clear that this was an official police investigation and that, no matter how high-ranking Bowen was within the Church, she was not going to treat him differently from anyone else. Bowen’s upturned lips remained frozen in a smile on his confident face, but he shifted his weight in his seat. The message had been received.
“That sounds about right,” Bowen replied casually, as though investing nearly eleven million dollars was something he did so frequently he didn’t bother to keep track. “You know, Abish—may I call you that? I took several classes with your father at the Y. He’s an inspiring man. How’s he doing?”
“He’s very well. Thank you for asking.”
Abbie waited a moment. She wanted the basketball player to understand she was not going to let him control the conversation.
“Mr. Bowen,” Abbie asked, “what did Steve Smith tell you about your investment?”
“Well, property development is an enterprise with a certain degree of risk. Steve didn’t pretend otherwise. The plan to build gated communities near temple sites so members can combine temple duties with wholesome family vacations is a brilliant one. If the project in Costa Rica goes well, and I expect it will, there are dozens of other potential sites. Those of us who invested knew we wouldn’t see returns for a few years, but we’re all happy to wait.”
“Did you know Mr. Smith transferred most of the money he received from investors to personal accounts?” Abbie asked.
“No, I didn’t know that.”
Bowen paused. Abbie wasn’t sure if that was because he already knew about Smith’s transferring funds and was trying to give the impression he didn’t, or because he was surprised but didn’t want her to know. Either way, it was interesting.
He continued, “It doesn’t surprise me. Steve mentioned that setting up corporations was extraordinarily complicated in Costa Rica. He knew the area, and I trusted him.”
“Did you ever see the property where the resort was going to be built?” Abbie asked.
“No. I’ve never been to Costa Rica, but my understanding is Steve went scouting last year and found the site he wanted to develop. I think he’d already bought the property and was in the process of lining up contractors, getting the necessary building permits, that sort of thing. When I last spoke with him, he’d already finished the initial architectural plans.”
Abbie nodded to indicate she was listening, but she didn’t say anything because she hoped Bowen would keep talking long enough to share something useful.
“It’s so inspiring to see the Church growing so quickly in Latin America.” Bowen had now shifted to LDS propaganda mode—smooth lines he’d rehearsed in some variation hundreds of times before. “The Saints there have such strong testimonies. This project is not only going to benefit the members who travel there, but it’s also going to provide jobs for Costa Rican Saints who work at the Celestial Time Shares property. Steve told me that the Relief Society President has a long list of sisters eager to provide childcare for visitors and to take care of housekeeping and cooking at the resort. There is plenty of landscaping and yard work for our Costa Rican brothers. Al
l of us involved in Celestial Time Shares want local members to work at the properties.”
Abbie let silence hang in the air for a moment longer than was comfortable. She needed to steer the conversation away from Church marketing. She asked, “Do you know Steve Smith’s wife?”
“You know, I can’t say that I do. I know he was married and I’d heard his wife went with him to Costa Rica last year. I don’t know much more than that. In truth, I haven’t known Steve for that long. I met him through a dear friend—why, you actually know him.” Bowen paused for a moment. Then he said in a tone that was supposed to indicate some new piece of information had just occurred to him, but his delivery was too well rehearsed. “Russell Henderson, the chief of the Pleasant View Police Department. Your boss, I believe.”
Was Bowen trying to intimidate her?
He continued. “Russ and I served our missions together. Russ knew Steve, which was a key reason I was so comfortable making the investment.” Not only had Henderson called Bowen, but he had introduced Smith to him as well? Did Henderson know about Celestial Time Shares from the get-go, too?
If Bowen had hoped to scare Abbie by letting her know he was a friend of Henderson’s, he was going to be disappointed. If there was one thing Abbie detested more than an old boys’ network, it was being bullied by an old boys’ network. Now she had an idea about how her father had found out about Smith’s death so quickly. If Henderson was Bowen’s friend, then it wouldn’t be at all surprising that he’d let the Church PR man know about the discovery of a body that could, at the very least, be embarrassing to Church leaders. Especially if that body was of a man who was building LDS resorts. The line from Bowen to one of her dad’s highly placed friends was short.
“Did you have any sense that Mr. Smith was using the funds invested in Celestial Time Shares for his own personal interests?” Abbie watched Bowen carefully. For a fleeting moment she saw something change in his demeanor, but the man hadn’t climbed the LDS leadership ladder for nothing. As soon as Abbie thought she saw something register on his face, the expression was gone, replaced with the hint of an enigmatic smile.
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