Abbie was happy she hadn’t eaten much of the strata. She was feeling a little nauseated.
“Dad, did you even go bird-watching this morning, or was that just a ruse to deliver Port’s message?”
“Yes. Yes, we did go out looking for birds. I just needed to talk to you, too. I don’t take orders from Port.”
Abbie wanted to respond, “But that’s exactly what you’re doing,” but she stopped herself. Something in her dad’s tone made her think twice. She could see it in his tired eyes. Maybe this entire conversation had been hard on him, too.
“Dad, is that all?”
Professor Taylor took off his glasses and cleaned them with a soft cloth he pulled from his shirt pocket. Abbie saw the movement for what it was: a stalling technique.
“Dad? Is that it?” Abbie asked again.
“The last thing Port said to me was, ‘This needs to go well.’”
Abbie didn’t ask her dad to interpret the statement. They both knew the words were meant to be a threat.
TWENTY-ONE
It was a relief to pull into the parking lot of the Pleasant View City Police Department. John and Flynn had cleaned up breakfast while Abbie and her dad were having their conversation. John had read the tension as soon as Abbie opened the door to her study. He and Flynn had said quick good-byes. Her dad hadn’t given her a hug and she hadn’t wanted one.
When Abbie walked into the station, Clarke was already on the phone, trying to get through to the police in Costa Rica. Clarke’s Spanish was excellent. He wasn’t one to brag, but when he had mentioned that his Spanish was “okay,” that was a laughable understatement. Clarke had served his mission in Peru. Abbie later discovered that while Clarke was at the MTC, the acronym for the Missionary Training Center, he had been known as a linguistic whiz kid.
After the frustration of the day before, neither Abbie nor Clarke expected to make much progress anytime soon, but they were pleasantly surprised when an officer in San José returned their call. Abbie picked out a word here and there as Clarke engaged in a lengthy conversation in Spanish.
“So?” she asked after he put down his phone.
“The detective I spoke with, Officer Segura, actually knew who Smith was because Segura grew up in a town not too far from San José, a place called Jacó. Anyway, Jacó’s a kind of vacation town. Turns out, that’s where Smith bought a rather expensive place on the beach. According to Segura, Smith and his wife were big spenders.”
“Wife? Melinda told us she had never been to Costa Rica, but Bowen mentioned Smith’s wife. I didn’t know what to make of that. Now we have someone else talking about her.”
“Yeah, but there’s something about Segura’s description of the wife that makes me think he wasn’t talking about Melinda Smith,” Clarke said. “He described the wife as young and quite beautiful. Not to be unkind, but I don’t think even the most generous person would describe Melinda Smith as either young or beautiful.”
Clarke would never be unkind, but Abbie had to admit he was right. “So any idea who this ‘Mrs. Smith’ actually is?”
“Segura was certain she was American. He said she was blonde and liked to wear a bikini. He thought he might be able to find a picture because the Smiths liked to go out and even went to some local fund-raisers. I gave him my email in case he found photos.”
“What about the bank account information?” Abbie asked.
“If we go through official channels, it could take months or even longer. We’d have to send a letter rogatory, which is some kind of legal request from a court here to a Costa Rican court that compels the bank to release the information. My Spanish is okay, but discussing legal issues is a bit out of my comfort zone, so I could’ve misunderstood some of what was said. Segura thinks because it’s a murder investigation, he can make a few calls and get us the information we need through unofficial channels.”
“That’d be great,” Abbie said. “Did he know anything about the temple in San José or about Celestial Time Shares?”
“He knew all about the temple, but he hadn’t heard anything about Celestial Time Shares or any kind of Mormon resort,” Clarke said.
“Great work!”
Clarke couldn’t hide a shy smile at Abbie’s compliment. In just a few phone calls, he had managed to move the investigation forward in a way Abbie could never have done on her own. She was feeling optimistic that they’d have information from the Banco de Costa Rica soon.
Clarke’s phone beeped. He looked down.
“It’s from Segura.”
Abbie waited while he read the email and opened an attachment.
“Hmmm, this is odd. Segura sent an article from a newspaper about a Mormon leader visiting in San José for a temple rededication ceremony. There’s a picture of a few Apostles and Elder Bowen in front of the temple. It’s from the week before Smith was killed.”
Clarke handed his phone to Abbie. Sure enough, it was Bowen, smiling in front of the San José temple six days before Smith was killed.
* * *
“I need to run this by Henderson first.” It went against every fiber of her being to ask permission before interviewing a suspect who had lied to her. The day had flown by with their conversations with the police officer in Costa Rica. It was past five and Henderson’s office was dark. Abbie dialed Henderson’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. She tried to resist the pull of confronting Bowen with the picture of him in front of the temple in San José. She told herself that nothing would change if she waited until tomorrow, after she’d had a chance to ask Henderson’s permission. She really tried, but in the end, Abbie simply could not resist. There would be a steep price, but she was willing to pay it.
“Do you want to sit this one out? I’ll take the heat from Henderson,” Abbie said.
“No. I’m coming with you.” Clarke’s tone was unequivocal.
Dusk was a beautiful time to drive to Bountiful. The outline of the jagged peaks of the Oquirrh Mountains in the west looked as if they’d been torn from black construction paper and placed on top of a watercolor of deep blues, pinks, and purples. Clarke drove south on I-84. Abbie had wanted to drive in the police car instead of arriving more discreetly in her Rover. She wanted to send Bowen a signal.
Neither Clarke nor Abbie spoke during the entire drive from Pleasant View to Bountiful. Bowen was not going to appreciate his surprise visitors, and Henderson was going to be furious as soon as he found out about the interview. Abbie worried Clarke might regret his decision to come with her, but she respected him for it.
A few moments after Clarke rang the doorbell at the Bowen residence, an athletic teenage boy with thick, dark-blond hair and the good looks of his father answered the door.
“Hello?” the boy asked.
“Hello,” Abbie responded. “We’re here to see your dad. Is he home?”
“Yeah.” The boy turned his head back inside and yelled, “Da-ad! It’s for you.”
He then turned back to face Abbie and Clarke. He wore the confidence of a boy who excelled at sports in a culture that valued athletic prowess. Abbie heard a man’s footsteps. The boy opened the door more widely: Elder Bowen stood in front of Abbie and Clarke. He wasn’t able to conceal his distaste for the unwelcome guests on his doorstep. He recovered quickly, but not quickly enough to hide his initial reaction.
“Detective Taylor, I wish you’d called. We’re in the middle of a family dinner,” he said, as though this excused him from whatever had brought the police to his door.
Abbie smiled broadly. “Oh, Mr. Bowen, this won’t take long. Why don’t you just step outside so we can talk without disturbing your family?”
Bowen was caught off guard again, but before he could respond one way or the other, his son made the decision for him. “Dad, I’ll tell Mom you have to talk to some people. Church stuff, right?”
Without waiting for his father to respond, the boy walked back inside the house. Bowen stepped outside, quietly shutting the front door behind him.<
br />
“Mr. Bowen, last time we spoke, you told me you had never been to Costa Rica. Now, we have this photo of you in San José taken less than a week before Steve Smith was killed.” Abbie turned her phone toward Bowen so he could see the article and the picture. She watched a number of emotions flicker across his face: anger, defiance, arrogance, and contempt. He settled on defiance.
“Your chief of police hasn’t requested that I answer confidential questions about Church matters unrelated to Steve Smith’s murder. I’ve been cooperative in order to help with this regrettable situation. But now, you ambush me here at home with my family. Precious time I get too little of. If you wish to speak with me, please have Russ call me or, better yet, ask Russ to call my attorney. We can set up a mutually agreeable time to speak. Now, I think you should leave so that I can get back inside to my family.”
Bowen glared at Abbie as he spoke. He didn’t turn to go back inside but watched Abbie carefully, waiting for her to react. Abbie could sense he expected her to back down. Instead, Abbie lifted the outside corners of her lips toward her eyebrows. It was subtle, but it was enough of a smile that Bowen could not contain his rage at her lack of deference. He looked as if he wanted to hit her.
“You are correct to point out that Chief Henderson is my boss,” Abbie said calmly, “but surely you know that as the sole detective of the Pleasant View Police Department, I have the authority to interview whomever I see fit whenever I see fit. You have every right to refuse to speak with me here, of course, which means we can make the long drive back to the police station in Pleasant View. Then, you can call your attorney and I will call the district attorney. We can take it from there. Would you like to explain to your family that your ‘Church business’ is going to take you the rest of the night, perhaps into the early morning hours?”
Abbie let this statement hang in the air. She watched as the color drained from Bowen’s face. He said nothing.
Abbie continued, “It seems to me, given your position in the Church, it might be uncomfortable for this to become an official interview. Local papers might get interested. I’ve done my best to keep this investigation discreet, as your dear friend Chief Henderson has asked me to, but if you force me to take you to the station in our police car, I can hardly be blamed if an enterprising young journalist, from The Trib perhaps, takes an interest.”
Bowen’s gaze softened. He had not gotten where he was by fighting losing battles. He smiled, but this time it looked like an authentic attempt to extend an olive branch. At the very least, Bowen was demonstrating that he understood it was time to change course.
“There’s no need to turn this situation into something it’s not. We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Bowen said. “Why don’t we walk around to the patio in the back? We can sit comfortably and discuss whatever questions you have there.”
She and Clarke followed Bowen around the side of the house to a red brick, herringbone-patterned patio with wrought-iron furniture and cushions Abbie thought looked as if they had just arrived from a Frontgate catalog. The backyard, not surprisingly, was exquisitely landscaped.
“May I offer you some lemonade?” Bowen asked. “My wife made some from scratch for tonight.”
“That would be lovely,” Abbie responded. Abbie saw Clarke relax a little. She could tell he had no interest in watching any more of her confrontation with Bowen.
Abbie and Clarke sat down. A teenage girl soon appeared, carrying a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of raspberry crumble bars. She carefully put down the tray and poured three glasses of lemonade. She smiled at Abbie and Clarke and went back inside, shutting the French doors behind her without making a sound.
They were starting over. Bowen was on notice not to underestimate Abbie again.
“Let’s start at the beginning, Mr. Bowen. Tell me everything you know about Steve Smith, Celestial Time Shares, and what’s going on in Costa Rica.”
“I take it that you’ve spoken to Eduardo Morales, the manager at the bank in Costa Rica.” Bowen’s tone had changed from that of a lecturing Church leader to that of a helpful colleague. Abbie didn’t give any indication that they had not spoken to the Costa Rican bank manager.
“I should have told you that I visited the Banco de Costa Rica when I visited the temple in San José a few weeks ago. When we first spoke, I was convinced that this business venture in Costa Rica could not possibly have anything to do with Smith’s death.”
Clarke took a bite of a raspberry crumble bar, swallowed, then asked, “Elder Bowen, you’ve been to Costa Rica before?”
“I’ve been to Costa Rica too many times to count. I served my mission in Chile, so my Spanish is fluent. Whenever the Brethren feel they need someone from Salt Lake to be in Spanish-speaking Latin America, I’m usually the first choice. My most recent trip had been on the calendar for months. I was there officially for the temple rededication, but”—Bowen turned to face Abbie—“I did take the opportunity to check on Steve’s progress.”
“What did you find out?” Abbie asked.
“I made a few discreet inquiries, but everything pointed in the same direction. You probably already know that Steve hadn’t bought any property, none of the local contractors had heard of the project, and, to top it all off, according to the bank manager, almost all the investment money had been transferred into various personal accounts offshore.”
“This is not at all what you told me last time we spoke,” Abbie said.
“I know.” Bowen shrugged. “I wish I could pretend there was some good reason for what I told you, but it is really exactly as I said. I didn’t think this business project had anything to do with Smith’s death. I still don’t.”
“What you did was lie to a police officer during the course of an investigation,” Abbie said. “Can you explain to me exactly how you were able to access Smith’s information in Costa Rica? I would have thought his accounts were private.”
“We have connections that allow us to access information that might otherwise be confidential,” Bowen replied. Abbie didn’t ask who the “we” Bowen was referring to was. She was pretty sure she knew, and she didn’t relish the idea that Bowen had unfettered access to other people’s financial information, but she didn’t doubt that he did.
Bowen continued, “I was told Steve had used some money to buy a rather extravagant villa in a village outside San José. I also heard the rumors about Steve’s young, gorgeous wife. I know Melinda Smith, not well, but we have met. I think quite highly of her, but I wouldn’t describe her as young.”
Clarke raised his eyebrow.
Bowen continued, “When I left Costa Rica, I was angry, both about the business and about what looked like Steve’s apparent infidelity. As you know, temple marriage is an eternal covenant with our Heavenly Father. Breaking the Law of Chastity is not something to be taken lightly. When I got back to Utah, I called Steve.” Bowen took a sip of lemonade and carefully placed a raspberry crumble bar on a napkin in front of him. “Steve told me there was nothing to worry about. He assured me the project was on schedule.”
“And what about his villa and wife?” Abbie asked.
Both Bowen and Clarke inhaled at the same time. Sex was not an easy topic for Mormons to talk about, especially extramarital sex. The fact that Abbie was herself a woman made it even more uncomfortable for the two men she was sitting with.
“Well, that was not the easiest part of my conversation with Steve,” Bowen said. “I asked him about the house first, probably because that was more comfortable than a question about the covenants he made in the temple with his wife.”
“And?” Abbie asked.
“Steve told me there’d been a mix-up at the bank about the money he’d wired from a variety of accounts in Utah. He told me he wasn’t at all surprised about what I’d been told. According to Steve, the Banco de Costa Rica is a financial mess. Steve said the bank had confused personal and business accounts, but he was straightening everything out. He even chuckled at the
thought that he would need investor money to buy such a ‘simple house’—those were his words to describe the villa.”
“Did you believe him?” Clarke asked.
“You know, I did.” Bowen sighed. “I still do. Steve wasn’t a detail guy. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d initially had issues with paperwork and accounting, but I don’t think Steve would steal money. I really don’t.”
“But you were angry. At some point you believed Steve could have stolen from you.”
“Sure, I was mad, but I was mostly mad because it didn’t look like Steve had made any progress on the project. I think Celestial Time Shares is going to explode. It’s a high-risk investment, but I truly believe that providing Latter-day Saints a way to travel the world, combining spiritual work and temporal R&R, is brilliant. I was angry because I was being selfish. The sooner this first project is finished, the sooner we’re all going to start seeing great returns. Steve was the guy to get the job done and I wanted him to do just that.”
Was Bowen right about the likelihood of financial success?
“And what about the young and attractive wife?” Abbie circled back to this key question.
“Steve told me that was a misunderstanding about his PR assistant. He told me she was an old family friend, someone he’d known since she was a kid. He said she was more like a daughter than anything else. She’d just graduated from college—Weber State, I think—and she needed a job. He acknowledged they spent a lot of time together in Costa Rica and that she stayed with him at his home, but she had her own bedroom and bathroom. He assured me their relationship was completely appropriate.”
Abbie was skeptical that the relationship had indeed been “completely appropriate.” Why would their Costa Rican colleague have called this young woman Mrs. Smith unless Smith was pretending he was married to a woman who wasn’t Melinda when he was in Costa Rica? Someone wasn’t telling the truth. Had Smith lied to Bowen or was Bowen lying to her?
TWENTY-TWO
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