Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [16]
“A what? Oh, the brown car. I haven’t seen it before.”
“It belongs to a reporter. His name is Maxwell Cole.”
“Is he the one who wrote the article this morning?”
She was a sharp old dame. Nothing much got past her.
“Yes,” I answered. “He was over there talking with Suzanne Barstogi and Brodie when we drove up. If he comes nosing around asking questions, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything to him. I’d especially like it if he didn’t learn any of what you’ve told us.”
For the first time she looked at me as though I might possibly be a member of the human race. “You mean you think this might be important?”
“I’m sure it’s important, and I don’t want the papers to get ahold of it until after we have a chance to check it out.” Unexpectedly, Sophie Czirski started crying again. They seemed to be tears of gratitude that at last someone was taking her seriously, paying attention. I was grateful we had gotten to her first.
“I wouldn’t give him the time of day,” she said determinedly when the third bout of tears finally abated. She pulled herself together long enough to let us out. We heard her padlock the gate behind us.
It was getting on toward afternoon. The storm that had been hinted on the breeze the night before finally drifted in off the Pacific, kicking up the wind and bringing with it a drenching downpour. Seattle is used to the kind of gentle drizzle that lets people walk in the rain for blocks without an umbrella and without getting wet. This was not that kind of storm. The wind would have gutted any umbrella we had tried to use. We were glad to retreat to the car.
We had barely gotten inside when Peters picked up the preliminary report that had been carelessly dropped in the backseat. He studied it for a few minutes, then handed it to me, pointing at a paragraph close to the bottom. It was something we had missed the first time, and Maxwell Cole evidently hadn’t given it any notice either. In her death struggle, Angela’s Barstogi’s left arm had been broken. Actually a recent fracture had been rebroken. In addition, X rays revealed an old break in her right arm and one on her left leg.
“Must have been a really accident-prone kid,” I said sarcastically.
“Right,” Peters replied. He was looking at Suzanne Barstogi’s house. Like me, he was probably thinking about the living room full of kneeling supplicants. “I’ll just bet that asshole’s our man.”
“Could be,” I said. “Sounds more plausible all the time.”
“And Suzanne Barstogi’s an accessory!” Peters ran his hand over his forehead and hair in a gesture of hopelessness. For a time he was quiet, waging an internal war.
“You ever hear of Broken Springs. Oregon?” he asked at last. It was an off-the-wall question. I thought for a minute, then shook my head without making any connection. He continued. “It’le place in central Oregon south of The Dalles that’s been taken over by a cult. The peons eat long-grain rice and go without, while the swami or whatever the hell he is rides around in one of his thirty or so Cadillacs. My ex-wife and kids are there.”
He stopped. For a space there was no sound in the car but the rain slapping the windshield and the roof. I had worked with Peters for the better part of two months without a hint that something like that was in his background. Now he had dropped the whole load at once.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me too,” he responded bleakly. “I can’t understand how it happens, how people put themselves totally under someone else’s control. That’s the way it is with Suzanne Barstogi. She probably stood right there and watched, maybe even helped.” It was a chilling, sobering possibility.
Once more the sound of the rain filled the car. Peters sat hunched over the steering wheel saying nothing, gripping it with such force that his knuckles turned white. The hurt and pain were so thick in the front seat you could almost touch them. “I’ll ask Powell to pull you off the case. I think your objectivity is shot to shit.