Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [45]
A uniformed officer told Watkins that the church members were gathering outside and wanted to come in. What should he tell them? The sergeant directed him to assemble them in the fellowship hall, where we could once more begin the interviewing process.
I was a little puzzled when I saw the whole Faith Tabernacle group, as much as I remembered them, file into the room. After all, it was Tuesday morning and presumably some of them should have gone to work. It turned out that they had been scheduled to be there at five o’clock for a celebration breakfast. It was the traditional ending to a successful Purification Ceremony, and would have marked the end of Suzanne Barstogi’s ordeal of silence, fasting, and prayer.
Without Brodie’s looming presence in the background to enforce silence, it was easier to get people to talk. It was plain that they were shocked by what had happened, and talking seemed to help. They were getting better at it.
The cook, a True Believer named Sarah Morris, had come to church at four to start preparing breakfast, which was due after a prayer session at five. Before early-morning services, she had been in the habit of taking a cup of coffee to Brodie in his study. It was when she took him his coffee that she had found first his body and then Suzanne’s.
We were about finished with Sarah when the front-door cop came hurrying into the room. “You’d better come quick. Powell said to call him on a telephone, not the radio, and to make it snappy.”
The only phone available at the church was in the study. If Powell didn’t want us to use the radio for privacy reasons, the study was no better. We got in Peters’ car and drove to the first available pay phone.
“What’s up?” I asked as soon as Powell came on the line.
“The night clerk from the Warwick, that’s what. He says Carstogi came back and tried to go to his room. He’s got him down in the restaurant eating breakfast and wonders what he should do.”
“Get a couple of uniformed officers over there to keep him there for as long as it takes us to drive from Ballard.”
“They’re on their way, but why do I have this sneaking suspicion that you’ve screwed up, Beaumont?”
“Experience,” I told him, and slammed the phone receiver down in his ear. I turned back to the car to see Maxwell Cole’s rust-colored Volvo idling behind Peters’ Datsun. “Shit.”
I climbed into the car. “Sorry,” Peters said. “He must have tailed us when we left the church. I didn’t see him.”
“It’s too late now. Drive like hell to the Warwick. Carstogi’s in the restaurant having breakfast.”
Peters’ jaw dropped in surprise. “No shit! Why would he go back there?”
“Beats me, but he did, and we’d better nab him before he gets away. Thank God the night clerk had brains enough to call and let us know.” I glanced at Peters, who was looking in the rearview mirror. “Max still on our butt?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“We’ll just have to lump it. We don’t have time to try to throw him off the trail. I don’t want Carstogi to slip through our fingers.”
“The gun has a way of equalizing things, doesn’t it? Yesterday Carstogi was no match for Brodie when they were dealing with fists.”
“You’ve already decided he’s our man?”
“Haven’t you?” Peters asked.
“No, I haven’t. I like to think I’m a better judge of character than that. Carstogi wanted to kill Brodie, but he would have taken Suzanne back in a minute. You heard him yesterday.”
“Well, who did it then?” Peters asked. It was a good question. We didn’t have an answer by the time we stopped in front of the Warwick. Two patrol cars with flashing lights were outside the hotel, one parked in front of the garage on Fourth and the other at the front door on Lenora. We stopped by the front door.
The clerk met us at the car, the story bubbling out before Peters turned off the engine. “He came up to the desk, said he needed a wake-up