hats of some kind, dropped their eyes demurely as we passed. The men nodded without speaking, while the children maintained the same eerie silence we had noticed the day Angel Barstogi died. It was not a joyful gathering.
Jeremiah stood next to a beefy man with a full red beard. He had to be Benjamin Mason. He was a big man who looked like he had spent some time on the working end of a shovel. I walked up to Jeremiah and nodded at him without speaking. There was no sense in getting him in more hot water.
“Are you Mr. Mason?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, his tone wary, uneasy.
“I’m Detective Beaumont. Did you get a message to call me?”
“Didn’t have a phone,” he mumbled.
“Mind if we talk to you for a minute?” Reluctantly, he followed us to our car. I thumbed through some notes I’d made from the transcripts. “Brodie says you were working Friday morning?”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“And you do yard work. Can you give us a list of places you worked Friday morning?”
“Wait just a minute.” Suddenly he came to life. “You’ve got no right—”
Peters’ hand shot out, catching Mason’s arm just above the elbow. “You wait a minute, pal. He asked you a civil question. You can answer it here, or we can take you downtown.”
“Viewmont,” he said. “I was working some houses up at the north end of Viewmont over on Magnolia.”
“Anybody see you?”
“Dunno. Usually nobody’s home.” He mumbled the addresses and I wrote them down.
“Got any I.D. on you?”
His hand shook as he fumbled his wallet out of his hip pocket. When he dragged the battered piece of plastic out of its holder, the license turned out to be an Illinois one, several years out of date. The name on it was C. D. Jason. I felt a jab of excitement.
“What’s the C stand for?” I asked.
“Clinton,” he answered shortly.
Not Charles, not Chuck, not Charlie, but Clinton. The picture matched, but the names were different. Peters took it from me and examined it. He put it in his pocket. “We’ll just take this with us,” he said easily.
“But I need it to drive,” Mason protested, reaching for it.
“You’d best get yourself a Washington license. Meantime, what did you do to the backs of your hands?”
Mason withdrew his hands and stuffed them in his pockets. Not before I noticed that the backs matched Brodie’s, scratch for scratch.
“Let me guess,” Peters said. “I’ll bet you got those scratches trimming hedges.”
“That’s right,” Mason said. “How’d you know that?”
“Psychic,” Peters replied.
Mason or whoever he was scurried into the church like a scared rabbit. Peters said nothing until Mason was out of earshot. He turned to look at the church. “I’d love to get a stick of dynamite and blow this whole pile of shit to kingdom come.”
“You’d best not let Powell hear you talk like that. Powell might be looking for an excuse to bust you back to the gang.”
Peters gave me a searching look. “You know something I don’t know?”
“I don’t know anything. I have a suspicious nature.”
We spent a couple of hours touring arterials, collecting sample packets of mustard from every fast-food joint we could find that seemed to be within a reasonably close geographical area. It would be strictly blind luck if we happened to get a match, but that sort of thing does happen occasionally. I believe the psychologists call it intermittent reinforcement. It’s what keeps bloodhounds like me on the trail. Every once in a while we hit the jackpot. It happens often enough that it keeps us from giving up. We just keep at it.
We carried a picture of Angela Barstogi with us, the one that had been in the newspaper. We asked all the clerks, all the busboys, if anyone remembered a little girl in a pink Holly Hobbie gown. Nobody did.
With the mustard sacked and labeled, we drove over to the Westside Treatment Center. The receptionist was off for the weekend, but we managed
Jeremiah stood next to a beefy man with a full red beard. He had to be Benjamin Mason. He was a big man who looked like he had spent some time on the working end of a shovel. I walked up to Jeremiah and nodded at him without speaking. There was no sense in getting him in more hot water.
“Are you Mr. Mason?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, his tone wary, uneasy.
“I’m Detective Beaumont. Did you get a message to call me?”
“Didn’t have a phone,” he mumbled.
“Mind if we talk to you for a minute?” Reluctantly, he followed us to our car. I thumbed through some notes I’d made from the transcripts. “Brodie says you were working Friday morning?”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“And you do yard work. Can you give us a list of places you worked Friday morning?”
“Wait just a minute.” Suddenly he came to life. “You’ve got no right—”
Peters’ hand shot out, catching Mason’s arm just above the elbow. “You wait a minute, pal. He asked you a civil question. You can answer it here, or we can take you downtown.”
“Viewmont,” he said. “I was working some houses up at the north end of Viewmont over on Magnolia.”
“Anybody see you?”
“Dunno. Usually nobody’s home.” He mumbled the addresses and I wrote them down.
“Got any I.D. on you?”
His hand shook as he fumbled his wallet out of his hip pocket. When he dragged the battered piece of plastic out of its holder, the license turned out to be an Illinois one, several years out of date. The name on it was C. D. Jason. I felt a jab of excitement.
“What’s the C stand for?” I asked.
“Clinton,” he answered shortly.
Not Charles, not Chuck, not Charlie, but Clinton. The picture matched, but the names were different. Peters took it from me and examined it. He put it in his pocket. “We’ll just take this with us,” he said easily.
“But I need it to drive,” Mason protested, reaching for it.
“You’d best get yourself a Washington license. Meantime, what did you do to the backs of your hands?”
Mason withdrew his hands and stuffed them in his pockets. Not before I noticed that the backs matched Brodie’s, scratch for scratch.
“Let me guess,” Peters said. “I’ll bet you got those scratches trimming hedges.”
“That’s right,” Mason said. “How’d you know that?”
“Psychic,” Peters replied.
Mason or whoever he was scurried into the church like a scared rabbit. Peters said nothing until Mason was out of earshot. He turned to look at the church. “I’d love to get a stick of dynamite and blow this whole pile of shit to kingdom come.”
“You’d best not let Powell hear you talk like that. Powell might be looking for an excuse to bust you back to the gang.”
Peters gave me a searching look. “You know something I don’t know?”
“I don’t know anything. I have a suspicious nature.”
We spent a couple of hours touring arterials, collecting sample packets of mustard from every fast-food joint we could find that seemed to be within a reasonably close geographical area. It would be strictly blind luck if we happened to get a match, but that sort of thing does happen occasionally. I believe the psychologists call it intermittent reinforcement. It’s what keeps bloodhounds like me on the trail. Every once in a while we hit the jackpot. It happens often enough that it keeps us from giving up. We just keep at it.
We carried a picture of Angela Barstogi with us, the one that had been in the newspaper. We asked all the clerks, all the busboys, if anyone remembered a little girl in a pink Holly Hobbie gown. Nobody did.
With the mustard sacked and labeled, we drove over to the Westside Treatment Center. The receptionist was off for the weekend, but we managed
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