The “committee to end homelessness,” or whatever they were calling themselves, met in a glass-walled conference room at the Metro building.
Rick was there already, as was Linda. I also recognized Mac Barber from the Old Paris Theater Mission. I’d worked with him before.
Another member—a man I hadn’t met before—took a seat. He had a thick beard and the sexy, deep set eyes of a Middle Eastern man.
The third man at the table was a dumpy, middle-aged white guy I’d also never met. As I took my seat, a scrawny young man in a hand knit sweater and long pony tail joined us.
“You all know what happened.” Linda’s voice broke. She leaned on the edge of the table.
Heads around the table nodded.
“And we all know how tenuous our position is.” Her eyes darted to the handsome bearded man with the dark eyes.
He drew his eyebrows together in a look of pain.
“If we want to survive the media frenzy that comes with a murder investigation, we need to find out what Adam was involved in that led to his murder and then erase all connections.”
“You want to interfere with a murder investigation?” The bearded man narrowed his eyes.
“It’s not how it sounds.” Linda held her hand out, pleading with him. “Will, of all people, you know how careful our committee has to be.” Linda closed her eyes like she wanted to center herself.
“You’ve called the right person.” Rick’s voice broke the tense silence with all the sincerity of Rob Lowe. “Maura is the best private detective in the city.”
“I agree one hundred percent.” Mac threw his support in. He had reason to know, even though the investigation I handled for him had led to his divorce.
“Maura, what do we do now?”
My stomach churned as I looked at Rick. As long as I could see his smug, self-satisfied face I would not be able to conduct a proper investigation. “I want to talk to each of you alone. Is there a room where we could do that?”
“Certainly.” Linda’s hand shook as she gestured to a door outside in the hall. “My office is right there.”
“I want to talk to you alone because I need you to feel free to speak openly. I want to know what you all know about Adam Demarcus that no one else knows.” I leaned forward, making eye contact with each person around the table, one at a time. “Most of us tell parts of our stories to people who will be sympathetic to that part, but very few people hear the whole thing. Whatever you know that you aren’t supposed to share, that’s what you need to tell me, okay?” Heads nodded.
I went across the hall to Linda’s office and settled myself in one of the extra chrome and pleather chairs. I didn’t want the barrier of the desk between me and the committee members. They had to feel comfortable enough to spill all of Adam’s secrets. I left the door open and could see Linda and the committee chatting—apparently deciding who to send in first. Of course, it was Rick.
Linda led him into the room and lingered in the door.
Rick pulled a chair up right next to mine and placed his hand on my knee.
“Not on your life.” I hissed.
Linda didn’t seem to catch what I said. Rick, however, removed his hand and leaned back in his chair, giving me a little breathing room.
“Linda, why don’t you join us?” I gestured to her desk, glad that I wouldn’t need to be alone with…. him.
She exhaled slowly and took a seat. “Thank you.” She glanced at me, and then let her eyes settle on Rick.
“Adam was seeing me professionally.” Rick filled the room with his syrupy voice. “He was still grieving his recent break-up.”
Linda followed his words, her eyes glued to his lips, mesmerized by Rick.
“He and Trisha had been together for seven years. He had a lot to process about how he had ended things.” Rick leaned in like this was a big secret.
“Poor Adam,” Linda murmured.
I tapped my pen on my notepad. My mind was swimming with ideas: Shove the pen through his eye socket. Kick his chair out from under him. Bite him. Helpful ideas like that. I was drawing a line on my paper, over and over and over on it until the dent was so deep the pen point was sunk in it and the paper ripped. I gave it a good shove. “Is that all? Nothing come up in your sessions that might be pertinent to his murder?”
“Oh Maura…” He lowered his lids and gave me the half-asleep look that he liked to pretend meant hurt feelings.
“You wouldn’t want him to break doctor patient confidentiality, would you?” Linda’s voice seemed to take on a more girlish tone as she spoke about Rick.
“Rick isn’t a real doctor, and Adam Demarcus is dead, so yes, I definitely want him to tell me everything he knows.”
“I know Adam had a big heart to help others, in any way he could. He was a strong advocate for the voiceless in our community.” Rick tilted his head, so he could look up at me, almost puppy like.
“Enough with the sales pitch. What do you know that he would never want anybody else to know, ever?”
“Nothing. Adam was a man with nothing to hide, and nothing to lose.”
“Right. Fine.” I set my pen down. “Linda, I’m ready for the next person.”
Linda shifted her way past us.
Rick lingered. “Maura, I need you to come home. Talk with me. Please.”
I leaned in very close, almost nose to nose. “Go to hell.”
Linda led Mac into the room.
“Hey buddy.” Rick offered Mac his chair. “Sit with us and talk.”
Us? I grimaced. “We will be talking alone.” My tone of voice spoke professionalism rather than vengeful wife. I was proud.
“I don’t have any secrets from these two.” Mac spoke with a deep, fatherly voice, gravelly with wisdom. “And they might help me piece things together, too.”
“Fine.” Apparently even men were under Rick’s spell. I turned the page on my notepad. “Where would you like to start?”
Mac grunted, his shoulders sagging. “You know, medical marijuana hasn’t always been legal.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“Adam has been working with the homeless in Portland for a lot of years.” Mac began slowly. “And a lot of them are sick, you know.” He looked at Rick for confirmation, though Rick wasn’t a medical doctor. Or any kind of doctor. Just a family counselor who was also a cheating spouse.
I shook my head. Had to focus.
“People are sick, and on the streets. They don’t have access to the medicine they need.” He cleared his throat. Another marker of something good to come. “Adam had a heart to help people.” He lay his hands palm up on the table. “Marijuana serves a lot of medical purposes.”
Mac wasn’t usually so reticent, but the picture was getting clearer. It was time to jump in and rescue him from what he didn’t want to say. “You’re saying Adam gave homeless people drugs, right?”
Mac nodded but didn’t add anything to my statement.
There was a long pause. I was surprised Rick didn't try to fill it with some empty sentiment, but he nodded, eyes sympathetically directed toward Mac.
“How long have you known Adam?”
“About ten years, but I would say I didn’t really know him until we started on this committee together.”
“How did you first hear about his distribution?”
“Through my work at the Paris shelter. I had heard rumors of it from folks that stayed with us. It wasn’t too hard to confirm.”
“But you would classify this as a secret?”
“Known among the homeless, but I doubt anyone else on the committee knew.”
“I, personally, find it very hard to believe.” Rick interrupted. “But you are trustworthy, Mac, so I have to take your word for it.”
“I just, I can’t fathom our Adam doing anything illegal, and yet…” Linda murmured.
“When you think about it, he wasn’t selling the drugs. He was giving them to sick people in need.” Mac exhaled, and then stood up. “Good kid, Adam, but foolish. Who do you want me to send in next?”
“Let’s get Will Rashid in.” Linda said.
“Will is a good kid. You’ll like him.”
I closed my eyes and counted down from nine. “Rick, I think you should leave.”
“Let’s not do this now.” He lowered his voice so that it was even more obvious we had something going on.
Linda chose to ignore it.
Before I could physically remove Rick, the handsome bearded man came in.
“Will Rashid." He held out his hand.
I shook his hand and gestured to the seat across from me. “Why don’t you tell me something about how you knew Adam Demarcus.”
"Adam was interested in Islam—despite the obvious risk to a man in politics.” Will's voice was slow and thoughtful. “He visited us down at the community center often. He would sit and talk to my Imam for hours. He was very concerned for vulnerable people.”
“You’re speaking of the West Portland Muslim Community Center?” I clarified his statement.
“Yes. We don’t experience a great deal of homelessness ourselves, but we have concern for the community. We’ve been trying to step up our own participation in meeting the needs of the homeless. Adam helped us do that, but he came with a humble spirit to learn. He won over a lot of hearts.”
“He took the time to win over the hearts of the Muslim community despite the national fear of Islam.” I reflected what he said, but quietly, and almost to myself. Adam seemed like a pretty spectacular guy—if by spectacular you meant reckless. Selflessly handing out pot without a medical license. Aligning himself with a religion that so many Americans distrusted. It had only taken minutes to come up with a couple of reasons people might have taken issue with him. But was any of it enough to kill over?
“How often did he visit the community center?”
“About twice a month, usually on Tuesdays.”
“What was happening on Tuesdays that made him come by then?”
Will’s brown eyes were soggy with emotion. “Tuesday evenings we hold a kind of youth group for young men. We’re trying to keep them from becoming radicalized. We have speakers, journalists, doctors, professors, anyone who can talk about the real situation in Syria. Adam comes at least once a month. Sometimes he asks questions. Sometimes he answers them. But he always engages, encourages, and just…helps us keep our boys good and safe.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. This guy, this perfect example of a man spent his evenings keeping boys from joining terrorist groups. Of course, he did. “Anything else?”
“He would just help with whatever was happening. There’s usually something going on related to our homeless outreach. Food boxes or clothes drives. Real practical hands on stuff.” Will wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to think this was my fault.” He choked on the words.
“Why would it have been your fault?”
“The nature of his murder bothers me.”
“As it should.” Rick spoke for the first time. “It was a horrible, cruel murder.”
I shot him a quelling glance.
“Over the last couple of years, we have lost a young man or two. Some people do choose radicalization. And Adam, this white protestant guy who works for the government was actively trying to stop them.”
I nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“I introduced him to the group. If one of the guys killed him.” He held his hands out, staring at his thumbs.
“But what does this have to do with his thumbs getting chopped off?” Rick jumped in before I could speak.
“It’s very Old Testament. The Israelites and the Philistines were always doing this to each other.”
“I see.” I wrote it down. “Do you think a radicalized young Muslim man would be familiar with the Christian Old Testament?”
“Most definitely. Crimes against their people, real, imagined or historical, is the one thing they know well.”
I drummed my fingers on my notepad. A real lead. For whatever reason, I hadn’t expected one so soon. “Thank you. Can you provide any names for me? Folks who you suspect of having been radicalized?”
“Maybe but let me look into it. It’s not something you want to label somebody with if it’s not true.”
“I understand.” I passed him my card. “Contact me anytime, day or night.”
I wrote vengeance on my page, next to Will’s notes. Perhaps some kid had avenged his people for the crimes of the ancient Israelites.
Weirder things have happened before; this was Portland, after all.
I let the room sit in silence for the next fifteen seconds. Usually that was the time needed for someone to spit out a secret they hadn’t been intending to tell. When nothing came of the quiet, I sent Will on his way.
The next man to come in was a few years older than Rick. He had mostly white hair and an attractively lined face, like a grandfather who was usually smiling. He was dressed in a nice version of business casual—plaid button down and a tan sweater.
“Bruce Michael.” He introduced himself as he sat down. His face was ashen. His eyes, shadowed with grief. Even saying his own name seemed to ask something of him. I had to hand it to Demarcus. People felt strongly about him. “Like Will, I work with a religious organization—we publish The Bulletin, a local Christian newspaper. Adam also liked to come and talk to our guys. He had a real interest in theology and philosophy.”
“What, in specific, did he do for you all?”
“Adam contacted us with a scheme he had devised. He had all of these folks working together, working with churches and schools and organizations trying to get children, in particular, off the streets. But what good is shelter and a bed if no one knows about it?”
He paused, so I nodded.
“We’re non-profit and most of the folks I work with are seminary students. In fact,” he perked up, clearly proud of what he was about to say. “The kids I’ve got working with me now are all a part of an intense discipleship program. I want to train these young folks to be strong servant leaders.”
“Yes, of course.” I interrupted him. He looked like he was about to go off on a tangent we didn’t have time for. “How was Adam involved?”
“Ah, yes. You see, he thought of using our paper to communicate with the homeless about shelters that had openings, food banks that had food, things like that. He and my boys wrote the copy, and he managed distribution to the homeless.”
“Now that is interesting. How did he arrange that?”
“He had funds—grant money, money from Metro. He found suitable people who were on the streets and paid them to deliver the papers in the homeless camps. For the people who stuck with it, he also provided them work references. It was brilliant.”
“I agree.” This scheme was especially brilliant if Demarcus was delivering marijuana with his newspapers.
Bruce sat in front of me, a little tubby, a little tired and all around soft, but clearly proud of his part in helping the homeless. The smile that had marked his face lit up the room, despite the dark circles under his eyes. This was not the face of a man who wanted his newspaper to have a gift with purchase.
“One last question about the paper, if you don’t mind. How was it funded?”
“Ad revenue, of course, and as a non-profit we can accept donations. We did what we could with free help, discounts. A couple of years ago the paper mill in Camas donated a year’s worth of tabloid newsprint when they learned we were using the paper to give jobs to the homeless. Adam was very good at what he did.”
“So, your finances improved with Adam’s involvement?”
“Very much so.”
Adam the non-stop do-gooder. Add Bruce Michael to the list of folks who really needed Adam Demarcus alive. “What did your interns think of Adam?”
“They saw him as a field ready for the harvest. They have evangelism in their blood. I just knew…” His eyes watered, slightly, but he ignored it. “We all just knew his salvation moment was around the corner.”
“I’m sorry. His loss was hard for all of you, I think.” Rick patted Bruce’s back.
Bruce just shook his head.
“I would like the names of everyone in your discipleship group.” I held out my notepad and pen.
“Anything to help.” He accepted the papers and made a list of names, then handed it back.
I waited the fifteen long seconds before I spoke again, in case Bruce was working up to something. Then five more. Bruce didn’t have anything else to say.
“Buddy, let’s get coffee tomorrow, okay?” Rick made his invitation with the soft comforting voice he reserved for clients and grandmothers.
“Thank you.” Bruce stood and shook Rick’s hand.
“Thanks for your time.” I shook Bruce’s hand, too, not to be left out.
When Bruce was gone, Linda spoke up. “I know you’re thinking Adam used the newspaper to deliver drugs, but I just can’t believe it.” Her voice cracked. “Not him. He was so good.”
“Goodness comes in many forms.” Rick was almost purring.
“Adam Demarcus did something to get himself killed, and sometimes being too nice is enough.” I couldn’t pull my eyes off Rick as I spoke. Rick who was so nice to everyone, all the time.
Just so nice to Izzy.
Rick placed one hand on Linda’s shoulder and reached for me with the other one.
Linda leaned in to his touch.
The room seemed to shrink around me.
Before I could leap to my death out the window, the last committee member came in.
He was a young, dirty hippy, and that’s what I wrote down.
He sighed and settled himself into the chair as though it were the most comfortable place he’d been all day. “I’m Rafe Winter. Adam was a friend.”
“And did he share anything with you that you feel may have led to his murder?”
“No. Adam was a good man.” Rafe’s face transformed slowly to one of sadness, as though the emotion was hard to remember. “But, I think we can all agree, a man of surface experience only. Nothing touched him inside, not deeply. Not enough to kill for.” His face lit up again, as though the idea that Adam had been too shallow to kill meant he maybe wasn’t dead.
Perhaps I was reading too much into his expressions. I stared at him—it was an unusual face. Thin, blond eyebrows, no eyelashes to speak of, pale gray eyes. Thin lips. It was the embodiment of what he had just described—an insubstantial face.
“He wasn’t a shallow man.” Linda’s words burned with hurt. “How could you say that?”
“Mine is the life of the inner man.” Rafe tilted his head slightly. “And depth recognizes depth. Adam was good. I mean that.”
“You didn’t know much about him outside of this group, then?” I was ready to move on.
“Nothing at all. He rarely came by the Universal Temple to see us. Only once or twice, but he supported what we do in the way that he could.”
“He gave you money.” Leave it to Rick to point out the money.
“Yes. As he did all of us.”
“Point taken.” Rick didn’t sound like he appreciated the reminder. “But just for our ministry to the homeless. Nothing else.”
I didn’t give Rafe fifteen seconds of silence. He seemed like he’d enjoy it too much. “So, just let me wrap this up: You knew him casually through the committee and had no personal experience of him.”
“Exactly.”
“And he never shared any secrets with you.”
“I doubt he knew a secret.”
“Fine.” I stood up. “Let’s go back.” I led them back to the committee room, where the others were waiting. “Thank you all for your time and transparency. I have a picture now, and a few things to look into. I would love to talk with each of you more, so please expect a call from me in the coming week.”
“Week?” Linda interjected. “Surely, this won’t take a week.”
I licked my lips. This woman wanted the impossible. “I’m sorry, but it will take time to get to the bottom of things, and if you want to be able to erase whatever he has done…” not that I thought this was possible, “I’m going to need some time.”
“But the press…and the public…and our work. We could get shut down.”
I wanted to tell her that if she was so afraid of getting shut down she shouldn’t have started up an illegal operation. But more than setting a crazy woman straight, I wanted to get paid and get myself on my feet and get some satisfying revenge on Rick.
To put it simply: I wanted money.
“Call me in the morning and we’ll come up with a press release that will keep you in the clear for a little while.”
“Trust Maura. She is working her strengths right now.” Rick looked at me with moony eyes.
Another question occurred to me, looking around at the gathered group. I pointed my question to Linda. “How did you select committee members?”
“Adam and I sought out the places in town already doing the most work.”
Heads around the table nodded in agreement.
“Except for us. We contacted her, after this group had already started.” Will said.
Linda cleared her throat and looked around her committee with tired eyes. “The media could destroy us. We have to clear Adam’s name.”
“Linda….” Rick’s well-trained counselor voice spoke for all of us. “Don’t let grief and fear guide you. We will protect our work and get justice for Adam.”
Mac grunted. “Oh, we’ll get justice for Adam. The guy who did this won’t get away with it.”
“Or girl.” Rafe chimed in. I had almost forgotten he was here, his mellow attitude seemed to melt into the furniture.
I put a star next to his name. I wouldn’t write him off. Murderers liked to hide in plain sight.
The evening sky was a hard, pewter gray and dropping rain by the bucket. A dark, wet, misery. I started the car, glad for the roar of the engine, a loud, solid noise that meant I was going to get somewhere. A knock on my window ruined the moment.
Rick. Standing there, rain pouring down his face like it was some romantic moment in a Nicholas Sparks movie.
I rolled the window down. “What?”
“You should come home tonight so we can talk.”
I rolled the window up.
He knocked on it again.
I rolled it down. “No.”
“Please. Maura. I made a bad mistake. Let me make this right.”
“Cry on someone else’s shoulder.” I rolled the window up. My comeback didn’t impress me, either. He leaned on the car door, standing so close if I backed out I’d roll over his foot.
I put the car in reverse.
He knocked on the window again.
He had a dimple when he smiled, but he wasn’t smiling. His eyes crinkled, too, which I had always liked. I shook my head, hoping to send away the picture of the man I loved—so I could focus on the man I hated.
I watched the rain as it poured down his tan face. Too much time on the golf course. He’d have to get that spot on his temple checked out, with his family’s history of cancer. I keep telling him.
I unrolled the window.
“Carrie meant nothing. Please, let’s talk this out.”
My heart hammered my chest. “Carrie? You mean Izzy, right?”
His face turned red. “Yes. Right.”
“Wasn’t Carrie your intern last semester? The one with the curly hair?”
His mouth opened slightly, but he didn’t speak.
“And so probably Bridget as well. I see.” I left the window down but backed the car up. Over his foot.
As I drove back to my office I ran my mind over Rick’s career as a family and marriage counselor. The years of grad school at the seminary. The various certificate programs, online and in person. The different jobs—non-profit. For profit. Now back at the church, where we had met way back in the day. Five years at that church.
Three interns a year, from the same seminary he had attended.
Fifteen girls.
No. I exaggerated. Not all the interns had been girls. Some had been grown women. And others had been men. So…how many interns had he been with behind my back? I could dismiss the men, probably. And grown women knew better than to fall for someone like Rick. Probably why he married a teenage me in the first place. So, half a dozen? Ten?
When I got to my office I spent half a minute petting Rhoda, trying to get my mind back on the case. I forced myself to google all the committee members, just to see who they were when they weren't on the committee. I fell asleep at my desk.
My phone chirped and woke me up at midnight. A text from Rick.
Please talk to me.
No.
Thank you!
Dang it. I shouldn’t have responded. I knew better than to play his games.
Babe, talk to me. I failed. We failed. We can fix this.
No.
He was an idiot. We failed? I wasn’t the one with a hot piece in my bed while he was away.
I’m calling.
I turned off my phone. Let him call Izzy if he wanted to talk so badly.
Since I was awake again, I stared at my computer screen. The last person I had searched was Rafe Winter. His church was weird. But was it harmless weird or murderous-weird? The website read like your standard new age mumbo jumbo. All paths lead to the same place, etc. Rafe was their prophet of peace, but not their founder. Someone called Ergo German had founded the church in the 90s. I rolled my neck to pop it. Cult leaders had a way of killing, either on purpose like the famous cases of group suicide or by flawed religious practices like dangerously prolonged fasting. Or by beating their kids to death. That kind of stuff. If Adam Demarcus hadn’t been killed for giving drugs to homeless people or hanging out with Muslims it could easily be that Rafe Winter was a wolf in prophet of peace clothing.