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He seemed to have a thing with corners and facing outward. Almost like one of those Westerns where the sheriff or the gunfighter always wanted to see anyone coming into the room.
She stepped back as soon as she saw him and didn’t think he’d seen her. He had kept his eyes on the person sitting with him at the table.
At first, she couldn’t see who the companion was. Simpson had said he didn’t know anyone locally, so who was this? She went back to her vehicle to retrieve her light rain slicker and exchanged her deputy jacket for it. She then came inside again and got the hostess to seat her where Simpson couldn’t see her but she would be able to see both men when they left. She also brought her camera, figuring to get a photo to try and identify the man. An order of clam chowder kept the restaurant staff happy, and she took her time with it.
About ten minutes later, the other man got out of the booth and left. The camera wasn’t needed. It was Reverend Josiah Balfour! His Church of God Arising was one of the larger churches in the county, evangelical, from what Greta had heard. She vaguely remembered meeting him at a community affair last summer.
What’s Balfour doing with Simpson? she wondered.
A few minutes later, a waitress dropped off the check, and Simpson got up to pay and leave. As soon as Simpson was out the door, Greta looked around for the restaurant staff. When none of the servers were within view, she moved quickly to Simpson’s booth. Two water glasses still sat on the table. A waitress had taken the rest of the dishes away, while the two men talked.
Greta couldn’t be sure which glass was Simpson’s. One glass was empty, one half-full. She looked around again. No one in sight. Using her handkerchief, she picked up the empty glass and slipped it into her slicker pocket. Then, with a paper napkin from the table, she picked up the second glass, poured the water into the nearby pot of a fake plant, and put the glass in her other pocket. She felt guilty about taking the glasses and embarrassed at acting out a scene from a movie or a TV show. No one had noticed. She figured she’d leave an extra tip the next time she ate there.
She decided this was probably as stupid as it felt, but she wanted to find out who this Simpson was. She was willing to bet he was on a database somewhere.
Back at her house, she used her evidence kit to lift fingerprints off the two glasses. The next day she dropped them off with Jasmine to run a database check. It being Friday, Jasmine said she’d probably have the results on Monday.
As predicted, Greta got a call from Jasmine the following Monday.
“Hey, girl. You know those two sets of prints I’m running for you? Something’s screwy about them.”
“Screwy? Like what?”
“I sent them in as a search to all available databases. A minute or so later, I get a report back with a match from the Ohio-based state criminal records system. I didn’t read it ’cause when I was about to print it out, it disappeared. When I tried to do the search again, all I get back is a message about ‘Restricted Access.’ I’m not sure what to do next. How bad do you want these results? I think the only way forward is to have Wallace submit an inquiry about getting access. I’ve heard it takes the senior person in the department to get considered for such clearances. Want me to run it by Wallace?”
What the hell? she thought. Access blocked? Who is this Simpson?
She now knew he had a criminal record for something, although it could be anything from a misdemeanor to being a serial killer. And asking Wallace to help? She’d just as soon ask a Tasmanian devil.
“I think not, Jasmine. Not right now. I’ll get back to you if things change. Thanks again for trying.”
“No problem. Let me know if it does change.”
So. Mister “Simpson,” she thought, I’ll just have to keep an eye on you.
CHAPTER 14
The next morning, January 13, Greta drove east on 130 toward the Dolph junction. She still had one last person on her Toompas contact list to run down, the pit bull owner—she had been putting off for too long trying again to contact Umstead. She was three miles from the hidden turnoff to Umstead’s house when her sheriff’s cell phone rang. She picked it off her belt with her right hand and kept driving with her left.
“Havorsford here.”
“Havorsford. Wallace. What the hell’s going on with you and the U.S. Marshals Service?”
“Who?”
“The goddamn United States Federal Marshal Service! I got a call from their Salem office that one of their people is on his way to Tillamook, and they just about fucking ordered me to have you at the office when he gets here—the prick. He says he’ll be here before noon.”
“What does he want with me?”
“How the hell do I know? Get up here to see what his holiness wants.”
“I’m down toward Dolph, checking on a case. Then I’m due to talk to an assembly at the Nestucca Middle School in Beaver at one o’clock. There’s no way I can get up to Tillamook City before three.”
“Well, I don’t care if you meet with him at all. I just need to call him back and tell him something. Pricks or not, we need to keep reasonable relations with them.”
“How about telling him I’m tied up, but I can meet him at the Hebo Pub for lunch—say, about a quarter till noon?”
“Fine with me. Gets him out of my hair and makes him drive farther if it’s so goddamn important. I’ll call him. Just be sure to tell me what’s going on.”
