The Oldest Sin (30 page)

After finally dozing off around three
A.M.
, Sophie slept until shortly after nine. Bram had already left for the station, propping a note next to her alarm clock. Rubbing her eyes, Sophie sat up in bed and opened it.

Dearest Sophie:

After last night, Ethel and I have called it quits. We’re filing for divorce. I suggested “irreconcilable differences,” but she insists on “alienation of affection.” She thinks I’m in love with another, and pathetic man that I am, I had to tell her the truth. The one I love was upstairs, reading and sulking, while I was downstairs, watching Ethel do her “ball of energy” routine. By the way, Ethel doesn’t like Chinese food — way too many vegetables. But she did enjoy her fortune cookie. It said: “Let there be magic in your handshake.” She spent the evening pondering the meaning. Mine said: “A man’s character is his fate.” Care to get together later and discuss it?

Bram

Sophie smiled to herself, glad that he wasn’t angry at her for the way she’d behaved last night. She’d taken her frustration out on him, which wasn’t fair. He was just trying to be cautious. Somewhere around midnight she’d finally admitted to herself that she was still so angry at the Church of the Firstborn she was willing to believe die worst about anyone and everyone associated with it. And
that
kind of knee-jerk reaction wasn’t exactly fair either. After taking a shower and slipping into her favorite sweater and jeans — she didn’t intend to work officially today, just putter behind the scenes — Sophie dashed downstairs to make herself a pot of coffee. As she was drinking her second cup she noticed her purse on the kitchen counter right where she’d dumped it last night. Fishing quickly through the contents, she withdrew a folded piece of paper. It was a copy of the note Morton had left for Lavinia the day after she’d stood him up.

In thinking about the entire situation last night, something about that note struck her as wrong. She read through it quickly, instantly seeing what she’d missed before. The problem was the
way
it was written. Even though she’d only talked to Morton once, she had no trouble remembering that his grammar was terrible. He wasn’t an educated man. Yet this note was flawless — spelling, punctuation, and English usage all perfect. It seemed impossible to her that Morton could have produced it. So, if not Morton, who? Did that mean he had an accomplice? Or, as she suspected the other night, had someone paid him to stalk and perhaps even murder Lavinia? She had a hunch where she might find the answer.

First, however, she had something more pressing to do. Picking up the phone, she stood in the kitchen and dialed the hotel’s main number. She needed to meet with Isaac Knox as soon as possible. After what she’d learned last night, she had to look him in the eye and demand an explanation. If he really had poisoned Lavinia and then torn the room apart looking for Ginger’s diary, he needed to know it had now been found and was safely in the hands of the St. Paul police. She’d drop it off at the station on her way to the Maxfield. Since it was still early, she hoped she’d find Isaac in his room.

After being connected, the phone rang six times before the hotel’s voice mail picked up. She left a quick message, asking him to call her at her hotel office as soon as he got in. She made it sound urgent, allowing his imagination to fill in the blanks. Then, grabbing her purse and patting Ethel on the head, she headed out the back door.

Forty-five minutes later, after making a short stop at the police station, she was seated behind the desk in her office,

ready to get started on her newest theory. Much to her growing frustration, the police were now treating her like a busybody, incapable of anything other than annoying them with ever-more-ridiculous, unsubstantiated ideas. It didn’t matter that she’d found the diary ad by herself and dropped it right in their lap, the investigating officer let her know — politely but firmly — that he viewed it as peripheral to their central investigation of Peter Trahern.

As far as Sophie was concerned, if the cops couldn’t see the connection — if they wouldn’t help — screw ‘em. Two days from now everybody who’d once been associated with Purdis Bible College would be gone. The murderer, whoever he was, would return to his normal life, leaving Peter holding the bag.

Switching on the computer, she began to check the phone logs from three of the Maxfield’s rooms. First, she tried Howell Purdis’s suite. He’d made several long-distance calls, but nothing local. Unless Morton lived out of town — something she felt was unlikely — or unless Howell made his cads to him from a different phone, there was no connection between the two of them.

Next, she checked the connecting suite, the one belonging to Hugh and Adelle. Again, there were a number of long-distance calls, the bulk of them going to San Diego, where their son was now a preaching elder. One number, however, did appear to be local.

Sophie copied it down and then punched it into her phone. After only one ring a rather breathy woman’s voice answered. “Hello, is that you?” She sounded excited, as if she’d been expecting the cad.

“Good morning,” said Sophie pleasantly. “I wonder if I could talk to Morton?”

“Who is this?” she demanded. “How did you get this number? It’s unlisted.”

“Well, I —”

“There’s no Morton here. And you’ve got to get off the line,” said the woman impatiently. “I’m expecting an important call.” The line clicked.

So much for “Minnesota Nice,” thought Sophie, dropping the phone back in its cradle.

Okay, she’d struck out twice. Maybe the third time would be the charm. Popping up Isaac Knox’s phone records on the monitor, she studied the list of numbers. He’d made at least twenty calls. A few were local, most were long distance. Interestingly enough, there was a local number that he’d called four times during his stay. Sophie felt her pulse quicken as she picked up the phone.

On the second ring, a child answered. “Hello?”

Sophie couldn’t tell if it was a boy or girl, not that it mattered. “I wonder if I could talk to Morton,” she asked slowly.

“Dad!” called the child, a hand placed partially over the receiver. “Phone.”

Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. So she’d been right! Isaac
was
connected with Morton — if it was the right Morton, and she was sure it was. Sophie had saved Isaac’s room records for last because she still thought he had the best chance of being not only the one who’d taken Ginger to see the abortionist, but also her lover. Bram could be cautious all he wanted, as far as she was concerned, this was proof positive.

She had to think fast. She needed to talk to him in person, but she had to do it somewhere public, someplace where he couldn’t possibly bring a weapon or threaten her in any way. Bram would be hysterical when he found out what she was doing, but she couldn’t stop herself. She was too close to the truth now to allow a small degree of danger to get in her way.

“Yeah, hello?” said a deep voice. “Who’s this?” Even though she’d only spoken with him briefly the other night, it wasn’t a voice she’d soon forget.

Lowering her own voice to a whisper, she said, “I know about you and Isaac Knox. I’ll trade my silence for some information.” She knew she sounded like a bad TV show, but on such short notice, it was the best she could do. She hoped he’d take the bait.

“Hey, who is this?” he demanded. She heard a door slam. He probably didn’t want to be overheard.

“That doesn’t matter. We have to meet.”

“Listen, lady, I’m not meetin’ with nobody. Not unless I know who I’m talkin’ to and what it’s all about. I ain’t never heard of — what did you say his name was? Isaac Knox?”

“I don’t believe you,” she said flatly. “And I already told you what it’s about. You have two choices. Either you talk to me, or I talk to the police. What’s it going to be?”

“Hey, hey, just slow down.” His voice lost some of its bluster. There was a long silence. Then: “Yeah, I suppose we could meet. I ain’t admittin’ to nothin’, though.”

“Fine.” She gave him a time and a location. “Do you know where that is?”

“Listen, lady. I been livin’ in the Twin Cities all my life. I think I can find my way.”

“Then I’ll see you in two hours.”

“Right — but, I mean, what do you look like? How will I find you?”

“I’d find you, Morton. Don’t be late.”

Sophie hung up the phone and then took a deep breath. What on earth was she getting herself into?

Standing in front of the mirror in her bedroom, Sophie selected a black wig, tight black jeans and boots, and Bram’s old motorcycle jacket. On the drive back home from the Maxfield, she’d come to the conclusion that it might be wise to disguise herself for her meeting with Morton. Since she dressed in disguise on a regular basis in order to visit restaurants anonymously for later review in her food column, she had many costumes from which to choose. This was one of Bram’s least favorites. He called it her “Betsy the Biker Moll” look.

An hour later, after leaving her car in the short-term parking lot, Sophie entered the main airport terminal, ready as she’d ever be to talk to Morton. She walked quickly to the nearest security station, where she was eyed somewhat warily by the guard on duty. Once past this checkpoint, she took up a position across the lobby and waited. The airport was the only place she could think of where she had a guarantee that Morton would be searched by an expert before they met. It was also about as public a place as she could imagine.

Realizing she had a good fifteen minutes before Morton was supposed to arrive, she stepped over to a pay phone, sat down, and punched in her number at the Maxfield. Much to her disappointment, Isaac still hadn’t returned her call. He probably had a lot on his mind, especially if there really was some sort of evangelical war brewing. Whatever the case, the message she’d left hadn’t moved him to contact her and she was starting to get annoyed. The least he could do was acknowledge the call, even if he didn’t have time to talk to her right then.

As she contemplated leaving him another — more specific — message, she saw Morton saunter into the terminal. He’d already come through security, so unless he was some sort of slick foreign terrorist, he was unarmed. She watched him walk slowly over to the Burger King counter, speak to the woman taking the orders, and then wait as he was given an empty cup. He handed her some change. Moving over to the drink area, he filled the red Coke cup before finally heading off toward the red concourse.

Sophie got up immediately and followed him, keeping a good distance between them as she made her own way toward Gate 28. As she neared the spot where she’d asked him to wait, she saw him sitting in one of the seats directly across from a ceiling-mounted TV set. At least he could follow directions. She stood next to a vending machine and slipped in some change for a cup of coffee, noticing that he was reading a newspaper, his drink on the floor next to him Every few seconds his eyes would dart over the top edge of the paper, examining the people moving down the concourse. He didn’t seem exactly nervous, but wasn’t taking any chances either. No one was going to sneak up on him unobserved.

Sophie waited a few more minutes, sipping her coffee and going over in her mind the questions she intended to ask. Finally, after removing a pair of dark glasses from her pocket, she slipped them on and crossed into the waiting area.

Morton looked up as she sat down one seat away from him. She could see the question in his eyes, and then a certain loss of focus as he seemed to put it together.

“So, you’re the one who called,” he said, lowering the paper to his lap. He studied her for a moment, then picked up his Coke. “I wanna make this fast. I got other stuff to do.”

She glanced up at the TV set. It was an ad-news channel, and the local news was just about to begin. “Ad right.” She lifted the coffee casually to her lips, then regretted it immediately when she saw her hand was shaking.

Since no planes were arriving or departing from this gate, she decided that if they kept their voices down, they didn’t need to move. ‘Ted me why Isaac Knox hired you to stalk Lavinia Fiore.” She might as well put it on the table.

He glared at her a moment and then his eyes drifted toward the windows as a plane roared down the runway. “Listen, lady. I don’t have to tell you shit about —”

“You’re right. You don’t. So let me tell you what I know. You were questioned by the police last Saturday afternoon after you were picked up at the Maxfield Plaza for stalking.”

“The police didn’t have no proof of that,” he protested. “They let me go.”

‘True. But what I know and the police don’t is that Isaac Knox called you at least four times this past week — and that he paid you off quite handsomely on Sunday night,
after
Lavinia was murdered.”

“Shit,” he said, accidentally spilling the Coke on his pants. “I knew I shouldn’t have talked to you that night.”

Her eyes opened wide. “You … mean you recognize me7’

“Sure. You’re Sophie Greenway.”

“You … know my name?”

“It’s a secret or somethin’?”