The Reveal: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (Book 6) (12 page)

“Which gives us two options: we force Elena to
tell us or we get someone else to tell us.”

“Time to interview Christopher James Barlow?”

“I think it is,” Ryan said.

Chapter 13

We drove out toward the
address we had for Christopher James Barlow, Elena
Moranu’s
pimp. He lived inside The Pines, a gated community.

I punched in the year plus pound, which is the
generic code for all the gated communities in town. The bronze gate swung open
smoothly and almost silently. “You think the other residents are okay with
their neighbor being a pimp?”

Ryan smiled. “Not sure he introduces himself that
way at cocktail parties.”

A thirty-foot ribbon of uncut plains grasses
bordered the main street on both sides as it wound its way past the pool and
tennis courts into the upscale residential area. Tall pines threw shade on the
black road, which looked recently resurfaced. The annoying whine of lawn
equipment told me we were coming up to the million-dollar homes. I counted four
lawn-care trucks with their utility trailers crammed full of riding mowers,
push mowers, blowers,
edgers
, and all sizes and
shapes of rakes. Blue plastic tarps dotted the lush green lawns and ornate
gardens. The place was crawling with Hispanic guys wearing long-sleeved shirts
and wide-brimmed hats, guys who were welcome once a week inside the gates, as
long as they used the portable toilets on the flatbed trailers.

We parked on the street at 24 Elsmore, a stone and
stucco place with a brick semicircular drive leading to a three-car garage and
a double-door entryway to the main house. “Pimps make more than we do,” I said
as we walked up the herringbone-patterned brick pathway to the front door.

Ryan knocked. “A lot of people make more than we
do.”

Through the frosted glass on the side of the door
I saw a figure approach the foyer. It was a woman. There was a pause, while she
presumably looked us over through the peephole.

The door opened. She was about thirty-five, tall,
with brunette hair and gold loop earrings framing a long, thin face. Her skin
was pale, with hints of freckles. “Can I help you?” She offered us a polite
smile.

“Good morning.” I returned the smile and
introduced me and Ryan. Her smile disappeared. Most people do some serious
brick shitting when cops stop by unannounced. They want to know if their
daughter is all right—that kind of thing. Not this woman. Over the years, she
had probably learned cops wanted to chat with Christopher James Barlow or take
him for a ride in the cruiser. I asked if he was in.

“This way.” Without introducing herself, she
turned and led us into a living room full of high-end leather and cloth
furniture, matching oak end tables, brass lamps, all sitting on gleaming wood
floors and brightly patterned modern throw rugs. We walked past a ten-foot long
gas fireplace built into what looked like a marble wall. A TV set, almost as
wide, was mounted above the fireplace.

She led us to a set of French doors and knocked. A
man’s voice inside the room said, “Come in.” The woman opened the door, stepped
back, and left.

The room was designed to look like a library in an
old movie. Off to one side sat a couple of wingback chairs and a loveseat with
nailhead
accents. Two walls were covered with dark-wood
bookshelves that extended all the way to the ceiling, complete with ladders on
tracks. In the center of the room was a heavy mahogany desk. Off to the side of
the desk, at a right angle, was a more modern table with a computer, twin
screens, and a printer.

A man of about forty stood up from a leather chair
at the big desk. He had a sturdy build, a little under six feet but a good
two-hundred pounds. His dark sandy hair was starting to go grey at the temples.
Wire-rimmed glasses sat on his long nose. He was dressed Friday casual, with a
crisply pressed cotton shirt, blue and white stripes, over navy gabardine
slacks.

His smile showed a good set of teeth, a couple
shades too white for his age. “Chris Barlow.” He extended his hand.

“Detective Karen Seagate. My partner, Detective
Ryan Miner.” We all shook hands.

Unlike the woman—his wife?—Christopher James
Barlow maintained his smile, as if he expected us to tell him he’d just won a
Citizen of the Year award. He gestured for us to sit in the two leather club
chairs in front of his desk.

He remained standing. “Can I get you something to
drink?” He pointed to a wet bar along the wall. “Soft drinks? Water? Coffee,
tea?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Barlow. I see you’re working.
We won’t take much of your time.”

He stepped around behind his desk and sat in his
leather chair. “Not at all, Detective. I’m just finishing up some late tax
returns.” His self-satisfied expression suggested that it was important that we
see him as a legitimate citizen—a successful legitimate citizen.

Ryan said, “You’re a CPA, is that correct, Mr.
Barlow?”

“Yes, I am.” Christopher James Barlow bowed his
head slightly, flattered that a police officer was treating him respectfully. I
took Ryan’s comment the other way: he was signaling that he had done his
homework on Barlow.

“I’m a little surprised,” Ryan said, “what with
your felonies, I mean.”

Barlow forced a closed-lips smile. “You’re correct
that I am not practicing as an accountant anymore, Detective. I surrendered my
license several years ago.” He pointed to the large computer screens on his
desk. “I’m simply helping some friends. I don’t sign off on the returns. It’s
very informal.”

“And the pimping?” I said. “Is that informal or
informal?”

He raised an eyebrow, then turned on his full
smile. “Detective Seagate, how can I help you today?”

I gave him an official smile. “We’re here to talk
with you about the death of Virginia Rinaldi.”

He put on a confused expression, then shook his
head. “I’ve been quite busy.” He gestured to the screens again.

“The professor at the university? Fell down the
stairs? It was on the news yesterday.”

“Sorry.” Still confused.

“Krista’s girlfriend?”

His eyes darted to the side for just an instant,
but he pretended not to recognize the name.

“Elena Moranu. One of your girls.”

He sighed, then assumed his smile. “I don’t know
anyone named Krista—or Elena. Moranu, you said?”

“Tell you what, Mr. Barlow. We could take you in
to headquarters now, let you sit in Holding for a while. We can keep you for
forty-eight hours before we charge or release. Or you can talk to us right
here, and we’ll be done. Ten minutes, maximum. What’s your choice?”

“Let’s talk here, Detective. You stop accusing me
of being a pimp, and I’ll stop denying it. If you have any questions for me,
I’ll be happy to answer them fully and honestly, to the best of my ability.
Would that work for you?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Let’s do that. But keep this in
mind: If I conclude you’re not cooperating, we will drive you to police
headquarters, and you will sit on a concrete bench in a small cell with some
other gentlemen who don’t share your interest in personal hygiene and good
grooming.”

“I understand that. Please ask your first
question.”

“If you were a pimp, and Krista was one of your
higher-end girls, and she moved in with Professor Rinaldi, would that upset
you?”

“If I were a pimp, I would take no interest in
where she lived—or with whom—assuming she continued to perform her customary
duties. Many prostitutes are bisexual or lesbian. From what I have read.”

I waved my hand. “This is all hypothetical.
There’s no need to keep saying you don’t know Krista.”

“All right, it’s all hypothetical.”

“If one of your girls decided to break away and go
freelance, what would you do?”

“I wouldn’t do anything. As long as she settled
any outstanding accounts by paying me the commission for transactions she had
already completed, I would wish her well and wave goodbye.”

“Now, that surprises me. A girl who grosses five
hundred and up per day, you wouldn’t be tempted to exert even a little pressure
to keep her in the stable.”

He tilted his head to signal that his next point
was going to be educational. “Tempted, perhaps. Just as I might be tempted to
cut corners in reporting a client’s income on a 1040. Being tempted is one
thing; giving in to temptation is quite another. I make a comfortable living
because I understand that basic distinction. Most people do not.”

“So you’re saying you didn’t try to intimidate
Krista in any way?”

He shook his head, like I was a slow student.
“Intimidation doesn’t work—at least, not in the long run. If your supervisor
tries to bully you into doing something, you’ll spend your time trying to
figure out how resist him. It’s a basic principle of personnel management. You
need to communicate the values that underlie your business. If you can motivate
your people to work according to those values, you will never need to
intimidate or bully them. If I treat the girls well, they stay motivated and do
an excellent job. Everyone’s happy, everyone makes money.” He paused. “If I ran
girls, of course.”

“Yes, of course. If you ran girls.”

“Now, may I ask you a few questions, Detective?”

I nodded for him to go ahead.

“You say that this woman named Krista was living
with this professor. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And the professor is dead, but Krista is alive?”

“Yes.”

“And Krista is unhurt?”

“She is unhurt.”

“Has Krista accused me of killing the professor?”

“No.”

“Has Krista accused me of hurting her—here I mean
Krista herself—in any way?”

“No.”

“Has Krista accused me of being her pimp?”

“No.”

“Do you have any evidence—forensic, eye-witness,
even circumstantial—that I am a pimp, that I am Krista’s pimp, that I have
intimidated Krista in any way, or that I had anything at all to do with killing
this professor?”

I smiled. “Except for the convictions for pimping,
no, nothing.” I paused. “Not yet.”

Christopher James Barlow returned my smile. “Then
I have to wonder why you stopped by today …”

I stood. Ryan did, too. “You understand the
routine, Mr. Barlow. We’re interviewing all of the victim’s associates.”

“But I’ve made clear that I did not know this
professor … What did you say her name was?”

“Professor Rinaldi.”

“Yes, that’s right. Professor Virginia Rinaldi.
The sociology professor, I think you said?”

“No, I never said she was a sociology professor.”

Barlow frowned. “Perhaps I did hear a news report
about her, after all.”

“I’m sure that’s it.”

“And one more thing, Detective, before you leave.”

“What’s that?”

“You overestimate my subtlety.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, if I had a grievance with Krista, it
never would have occurred to me to hurt her girlfriend.”

“You’re saying, if you had a grievance with
Krista, Krista would be dead.”

“Hypothetically, of course.”

“Of course. If you ran girls.” Ryan and I turned
to leave. I stopped and turned back to face Christopher James Barlow. “One more
question before we go.”

“Of course.”

“Can you tell us where you were Monday night,
around nine or ten?”

He pointed. “I was in the living room, watching a
movie.”

I had to ask, although I knew it was a waste of
time. “Can anyone confirm that?”

“My wife can confirm that.” He treated us to
another smile and stood, expanding his chest and putting his hands in the
pockets of his neatly pressed navy slacks.

Chapter 14

It was a little before
noon. I was eating a sandwich in the break room when Ryan stuck his head in.
“Chief wants to see us.”

“Give me a sec.” I wrapped the sandwich up in its
plastic and took it back to my desk. “Did he say why?” I brushed some crumbs
off my hands as we walked to his office.

“No. Maybe he’s got that information on Richard
Albright.”

His assistant, Margaret, waved us in.

“Sit.” The chief was at his desk. He looked down
at a legal pad on his desk. “Richard Albright was a member of the Righteous
Warriors, a motorcycle gang out of Las Vegas. Fairly high up. He was released
after serving six of his ten for racketeering.”

“What was it he did?” I said.

The chief waved his hand. “General-purpose badass.
Prostitutes, distribution of controlled substances, assault. Extortion of small
businesses.”

Ryan said, “Why’d they give him early release?”

“He set up this Christian worship group inside. He
pulled in Hispanics, blacks, even some white-power guys. Apparently, it helped
keep the lid on. Violence went way down. He was a model prisoner.”

I said, “The guys you talked to in Nevada—they
believe he went straight?”

The chief shifted in his chair. “The group he
founded is still going. It’s still working. But do they believe he’s straight?
Not sure they ask that kind of question. They released him, didn’t have to
re-arrest him. That made them happy. When I told them he was living in Montana,
that made them even happier.” The chief shrugged his shoulders.

“All right, thanks, Chief.” Ryan and I stood up. “We’re
gonna head out to that rally on campus. You said you were gonna see if you
could lend the Campus Substation a couple more uniforms?”

“Done. I told them you’d be in contact to make the
arrangements.”

“We’ll brief you later. Thanks.”

Ryan and I went back to the bullpen. Ryan phoned
the Substation. The rally was still on for one o’clock, in the quad. We would
have six uniforms, total, around the perimeter.

We headed over at twelve-thirty and parked in
front of the Administration Building, which anchors the quad. I put down my
visor to display the Official Police Business sign. Arrayed in one corner of
the lot were three network satellite trucks, their dishes already pointed
straight up.

Ryan and I walked over to the quad, where four college-age
guys were assembling a portable stage on the grass bordering the wide concrete
walkway on the north side of the quad. Beside the stage, stuck into the grass
on a couple of poles like a volleyball net, was a banner that read Students for
Decency and Morality, with crosses in the four corners. Students walking by
glanced at the guys and the banner, then kept going on their way to the Student
Union Building. They seemed to be thinking less about decency and morality than
about lunch.

I spotted one of our officers, Bob
Stegrun
. Ryan and I went over to talk to him. He told us
everything was under control and that the rest of the detail would be in place
within a few minutes.

Ryan and I drifted over toward the stage, where a
group of Richard Albright’s people were trying to scare up a crowd. A couple of
girls from the group grabbed thick sticks of chalk and fanned out from the
stage to write announcements on the walkway. Other kids passed out flyers and
buttonholed people walking by. Up on the stage, a guy was setting up a
microphone. All the activity started to pay off; there were now about fifty
people milling about, waiting to see what the Students for Decency and Morality
wanted to say. Three camera crews were in place, too, the reporters
interviewing students.

At one o’clock sharp, a guy stepped onto the stage
and walked over to the microphone. He was about six-two, two-twenty. He had on
black engineers’ boots, deeply scuffed, and tight black denim jeans. The
short-sleeve shirt, a shiny black material, was cut tight to show off his
weightlifter’s torso. His arms and the backs of his hands were covered with
ink, some old and some new. A purple and red tat of a snake emerged from under
his shirt and slithered onto his neck. On his right forearm, a crudely drawn
black crucifix obscured some other, earlier tats.

His face was deeply tanned and lined. He had thick
black hair, cut short, no sideburns at all. His nose, crooked and scarred,
looked like it had been broken a few times. He wore a goatee that was bordered
by two or three days of stubble. As he adjusted the microphone stand and looked
out over the couple of dozen people in front of the stage, he wore an
expression that, on a less scary-looking dude, would be called serious or even
solemn. But with his clothes and physique, I’d call it totally pissed off. The
girls in the small crowd were wide-eyed.

“I’d like your attention, please.” He waited a
moment for the audience to get still before introducing himself as Richard
Albright, president of Students for Decency and Morality. He was speaking on
behalf of the group, he said, and gestured to a half-dozen other members
standing behind him on the stage. He said he was going to make some remarks
about the death of Professor Virginia Rinaldi, then make an important
announcement. Here he paused for effect. The audience was respectfully quiet.
Some bowed their heads. “Our message to you today is simple: the death of
Virginia Rinaldi … was a very good thing.”

There was a gasp in the small audience. The
students, as well as several middle-aged adults who looked like professors or
administrators, shifted uncomfortably but then became silent. Students who had
been passing by caught Albright’s amplified words and drifted over to the
stage.

“I realize you were not expecting to hear a
statement like that.” When some members of the audience began to boo him, he
raised his palms. “Give me a minute, please. I want to explain what I just
said. Just give me a chance.” The audience obediently quieted down again. “Now,
I am not saying that I wished Virginia Rinaldi dead. She was one of God’s
creations, and she therefore was filled with the spirit of Christ—whether she
knew it or not, and whether her actions reflected it. No, I did not hate her. I
do not hate anyone. But I maintain that her death was a good thing—a good thing
for us at Central Montana State University and for all of us in the city of
Rawlings.”

The people in the crowd looked puzzled, but they
seemed willing to hear what this scary-looking guy had to say. He went into a
long explanation of how she was a sinner who preached the false religion of
secular humanism, how families and faith were out of date and inconsistent with
today’s world. Rather than following the example of Jesus, she did the devil’s
work by encouraging her students to wallow in their sexuality like animals.
“So, my fellow students and members of the Central Montana State University
community,” he said, “while it is our Christian duty to love the sinner, we
must also hate the sin. I ask that you join with me in noting the passing of
one of Christ’s children—and in sending a clear message to the administration
not to repeat the mistake of allowing a person with these vile, sinful ideas to
pollute our university community.”

A young woman in the audience shouted out to him,
“What was the announcement?” A couple other students in the audience began to
talk among themselves. Then they started to chant “An-
nounce
-
ment
” in unison. Richard put up his hands, nodding his head
to acknowledge that he heard the crowd and was going to deliver.

“All right,” he said. “Yes, you’re right. I did
tell you I was going to make an announcement today.” He paused and took a deep
breath. “It gives me no pleasure to tell you this. But I think it is vitally
important that you know—”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an object
hurtling through the air toward Richard Albright. It hit him squarely on the
left side of his face. He flinched, his hands coming up to his face. The object
was a bottle, which shattered when it hit the stage. For a second, Albright’s
people on the stage were frozen in horror; then they huddled around him to
shield him from any further attack. One member of the group, a tall, thin guy
in blue jeans, a T-shirt, and black wool cap, sprinted across the stage and leapt
into the audience. He moved with such speed and authority that the crowd, which
didn’t seem to understood what was happening, parted to let him through.

As Ryan and I rushed toward the crowd where the
wool-hat guy had disappeared, I saw Richard Albright wipe the blood from the
gash on the side of his face, run across the stage, and follow the wool-hat guy
into the audience.

Girls in the crowd started to scream. Ryan and I
and the uniforms were trying to get into the pack, but the audience members
were pulling in toward the center of the crowd, and we had to push them aside.
I still couldn’t see the wool-hat guy or Richard Albright.

The uniforms were shouting for the crowd to get
back. By the time I got into the crowd, I saw the wool-hat guy wrestling with
another guy on the pavement. Neither of them looked like they knew what they
were doing. Their long, thin arms were tangled up with each other, and they
couldn’t get any separation to throw a punch. Still, because they were on the
concrete walkway, I was concerned they could get hurt.

Before any of the uniforms or Ryan or I could get
in close enough to break it up, Richard Albright’s bulky figure was bending
over them. He grabbed his wool-hat guy by the collar and pulled him off the
other guy and tossed him to the side like he was a sack of potatoes. The
wool-hat guy landed on his wrist, and I heard the unmistakable crack as a bone
snapped. He cried out in pain and rolled helplessly on the pavement, cradling
his broken wrist in his other arm.

Paying no attention to the wool-hat guy, Albright
was hunched over the kid on the ground. Ryan and two of the uniforms closed in
on Albright and pushed him away. The kid on the ground was screaming in terror,
even though he could see that Albright was restrained and wasn’t going to hurt
him. Albright put his hands up in surrender, the gesture used by every rough
boy to signal the cops that he wasn’t going to resist.

The uniforms were calling for an ambulance to take
care of the wool-hat guy with the broken wrist, and they had taken the other
guy, presumably the one who had thrown the bottle at Albright, into custody.
They left Ryan and me to deal with Richard Albright.

“Mr. Albright, I’m Detective Seagate. This is my
partner, Detective Miner.”

A network video guy pointed his big lens into the
conversation. Ryan pushed it away, saying “Stand back, please. Now.” His size
and tone were persuasive; the video guy backed off.

What Richard Albright did next, I could tell he’d
been arrested before. He wouldn’t look at me. He just nodded, a quick gesture
that he understood I was doing my job and he wasn’t going to put up a fight. It
also said he wasn’t going to cooperate—which was his way of doing
his
job.

“You want us to call an ambulance?” I pointed to
his face. “That’s gonna need some stitches.”

He shook his head but didn’t say anything. I got
the feeling that this warrior of God wore his scars proudly.

“You sure?”

Again, he shook his head.

Ryan pulled a white handkerchief out of his jacket
pocket and offered it to Richard Albright, who gave him a long, dismissive
look, like the handkerchief was a lace doily.

“All right, Mr. Albright, we want to bring you
down to headquarters, have you make a statement about what happened today.”

We started walking him toward the Charger. Ryan noticed
the camera crew following us. He stopped and gave them a look, and they backed
off.

We got Richard Albright into the cruiser and drove
back to headquarters, where we set up in Interview 1. Ryan put on the recorder,
and I announced the time—1:23—and the names of the people in the room.

“Mr. Albright, if you don’t get that wound
stitched up, it’s gonna scar up pretty ugly. You sure you don’t want to let us
take you over to the ER and get that taken care of?”

He shook his head again.

“I’d like you to say it out loud, if you don’t
mind.”

He paused and held my gaze. “Let’s just do this.”

“All right. You went into the crowd and pulled
your guy off the guy who threw the bottle at you. Is that correct so far?”

“Yes.”

“And when we pulled you off the guy who threw the
bottle—what were you planning to do to that guy?”

“I was going to pick him up off the ground. Make
sure he was okay.”

“Really?”

“What I said. Then I was gonna apologize to him,
for Ronny coming after him like that.”

“That’s very gracious of you. I mean, after the
guy threw the bottle at you, cut you up.”

Richard Albright stared at me. “Is there a
question in that?”

“No, just an observation,” I said. “Let’s talk a
little bit about your speech. What was your goal in saying the death of
Virginia Rinaldi was a good thing?”

“Tell the truth. ‘The wages of sin is death, but
the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.’”

Ryan spoke.
 
“And you saw it as your job—two days after her death—to make that
point?”

He turned his head slowly to face Ryan. “‘I am
crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who
lives in me.’”

I didn’t know what was happening.

Ryan, apparently, did. He said, “‘Beware of
practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them, for
then you will have no reward from your Father who is in heaven.’”

Richard Albright pulled his head back, like he
hadn’t expected a cop to know the Bible. Albright nodded at him, a signal of
new respect. “If the university will not send a righteous message to its
students, I have no choice but to become Christ’s messenger.”