Джеффри Дивер - The Goodbye Man

On the surface, the murder seemed to be a typical mugging gone bad. Shaw wasn’t convinced. Why shoot someone who’d cooperated and handed over his cash? He did some more searching. He found next to nothing about Edwards, only several social media photos from years ago. The killer wasn’t what Shaw had expected. Not a sullen or shifty visage, not a glare of suspicion and anger. He was good-looking, athletic, cheerful of expression. The images were of him on a beach somewhere, squinting into the sun, smiling. An attractive blonde sat beside him.

Shaw was about to log off when he froze.

In the photo Harvey Edwards was wearing a necklace. It was a thin black cord, and from it dangled a piece of jewelry: a purple infinity symbol.

The logo of the Osiris Foundation.

“Tom.”

Shaw was sitting at the banquette of the Winnebago, speaking to his friend, the former FBI agent Tom Pepper.

The man asked, “We still climbing Two Wolves Face? Weather permitting.”

“Weather? Don’t you worry,” Shaw replied. “I’ll hold the umbrella for you”

“Haw.”

The three-hundred-foot cliff, in the Sierra Nevada chain, had been on their free-climb to-do list for some time, and they’d planned it for August.

Shaw said, “Need the name of another detective.”

“Tacoma?”

“No. This one’s in San Francisco.”

“Hmm. Lot of homicides out there. Lot of detectives. You know, Colt, you’d think, being so pretty, the Bay, the bridges, Ghirardelli Square, all those old hippies singing Jerry Garcia, nobody’d want to tap anybody.”

Shaw explained about the journalist.

Pepper grunted. “Now, that pisses me off. Free press has to stay free. And alive.”

“I need the lead detective.”

“Give me five.”

Shaw brewed a cup of coffee. He made the beverage as he always did: the old-fashioned way, boiled water poured through a filter. Capsules were not his favored technique; convenience always comes at a price. He added some milk. One sip, two. Pepper called back with a name and number. Shaw wrote it down, thanked his friend. A third sip, then he punched the number into his phone.

“Detective Etoile.” A rich, vibrating baritone. Shaw imagined that that voice could shake confessions out of suspects within a dozen words.

“This is Colter Shaw.”

“Oh, Mr. Shaw. Yes, your associate, Tom Pepper, just called.”

Associate. Somewhat true. Shaw let it stand.

“This’s about the Gary Yang murder?”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Pepper said you’re a private investigator.”

This too was close enough. Shaw said nothing about his reward-seeking work.

“Detective, can I ask how the murder happened?”

“It was pretty straightforward. Plenty of witnesses. The victim was approached outside his townhome, robbed and shot. The suspect fled. Responding officers cornered him in a convenience store. He didn’t surrender. There was a firefight. He was killed. No one else was injured.”

“Edwards had no history of violent crime?”

“No history of arrests or convictions for violent crime,” Etoile corrected.

“I’ve found out that Yang had written an article about cults. One of the groups he mentioned was the Osiris Foundation in Washington State. I think Harvey Edwards was involved with it.”

Etoile was silent for a moment. “The implications being that (a) the robbery was a cover-up for a hit and (b) others might have been involved.”

“Did you find anything in the investigation about the Foundation? Literature? Anything with an infinity sign on it?”

“Like the number eight on its side?”

“That’s right. It’s their logo.”

“Nothing I recall. But we didn’t toss... we didn’t search Edwards’s place much. No need. You heard the facts. Homicides don’t get any more open-and-shut than that. You’re probably interested to know if we looked at the new stories that Yang was working on, for possible motives.”

Shaw said, “And the fact you raised the point tells me no, you didn’t.”

“Correct. Like I said, open-and-shut. What is this group, Osiris Foundation? Like the Manson Family?”

“Doesn’t seem to be. Talks about self-help. That kind of thing.”

“And what exactly is your interest, Mr. Shaw?”

“One of the followers of this outfit killed himself. Adam Harper. Tacoma Public Safety has the details. And I saw another follower, a woman, I didn’t like the way she was being treated.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know.”

Silence in response to this too.

“I just want to make sure nobody else connected with this outfit gets hurt.”

“You clearly have some law enforcement experience, sounds like, so you know once a case’s closed, brass treat it like used chewing gum.”

“I’m sure.”

“I’ll ask some questions. Give me your contact information.”

Shaw did so and thanked him.

They disconnected the call.

More coffee. He looked up a third website that Mack had sent. There was a “Contact Me” email address at the bottom of the page. Shaw composed a brief note and sent it off. He wondered if he’d hear back.

Three minutes later, he did.

“Osiris Foundation? Not one I’m familiar with.” The person looking back at Shaw, via Skype, was a handsome businesswoman sort, with trim hair, a dress blouse and gold chain around her neck. Middle age. “And, frankly, I’m familiar with most of them.”

Anne DeStefano was among the top cult experts in the country. A doctor in psychology, she advised law enforcement about such organizations, testified as an expert in trials, and deprogrammed — “de-brainwashed,” as she put it — followers who’d escaped from cults and other oppressive organizations and individuals.

“What does this Foundation do?” DeStefano was in her Los Angeles office. Shaw could see a half-dozen certificates from various institutions and schools on the wall behind her.

“You have another computer?” Shaw asked.

“Yes, a desktop.” She glanced to her left. “You sending me an email?”

“No. There’s a website.”

“I’ll just Google it.”

“They scrub their name from search engines and social networking sites.”

DeStefano lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a technique you see with some of the more troublesome cults. What’s the URL?”

Shaw recited it and DeStefano turned away, typing on the other keyboard.

Eyes to the left, she read the Foundation’s homepage. “Hmm. Hard to say from this. Most true cults want you and your loyalty for life. A three-week session? More like a dude ranch or yoga camp. Have some fun in the country, listen to lectures, sit around a campfire and sing ‘Kumbaya.’ At worst, you’ve wasted some time and money. But then there’s ‘Osiris’ — the Egyptian theme. That’s a bit occult. And Master Eli. A lot of the more culty leaders give themselves titles like that. You know anything about him?”

“Not much. His data’s scrubbed too. Was a businessman a few years ago, then gave it up to run the Foundation. I saw some of his followers. They were all wearing matching clothes.”

“Then it’s not your typical self-help outfit. But that doesn’t mean it’s a cult.”

“What exactly is a cult?” Shaw asked.

DeStefano chuckled. “Somebody once said a cult is a religious or a social movement that you don’t happen to like.”

Shaw smiled.

“Well, what’s a cult and what isn’t?” she mused. “For me, it’s like that Supreme Court justice who said he wasn’t going to try to define porn but he knew it when he saw it. People with common interests and goals get together every day. You could say a sports team with a mesmerizing coach is a cult. You could say the Catholic Church is a cult. The Shriners, the Lions Club, the Masons. Me? I define a cult as a group that presents a potential physical or mental danger to the members or those outside.