Episode 9

"What's the deal with you and Sgt. Garza and the Spanish phrases? You two make it out like it's a game."
Tate laughed. It was one of the few times Chen had seen him laugh
"Sgt. Garza and I were partners when we were patrolmen. We got thrown together when he was a rookie. On out first night together we were called out to a disturbance at a Mexican bar that used to be on Walker called The Red Rooster. When we got there there was one guy with a black eye and another one with a split lip and a couple of other guys holding them back from each other. When I asked what was going on they all started telling in us Spanish. After a minute Frank looked at me and said, 'What are they saying?' I said, 'I don't know. Don't you? You're the Mexican-American.' His face got red and his eyes turned mean. ' The hell I am,' he said. 'I'm not even Spanish. I'm Portuguese and I was born and raised in Hawaii. There's not a whole lot of Espanol on Maui, brudda.'
"So after we got everything sorted out using the bartender as a translator we decided that we'd better learn Spanish. But we never got far. It is a joke between us. He gets a kick out of springing a new phrase on me and watching me trying to figure it out. His wife, Inga, speaks pretty good Spanish. She teaches it at Walker High. And she's a big blond Swede from Malmo who looks like Anita Ekberg."
Chen smoothed his moustache down and then said, "I guess you can just never tell."
"That's one thing to remember about this trade, Chen. You can just never tell until you know for sure."
"Who's Anita Ekberg?'
"Never mind. Before your time."

Just as Chen was turning the car toward the Heights Detectives Stewart and Beaulieu were coming out of the Grand Junior Mart on Front Street in the old downtown part of Sycamore Grove. Stewart put on her sunglasses and lit a cigarette while looking up and down the street. A Greyhound bus station, a plumbing supply, a Spanish language Bible bookstore, a barbershop, empty storefronts, all looking dusty and sun-bleached and half deserted. The only patch of color was the pepper tree growing in front of the VFW hall and the only movement was the driver of a beer truck carting cases of Budweiser into the VFW hall. It was yet to be ten o'clock and it felt hot already.
Beaulieu stood away from he to avoid her cigarette smoke and consulted his notes.
"Why are these store-owners so reluctant to talk to us?" Stewart asked.
"Who knows? Culture? They don't trust us? Maybe there's a communications problem. Maybe we're asking the questions in the wrong way."
"Why would they not trust us?"
"Remember the Rodney King riots in LA? The LAPD wasn't there to protect the Korean businesses. They ended up protecting themselves as best they could. Maybe it's the same idea with the Hoodie."
"What are they going to do? Shoot him when they get a chance?"
"Perhaps."
"I don;t like that thought."
"I don't either. But, you know, there's one other possibility that Mr. and Mrs. Park aren't giving us the information we want. Maybe they're telling us everything they know. Looking at the barrel of a gun pointed at you tends to make other details disappear."
"Could be," Stewart shrugged. "Hey! Look at that!" She nodded toward a minivan parked in front of the Greyhound station.
"What about it?"
"The bumper sticker. The one Washington mentioned: 'Today Is Yours.!' It's the second one I've seen today."
"How 'bout that? Let's go over to Lucky 77 Liquor Mart and talk to Mr. Lee. Maybe he'll make today ours."

Seathrift Road was winding and steep as it went up to the top of the Heights. An occasional driveway fed out onto the road, but no houses were visible, being hidden behind tall hedges or red brick fences. Just as the road levelled out Chen stopped the car and pointed to a pair of brick pillars flanking a driveway.
"This is it. 2610 Seathrift. Want me to go up the driveway?"
"You might as well. It's too hot for walking."
Chen turned into the drive and followed it the 50 yards to the front of the house where it curled upon itself. The house was of a vaguely Italianate style with two stories and a red tile roof. There were iron balconies at the three French windows on the second floor and decorative, but effective, iron work over the windows on the ground floor. The front door, appearing to be made of dark oak with heavy black iron strap hinges, was reached by entering a ten foot wide by five foot deep entryway. Potted ferns and deep shadow gave the impression of coolness despite the hot still air.
When Tate pressed the doorbell button he was surprised to hear the simple two note "ding-dong" instead of a replica of the chimes of Big Ben.
The door was opened by a small woman dressed in a black dress. Her eyes were red from crying and she still held a damp handkerchief balled up in a small fist.
"Mrs. Hauser?" Tate asked.
The woman nodded slightly.
"I'm Lieutenant Raymond Tate of the Sycamore Grove Police Department. This is Detective Jason Chen. We're investigating your husband's death. I called you earlier."
She ignored the badges they held out for her inspection. She stepped away from the doorway and said, "Please come in." Her voice was soft and flat. "Would it bother you if we went into the kitchen to talk?"
"Not at all. Where ever you feel most comfortable."
"This way, please."
As they walked to the kitchen Tate noticed that the living room was furnished in steel and glass and leather with indirect track lighting. A reproduction of Rembrandt's The Head f Christ was hanging over the mantle. Several framed photographs were arranged on a side table -- two of them of a young boy wearing a uniform of some sort
Mrs. Hauser folded back a pair of louvered doors opening into the kitchen. A sturdy pine table surrounded by four rush bottom chairs sat near a sliding glass door looking out over a small herb garden. Polished copper pots and pans hung from hooks on the wall near a gas range. A painting of a white haired old man praying grace over a loaf of bread was on the wall over the drainboard.
"I'm going to have a cup of tea. Would either of you care for some?"
"Yes, please,"Tate answered. "For both of us."
Tate studied the woman as she set about preparing the tea and cups. The word that came to his mind to describe her was "trim." Not only her build, but her carriage and manner. No wasted motion, nothing superfluous. Her pale complexion reinforced his conclusion that her hair was naturally titian. The set of her mouth and eyes gave him the impression that she seldom smiled and rarely laughed. He fondled a small gold cross on a chain around her neck as she waited for the water to boil.
"I'm ready," she said expelling breath as she placed the three mugs of tea on the table and sitting opposite Tate.
"When you were first contacted this morning were you informed of the circumstances of Reverend Hauser's death?"
"Yes. I was told that he was...shot."
"And were you informed of the location where the incident took place?"
"Yes. I was told that it took place in the parking lot of a strip club or topless bar."
"Did Reverend Hauser make it a habit to go to such places?"
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "As far as I know my husband goes..went to places like that three or four times a year. I'm not aware of more often than that."
"Did you know that he was at the Rustler's Roost last night?"
"No."
"And can you account for your movements last night?"
"It was my night to host the prayer meeting/coffee klatch for my prayer group. That lasted from about seven until ten. Then I cleaned up and went to bed about 11:30. It was after the late night news."
"This was a group from Lakeland Community Worship Center?"
"No. I have very little to do with Lakeland. I attend there on Sunday, but nothing more. The people in the prayer group are my personal friends and acquaintances. Some of them from the old church. I can give you a list of names if you'd like."
"That won't be necessary at the moment." Tate consulted his notebook and then said," "You weren't concerned when your husband didn't come home by the time you went to bed?"
"No. He called me from his church office around a quarter after nine and said that he wouldn't be home until after midnight."
"Did he say why?"
"He said he'd be brainstorming with Dale Lewis, the assistant pastor at Lakeland, about the planned 'Triumph' campaign through the Midwest."
Tate noticed a slight tone of derision in her voice when she pronounced the word "Triumph."
"I take it that this 'Triumph' campaign was intended as some sort of evangelical campaign or revival."
"That's correct. Would it bother either of you gentlemen if I smoked a cigarette?"
"Feel free. It's your house."
"Thank you. One feels so unsure about where and with whom one can smoke these days. If either of you want to smoke, go ahead."
Tate nodded to Chen, who took out a Kent and a lighter from his jacket pocket while Wendy Hauser pulled a pack of Camel Lights from her dress pocket. Chen lit her cigarette and then his own. Tate, for the first time, noticed the nicotine stains on the fingers of her left hand.
"Did you husband drink? Take drugs?"
"He occasionally had a glass of wine when we went out to dinner or a beer at a ball game. But I've never seen him drink to excess. He never used drugs as far as I know."
"Any affairs with other women?"
"One that I know of for sure. It was seven or eight years ago. It ended badly. I suspect that there may have been others. But I don't know for sure."
"What do you mean 'ended badly?'"
"The woman, her name was Heather Jefferson, thought that my husband would leave me and marry her. She...she tried to commit suicide by taking an overdose of tranquilizers. Fortunately and thank God, she was found before it was too late and she recovered."
"How do you know the suicide attempt was over the affair?"
"She left a note spelling it out."
"Do you know where she is now?"
"The last I heard, and it was not long after the attempt, she'd moved to Oregon. Somebody said that she's become a radical environmentalist."
"Interesting. Did your husband have any enemies that you know of?"
"No one specifically. But he .. was.. a public figure who preached a doctrine and theology that is controversial. He never received and death threats that I know of, but he did receive some very abusive letters and phone calls."
"One last question for now. I noticed a couple of photos of a boy while passing through the living room."
There was a trace of a smile before she answered. "That's our son Chris. He's thirteen."
"Is he home?'
"No. He's attending a summer session at school. Sherman Military Academy in Arizona. He's a good, sweet boy. I don't know how I'm going to tell him about his father. He loves his father so much." Mrs. Hauser's eyes welled up and she roughly wiped them with a paper napkin.
Tate stood, followed by Chen who pocketed his notebook. Tate extended his hand and held hers for a moment.
"Thank you for you time, Mrs. Hauser. I know that this has been difficult. Please accept our deepest sympathies. I'll make it a point to keep you and your son in my prayers.
"If you think of anything, anything at all, call me. Day or night My phone numbers are on the card. I'll probably be calling upon you again. We'll see our way out."
As Tate and Chen started to leave Mrs. Hauser said, "Lieutenant? My husband was a flawed man, a deeply flawed man. In a way he was lost. But he didn't deserve what happened to him. And I loved him. I still do and always will. And I think he loved me. I know he loved Chris."
"I'm sure he did. Thanks again. God bless you and your son."
Once they were back in the car Chen said, "That was depressing She seemed so cold up until the end. She never even referred to her husband by name."
"Wendy Hauser is a woman who tried to control her emotions instead of allowing her emotions to control her. The appearance of a calm surface is important to her. It protects her. I think she's been hurt a lot. Controlling her emotions makes it hurt less, perhaps."
"I don't know. Maybe so. It's just weird."
Tate took out his pipe and started to fill it. "Do you know they way to Lakeland Community Worship Center?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Let's go there. I want to talk to Dale Lewis."