“My name is J. P. Beaumont. I’ve been asked to look into the death of an acquaintance of yours, and I wondered if you could spare me a few minutes.”

“Which acquaintance?”

That wasn’t such a surprising question. ­People die in homeless shelters all the time. They live outside in all kinds of weather and often in less than sanitary conditions. I knew from reading the papers that over the previous winter several of Seattle’s homeless had fallen victim to cold weather, especially during an unexpectedly frigid cold snap that had roared through western Washington the weekend after Thanksgiving.

“His name was Kenneth Mangum, although I believe you knew him as Kenneth Myers,” I added. “My understanding is that the two of you were close at one time.”

Her sharp intake of breath told me my assumption wasn’t wrong. When she said nothing, I continued, “We could talk on the phone, or I could drop by your home or office. Your address is listed as being on Elliott. My condo is only a few blocks away from there. It’s your call.”

“Why talk to me?” Calliope asked. “Kenny’s homicide has gone unsolved all these years. Why is someone looking into his death now?”

“Because someone who was once a friend of Mr. Myers was viciously attacked during a prison riot earlier today. We’re trying to figure out if there’s any possible connection between today’s attack and the previous homicide.”

“What friend?” Calliope asked.

“A guy named Lassiter.”

“Big Bad John Lassiter?” she asked.

Even after so much time, Calliope recognized the name right off and without any prompting from me. Sue Danielson had never asked about any connection between the dead man and John Lassiter because, at the time of that interview, there had been no known link between them. Still, when Sue had inquired about Ken’s friends, why hadn’t John Lassiter’s name come up? That’s when I realized Sue had asked about Ken’s girlfriends but not about his male friends.

“That would be the one,” I said.

“And he was attacked?”

“Yes, in prison. He’s serving time down in Arizona.”

“When did this attack happen?”

“As I said, earlier today.”

“Are you a cop?” Calliope asked.

“Used to be,” I answered, “but not anymore.”

“What’s your connection to all this?”

Tenuous at best, I thought, but I didn’t want to go into any of the details, not right then. “I’m working in conjunction with a group called The Last Chance—­TLC. They specialize in solving cold cases.”

“Ken’s case is cold, all right,” Calliope said with a sigh. “I suppose you’re welcome to stop by here if you like, but I don’t see how I’ll be able to help. And my husband and I have a meeting to go to at seven. We’re in the Lofts on Elliott.”

“I have the address,” I said.

“There’s visitor parking in the garage beneath the building.”

I knew that, too. The building probably wasn’t more than ten blocks away from Belltown Terrace. Getting there on foot would have been easy because the going part was all downhill. Coming back up one of those glacial ridges to return to the Denny Regrade would have been hell, though. Since Mel wasn’t there to insist I do otherwise, I drove.

When you live in downtown Seattle, you tend to keep an eye on nearby real estate, if for no other reason than worrying about some building sprouting up and wrecking your view. Mel and I had watched the transformation of a former lowbrow manufacturing plant into an upscale residential property called the Lofts. Thanks to a long succession of bumbling developers, the building had gone through some tough times. Still, buildings in downtown Seattle that come with any kind of parking, and most especially guest parking, don’t come cheap. As I parked in the Lofts underground garage and walked toward the security phone by the elevator lobby, I couldn’t help but think that Calliope Horn had come a long way from living in a makeshift tarp-­covered homeless camp decades earlier.

When I called, a male voice answered and directed me to come to apartment number 502. A glance at the elevator control panel told me that floor number five was the top floor, which meant their unit was also a penthouse. Yes, Calliope Horn had indeed come a very long way.

When I rang the bell, the door was opened by a man in a wheelchair. That shouldn’t have surprised me, since the door came equipped with two peepholes—­one at the regular height and one a ­couple of feet lower. One half of the man’s face drooped, but he gave me a welcoming smile with the side that still worked, and the grip of his handshake was warm and welcoming.

“Mr. Beaumont?”

I nodded. Having someone call me “mister” still gives me pause. For the greater part of my life, the word “Detective” was an integral part of my name. I still miss it, although I expect I’ll get over it one of these days.

“I’m Dale Grover,” the man said, “Callie’s husband. Come on in.” Using a joystick on the arm of his chair, he backed effortlessly out of the way and led me into what turned out to be an impeccably decorated room. There were no rugs on the polished hardwood floor, probably to accommodate the wheelchair. The furnishings were clean-­lined and sleek, but comfortable. The place was modern without being either ostentatious or obnoxious. Dale parked his chair next to the far end of a black leather sofa and motioned for me to sit down.

“I’m afraid Callie’s just been called to the phone in the office next door. She’ll join us in a ­couple of minutes. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” I told him. “I’m fine.”

“She mentioned that you were coming,” Dale continued. “I believe this has something to do with an old beau of hers, Kenneth.”

“Did you know him?” I asked.

“Nope,” Dale answered. “Kenny was long before my time. Callie and I met in seminary. We were both starting over. I’d had a stroke in the course of routine surgery—­an appendectomy, for Pete’s sake. It was supposed to be in and out. Didn’t work out that way and I ended up having a stroke. When my wife at the time learned that I’d be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, she declined to hang around. She told me she wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of her life looking after a cripple.

“Before the stroke, I had been a high school football coach. I’d always prided myself on being physically fit and setting a good example for my players. You know what they say, ‘Pride goeth before the fall.’ Once I was stuck in this, I just couldn’t see myself coaching from the sidelines.”

“Had to be tough,” I offered.

Grover gave me another lopsided grin. “Not really. God works in mysterious ways. Sometimes you have to be hit smack over the head for Him to get your attention. At least, that’s how it was for me. Once He did, I could see only one way forward. I decided to ride my wheelchair into the ministry. That’s where Callie and I met. She’d had her own personal struggles—­including losing Kenny, the guy she had thought was the love of her life. In a way, we met when we were both starting over from square one.”

Glancing around the spacious room, I thought that together they’d done a remarkable job of starting over.

“Callie’s calling was to minister to the homeless,” he resumed. “Since we were teaming up, I decided to make her mission my mission. Fortunately, I had a sizable malpractice settlement from both the hospital and anesthesiologist. That gave us a bit of a nest egg. We still have a fair amount of it. That’s important, since most of our parishioners are dead broke. When it comes to tithing, ten percent of nothing is still nothing. We got into this place during an economic downturn and were able to combine two units into one so we’d have some separation from work and home. Cuts way down on the commute.”

I had already done a quick calculation on the size of that nest egg. Knowing it had been large enough to allow them to purchase and remodel two units rather than one, I revised my estimate upward.