Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission

viewing.
    By the time the service began, the church was filled beyond capacity. Margaret, her two sons, and a group of her family members occupied the front rows on one side of the church. Richard Vogue III, his wife, their two surviving daughters, and their families were seated in the first rows on the other side.
    The next several rows were occupied by political dignitaries and members of their various entourages. I recognized Governor Walker, Salt Lake City Mayor Porter Baldwin, and Senator Theodore Stephens, all political heavyweights who had come to pay their respects to Richard Vogue III.
    Chief Hansen was sitting with my boss, and they had been joined by Vogue’s colleagues from the state board of pardons. I saw people from my own department, including several members of Sloan’s administrative team and even a couple of prison employees.
    Mercifully, the church service was handled with little fanfare. A much smaller group of mourners gathered at a nearby cemetery for a brief graveside service. The whole thing lasted less than two hours.
    I met Burnham after the funeral at a downtown gourmet coffee shop. Feeling moderately guilty over his recent wardrobe crisis, I bought. Over two coffees and a single cinnamon roll that I’d reluctantly agreed to split, Terry and I discussed the current status of the case. Between bites, Terry said, “Tell me something. Why were you so hot to have this surveillance tape?”
    “On one level, it’s a shot in the dark. I’ll admit that. But you know how intensely I dislike loose ends. I’m bothered that our investigation hasn’t identified the guy Vogue brought to the motel for the three-way action with Sue Ann. Think about it. It would have to be someone close to Vogue, somebody he trusted implicitly. Who might that somebody be? Surely not a member of his devout Mormon family. And certainly not someone from his church. It seems to me that leaves old, trusted friends, or perhaps somebody he works with. That somebody might well have attended his funeral. And just maybe we’ve got him on tape.”
    “I follow you now,” said Burnham. “You’re planning to invite Ms. Winkler in to watch enhanced videotape.”
    “Exactly. But not just yet. Kate’s got Salt Lake vice pulling round-the-clock surveillance on the motel. It would be nice if they’d come up with something illegal going on. Then, if Ms. Winkler decides not to cooperate, we’ll be able to apply some pressure.”
    “You realize that finding this guy may not get us any closer to solving the murder of Watts,” Burnham said.
    “No question about it. This could turn out to be a waste of time and energy. Fortunately, it’s not the only iron we’ve got in the fire.”
    “I sure hope not. What else you got?”
    “We’re trying to identify the individual who created the forged suicide note. That person might be directly involved, or at least represent a link to whoever else is. We’re working that angle right now.”
    We spent the next few minutes figuring out our next moves. The weekend would be spent interviewing Levi’s friends and acquaintances. I assigned Terry the task of locating Watts’ estranged sister, hoping that she might have information that would help us. I also gave him the difficult job of trying to locate any of Charles Watts’ friends. Those could be associates he hung around with while on parole, or possibly a small circle of friends from his most recent prison stay. While it appeared that Watts was something of a loner, that might not have been the case inside the joint. If Terry managed to locate his inmate friends, perhaps one of them might help us unravel the mystery surrounding his murder.
    Six days had elapsed since the murder. We badly needed a break before the case grew any colder.
    As for me, my weekend agenda included a stint as Mr. Mom. I had promised Sara she could bring a friend, and I would take them for an afternoon at Hogle Zoo.

Chapter Twenty-nine
    One of the things I missed most about being married was a ritual Nicole and I developed during our eleven years together. On weekend mornings we would get up just ahead of the sunrise, brew our favorite coffee, usually something flavored, turn on the stereo, and settle in to watch the sun usher in a beautiful, new day. It was private, uninterrupted time between two people in love. Sometimes we talked, and on other occasions we didn’t speak at all, allowing ourselves to become consumed by the quiet splendor of the Wasatch