Mona Lisa Eyes (Danny Logan Mystery #4) (18 page)

She thought about this for a moment, tears forming
in her eyes. “It’s still sad.”

I shook myself
out of my funk and hopped up and walked over
to her. I wrapped my arms around her. “For the
record,” I said, “and not because I expect either of
us to meet an untimely demise anytime soon, but when
it comes to you, I have no regrets.” I pulled
her tight. “None at all.”

C
hapter 10

THE BEATRICE THOMS
MEMORIAL FOUNDATION HEADQUARTERS
is located downtown on Second Avenue at
Pike Street, across from the Benaroya Concert Hall and just
a few steps away from Pike Place Market. We walked
in at 9:25 a.m., five minutes early. Eric Gaston
had arranged a series of interviews for us with the
people who Sophie worked with on a frequent basis.

We
announced ourselves to the receptionist and stood in the lobby
, waiting. Brass letters spelled out the words “Beatrice Thoms Memorial
Foundation” on a marble wall behind the reception desk. Large
pictures of smiling African children in school, in a clinic
, and playing soccer hung on the walls, spotlighted by overhead
ceiling lights. Annual reports for the Foundation were stacked on
an end table beside a sofa in the lobby. The
unmistakable feeling was that this place was important and had
a purpose—a real reason for being here. I was
impressed. Toni grabbed a report for us just as a
man entered the room.

“Good morning,” the man said, in
a voice that seemed higher-pitched than it should have
for one so tall and lanky. “I’m Robert Brownell
. I’m Mr. Gaston’s assistant and also the office
manager. You must be Mr. Logan and Ms. Blair.”

Brownell
was in his mid-thirties. He had short, dark red
hair cut in a military style and piercing, bright blue
eyes that seemed to be eerily lit from within. He
wore tan khakis and an olive knit shirt with
Beatrice
Thoms Memorial Foundation
embroidered on the breast. “Eric’s finishing
up a conference call. He asked that I get you
two set up in our conference room. He’ll be
joining us shortly.”

We followed Brownell back to a very
nice room with a large marble-topped table and eighteen
plush leather seats surrounding it. The west wall of the
room was all glass and looked out across the top
of the neighboring building to Elliott Bay and the Puget
Sound.

“Can I offer you some coffee? Water, maybe?”

I
nodded as I pulled out a chair. “Yes, please. Water
would be great.”

“Make it two, please,” Toni said.

Brownell
left and before he returned, Eric Gaston entered.

“Good morning
, you two.” He wore olive green chinos—the kind with
the little pleats in front—and a light blue oxford
button-down shirt, no tie. His dark brown Sperry Top
-Siders were polished to a warm glow. He had a
big grin on his face, and his sleeves were rolled
up already this morning, first thing. The way he bounded
into the room, he seemed to be a man full
of energy—clearly a guy ready to tackle the new
day.

“Good morning,” I said. I started to stand to
greet him and as soon as I did, my quads
started trembling—a sharp reminder that this morning’s training
run had featured “hill intervals”—a hard sprint up the
side of a steep hill followed by a jog back
to the bottom to recover. Then, do it again. Twelve
times. By the last round, my legs were like jelly
, and they were still talking to me now. Toni noticed
.

“You okay?” she asked.

I smiled and leaned forward on
the table. “I’ll make it.”

Gaston had been pulling
out the chair at the head of the table for
himself. “Athletic injury?” he said.

I shook my head. “No
, it’s not an injury. I’m getting ready for
the Seattle half marathon next month. This morning’s training
run was particularly brutal.” I shook my head. “Seems to
take longer and longer to recover nowadays.”

“He’s a
distance runner,” Toni added. “He runs about fifty miles a
week. Not jogs—runs.”

He smiled. “Happens to the best
of us. Are you competitive?” Eric asked. “I know some
people run for fun and others are more serious.”

“He
’s competitive,” Toni said. “Very.”

I smiled. “It keeps getting
harder. I usually finish in the top ten. We’ll
see this year.”

Gaston shook his head. “Wow. That’s
impressive. But it sounds like a hell of a lot
of work to me. My sport’s a little easier
on the legs.” He nodded toward a very large photograph
of a racing sailboat on the wall across from the
window. The boat was heeled over dramatically, with all the
crew members hiked out on the windward rail to help
balance the force of the wind.

“You’re a sailor
?” Toni asked as she stared at the picture.

“I am
.” He stared at the picture for a moment, then he
turned and looked at me. “As a matter of fact
, that’s my boat.” He pointed to a figure at
the back of the boat. “See that guy in the
back there—the one steering? That’s me. My back
’s to the camera. This picture was taken from a
helicopter last year up at Orcas Island at the annual
Round the County race.”

“Very impressive,” I said as I
studied the uniformed crew and what, to my untrained eye
, looked like a pretty sophisticated boat. “It looks like you
’re really serious about it.”

He nodded. “Yeah—it’s
a passion, that’s for sure.”

“So I don’t
know anything about sailing,” Toni said. “Do you use like
the same team of guys all the time?”

He looked
at the picture and nodded. “We do. At our level
, everyone onboard is a specialist. And we practice hard too
.” He smiled at me. “Of course, it’s not as
physical as competitive running, but it can be pretty demanding
. Most of the crew have been together for a few
years now—ever since I got here.”

“Judging from the
picture, it looks like you’ve been doing this awhile
?” I asked.

He laughed. “Yeah, I grew up with it
. In fact, I think sailing’s in my DNA. The
family’s had a boat ever since I can remember
. When we lived in Boston, we used to race and
sail all over New England—up to Maine and all
the way down to Long Island. When we were considering
moving out here in 2008, one of the things that
I found most attractive about this place is the sailing
—the water. It’s fantastic. Some of the best sailing
in the country.”

I nodded. “That’s impressive. It sure
looks like you guys know what you’re doing.”

“Thanks
.” He turned to me. “You know, Danny, speaking of sailing
, I can always use a good athletic type such as
yourself as a crew member. We have to deal with
attrition, so we bring on a new guy or two
each season. You should join us for one of our
practices and give it a try.” He smiled. “It’d
be a lot easier on the legs.”

I looked at
the photo, skeptically. The boat was pounding across a wave
, the bow sending a shower of spray all the way
to the stern. “I don’t know. Those guys look
like they’re getting pretty wet. And that water looks
ice-cold.”

He laughed. “Yeah, but look at their faces
. They’re having a blast.” I studied the crew members
and had to agree—they did appear to be having
fun.

After a couple of seconds I shrugged. “Well, maybe
after my race; you never know.”

He smiled. “Good. You
can count on it. I’ll give you a call
.”

Brownell rejoined us carrying a tray with two bottles of
water and two cups of coffee, which he set on
the table before turning to Gaston. “Let me know if
you need anything.”

“Thanks, Robert.” He turned to us. “Okay
, then. You guys ready to get started?”

“We are.”

“Good
. As you asked, I’ve scheduled you fifteen minutes or
so with each of the people who Sophie worked with
, not counting Ryan Crosby, who you said you already talked
to.”

I nodded. “That’s great. We appreciate it. If
it’s okay with you, we’d like to start
by talking to you for a few minutes.”

He smiled
. “I figured as much. I took the liberty of scheduling
myself first. But I do have a meeting in thirty
minutes that requires my attendance.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Won’t
take long.”

“What can I tell you?”

“Why don’t
you start by telling us about yourself and how you
came to work here.”

Gaston nodded and spent a few
minutes explaining his background: “I got my law degree from
Boston College in 1997, but I never practiced—never even
joined the bar. I wanted to get into nonprofit work
instead. I started working for a small foundation right there
in Boston and, eventually, I became the executive director. In
2008 a recruiter contacted me on behalf of the Beatrice
Thoms Memorial Foundation. I looked into it and decided that
Seattle might be a great opportunity for me. I interviewed
with Oliver and was fortunate enough to be selected. So
I packed up my family, and we made the move
all the way across the country.”

“And the move’s
been good?”

He smiled. “It’s turned out to be
a great decision—the Foundation does really meaningful work, and
I’m very happy to be here. My wife and
kids love it here too.”

I nodded. “Good. Tell me
about your job here. You report to . . . ?”

“Technically, to the
board. Day to day, of course, this means I answer
to Oliver, since he’s the chairman and the most
active board member—he and used to be Sophie.”

“As
executive director, would you say you’re in overall charge
of the Foundation?”

“The day-to-day operations, yes.”

“And
that means . . .”

“Raising donations, making fund allocation suggestions to the
board, compliance oversight, managing staff, reporting—all of these things
.”

“And you stay busy? How many projects are there?” Toni
asked.

“Fifty-six now as of today,” he said proudly
. Fifty-seven in another three weeks.”

“Wow,” I said. “That
’s a lot of projects. It must be hard to
keep track of them all.”

He shook his head. “Not
too bad, really. I mean, if we were doing fifty
-six all at one time, it’d be pandemonium. But
that’s fifty-six cumulative, spread out over the last
five years or so. Most of the projects are already
complete.”

“What type of projects are they?” Toni asked.

“Water
projects, health-care clinics, schoolhouses—that sort of thing. Anyway
, once they’re finished and operational, they’re pretty easy
for us to manage—mostly just annual reports then.”

“You
must have a good staff,” Toni said.

He smiled. “We
do, thank God. There are twenty-five of us here
now, and you’re right: we’re good at what
we do, if I say so myself. When I started
, several of the staff had already been employed here since
we opened up in Seattle—Robert, who you met, and
Linda Ramos, our compliance director, who you’re going to
meet in a little while, and a few others.”

I
scribbled this information down onto my notepad, then I looked
up. “Very impressive. I take it you’d say that
the Foundation’s a good place to work.”

Gaston nodded
. “Definitely. Sir Jacob basically owns the place. He controls the
board.” He smiled. “That said, as far as I’m
aware, he’s never actually
exercised
any control other than
to appoint Oliver and then to appoint the girls to
the board. He just sits back and lets them run
it—seems happy that way. And he’s still our
largest donor by far.”