The boss, a transplant from some corner of the Middle East, barely spoke English, but he communicated clearly enough that he didn’t know where The Summit was, nor did he care.
We retreated to the car and attempted, logically enough, to drive to the place. It seemed straightforward enough, since The Summit was clearly visible to us from where we were. It happens to be one of those places you can’t get to from here. Three attempts ended in dismal failure, with us wandering blindly through a series of pricey suburban dead ends. We stopped once more and asked directions of a bathrobe-clad lady out walking a pair of golden retrievers. She wasn’t able to help us either. That’s one of the mysteries about Bellevue. Nobody knows where anything is or how to get there.
We made one more assault, up 150th. This attempt brought us closer than any of our previous forays, but it ended in a necker’s knob turnaround blocked by a wrought-iron electronically operated gate. It was apparent that the road beyond the gate led up to the posh development on top of the hill. While we paused to assess the situation, a lady driving a silver BMW opened the gate and drove out. Before the gate could shut again, Al and I scrambled out of our vehicle and sprinted through the opening.
We found ourselves walking just below the crest of the hill. When we topped it, the view was dazzling. To the north was Mount Baker, to the east the forested hills of Snoqualmie Pass, to the south stood the graceful, snow-covered face of Mount Rainier, and to the west lay Seattle, its buildings surrounded by shimmering water against a background of snow-denuded mountains on the Olympic Peninsula.
Al stopped in his tracks and did a complete 360-degree. “What the hell do you have to pay for a view like this!”
“Plenty,” I told him, not adding that my own view from the penthouse in Belltown Terrace wasn’t much different from The Summit’s.
It turned out we were already on Summit Drive. It curved this way and that, meandering like a country road. Except it wasn’t. The place was a beehive of activity, with construction vehicles parked here and there around houses in various stages of completion. A backhoe was noisily digging the footings of one while roofers tacked cedar shakes onto the raw wooden roof of another. No one challenged us as we sauntered along, looking for 16318.
The house would have been difficult to miss. It was huge, a mansion by any standards, situated on a lot that gave it a commanding view from every room, including, I’m sure, bathrooms and closets. The front porch was ablaze with a collection of brass pots filled with brilliantly blooming plants.
Stepping onto the porch, I rang the bell. A few moments later, the door was opened by a dark-haired young woman wearing a maid’s uniform. “Yes?” she said questioningly.
I handed her my card. “We’re with the Seattle Police Department,” I said. “We’d like to speak to either Mr. or Mrs. Thomas.”
“Mrs. Thomas just left,” the woman said, gesturing toward the road.
“What about Mr. Thomas? Is he home?”
“Yes, but he’s busy.”
“This is important,” I said. “It’s about his son.”
“I don’t have a son,” a voice boomed behind her. The young woman started visibly. “It’s all right, Sarah. You may go.”
With a compliant nod, Sarah retreated from the open door. We found ourselves peering into a rose marble foyer where a thin, stooped man stood at the foot of a curving stairway. I was surprised to find that the source of that robust voice was this frail-looking old man. I saw at once that there was a remarkable similarity between the now-dead Jonathan and his father, William Thomas. Months of wasting illness had aged the younger man until the two men looked more like brothers than father and son.
William Thomas shuffled toward us, leaning heavily on a gnarled cane, and looked up at us through bushy gray eyebrows. “Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded.
“We’re with Seattle P.D.,” I repeated. “We were told that you are Jonathan Thomas’s father.”
“Was,” he corrected bitterly. “No more.” He reached out as if to close the door. I caught it with the toe of my shoe and edged into the doorway.
“We’re with Homicide, Mr. Thomas. Your son is dead. We came to tell you.”
It was a brutal way to break the news, but I wasn’t of a mind to be especially kind. You don’t find most parents denying their child’s very existence when you come to notify them that something has happened to that child.
“Dead?” he asked stupidly. “Did you say dead?”
I nodded. William Thomas reached out a bony hand and grasped my jacket lapel, shaking me with surprising vigor. “Did he repent?” he asked. “Did he pray for forgiveness of his sins?”