The Goodbye Man. Jeffery Deaver

was silent for a moment. “The implications being that (a) the robbery was a cover-up for a hit and (b) others might have been involved.”

      “Did you find anything in the investigation about the Foundation? Literature? Anything with an infinity sign on it?”

      “Like the number eight on its side?”

      “That’s right. It’s their logo.”

      “Nothing I recall. But we didn’t toss … we didn’t search Edwards’s place much. No need. You heard the facts. Homicides don’t get any more open-and-shut than that. You’re probably interested to know if we looked at the new stories that Yang was working on, for possible motives.”

      Shaw said, “And the fact you raised the point tells me no, you didn’t.”

      “Correct. Like I said, open-and-shut. What is this group, Osiris Foundation? Like the Manson Family?”

      “Doesn’t seem to be. Talks about self-help. That kind of thing.”

      “And what exactly is your interest, Mr. Shaw?”

      “One of the followers of this outfit killed himself. Adam Harper. Tacoma Public Safety has the details. And I saw another follower, a woman, I didn’t like the way she was being treated.”

      “What’s her name?”

      “I don’t know.”

      Silence in response to this too.

      “I just want to make sure nobody else connected with this outfit gets hurt.”

      “You clearly have some law enforcement experience, sounds like, so you know once a case’s closed, brass treat it like used chewing gum.”

      “I’m sure.”

      “I’ll ask some questions. Give me your contact information.”

      Shaw did so and thanked him.

      They disconnected the call.

      More coffee. He looked up a third website that Mack had sent. There was a “Contact Me” email address at the bottom of the page. Shaw composed a brief note and sent it off. He wondered if he’d hear back.

      Three minutes later, he did.

       17.

      Osiris Foundation? Not one I’m familiar with.” The person looking back at Shaw, via Skype, was a handsome businesswoman sort, with trim hair, a dress blouse and gold chain around her neck. Middle age. “And, frankly, I’m familiar with most of them.”

      Anne DeStefano was among the top cult experts in the country. A doctor in psychology, she advised law enforcement about such organizations, testified as an expert in trials, and deprogrammed—“de-brainwashed,” as she put it—followers who’d escaped from cults and other oppressive organizations and individuals.

      “What does this Foundation do?” DeStefano was in her Los Angeles office. Shaw could see a half-dozen certificates from various institutions and schools on the wall behind her.

      “You have another computer?” Shaw asked.

      “Yes, a desktop.” She glanced to her left. “You sending me an email?”

      “No. There’s a website.”

      “I’ll just Google it.”

      “They scrub their name from search engines and social networking sites.”

      DeStefano lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a technique you see with some of the more troublesome cults. What’s the URL?”

      Shaw recited it and DeStefano turned away, typing on the other keyboard.

      Eyes to the left, she read the Foundation’s homepage. “Hmm. Hard to say from this. Most true cults want you and your loyalty for life. A three-week session? More like a dude ranch or yoga camp. Have some fun in the country, listen to lectures, sit around a campfire and sing ‘Kumbaya.’ At worst, you’ve wasted some time and money. But then there’s ‘Osiris’—the Egyptian theme. That’s a bit occult. And Master Eli. A lot of the more culty leaders give themselves titles like that. You know anything about him?”

      “Not much. His data’s scrubbed too. Was a businessman a few years ago, then gave it up to run the Foundation. I saw some of his followers. They were all wearing matching clothes.”

      “Then it’s not your typical self-help outfit. But that doesn’t mean it’s a cult.”

      “What exactly is a cult?” Shaw asked.

      DeStefano chuckled. “Somebody once said a cult is a religious or a social movement that you don’t happen to like.”

      Shaw smiled.

      “Well, what’s a cult and what isn’t?” she mused. “For me, it’s like that Supreme Court justice who said he wasn’t going to try to define porn but he knew it when he saw it. People with common interests and goals get together every day. You could say a sports team with a mesmerizing coach is a cult. You could say the Catholic Church is a cult. The Shriners, the Lions Club, the Masons. Me? I define a cult as a group that presents a potential physical or mental danger to the members or those outside.

      “I borrow my test from a book by Margaret Singer and Janja Lalich, Cults in Our Midst. For them, a cult, one, controls the environment of the followers; two, has a system of rewards and punishments; three, creates a sense of powerlessness among the followers; four, uses fear for control; five, promotes dependency on the leader or cult; and, six, has a mission to reform followers’ behaviors.

       “There’s another element too: nearly every cult is headed by a single controlling leader. He—it’s usually a man—has a consuming ego, attacks his enemies, lashes out in anger, has an absolute belief that he’s correct, won’t listen to advice or criticism, is paranoid and craves worship and adulation.”

      DeStefano’s eyes cut left to the second computer. “This Osiris Foundation?” She shrugged. “Can’t really say without more information. It seems to fall into the category of a personal improvement and transformational cult—the least harmful. Usually the followers are people who’re sick of their jobs or can’t find satisfactory romance. The leaders’ll use hypnosis, meditation, dream study and encounter sessions to change your outlook on life. The lack of a social media presence is troubling, though. Are they hiding anything?”

      “You mentioned categories of cults. What would those be?”

      DeStefano stretched back. “The majority are religious, drawing on traditional sects, hybrids or made up out of whole cloth. Then the political ones—we can thank 8chan and the internet for most of those. There are business-oriented cults that suck in members for get-rich-quick schemes. Then the really bad ones: racist, like the KKK or Aryan Nations. Militant separatists. White supremacists. Psychopathological cults—Charles Manson, for instance. Black magic. Satan worship, animal and human sacrifice. There are more of these than you’d think.”

      The deprogrammer leaned forward and eyed Shaw. “Can I ask why you’re interested?”

      He told DeStefano about the murder of the journalist Gary Yang and the likelihood that the killer had been a member of the Foundation.

      This drew a frown. “Yang wrote an exposé on it?”

      “Not really. It was just one reference to the Foundation. But the piece suggested that the group might be a cult. Yang was killed a week after the article ran—by someone who probably had been a member.”

      “So the killer either wanted to get revenge for what Yang wrote, or he was afraid that Yang might be planning to write more, maybe revealing some secrets.”

      “I was thinking that.”

      DeStefano