Trial by Fury

by J. A. Jance

  She turned on me then like a wounded animal, eyes blazing. “It’ll always be like that, won’t it! We’re accepted as long as we’re smart enough to know our place, but cross that line, and niggers are only good for hanging!”

  “Joanna, I…”

  She pushed her way past me, returned to our table, and grabbed up her shawl. Just as suddenly as the outburst had come, it subsided. Her face went slack. “Take me home,” she said wearily. “There are people I need to call.”

  I dropped money on the table for the coffee and trailed her outside. When I caught up, Joanna was standing by the Porsche, fingering the door handle. “Since when do cops drive Porsches,” she asked when I walked up to open her car door.

  “When they inherit them,” I replied. I helped her into the car and closed the door behind her.

  Sliding into the driver’s seat, I glanced in her direction before I started the engine. She sat with her head resting against the carseat, her long, slender neck stretched taut, eyes closed, her face impassive. That unconscious pose elicited once more the striking similarity between Joanna Ridley and that ancient Egyptian queen, but this was no time to tell her how beautiful she was. Joanna Ridley was in no condition to hear it.

  “I didn’t finish asking all my questions,” I said, starting the car and putting it in gear.

  “Ask them tomorrow. I’m worn out.”

  “Somebody will come stay with you? You shouldn’t be alone.”

  She nodded. “I’ll call someone.”

  We drove through the city. It was early, not more than eight o’clock or so, but it seemed much later. I felt incredibly tired. Joanna Ridley wasn’t the only one who was worn out. She just had a hell of a lot better reason.

  I drove back to her place and pulled up in front of her house. “Would you like me to come in with you?” I asked. “I could stay until someone comes over.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

  I started to get out to open the door for her, but she opened it herself, struggled out of the low-slung seat, and was inside the house before I knew what had hit me. I sat there like a jerk and watched her go.

  It wasn’t until I turned the car around that I noticed the light in the carport was out. I couldn’t remember her switching it off when we left the house, but she must have. As a precaution, I waited in the car with my hand on the door handle long enough to see her pick up a phone, dial, and begin talking.

  She’ll be all right, I said to myself as I put the car in gear and drove up the street. What Joanna Ridley needed right then was family and friends, people who cared about her and would give her the strength and courage to pick up the pieces and go on with her life. What she didn’t need was an aging police watchdog with a penchant for finding bogeymen under every light switch.

  Right that minute Joanna Ridley needed J. P. Beaumont like she needed a hole in her head.

  CHAPTER

  5

  One of the drawbacks of living in the royal Crest is the lack of soundproofing. I can hear my phone ringing the moment the elevator door opens. It’s always a horse race to see if I can unlock the door and grab the phone before whoever’s calling gives up. My attorney keeps suggesting I get an answering machine, but I’m too old-fashioned. And too stubborn.

  Detective Peters was still on the phone when I picked it up. He was hot.

  “God damn it, Beau. What the hell are you up to now? I’ve had calls from Watty and Captain Powell, both. They’re ready to tear you apart. Me, too. They demanded I tell them what we had. Remember me? I’m your partner.”

  “Hold up, Peters. It’s not my fault.”

  “Not your fault! I heard you told Doc Baker to piss up a rope.”

  “Not in those exact words.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Beau. What’s going on?”

  “It’s Ridley, all right.”

  That stopped Peters cold. “No shit! The basketball coach? I remembered where I’d heard the name while I was stuck on the bridge, but there was no way to get hold of you. Who identified him?”

  “His wife. He’d been missing since Friday, but she didn’t report it. Thought he was sulking over losing the game. She figured he’d come home eventually.”

  Peters gave his customary, long, low whistle. “Have you sealed the car?”

  “Not yet. I just dropped Joanna Ridley back at her house.”

  “Should I come on in? That Buick shouldn’t sit outside any longer than it already has.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was nine o’clock and I was tired, but there was a lot of merit in what Peters said. Every effort has to be made to preserve evidence. “What about your girls?”

  “Mrs. Edwards is here. The kids are asleep, and Mrs. Edwards is watching television.” Mrs. Edwards was Peters’ live-in housekeeper/babysitter. “I’ll meet you at Lincoln Towing in twenty minutes.”

  As an old Fuller Brush salesman, I recognize an assumed close trap when I see one. Not do you want to meet me, but when will you meet me.

  I needed to hit my second wind pretty damn soon. I was going to need it. Peters is a hell of a lot younger than I am, and he’s disgustingly immune to vices of any kind. Including booze. I avoided my recliner. I didn’t dare sit down and get comfortable for fear I wouldn’t get back up. Instead, I made a cursory pass at the refrigerator in a vain search for food before driving to Lincoln Towing’s Fairview lot.

  I waited outside the lot itself, watching the eager beaver fleet of tow trucks come and go. Peters must have flown low across the bridge. He was there in far less than twenty minutes. His first question nailed me good. “Did you have her sign a voluntary search form?”

  “You can’t expect me to remember everything,” I told him. He glared at me in reply, and we went inside together.

  The night clerk wasn’t thrilled at the added paperwork involved in our securing Ridley’s Buick. She did it, though. Once the car had been towed to the secured processing room at Fifth and Cherry, I was ready to call it a day.

  “No way,” Peters said, opening the passenger door on my Porsche and climbing inside. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until we’ve mended some fences along the way, starting with the medical examiner’s office.”

  We found the same night tech sound asleep in the employee’s lounge. The bell over the front door didn’t faze him. He awoke with a start when I gave his shoulder a rough shake. “I thought you wanted information,” I told him.

  He stumbled sleepily to his feet and went in search of his clipboard. I couldn’t help wondering if Doc Baker knew his baby tech took a little evening nap on company time. Eventually, the tech returned relatively awake and prepared to take down my information.

  I filled in as many blanks on his form as I could, based on what information I had gleaned from Joanna Ridley. It consisted of the usual—name, address, phone number, next of kin—enough to clear the medical examiner’s office of one of its prime responsibilities: Identification of the victim.

  As Peters and I left the office, I paused in the doorway. “By the way, you might want to call Doc Baker with that now. He’s probably waiting to hear from you.” The tech didn’t look eager to pick up the phone to call Doc Baker’s home number.

  “You ever hear of winning friends and influencing people, Beau?” Peters asked as we walked outside.

  “I don’t like people who sleep on the job. Where to next?”

  If I had any delusions of going home right then, Peters put a stop to them with what he said next. “We’d better check in with the department and let them know what’s up. Officially.”

  We were ready to climb into the car. I looked at him across the roof of the Porsche. “What the hell happened to you, Peters? You used to be a lot more flexible, remember? You didn’t always do things by the book.”

  He grinned at me. “Two and a half years of hanging around with J. P. Beaumont. That’s what happened. Somebody in this outfit has to go by the book, or we’ll both get our asses fired.”
>
  Back on the fifth floor of the Public Safety Building we sorted through our individual fanfolds of messages.

  “Call,” Peters said. “Five bucks says I take it.”

  “You’re on.”

  “Full house.” Triumphantly, Peters turned his messages faceup on the desk. Three from Sergeant Watkins, two from Captain Powell. “See there?”

  “Read ’em and weep,” I told him, turning over my own—four of a kind, all from Captain Lawrence Powell. With a grimace of disgust, Peters slapped a five-dollar bill on the desk in front of me.

  One of the other detectives sauntered over to our cubicle. “I don’t know what you two have been up to, but people are gunning for you. I’d lay low if I were you.”

  We never had a fighting chance of lying low. We were right in the middle of writing our reports when Sergeant Watkins showed up in a stained sweat suit and worn running shoes. He hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion. He ignored Peters and came straight after me.

  “You interested in the Officer Friendly program in Seattle Public Schools?” he demanded. “By the time Doc Baker finishes with you, that may be the only job in the department you’re qualified for.”

  “Doc Baker was out of line,” I returned. “So was his tech. They had no business demanding information before I had a chance to question the individual.”

  “Doctor Baker,” Watty corrected, enunciating every syllable clearly to be sure I understood his meaning. “Doctor Baker happens to be the King County medical examiner, and don’t you forget it.”

  He glanced down at the forms we were working on. He sighed and headed for his desk, still growling at us over his shoulder. “When you finish those reports, you could just as well bring them by so I can see what you’ve got.”

  It was eleven by the time we were perched on the front of Watty’s desk, waiting while he scanned our reports.

  “A high school basketball coach. Holy shit! I’d better get Arlo Hamilton on this right away. Can you two be here for a press briefing at eight tomorrow morning?”

  We both nodded. Unlike crooks, cops don’t get time off for good behavior. By the time I drove Peters back to his Datsun at Lincoln Towing, I could barely hold my head up.

  “You satisfied?” I asked. “Is everything by the book now?”

  “As much as it’s going to be,” Peters replied mildly. “What do you want to do tomorrow? Go to Ridley’s house or stop by the school?”

  “The house first,” I answered. “We’d better get that voluntary search form before this gets any deeper.”

  Peters rolled his eyes and grinned. “Wonders will never cease.”

  I drove back to Third and Lenora and put the Porsche to bed in its assigned place in the parking garage. I walked onto the elevator only because it would have been too much trouble to get down on my knees and crawl. A phone was ringing when the elevator door opened. It’s always my phone.

  “Hello,” I snarled into it.

  “Don’t sound so happy to hear from me.” It was Ralph Ames, my attorney, calling from Phoenix. Ralph Ames’ law firm, and more importantly, Ralph’s personal attention, had been a gift to me from the same lady who left me the Porsche. I’m not one of his more dependable clients.

  “I understand you didn’t make your closing interview this afternoon.”

  “Damn it, Ralph. I got busy here and completely forgot about it. Can we reset it?”

  “No sweat,” Ralph told me cheerfully. “Only you’ll have to swear on a stack of Bibles that you’ll show up this time.”

  “I swear. Just let me know when it is.”

  When I got off the phone I was careful to steer clear of any hair of the dog. I figured I’d need to be on my toes early and long the next day. A clear head was essential. I fell into bed, but by then I was too wound up to sleep.

  My mind slipped into overdrive and busily tried to sift through all the information it had received that day. So far the only person firmly fixed in my memory bank was Joanna Ridley. What was it she had said when she blew up at me there in the waiting room? Something about crossing a line. What line had Darwin Ridley crossed? And why had it been fatal? That was one of the tough questions I’d have to ask his widow the next day.

  It was late when I finally drifted off. I was still awake when the last of the serious drinkers left Palmer’s Tavern across the street. It seemed like only minutes later when I surfaced in a dream with Anne Corley.

  She never changes in my dreams. She’s always young and beautiful and vibrant, and she’s always wearing that same, tantalizing red dress.

  In the dream, I’m always so glad to see her it’s pathetic. She smiles and reaches out to take my hand. Over the months I’ve learned to force myself awake then, to propel myself out of the dream before it has a chance to turn ugly.

  I awoke shaking and dripping with sweat. I know better than to try to sleep again after one of those dreams. I always return to that same instant like some crazy broken record.

  Instead, I stumbled out of bed, took a long hot shower, shaved, and dressed. I was at the Dog House ordering breakfast by five-thirty, along with a generous slice of Seattle’s colorful cast of late-night/early-morning characters.

  I appropriated the discarded remains of a newspaper from the table next to me. I ignored the news as I always do. Daily doses of news are bad for me. Instead, I worked The New York Times crossword puzzle over coffee, bacon, and eggs.

  It’s one way to take your mind off your troubles.

  CHAPTER

  6

  The murder of a prominent man is always news. The murder of a winning high school coach is news with a capital N. The department’s conference room was jammed to the gills for the promised briefing, with the attendees nothing short of a Who’s Who in Seattle media, from television reporters to print pukes. Including Maxwell Cole, my all-time least favorite newspaper columnist.

  Max is part of a long-running rivalry that dates back to college days. His position as crime columnist for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer has kept us at odds for as long as I’ve been with Seattle P.D. He has a way of getting under my skin. And staying there.

  Arlo Hamilton, Seattle P.D.’s public information officer, is a reasonable sort, but I could see he was losing patience as Max asked questions that were nothing less than an illdisguised tirade—the media busily manufacturing news to suit themselves.

  “One of my sources stated that Mr. Ridley was…” He paused for dramatic effect and consulted a small notebook. “I believe the word he used was lynched. Doesn’t that sort of take you back to the Old South? Is it possible this homicide was racially motivated?”

  “As I said before, Mr. Cole, at this time we have no motive in this crime. The exact cause of death is being withheld pending investigation.”

  “But wouldn’t you say lynching is a step backward to the Ku Klux Klan mentality of the sixties?”

  “I wouldn’t say anything of the kind.”

  “You’re ruling out race as a possible motive, then?”

  I was glad Arlo was running the press conference instead of me. About then I would have told Max to fuck off. Hamilton managed to remain unruffled. “We are investigating all possibilities at this time. No potential lead will be ignored, racial or otherwise.”

  Arlo glanced around the room, hoping to shut Max down by calling someone else. Max blithely launched into another question.

  “Two years ago, during the height of the Neo-Nazi scare, there was talk of creating an all-white preserve here in Washington. Could this action be connected with one of those groups?”

  “As you know, Mr. Cole, members of those groups were apprehended, tried, and found guilty of numerous crimes. Those who didn’t die during the initial siege of their headquarters are in prison for long terms. I don’t think we need worry that Mr. Ridley’s death is part of a Neo-Nazi plot. Any other questions?”

  Fortunately, someone else raised his hand, and Hamilton gratefully acknowledged him. “Were police officers in attendanc
e at the basketball championships in Seattle Center Friday night?”

  Hamilton nodded.

  “The Mayor’s office has been concerned about special event security at the Center. Has security been beefed up?”

  “Yes, it has. The horse patrol was there as well as several officers patrolling the grounds on foot. None of them saw anything out of line.”

  “You’re saying that it wasn’t a lack of security?”

  “Look, you guys, give me a break. Don’t read between the lines. We had numerous officers at the Center, but until we know exactly what happened, I can’t say whether it was a security problem or not.”

  It was clear the newshounds had Arlo’s scent. There was no need for Peters and me to hang around for the bloodletting. I reached over and tapped Peters on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He followed me to the door. I didn’t notice that Maxwell Cole had trailed after us until he showed up at the elevator lobby. Everything about Max is big, from the layer of flab that spills over the top of his belt buckle up to and including his ego. He wears a waxed, handlebar mustache that tends to be littered with bits and pieces of his most recent meal—egg yolk in this particular case.

  “How’s it going, J. P.? You two working this one? I saw you hanging around the briefing room.”

  “Look, Max, we’ve got a long day ahead of us. Get lost.”

  “Come on, J. P. Give an old fraternity brother a break. All I need is an angle. Race would be dynamite. It would bust this town wide open.”

  I try not to deal with Maxwell Cole in anything but absolute contempt. Lesser insults go straight over his head. “We’re booked up already, Max. We don’t need you to start a race war just to keep us busy.”

  The elevator door slipped open. We got on and left him standing there in the hallway. “Think he got it?” Peters asked once the door closed.

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  We went on down to the garage and checked out a car. The first order of business had to be the voluntary search form from Joanna Ridley. That would enable the crime lab to go to work on Darwin Ridley’s Buick.