Trial by Fury

by J. A. Jance

  “You’re sure you didn’t see him after that?” Peters asked.

  “Nope. Not that I remember.”

  Peters sighed and rose. I followed.

  “Does that help?” Rimbaugh asked.

  “I hope so,” Peters replied. “We’ll be back in touch.”

  Once outside, we held a quick conference. “What do you think?” Peters asked.

  I shrugged. “Eight o’clock sounds like halftime to me.”

  “But he could have come back later, without Rimbaugh seeing him.”

  That, too, was a distinct possibility. As distinct a possibility as anything I’d come up with. There was no way to tell for sure.

  So much for being the Grand Old Man of Homicide.

  CHAPTER

  21

  Peters went back to the Public Safety Building. During my lunch hour, I took the Porsche and drove down to Sea-Tac to pick up Ralph Ames.

  Ralph was a dapper-looking guy, an attorney’s attorney. He had a low-key look about him that said he knew what he was doing. I probably never would have gotten to know him if I hadn’t inherited him from Anne Corley. It took a while to get to know the man under his air of quiet reserve, but once I did, he turned out to be one hell of a nice guy.

  At the airport that day, when I went to pick him up, he had an uncharacteristic shit-eating grin on his face that worried me some, but not enough for me to do anything about it.

  There was just time to grab him from the arriving-passenger level, hightail it back to town, and have him drop me at the department. He took my Porsche back to my place while Peters and I drove to Mercer Island High School, where we planned to have a chat with Molly Blackburn.

  Ned Browning was most reluctant to call Molly out of class so we could talk to her. I have to admit that knowing the principal’s name appeared not once but twice in the trophy list in the girls’ locker room gave me a whole new perspective on his outward show of high principles and middle-class morality.

  “Detective Beaumont, I’m not at all sure I should let you talk to one of my students without her parents’ express knowledge and permission.”

  I wasn’t feeling particularly tolerant toward that officious little worm. In fact, I became downright belligerent. “We don’t have time to screw around, Mr. Browning. We need to see that girl today. Now.”

  “Certainly, you don’t think one of my students had something to do with the murder!” There was just the right tone of shocked consternation in Ned Browning’s voice. He should have been an actor instead of a high school principal. He gave an award-winning performance.

  “Your students know a hell of a lot about a lot of things they shouldn’t.”

  I let it go at that. There was no outward, visible sign that he understood the ramifications of what I said, yet I knew my seemingly casual remark had hit home. Finally, he reached for his phone and called for a student page to bring Molly Blackburn to his office.

  Molly waltzed into the room like she owned the place. I recognized her as the blonde who had been pitching such a fit, literally bawling her eyes out, the day Peters and I had interviewed all those kids. Talk about acting!

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. Browning?” she asked brightly.

  “These gentlemen do,” he replied. “You remember them, don’t you, Molly?”

  Molly looked at Peters and me. When she recognized us, she stepped back a full step. “Y-yes,” she stammered uncertainly.

  “Good. They’ve asked to speak to you. Mr. Howell is out today, so you may use his office. I have scheduled a parent conference in just a few minutes. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to join you. This way, please.”

  Unfortunately? Hell! It was a good thing he had another meeting. No way would I have let that son of a bitch join us for Molly Blackburn’s interview.

  He led us to an adjoining office. Molly’s entrance into that room was far different from the one she had made into the principal’s office. She lagged behind us like an errant puppy who’s just crapped all over the new rug and who knows he’s going to get it.

  We knew, and she knew we knew. As soon as the door closed behind Ned Browning, I whirled on her and let Molly Blackburn have it with both barrels.

  “What’s the matter? Did Bambi call to warn you?”

  Her eyes widened. She was still standing in the doorway. She groped blindly for a chair and eased her way into it. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “So you know why we’re here?”

  She shook her head. “No, not really.” Her face was white. She was scared to death, and I wanted her to stay that way.

  “Are you the one who was trying to blackmail the Ridley’s and the Barkers?”

  “Wh-what?” she stammered. Under pressure, she seemed to be having a great deal of trouble making her voice and mouth work in unison.

  “You’re the one with the fancy camera, aren’t you? The one who took the “proof” shot of your friend Bambi and Darwin Ridley?”

  She licked her lip nervously, swallowed, and nodded. Barely. Almost imperceptibly.

  “So where’s the negative?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “Don’t know! What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “It’s gone. Someone took it.”

  “When?” I demanded. “Where was it?”

  “I had it with me. I had all the negatives from that roll of film in my book bag. I didn’t dare leave them at home. Sometimes my parents go through my things.”

  “So you carried them around with you. When did you notice they were gone?”

  “Friday afternoon. After Mr. Barker came to school to get Bambi. I looked for them then, but they weren’t there.”

  “And how long had the negatives been in your purse?”

  “Not my purse. My book bag. I brought the picture to school on Monday. That was the day…” She broke off.

  “Let me guess. That’s the day you scratched Darwin Ridley’s name in the locker.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “It doesn’t take a Philadelphia lawyer to figure it out,” I told her. “So sometime between Monday and Friday, the negatives disappeared,” I continued. “What happened to the original picture? Where is it?”

  “It’s gone, too. We burned it when we wrote down the name.”

  “Too bad you didn’t burn the negative as well.”

  “Why? I don’t understand.”

  I wanted her to understand. I wanted her to feel the responsibility for Darwin Ridley’s death right down to the soles of her feet. “Because,” I growled, “it found its way into the wrong hands. That’s why Darwin Ridley was murdered.”

  Molly’s eyes flooded with tears. “No! It’s not true. It can’t be!” She glanced in Peters’ direction as if seeking help, reassurance. None was forthcoming. Peters had remained absolutely silent throughout the proceedings.

  Now he folded his arms uncompromisingly across his chest. “It’s true,” he said quietly.

  Molly doubled over, sobbing hysterically into her lap. Neither Peters nor I offered her the smallest bit of comfort. I felt nothing but profound disgust. Finally, she quit crying on her own.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” she asked, looking up red-eyed and frightened.

  “That depends on you, doesn’t it. Are you going to help us or not?”

  She nodded. “I’ll help.”

  “All right. Try to think back to when the negatives could have disappeared. Can you remember any times when the bag was left un-attended?”

  “No. I always have it with me.” She motioned toward a shiny green bag on the floor. “See?”

  “Did anyone else know the negatives were there? Did you tell any of your friends?”

  “No. Not even Bambi. Nobody knew.”

  “And what were the negatives in? One of those envelopes from a fast photo-developing place?”

  “No. A plain white envelope. I developed them myself. At home.”

  “It must be nice to be so talented,�
� I commented sarcastically. “Do your parents have any idea what you’ve been doing?”

  “Don’t tell them. Please. They’d kill me.”

  I had been sitting behind the assistant principal’s desk. I got up then and walked to the window. “They probably wouldn’t,” I said. “But I don’t think I’d blame them if they did.” I turned to Peters. “Do you have any other questions?”

  He shook his head. “Not right now. You’ve pretty well covered it.”

  I looked back at Molly. She was staring at me, eyes wide and frightened. “Get out of here,” I ordered. “You make me sick.” She scurried out of the room as fast as she could go.

  “You were pretty tough on her,” Peters remarked after the door closed.

  “Not nearly as tough as I should have been.”

  Glancing down at my watch, I realized it was after two, and I didn’t have the location for my closing. “I’d better call Ames and find out where I’m supposed to be and when. If we’re going to be stuck in traffic, it might be nice if we were at least going in the right direction.”

  I picked up the assistant principal’s phone and dialed my own number. It rang twice. When a woman’s voice answered, I hung up, convinced I had dialed a wrong number. I tried again. That time my line was busy.

  Peters stood up. “While you’re playing with the phone, I need to go check on something.” He walked out of the office, and I tried dialing one more time. This time, when the woman’s voice answered, I stayed on the line to listen. The recorded voice was soft and sultry.

  “Hello, my name is Susan. Beau is unable to come to the phone right now, but he doesn’t want to miss your call. Please leave your name, number, time of day, and a brief message at the sound of the tone, and Beau will call you back just as soon as he can. Thanks for calling. Bye-bye.” Then there was a beep.

  “What the fuck!”

  I held the receiver away from my mouth and ear and looked at it like it was some strange apparition I’d never seen before. I felt like somebody had just clunked me over the head with a baseball bat. What the hell was an answering machine doing on my phone?

  Just then, I heard Ames’ voice, shouting at me from the receiver. “Hey, Beau. Is that you? Are you there? What do you think? Do you like it?”

  “Ralph Ames, you son of a bitch. No, I don’t like it. I told you before, I don’t want an answering machine.”

  “Come on, Beau. It’s great. In three days you’ll love it. It’s a present, an early housewarming present.”

  “You jerk! When I get home, I’ll tear it out of the wall and wrap it around your neck!” I slammed down the phone just as Peters came back into the room. He was grinning, but he wiped the look off his face the minute he saw me.

  “Hey, Beau. What’s up?”

  “That damn Ames went and installed a stupid answering machine in my house while my back was turned, without even asking me.”

  “So? It’s probably a good idea. You’re not the easiest person in the world to catch. Where’s the closing? Did you find out?”

  I had been so disturbed by the answering machine that I had forgotten the reason I had called. Chagrined, I picked up the phone and redialed. The answering machine clicked on after the second ring. “Hello. My name is Susan…”

  “Damn it, Ames!” I shouted into the phone. “I know you’re there. If you can hear me, turn this goddamned thing off and talk to me.”

  The woman’s voice was stifled. Ames’ voice came on the line.

  “Here I am, Beau. What do you need?”

  “The closing. I know when it is, but I don’t know where.”

  “Downtown in Columbia Center. Up on the seventieth floor. Ellis and Wheeler. It’s getting pretty late. Want to meet me there? I can bring your car.”

  “Fine,” I answered curtly. “See you there.” I hung up again.

  “You don’t have to be such a hard-ass about it,” Peters chided me as I stood up to leave. “I’m sure Ames thought he was helping you out. There are times I’d like to have one of those gadgets myself.”

  “Great,” I grumbled. “I’ve got a terrific idea. We’ll unplug it from my house and plug it back in in yours.”

  Peters smiled. “When are you going to give up and accept the inevitable? Automation and microchips are here to stay.”

  “Not in my house they aren’t,” I replied, then stalked from the room with Peters right behind me.

  I’m one of those people they’ll have to pull kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, if I live to be that old.

  I have no intention of going quietly.

  CHAPTER

  22

  On Friday afternoon, traffic in Seattle is a nightmare. We made it back across the bridge with barely enough time for Peters to make it to Darwin Ridley’s funeral at the Mount Baker Baptist Church. Peters dropped me off at a bus stop on Rainier Avenue South. I grabbed a Metro bus jammed with rowdy schoolkids for a snail’s-pace ride downtown. If I were into jogging and physical fitness, I probably could have beaten the bus on foot.

  Once downtown however, Columbia Center isn’t hard to find. It’s the tallest building west of the Mississippi, to say nothing of being the tallest building in Seattle. The lobby is a maze, however, and it took a while to locate the proper bank of elevators for an ear-popping ride to the seventieth floor.

  Stepping out of the elevator, the carpet beneath my feet was so new and thick that it caught the soles of my shoes and sent me flying. I came within inches of tumbling into the lap of a startled, brunette receptionist, who managed to scramble out of the way.

  There’s nothing like making a suave and elegant grand entrance.

  “J. P. Beaumont,” I said archly, once I was upright again, hoping somehow to regain my shattered dignity. “I’m supposed to meet Ralph Ames here.”

  It didn’t work. Dignity was irretrievable. The receptionist had to stifle a giggle before she answered me. “Mr. Ames is already inside,” she said. “This way, please.”

  Rising, she turned and led me down a short, book-lined hallway. As she looked away, the corners of her mouth continued to crinkle in a vain attempt to keep a straight face.

  At the end of the hallway we came to another desk. There, the receptionist handed me off to another sweet young thing, a blonde with incredibly long eyelashes and matching legs. It was clear the personnel manager in that office had an eye for beauty. I wondered if these ladies had any office skills, or if good looks constituted their sole qualification for employment.

  “Mr. Rogers told me to show you right in,” the blonde said. She opened a door into a spacious office with a spectacular view of Seattle’s humming waterfront on Elliot Bay. In one corner of the room sat Ralph Ames and another man hunched over a conference table piled high with a formidable stack of legal documents.

  “So there you are,” Ames said, glancing up as I entered the room. “It’s about time you got here. I’d like to introduce Dale Rogers. He’s representing the syndicate. This whole transaction is complicated by the fact that you’re both buyer and seller.”

  Ames has a penchant for understatment. The process of buying my new condominium was actually far more than complicated. It was downright mystifying.

  Months before, acting on Ames’ suggestion that I’d best do some investing with my recent inheritance, I had joined with a group of other investors to syndicate the purchase of a new, luxury condominium high-rise in downtown Seattle. Now, operating as an individual, I was purchasing an individual condominium unit from the syndicate.

  Ames and the other attorney busily passed papers back and forth, both of them telling me where and when to sign. Between times, when my signature was not required, I sat and examined the contrast between the panoramic view of water and mountains through the window and the impossibly ugly but obviously original oil painting on the opposite wall. I couldn’t help but speculate about how much this exercise in penmanship was costing me on a per-minute basis, and how many square inches of that painting I persona
lly had paid for.

  In less time and for more money than I had thought possible, I was signed, sealed, and delivered as the legal owner of my new home at Second and Broad. Ralph Ames literally beamed as I scrawled one final signature on the dotted line.

  “Good for you, Beau. It’s a great move.”

  Dale Rogers nodded in agreement. “That’s right, Mr. Beaumont. As soon as the weather turns good, you’ll have to have us all over for a barbecue. I understand there’s a terrific barbecue on the recreation floor. My wife is dying to see the inside of that building.”

  “Sure thing,” I said. My enthusiasm hardly matched theirs, however. I didn’t feel much like a proud new home owner. I felt a lot more like a frustrated detective battling a case that was going nowhere fast, fighting the war of too much work and not enough sleep.

  It was ten after five when we walked out of Columbia Center onto Fourth Avenue with a crush of nine-to-fivers eagerly abandoning work.

  “Where’s the car?” I asked.

  “In the Four Seasons’ parking garage,” Ames answered. “But we’ve got one more appointment before we can pick it up.”

  I sighed and shook my head. I wanted to go home, have a drink, and put my feet up. “Who with now?”

  “Michael Browder, the interior designer, remember? I told you about it on the phone. He’s meeting us in the bar of the Four Seasons at five-thirty. Now that you’ve closed on the deal, he needs a go-ahead for the work. He told me the other day that you still haven’t even looked at his preliminary drawings.”

  Bull’s-eye! I had to admit Ames had me dead to rights. I had been actively avoiding Michael Browder, but I didn’t care to confide in Ames that the main reason was that Michael Browder was gay. Ames had dropped that bit of information in passing one day. It didn’t seem to make any difference to Ames, but it did to me.

  I’m not homophobic, exactly, but I confess to being prejudiced. I don’t like gays. I had never met one I liked. Or at least hadn’t knowingly met one I liked.

  Ames and I found a small corner table and ordered drinks. I sat back in my chair to watch the traffic, convinced I’d be able to pick out a wimp like Michael Browder the instant he sashayed into the room.