by J. A. Jance
Harry went to work for the Bellingham Police Department right after returning from Vietnam. I suppose he could have nipped the problem in the bud by using his given name, going by Harold at work, and ditching his middle initial altogether. If he’d just used initials alone, it would have still made him an easy target for teasing. Hi-ball isn’t much better. But Harry’s a perverse sort of guy. Harry I. Ball is what his name tag said when he was a uniformed cop in Bellingham, and it’s what’s on his desk right now as Squad B leader of the Special Homicide Investigation Team. Occasionally, someone will look at the name and think it’s some kind of joke, but anyone who underestimates Harry I. Ball is making a serious mistake.
“I’m going to be late,” I said.
“You and everybody else,” he muttered. “Why the hell don’t you move to the right side of the lake?”
Harry lives in North Bend, right up against Mount Si on the west side of the Cascades. His commute is even longer than mine. The only difference is, there are no bridges.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “I understand I-90 is shut down in both directions.”
“Who knows?” he grumbled. “And who cares? When you gonna be in?”
“As soon as I can.”
And I was. I arrived at nine-thirty, an hour and a half late, having spent two and a half hours making what is, in the best of circumstances, a twenty-minute drive. Barbara Galvin, Unit B’s office manager, hadn’t made it in yet, either. Knowing better than to risk my stomach lining on a cup of Harry I. Ball’s crankcase-oil coffee, I timed in and then slipped into my tiny cubicle to go to work.
Every new hire in the Special Homicide Investigation Team spends his first few weeks of employment going over cold-case files before being brought on board one of the current investigations. Conventional wisdom dictates that one of us may bring to the table some previously unheeded bit of insight that will magically solve one of those cold cases. As far as I know, it’s never happened, but it might.
I had worked my way through most of the files, saving the biggest and, as a consequence, most unwieldy, to last. I was manfully working my way through the Green River Killer Task Force documents when Harry’s stocky figure darkened my doorway.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
Sorry to be caught with my reading glasses on, I quickly stowed them in my pocket. “Okay,” I said. “But it’s like slogging though mud.”
“I know,” he said. “And you’re dying to read every word, but I need you in my office. Now.”
I followed him back down the hall. Since Barbara was at her desk by then, I stopped into the break room long enough to pour myself a cup of her freshly brewed coffee. Harry sat at his desk, massive arms resting on a file folder as I eased myself into one of the chairs.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I understand you’re acquainted with a town in Arizona called Bisbee,” he said casually.
I was so dumbfounded that I nearly dropped my coffee in my lap. The Department of Labor and Industries would have had a blast with that workman’s comp. claim. Yes, I did know Bisbee. My second wife, Anne, had come from there, along with the money that had once been hers and was now mine.
To say Anne Corley was as troubled as she was beautiful is something of an understatement on both counts. I personally never discuss the circumstances surrounding her death on what was our wedding day, but I knew enough about Harry I. Ball to understand that if he was asking the question, he also knew the correct answer.
“Yes,” I said. “I know a little about Bisbee.”
He looked at me with a raised eyebrow worthy of Mr. Spock from Star Trek. “Ever been there?” he asked.
I had gotten as close to Bisbee as Sierra Vista once—twenty-five miles or so away. At the time I hadn’t been ready to face visiting Anne’s hometown. I wasn’t emotionally equipped to deal with what I might have learned there. Fresh out of treatment at Ironwood Ranch up near Wickenburg, I was smart enough to know that there were some questions I was better off leaving unanswered.
“No,” I said. “I never have.”
“Would you have a problem going there now?” Harry asked.
I was stronger, older, and hopefully a little wiser. “I don’t think so,” I said.
“Good,” Harry told me. “Because something’s come up that needs looking into. It means sending someone out for an undetermined period of time. Since you say you prefer working alone, I thought it would be a helluva lot easier on the budget if we sent one investigator rather than two.”
He had that right. I’m not a partner kind of guy. “What needs investigating?” I asked.
Harry sighed. He glared at the folder on his desk, but he didn’t open it. “Know anything about UPPI?” he asked.
I shook my head. Another collection of damnably meaningless letters. Doesn’t anything go by its full name anymore?
“Those initials mean nothing to me,” I said. “Give me a clue.”
“United Private Prisons, Incorporated.”
Then it registered. “Okay, okay,” I said. “I remember now. That’s the company the state of Washington contracted with to ease overcrowding in the state juvenile justice system, right?”
“Exactly,” Harry agreed, “right up until we fired ’em. Now they’re suing the state of Washington’s ass for a hundred and twenty-five million dollars—breach of contract.”
“Great,” I said. “What does that have to do with us—with me, I mean?”
“The state of Washington’s star witness, a young lady by the name of Latisha Wall, was murdered in Bisbee, Arizona, the day before yesterday. Or maybe not murdered, because the local sheriff’s department down there is playing coy. The point is, Latisha Wall is dead, and we need to know how come.”
I was a little foggy on the details of the Latisha Wall situation because I hadn’t been directly involved, but I remembered the name. There had been a huge problem at a new, supposedly state-of-the-art correctional facility built near Aberdeen in southwestern Washington. Aberdeen had been given the nod in hopes that locating a new prison there would help relieve some of the long-standing unemployment in the state’s lumber industry. Two years after opening, the place was summarily closed.
“Wasn’t Latisha Wall some kind of whistle-blower?”
Harry nodded morosely. “That’s right, and now she’s dead. She begged Ross Connors to put her in a witness protection program. Said she was afraid somebody from UPPI might come gunning for her. We did as she asked, but now it looks like they found her anyway.”
Ross Connors, the Washington State Attorney General, was Harry I. Ball’s boss and mine as well.
“Didn’t you say she was murdered in Bisbee, Arizona? Why should we be involved in the investigation?”
At last Harry moved his arms and opened the folder. “Turns out Latisha Wall didn’t actually die in Bisbee proper,” he said. “She died in a place called Naco, a little burg that’s seven or eight miles outside of town and right on the U.S./Mexican border. Technically, the murder is being investigated by the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department.”
“So?”
“So. The sheriff’s a young woman named Joanna Brady. I talked to her a little while ago. Sounds like she’s just barely out of high school. Anyway, as soon as I started asking questions, she got her tits in a wringer and threatened to go to my boss. Of course, that’s no problem since Ross is the one who had me call her in the first place.”
Did I tell you that Harry I. Ball is an almost terminally unreconstituted male chauvinist? Word has it that when the personnel folks at the city of Bellingham diplomatically suggested he attend a sensitivity seminar, Harry told them to put their sensitivity where the sun don’t shine. He then pulled the pin and went down the road, pension in hand. As for Attorney General Ross Connors? I wouldn’t call him a beacon of political correctness, either. That goes for me as well, but I like to think I’m trying.
“Once I got off the phone with her, I called Ross myself,” Harry co
ntinued. “Believe me, he has no intention of leaving a case this big in the hands of some little wet-behind-the-ears cowgirl who probably rides a horse, wears ten-gallon hats, and packs a forty-five on her hip, just for show.”
For me, easy acquiescence to that kind of comment has been forever erased by the searing memory of my former partner, a bloodied Sue Danielson, sitting slumped against the wall of her trashed living room, my Glock in her wavering hand. She hadn’t been holding it just for show. And no matter how much I try to avoid thinking about it, I know she would have used that weapon if she’d had to. She would have used it to save my life.
But sitting there in Harry I. Ball’s office, I understood it was hopeless for me to try fixing his outdated view of the world. I’ve now spent enough time in AA that I understand the meaning of the Serenity Prayer. It says to change what you can and accept what you can’t change. Harry wasn’t changing—not for me, and not for anybody else. I let it pass.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“When Barbara came dragging her butt in here a little while ago—she was even later than you, by the way—I told her to get on the horn with the AG’s travel agent down in Olympia. She’s to get you down to Arizona ASAP, before our latter-day Nancy Drew/Annie Oakley can screw up the evidence. In other words, I want you there yesterday, but I suppose that’s asking a little much. In the meantime, while you’re waiting for your travel packet, you might want to go over this.”
With that, he spun the file folder across his desk. I managed to catch it before it skidded onto the floor. “Oh, well,” I said, as I collected the file and my coffee cup and stood up to leave. “I guess the Green River Task Force file is going to have to wait,”
“Right,” Harry agreed with a grin. “It’s just too damned bad.”
On the way back to my cubicle I passed the office manager’s desk. Barbara Galvin is an attractive, up-and-coming young woman in her late twenties. She’s competent and cheerful. She can also type like a maniac on her little laptop computer. In the world of slow-moving civil-service bureaucracies, those qualifications make her some kind of superstar. She wears a modest diamond and a wedding ring on her left hand and an equally modest diamond stud in her left nostril. The only picture that clutters her otherwise immaculately clean desk is one of a knobby-kneed, straw-headed kid about six or seven years old and wearing a red- and-white soccer uniform. He’s holding a black-and-white ball and grinning from ear to ear.
I paused momentarily in front of Barbara’s desk. She motioned to the earpiece of her phone to indicate someone else was talking, so I went on my way. Back at my desk I opened Latisha Wall’s folder and was relieved when the first piece of paper that fluttered out contained a scribbled notation in Harry’s virtually illegible scrawl that said Officer Unreadable in Indecipherable, Georgia, had made the next-of-kin notification. I was glad to know I had dodged that particular bullet.
I had only just started on the file’s first page when my phone rang. “Beaumont here.”
“Good morning,” Naomi Pepper said cheerily. “How long did it take you to make it over to this side of the water?”
Naomi Cullen Pepper is a relatively recent widow and a girlfriend of rather brief standing. We had met more than a month earlier on a cruise ship bound for Alaska. Through several strange turns of events, we had found ourselves bunking in the same cabin—a situation that had, almost effortlessly, evolved into our becoming lovers. It was only when we were back home and on solid ground that the new reality hit me.
The first time I asked her out on a date, I spent hours agonizing over where I would take her and what I would wear. Ralph Ames, my attorney and good friend, happened to be visiting my Belltown Terrace condo at the time I was wrestling with that dilemma. He had almost fallen on the floor laughing.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he had demanded. “You’ve already spent several nights in a cruise-ship cabin with the woman. How can you be worried about what you’re going to wear?”
Believe me, worrying was easy. The truth is, on board the Starfire Breeze, where Naomi and I had walked away with the ship’s tango prize, everything had seemed amazingly simple. But back on dry land, being involved in a relationship was much more complicated. And a lot more like hard work. What wasn’t easy for me right then was carrying on my half of the conversation opposite Naomi’s breezy sweet nothings when I was stuck in a tiny open-ended cubicle with God knew how many of my fellow Unit B SHIT investigators lapping it all up.
“Long time,” I muttered in response to her question. “Two and a half hours. How about you?”
“I had to be here for a seven o’clock meeting,” she said.
Naomi had recently been promoted to assistant manager in the kitchen department at The Bon Marché. Part of the promotion had involved her transferring from the downtown Seattle store to the Bell Square one in downtown Bellevue. This meant we were both now commuting from the west side of Lake Washington to the east side, although our disjointed schedules made carpooling impossible.
“I was already crossing 520 before they shut down I-90,” she continued. “I heard they’ve reopened the bridge,” she added. “No bombs anywhere. Are we still on for tomorrow?”
I was lost in Latisha Wall’s history. “For tomorrow?” I said vaguely.
“Come on, Beau. Don’t play dumb. It’s your birthday. We’re going out, remember? My treat.”
There comes a time, somewhere after forty, when birthdays are best forgotten. Or ignored. In this case, I had forgotten completely.
“Come on,” I wheedled. “Am I the kind of guy who would forget his own birthday?”
Of course, the answer was yes. I was and I had, but Naomi was all for giving me the benefit of the doubt.
“Good,” she said. “We’re going someplace special. As long as you don’t mind driving back to Bellevue after driving home from work, that is.”
With a dozen top-rated restaurants within walking distance of Belltown Terrace, there wasn’t much need to drive all the way to Bellevue for dinner, but Naomi had made it clear that this time she was paying. “I don’t mind at all,” I told her.
“All right,” she said. “I just wanted to confirm. Will I see you tonight?”
“Probably,” I said. “I’ll give you a call this afternoon.”
I looked up to see Barbara Galvin standing in my doorway and giving me a knowing smile. Why wouldn’t she? It’s no coincidence that the newest kid on the block—me—has the cubicle closest to Barbara’s desk.
“Gotta go,” I said hurriedly to Naomi. “Somebody’s waiting.”
“You didn’t have to hang up on her like that,” Barbara told me. “I would have waited.”
She had been listening. My ears turned red. “We were done anyway,” I said. “What’s up?”
Barbara tossed an envelope onto my desk. “Your travel packet, complete with itinerary,” she said. “You’re booked on Alaska Flight 790. It leaves for Tucson tomorrow morning at seven A.M.”
“Seven A.M.!” I groaned. “Are you kidding? Why so early?”
Barbara grinned. “What’s the matter, Beau?” she asked. “Got a hot date? You’re on that flight because, even though it’s the last minute, the travel agent was able to get us a good deal. She has you scheduled to return next Friday afternoon, but you can always extend if you need to.”
Maybe I should go ahead and do it right now, I thought glumly. When Naomi finds out about this, there won’t be any point in coming home.
Assuming the conversation had ended, I opened the envelope and glanced at the E-ticket itinerary. When I glanced back up, Barbara was still standing in my doorway looking at me with a strange, faraway look on her face.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said with a shrug. “I was just thinking about how much you remind me of my dad.”
Words every older guy loves to hear! No longer a hunk, you’re someone’s dad instead.
With that she was gone. Poor
kid, I thought in a sudden flash of empathy. No wonder she can put up with all of Unit B’s geriatric cop crap. She must have spent most of her life living with an old troglodyte who is as tough to get along with as we are.
I picked up the phone and called Naomi right back. “Where were you planning on taking me to dinner tomorrow night?” I asked.
“Why? It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“It’s a surprise, all right. I just found out I have to be on a plane to Tucson at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Work or pleasure?” Naomi asked.
“What do you think?”
“Bis,” she said. “Bis on Main is the name of the restaurant.”
“What do you say we go tonight instead? I’ll pay.”
“I suppose,” she agreed, although I could tell she wasn’t happy about it. “If you can get a reservation, that is. It’s a pretty popular place.”
I looked up the number in the phone book, called, and gave whoever answered my tale of woe. “For you, my friend, I believe we can do something,” he said. “We’re very busy this evening, but if you could come in early, say five-thirty . . .”
“Done,” I told him. “It might just as well be early. I have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning to catch a plane.”
I put down the phone. Part of me was sorry to disappoint Naomi. And part of me was pissed at the people in the AG’s office for dropping this on me at the last minute. But there was a third part of me—the stubborn old-coot part—that was more than happy to get off his butt, put the cold-case files back where they belonged, and go to work.
Seven
FOR THE SECOND TIME IN AS MANY DAYS, Joanna and Frank Montoya’s “early-morning” briefing took place in the early afternoon. Afterward, Joanna started in on that day’s worth of correspondence. Almost an hour later and near the bottom of the stack, she discovered the latest edition of The Bisbee Bee. The words “See page two!” were scribbled on the top of the front page in Kristin Gregovich’s girlish handwriting.
Joanna opened the paper and turned to what she knew would be Marliss Shackleford’s latest column. The headline read: