by J. A. Jance
“May we take the case?”
“Yo, man. Take the case if it’ll help you do your funky job. That’s what we all want.”
Just then, Chief Rankin’s pager went off. He excused himself and hurried out of the room to answer it, leaving me alone with our six guests. He wasn’t gone long. When he came back and stopped in the doorway, I could see from the look on his face that something was terribly wrong.
“Come on,” he said. “There’s a problem. Grab that bag. We’ve gotta go. I’ve got the check.”
He dashed away again while I picked up the bag, aware that my every action was being studied by six separate people, five of whom, other than ordering their food, had not spoken a word since entering the room. Only the single representative had acted as spokesman for the entire group.
It amazed me to think how the idea of arousing the ire of the entire African-American community had posed enough of a threat to force these young toughs into an unprecedented show of solidarity, but there was no hint that the truce would last any longer than the time it took to vacate the room.
Six pairs of cold eyes stared at me, and I stared back, examining each face in turn, knowing that some of them would show up on the fifth floor eventually, coming under the scrutiny of Homicide either as perpetrator or victim. I didn’t want to say thank-you to this bunch of murderous thugs. The very word would have stuck in my throat, yet I owed them something.
“Somebody here knows someone who has himself a late-model Lexus,” I said quietly. “The driver is wanted in connection with the attempted murder of a Seattle police officer. I’d get rid of them both, if I were you, send them back where they came from.”
With that, I turned and walked out of the room carrying the briefcase with me. I found Chief Rankin at the counter, dancing from foot to foot, arguing heatedly with the cashier.
“What seems to be the matter?” I asked.
“They don’t take plastic here,” he protested, waving his credit card in the air. “Not even the city credit card. There are eight meals on this bill. I don’t carry around that kind of cash, and I don’t have my checkbook with me, either.”
“How much is it?”
I took out my wallet and extracted the hundred-dollar bill I’ve taken to carrying there in case of emergencies. I paid the bill, including a double tip for Lucille, and wrote the entire amount at the bottom of the receipt.
“This is going to show up on my expense account,” I said. “And nobody better question it.”
“They won’t. Come on. Hurry.”
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s been a shooting on Beacon Hill. Officer down.”
“Where on Beacon Hill?” I asked as we raced for my car, but I didn’t have to listen for an answer. Before he told me, I already knew. The location was the home of Reverend Homer Walters, and the downed officer had to be Big Al Lindstrom.
CHAPTER 19
I DROVE LIKE A MANIAC, BUT NOBODY pulled me over. Chief Rankin hinted that he would have preferred to stop by the department and pick up his own car. He hinted, but he didn’t issue a direct order. It’s a good thing too. If he had, I would have been forced to disregard it.
Now it was my turn to be where Big Al had been the night Ben Weston was murdered, my turn to deal with the anger that rose like bile in my throat, my turn to agonize over the part I had played in positioning Big Al in the way of that bullet. How could I have done such a thing?
Chief Rankin and I were back in my Porsche, so we were out of departmental radio contact. Luckily we did have my cellular phone. I picked it up and dialed directly in to Dispatch.
“Detective Beaumont here,” I announced. “I have Chief Rankin in the car with me. We’ll be at that Beacon Hill location in five to seven minutes. What’s the status?”
“Medic One is on the scene. There’s a doctor there as well. They’re trying to stabilize him enough to transport him to the hospital.”
“Since when does Medic One send out doctors?”
“They don’t. Evidently this one just happened to be on the scene when it all went down. Hang on a minute, Beau. I have to take another call.”
He was off the phone for some time.
“How’s Lindstrom doing?” Chief Rankin asked. “Is he going to make it?”
As soon as Dispatch came back on the line, I asked him that same question. “It’s too soon to tell. He took a bullet at point-blank range. It hit him below his vest. Evidently there’s lots of internal damage.”
“Has anyone gone to tell Molly?”
“Not yet as far as I know. Would you like to handle that? You probably know her better than anyone else here.”
“Sure,” I said, my voice cracking. “As soon as I drop the chief off, I’ll go pick her up and take her to the hospital. Which one, the trauma unit at Harborview?”
“They’re the local Roto-Rooter-of-choice for bullet extractions. When it comes to that kind of thing, it pays to use people with experience.”
Before I signed off, I gave the dispatcher my phone number in case he needed to get back to me, then, after I hung up, I prayed that the phone wouldn’t ring again because I was afraid of what the caller might tell me if it did.
“I can’t believe this,” Rankin was saying. “Has the whole city declared open season on cops?”
I knew the answer to that question was no, and so did Chief Rankin. The whole city wasn’t killing cops, and neither were street gangs. Cops were killing cops, crooked cops killing straight ones.
“Do you have Captain Freeman’s number?” I asked.
“Which one, home or office?” Rankin asked.
“Both,” I told him. “We’d better call him so he’ll be in on this case from the beginning. It may be that nobody else has thought to call him. They wouldn’t necessarily know there was a connection between this and IIS.”
Chief Rankin reached inside his jacket and removed his pocket-sized Day-Timer. He took out the tiny telephone directory notebook and consulted that. As soon as I saw it, I thought about Ben Weston’s Day-Timer, lying there on the bedroom floor, the pages filled with appointments—some kept and some forever unkept—and the elusive numbers he couldn’t remember without writing them down.
The sad truth about homicide is that most people are murdered by people they know. For that reason, a victim’s calendar in the days shortly before his death becomes a prime starting point in tracing his activities and connections. More often than not, the perpetrator will be found among those final few social or business contacts. For that reason alone, Ben Weston’s Day-Timer should have been right at the top of the task force’s concerns. I didn’t remember Paul Kramer assigning it to anyone, so I assigned myself.
By then Chief Rankin had managed to locate Captain Freeman’s number and was dialing it. Tony Freeman’s wife answered the phone and told him her husband had just left the house. She said someone had called a few minutes earlier and that Tony was on his way back downtown to his office, although it was still too soon for him to be there. Knowing Freeman was on his way made me feel better. It meant someone besides me was making the same connections and drawing the same conclusions.
When we turned off Columbian Way onto Fifteenth and again onto Dakota, we were thrown into what was almost an instant replay of two nights earlier. Law enforcement vehicles and flashing lights abounded. Traffic was being rerouted. No one on the force expected Chief Rankin to show up at all, to say nothing of having him appear as a passenger in a Porsche 928. It seemed as though every few feet another traffic cop waved us over and tried to divert us in a different direction.
It took time to work our way through the crush to a parking place in front of the Walterses’ house, but we made it eventually, stopping only a few feet away from the Medic One van. I had yet to bring the Porsche to a complete stop when Chief Rankin hopped out and began pushing his way through the crowd surrounding the truck. I got out myself and walked up to where a grim-faced Major Phil Dunn, the night commander of Patrol,
was conferring with an equally somber Captain Powell.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
Captain Powell shook his head. “Not good,” he said. “Not good at all.”
“Was anyone else hurt?” Only during the last few minutes of the drive had I finally had brains enough to worry about Junior Western. I asked the question with a good deal of dread.
“No. Big Al evidently surprised someone trying to climb in a basement window.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“He got away?”
Powell nodded. “So for, but we’re working on it. We’ve brought in two of the K-nine units, but they haven’t found anything yet.”
“What I want to know,” Major Dunn was saying, “is what the hell Big Al was doing here in the first place. I thought you pulled him off this case, Larry, but that’s Junior Weston over there in that car or I’ll eat my hat.”
“Junior Weston?” I asked, my heart flooding with gratitude. “Where is he? Is he all right?”
“He’s fine,” Major Dunn answered. “He’s over there in one of my patrol cars with a two-person guard.”
Under most circumstances, that would have been good news, but Major Dunn didn’t know we were looking for a crooked cop whose identity we had yet to uncover. Our bad guy could just as easily be from Patrol as from anywhere else.
“Let’s go check on him,” I said. “I’ll feel better once I see him.”
Major Dunn shrugged as if to say who can understand these crazy Homicide dicks anyway, but he set off at a rapid pace while I tagged along behind. We found Junior Weston huddled in the far corner of a Seattle PD patrol car once more clutching his precious teddy bear. The two cops with him were doing what they could to reassure him, but they were understandably outraged by everything that had happened to the poor little kid, and they were frustrated by their inability to offer him any real comfort.
I turned back to Major Dunn. “I know the boy,” I said. “Tell your guys they can go.”
“But—” Major Dunn began.
“Please,” I interrupted. “Let me talk to him alone.”
“All right,” Dunn said, giving in. He turned to his men. “You can go now. We’ll take care of the boy from here on out. Go on over to the command van and get reassigned. I’m sure there’s plenty to do.”
The two patrolmen climbed out of the car, and I got into the driver’s seat, closing the door behind me, shutting out the night and the rest of the officers, including Major Dunn.
“Remember me?” I asked.
Junior looked up, nodded, and immediately buried his face in his teddy bear.
“Are you okay, Junior?” I asked. He nodded but this time he didn’t raise his head.
“Are you worried about Big Al?”
Another nod. “Is he going to be all right? Is Adam’s mom going to be able to fix him up?”
“Adam’s mom? Was she here?”
“Yes.”
That was news to me. If Dr. Emma Jackson was there, I hadn’t seen her. “I don’t know if she’ll be able to or not. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her or the Medic One guys either. They’re working on him right now.”
“It was the bad man, looking for me again, wasn’t it? How come? Why can’t you stop him?”
The simultaneous accusation and cry for help cut to the quick. “We’re trying,” I said. “We’re doing our best.”
“It’s all my fault,” Junior Weston whimpered. “It’s because of me Mr. Lindstrom got hurt.”
“It isn’t your fault, Junior. None of it is.”
“But what does the bad man want? Why’s he still looking for me then?”
“Because he knows you saw his face,” I answered quietly. “He’s afraid you can identify him.”
Junior Weston raised his head then and looked at me, his small chin set in staunch defiance. “And I can, too,” he said determinedly. “I will.”
“But until you do,” I cautioned, “we’ve got to make sure you’re safe. I thought you’d be safe here, at this house with the Walterses, but the bad man found you anyway. What would you think of coming home with me for a day or two, Junior? I live in a downtown high rise with a swimming pool and a hot tub and a rooftop garden.”
“A garden on the roof? Are you kidding? Gardens don’t go on roofs. The dirt would all fall off.”
“The dirt doesn’t fell off this one because it’s flat. And there’s a duck that lives there, too. Her name is Gertrude and she has five little ducklings. We even put out a wading pool for her so she could teach them how to swim.”
“Are there any other kids?”
“Some. Two anyway. Their names are Heather and Tracie. I’m sure they’d be happy to play with you.”
Junior grew quiet and seemed to be considering my offer. “What would Reverend Walters think?”
“More than anything, Reverend Walters wants you to be safe,” I answered. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
Junior frowned. “It sounds okay, but I really want to go home. To my home.”
“You can’t go there, Junior. Nobody can. And you wouldn’t want to, either, not right now. It’s a crime scene.”
Tears welled up in Junior’s eyes. “But what about all my stuff?” he demanded. “What happens to my toys—my dad’s matchbox cars and the old transformers Dougie gave me and the baseball I won signed by Ken Griffey and his dad? What about those?”
“I’ll tell you what, Junior. In fact, I’ll make you a promise. When it’s time to go back to your house, I’ll go with you and so will Big Al, if he’s well enough. We’ll help you get all your stuff gathered up and other things as well, things you should have from the rest of your family, mementos. They may not mean that much to you right now, while you’re young, but they will later, when you’re older.”
“So I won’t forget?” Junior asked.
I felt a catch in my throat and tears blurred my own eyes. “You won’t forget, Junior. Don’t worry about that. No matter what, you’ll never forget. Will you come stay with me?”
“Okay.”
With a warning squawk of siren, the Medic One van eased down off the curb and began nudging its way through the crowd. While everyone busily focused on that, I smuggled Junior back to my car and belted him into the passenger seat. As I did so, I caught sight of Knuckles Russell’s briefcase still sitting in back where I’d left it.
Captain Powell came up behind me. “What’s going on, Detective Beaumont?”
“I’m taking Junior here home with me for the time being. Go let the Walterses know, would you? They can tell old Mr. Weston if they want, but under the circumstances, the fewer who hear about this the better.”
“What’s Child Protective Services going to say?” Powell asked.
“Screw Child Protective Services!” I growled. “If Big Al couldn’t handle it, what the hell do you think CPS would do?”
“Not much,” Powell agreed. “Go ahead, Beau. I’ll back you up on this one.”
I paused long enough to drag Knuckles Russell’s briefcase out of the car and handed it over to Captain Powell. “Here’s this,” I said.
“What is it?”
“A present from our Doghouse summit meeting. It needs to go down to the Crime Lab. You might ask Janice Morraine to take a look at it. She’s close enough to the case to know what’s going on. And one other thing. If you could, try to find out who on the task force if anybody is working on Ben Weston’s Day-Timer.”
“Day-Timer? I don’t remember anything about a Day-Timer,” Powell said with a frown. “Where is it?”
“It was on the floor of Ben Weston’s bedroom the last I saw it, but I don’t have any idea where it is now. I’d like to talk to whoever’s working on it, and I’d like to see it if it’s at all possible.”
Powell nodded and stepped away from the car while I climbed into my seat, fastened my own belt, and started the engine. “Can we stop long enough to get my Nintendo?” Junior asked. “I could show you how to
play.”
“No,” I said. “Not tonight. We’d better get you home and into bed.” I didn’t want to voice my real reason for not wanting to stop—the need to limit the number of people who saw me with Junior Weston and who might guess where he’d been taken.
If Junior was disappointed about leaving the video game behind, he didn’t complain. On the drive into the city, he stayed mostly quiet. I wondered how this tough little kid was managing to cope with the chaos that had suddenly descended over his entire life, leaving him nothing to hold on to but a soon-to-be-scruffy brown teddy bear.
We had come up the I-5 corridor and were about to turn off on the Mercer/Fairview Exit when Junior sat up straight and peered out across me at the myriad lights that make up downtown’s nighttime skyline.
“You live in one of those tall buildings?” he asked tentatively.
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“The tall one nearest the Space Needle.”
“Which floor?”
“The top one, the twenty-fifth.”
“Does your house have a basement?”
I knew at once why he was asking that question, and I didn’t blame him. “Yes,” I told him, “the building does, but you can’t get into it without either a garage door opener or a key to the building.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding relieved.
When we reached Belltown Terrace, I let Junior punch the button to open the garage door. Then, I let him work the numbered combination lock that controls the door into the elevator lobby on P-1. I thought it was important that Junior Weston know for sure that someone couldn’t just walk into the building anytime they pleased. On that particular night it was important for J. P. Beaumont to know that too.
On the way upstairs in the elevator, it dawned on me that maybe I should have called ahead to warn Ralph Ames that I was bringing home company. After all, he might have been entertaining guests of his own, but I needn’t have worried. When we walked into my condo, we found Ralph rousing himself out of a sound sleep, floundering to his feet from my rehabilitated but comfortable leather recliner.