Payment in Kind

by J. A. Jance

  I certainly don't like receiving middle-of-the-night calls, and I don't like making them either, but I made some that morning. I rustled up the crime lab folks who had inventoried Marcia Kelsey's car. Sure enough, no keys and no garage door opener had been found in the vehicle.

  It took some fast talking to get past JoAnne McGuire's mother in Tacoma, but finally Erin's roommate came on the phone. In a voice still thick with sleep, she corroborated Erin's story of their drive to Eugene the previous Sunday--complete with departure time, the stop in Woodland, the wreck in Portland, and the snow-storm by the time they finally reached Eugene.

  That meant Jason Ragsdale was mistaken when he said he had seen Erin Kelsey at the school district office sometime Sunday night, but I was convinced Jason, the unauthorized midnight skier, had seen someone, someone who looked like Erin Kelsey and carried a gun. If she wasn't Erin, who was she?

  I hit the wall about five-thirty and went home for a shower and a nap. By ten that same morning I was back in the office and in as good a shape as could be expected for someone running on three hours of sleep, five cups of coffee, and one hot shower. Coming into my cubicle, I was delighted to find a fully recovered Big Al Lindstrom sitting there big as life with his huge feet propped on his desk, munching complacently on an apple.

  “Welcome back. Are you ever a sight for sore eyes,” I told him.

  “You mean you missed me?”

  “Are you kidding? I've been stuck working with Paul Kramer the whole time you've been gone.”

  Big Al grinned. “You think you've had it bad. With Molly sick, I had to do all the cooking. I musta lost ten pounds. By the way, there's a message there for you. Came in about five minutes ago.”

  The message, written in Big Al's barely decipherable scrawl, directed me to call Caleb Drachman's office--at once.

  “Good morning, Detective Beaumont,” Drachman said cordially, once I had him on the line. “I've got a court order for you. I'm sending a copy over by messenger service to make sure you have it. Since the funeral starts at two, I wanted you to have plenty of time to make arrangements.”

  “What arrangements?”

  “They're all listed in the court order.”

  “Look, Mr. Drachman, how about saving us both some time and telling me what it says?”

  “Certainly. I've talked to the criminal investigations folks down at Fort Lewis. They say the only charge pending against my client is one of simple desertion. They're running an all-volunteer Army these days, and they don't want any bad PR. In addition, I've talked to Mr. Kelsey several times this morning. From what he's told me about what happened last night, I would assume the chances of your charging him in connection with his wife's murder are somewhat less today than they were yesterday.”

  “Forget the buildup, just tell me what I need to know,” I put in impatiently.

  At once Caleb Drachman switched gears. “My client's wife's funeral is today. He is to be released long enough to attend the services, and it is to be done as unobtrusively as possible. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Completely,” I replied.

  “Good. There are to be no restraints and no obvious police presence. The judge ordered one guard. I suggested someone from the jail, but for some reason, Mr. Kelsey would like you to be there. I personally am strongly opposed to that idea, but I have agreed to abide by my client's wishes, if it's all right with you, of course,” he added.

  If I'd had any lingering doubts about the kind of legal-beagle, Open-Sesame power Caleb Winthrop Drachman could wield, they were totally removed. On those occasions when prisoners are allowed to attend funerals, they usually do it under the aegis of a conspicuous police guard, and they do it wearing restraints--if not leg shackles, then at least handcuffs concealed under a raincoat.

  “Well?” Drachman prompted.

  “Well what?”

  “Will you do it or not?”

  “I'll do it,” I said.

  “Good. I'll call down to the jail and tell them to have him ready by eleven. The visitation starts at noon. I'm sure he'd like to be there for that as well.”

  “Do what?” Paul Kramer asked, walking into the cubicle and picking up part of what was being said. He asked his question while Drachman was still speaking.

  I hung up the phone. “Take Pete Kelsey to his wife's funeral,” I said. “Drachman got a court order.”

  “It figures,” Kramer said. “Better you than me, though. I hate funerals. By the way, I've got some bad news for you.”

  “What's that?”

  “We're barking up the wrong tree. Sonja McLaughlin didn't do it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She's dead. I've been in touch with the authorities in B.C. Sonja McLaughlin died about two years ago in an insane asylum in Vancouver.”

  “She went crazy?”

  “Evidently. I've got the Royal Canadian Mounted Police looking for next-of-kin who might be able to tell us more. They say there's a daughter but that she's dropped out of sight.”

  “Her daughter's been out of sight for twenty years,” I put in dryly, but Kramer shook his head.

  “No, there's another one, two years younger than Erin. That's the one they're looking for.”

  “And maybe we should be too,” I said, feeling that sudden surge of excitement that says you're finally on the right track.

  Kramer didn't pick up on it immediately. “What do you mean?”

  “Remember? The Ragsdale kid identified Erin Kelsey as being on Queen Anne Hill even though we have a witness that puts her in Eugene at the very same time. And Andrea Stovall thought it was Erin on the phone, calling to tell her that Pete was on the warpath. After all, if the two girls have the same mother and father, maybe they look alike and sound alike as well.”

  Kramer considered that for a moment and then nodded slowly. “You could be right. I'll keep after it.”

  Kramer left, and Big Al rolled his eyes in my direction. “What did you do to Kramer? He's almost civilized.”

  “For the moment,” I said, gathering up to leave. “But it's probably not permanent.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Back home to get my car and then to the jail to pick up our prisoner.”

  “And take him to a funeral? Have fun, but it doesn't sound like a picnic to me,” Big Al said, settling comfortably back in his chair. “It's the kind of duty I'm happy to miss.”

  I picked up the 928 at Belltown Terrace then drove back down to the jail. I waited in the lobby while a guard brought Pete to the signout desk. He arrived there looking somber and subdued. Someone, probably George Riggs, had seen to it that despite the fire, Pete Kelsey had a set of suitable clothing to wear to Marcia's funeral.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “Magnolia. The church is on McGraw. Do you know where it is?”

  I nodded.

  We went out to the car without saying anything more until we were well under way. “Tell me about Sonja McLaughlin's other daughter,” I said.

  Pete seemed surprised. “Daughter? What other daughter?”

  “One who must be two years or so younger than Erin.”

  Pete Kelsey shook his head. “I never knew about another daughter. She must have been born after Marcia left Canada and came back to Seattle. What about Sonja? Where's she?”

  “Dead,” I told him. “She died about two years ago.”

  “So it's not her then,” he said forlornly. “We're still not getting anyplace.”

  “What about the daughter? Could she be behind all this?”

  “What would Sonja's daughter have against me or Erin, either one? How would she even know we exist?”

  “Beats me,” I said, and Pete Kelsey lapsed into silence. “By the way,” I added, “before we get there, I want to establish some ground rules. You don't go anywhere without me and vice versa. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Pete replied. “I understand.”

  Overnight Lars Jenssen's promised blanket of warm, mo
ist air had moved in from the ocean, breaking the cold snap's icy grip. Now, as we stopped in front of the church, heavy rain began to pelt the ground around us, visibly melting the snow as it did so.

  I had never attended a Mormon funeral before, and I didn't know quite what to expect. Clearly it was going to be very well attended. Although we got there a good two hours before the funeral was scheduled to start, the church's parking lot was already full of cars, with the overflow spilling up and down both McGraw and Condon.

  I was searching in vain for a parking place when Erin Kelsey came dashing out from under the protection of the entryway and motioned for me to pull up directly behind the hearse.

  As soon as the car stopped, she wrenched open the passenger-side door and pulled Pete Kelsey out. Once he was upright, she fell crying into his arms. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” she whimpered. “The house is gone. Completely gone. I've been so scared. I've missed you.”

  So much for her not ever wanting to see him again.

  Over the back of Erin's head, I saw tears of gratitude well up in Pete Kelsey's eyes. This wasn't the time for him to tell Erin that the man whose real name she didn't know wasn't her father either. That would have to come later, much later, and I hoped to God I wouldn't have to be around to see it.

  “Come on,” Erin said suddenly, pulling away from Pete's embrace and leading us determinedly toward the church. “We're in the Relief Society room. Grandma and Grandpa are already there. So's the Bishop.”

  Belle Riggs came to the door to greet us. Like Erin, Belle drew Pete Kelsey to her and held him close. There were tears in her eyes as well, but a brave smile warmed her lips.

  “Remember,” she said to Pete. “She's just gone on ahead. We'll all meet again. Come on.” She took Pete by the hand and led him into the room. “Let me introduce you to the Bishop.”

  That left me little choice but to follow along behind. The visitation and funeral that followed were unlike any I'd ever attended before. The music was stirring, uplifting, and the eulogy made it sound as though Marcia Kelsey was waiting on the other side of a door somewhere, marking time and waiting for everyone else to show up.

  Maxwell Cole, serving as one of the pallbearers, listened to that, shook his head, and sniffled noisily. I don't think the idea of meeting Marcia Kelsey somewhere in the Great Beyond offered him much consolation.

  When the graveside portion of the service was over, everyone returned to the church, where a women's group called the Relief Society served lunch. Standing with the family throughout the afternoon, I was introduced to everyone. I met JoAnne McGuire, Erin's roommate from Tacoma, and saw most of the school district people I'd met during the course of the investigation.

  By four, it was beginning to get dark and things were winding down. It was almost time to take Pete Kelsey back to the King County Jail. I looked around the room for Erin, intending to tell her good-bye, but I didn't see her.

  “Where's Erin?” I asked Pete.

  He too glanced around the gradually emptying room. “I don't know. She was here a little while ago.”

  JoAnne McGuire overheard our exchange. “She's in the rest room, with her cousin,” Erin's roommate told us lightly.

  Pete's eyes met mine. “Erin doesn't have a cousin,” he said warily.

  JoAnne looked startled. “Why, of course she does. I left them there together just a minute or two ago.”

  “Where?” I demanded.

  “Look,” JoAnne said, pointing. “There they are now, just going out the door.”

  Sure enough, I turned just in time to see two women, arms linked together, slip out the front door.

  “Erin, come back,” Pete called, panic edging into his voice. If they heard him, they didn't stop.

  I headed after them, racing for the door at a dead run. I didn't have to look back over my shoulder to know that Pete Kelsey was right on my heels.

  Chapter 28

  We reached the outside entryway just in time to see the taillights of a small, foreign-made car speed away from the curb half a block away. Rubber tires squealed on the rain-slicked street. It was them, had to be.

  Without a word, I dashed for the 928, with Pete pounding behind me.

  There are only two ways off Magnolia Bluff--one to the north, near Ballard, and one to the south, heading back toward downtown Seattle. The Magnolia Bridge soars high above Piers 90 and 91, stocked with multicolored ranks of newly imported Japanese cars.

  Our quarry was headed south. I told Pete how to call for help on my cellular phone while I drove like hell.

  I careened up Condon, hoping I could manage to hit Garfield before they did. Wonder of wonders, it worked! We were already stopped at the corner of Thorndyke and Galer when a yellow Datsun B-210 came skidding around the curve on Galer. I was pretty sure it was the right car, but I didn't dare ram them for fear it wasn't. Instead, I waited at the intersection until they went past.

  Their faces were caught in the light from a street lamp, and I could see it was them. Erin was driving, with someone else leaning close beside her, watching for pursuers in the rearview mirror. Only after they flew past did I realize who the other person was, Jennifer Lafflyn, Ms. Jennifer Lafflyn, the antagonistic school district receptionist.

  “I'll be damned,” I muttered, swinging into the lane behind them, nearly forcing an oncoming driver off the road. “So that's who it is!” The other driver leaned on his horn.

  “That's somebody you know?” Pete Kelsey demanded.

  I was too busy driving to answer, afraid that if they once crossed the bridge, they'd lose us in the snarl of rush-hour traffic. I thought they'd hit the bridge and floorboard the gas pedal. Instead, just as they gained the entrance to the bridge, the brake lights came on, and the car skidded to a stop.

  I was right behind them. It took every bit of skill I could muster to keep from rear-ending them. I did, but the guy behind, an old man in a Buick Regal, wasn't so lucky. He crashed into the back of my poor little Porsche. Metal crumpled and glass shattered. We were shoved in a smoking heap against the concrete rail of the bridge. Fortunately the rail held.

  A quick glance in Pete Kelsey's direction told me we were both all right--stunned maybe, but not broken. The bent doors wouldn't open, but one of the windows had shattered and disappeared. We wiggled out through the empty opening.

  I expected them to be long gone. Instead, the Datsun was still there, parked haphazardly on the shoulder of the bridge, lights still on and doors flung wide open. In the glare of the headlights, we could see two figures making for midspan of the bridge, lumbering awkwardly along together like Siamese twins joined at the shoulder.

  “Stop!” I shouted after them, but they didn't pause, didn't even slow down.

  Pete Kelsey tried his luck. “Erin!”

  One of the runners seemed to stumble and stopped, pulling herself free.

  “Daddy!” Erin screamed back. “Help me. Please. She's got a knife.”

  But just then Jennifer grabbed Erin from behind and spun her around. For a moment they struggled together, then Erin was once more being yanked forward, and once more we gave chase.

  In midspan, the girls stopped again and swung around to face us. Jennifer was holding Erin with one arm across her neck while the other held a knife near her throat. Orange light from the sodium vapor lamps glinted off the blade.

  “Don't come any closer,” Jennifer warned, her voice tight and shrill.

  An alert driver, coming from downtown, had seen the trouble and had stopped his car on an angle, effectively blocking both lanes. Behind him and behind us on the Magnolia side, honking horns blared from the building tie-up. A traffic helicopter circled far overhead. But the middle of the bridge was a rain-drenched, eerily lit no-man's-land with four people locked in a life-and-death struggle.

  For several long seconds no one moved.

  “Let her go,” Pete Kelsey said softly but firmly. “Let Erin go.”

  “No. I won't,” Jennifer answered stubbornly, stepping backwa
rd and dragging Erin along with her. “She's coming with me.”

  “Let her go!” Kelsey repeated.

  Despite Jennifer's warning, Pete and I both took a cautious step forward. We were only ten yards or so away now, close enough to see the wild desperation on Jennifer's face and the abject terror on Erin's.