Long Time Gone

by J. A. Jance

  When I finished reading, I looked up to see Heather watching me closely. I couldn’t speak, but I was saying a small prayer of gratitude to Dillon Middleton. Suicide is said to be the most selfish of acts, yet in writing this note he had clearly exonerated Heather. Yes, her heart was broken—just as Amy had said it would be—but Dillon had gone out of his way to lift the cloud of suspicion that would otherwise have settled around her.

  “That’s who he meant when he said ‘we,’ ” Heather said. “He meant Molly and him.”

  I nodded. “And he was right,” I said when I was once again capable of speech. “Molly Wright was an evil woman.”

  “I don’t understand. Why did she hate my dad so?” Heather asked.

  I remembered what Amy had said earlier, about how much Molly had liked being Amy’s older sister and how much Amy hadn’t appreciated being bossed around.

  “Because she was jealous,” I answered. “Because your father’s a good man—a good husband and father. From Molly’s point of view, it must have seemed as though her sister had everything Molly’s own life was lacking. In some twisted way, she thought pushing your father out of the picture would somehow even the score.”

  Heather thought about that for a time. “Do you think she told Dillon the truth?” Heather asked finally. Her intense eyes were focused on my face. “When he stabbed her, do you think he had any idea that she was really his mother?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “She certainly hadn’t told him when he wrote this, and the e-mail is time-dated at five twenty-nine. If she did tell him, it would have been later than this.”

  Heather reached for the paper, took it back, and then held it against her chest as if by holding tight to that precious piece of paper she could somehow reach across time and space and touch Dillon as well. “Will you have to give this to the detectives?”

  “Yes,” I said. “They’ll need to have it—a copy of it, anyway. It’s what they’ll use to clear the two cases.”

  I thought about Heather in one of the interview rooms on the homicide floor at Seattle PD. Maybe the interview rooms in the new building weren’t quite as grim as the gritty old ones in the Public Safety Building. Still, I didn’t like to think about her being interviewed by detectives with Paul Kramer hanging around on the sidelines.

  “I could call Mel Soames,” I said. “She’d come over to talk to you.”

  “Right now?” Heather asked.

  “If I asked her.” I thought that was true, but I wasn’t one hundred percent sure. Regardless, it was worth a try.

  “I could just as well talk to her now,” Heather said. “I won’t be able to sleep.”

  “Go get out of those wet clothes, then,” I said. “There’s a robe and a pair of sweats in the guest room. I’ll call Mel and see what she says.”

  And even though it was four o’clock in the morning as I dialed her number, and even though I again awakened her out of a sound sleep, Mel Soames didn’t blow me out of the water. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” she said. “But on two hours of sleep, this better include breakfast.”

  I was snoozing in the recliner when the doorman called to let me know Mel was on her way up. I tapped on the guest-room door to summon Heather. Contrary to what she had said, she was sprawled across the bed, dead to the world. I eased the hard copy of Dillon’s last e-mail out from under her hand and left her sleeping. Armed with a freshly poured cup of coffee, I opened the door and met Mel in the corridor before she had a chance to ring the bell.

  Considering the hour and the time she’d had available to get up and dressed, Mel looked surprisingly well put together in a dove-gray suit and a cream-colored blouse. “It’s going to be a long day,” she said. “I decided to wear what I’m going to wear to Elvira Marchbank’s funeral later on rather than having to run back and forth across the lake. By the way,” she added, “you look like hell.”

  “Gee, thanks. This happens to be how I look when I don’t get any sleep,” I told her. “Obviously lack of sleep has no effect on you whatsoever.”

  “Is that a compliment?” she asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Now what’s up?”

  “Heather’s asleep in the other room, but take a look at this.”

  I handed her Dillon’s final e-mail. She read it with pursed lips. “Five twenty-nine,” she mused. “That would be consistent with what we found out.”

  “Which is?”

  “After we left Ron and Amy’s, Brad and I went back over to Dillon’s apartment on the back side of Queen Anne Hill. All we had to do was look in the window to know we’d found ourselves a crime scene. There was blood spatter everywhere. We immediately called it in to Seattle PD. Your friend Kramer—who’s a complete jackass, by the way…”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m well aware of that.”

  “…took his damned time about sending someone over. By the time he and his detectives showed up—search warrant in hand because ours was out of date—Brad and I had already located three different people who had heard the sounds of an altercation between a man and a woman coming from Dillon’s apartment around six P.M.”

  “Heard it but didn’t report it,” I interjected.

  Mel nodded. “That’s right. Lots of student-style apartments around there, so maybe noisy arguments are a regular occurrence. When Kramer showed up and realized Brad and I were the ones on the scene, I thought he was going to have a coronary on the spot. He ordered us to leave. Ordered!” Mel repeated derisively. “On the grounds that we were operating outside our jurisdiction! Who the hell does he think he is?”

  “He’s someone who’s used to throwing his weight around.”

  “In that case, Dillon’s e-mail may sound good enough for us to believe Heather wasn’t involved, and it’s probably good enough for the prosecutor’s office, but I doubt it’ll convince Kramer. He knows that you and Ron are good friends, and he’s going to go after this like a pit bull. All that means is we’re going to have to find proof. Or Heather’s attorney will.”

  I liked the fact that having met Paul Kramer only once or twice, Mel already had his number.

  “Any ideas?” I asked.

  “Brad picked up a bunch of security videotapes. There’s a company down in Olympia that owns several dozen convenience stores. We need to go through those. If Molly and Dillon both had cell phones, we need to check those out. If there were calls made during the time in question, we may be able to get a physical location.”

  Heather appeared at the end of the hallway. “You need Dillon’s phone?” she asked. “If you do, I have it. One of the medics gave it to me when we were in the ambulance. He said it was in the way.”

  She turned and went back down the hallway. When she returned with the phone, she handed it over to me. The phone wasn’t the least bit like mine. I had to put on my reading glasses in hopes of sorting out how it worked, but the phone was as dead as could be. I remembered then that Dillon had told Heather it had lost its charge. Until we found a cord that fit it, the phone would stay dead.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about Dillon,” Mel said to Heather. “Please accept my condolences.”

  Mel’s words were uttered with such sincerity that Heather was taken aback. I don’t think she had expected sympathy from Mel. Nothing she said discounted the supposed “puppy love” aspects of the loss Heather was feeling. Grief was grief, and Heather nodded gratefully. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I know you’re going through a very difficult time,” Mel continued, “and you may be too tired to go into any of this right now, but Beau asked me over so I could get a jump on the interview process. Lots of people and jurisdictions are involved in these cases. In order to close them, all the investigators are going to need answers to questions—answers that you alone may be able to provide.”

  “I know,” Heather said.

  “I’m hoping that, if we do a good enough job initially, you may not have to go through this ordeal over and over, but in order to make
it official, I’ll need to record it.”

  “Yes,” Heather said. “I understand.”

  While Mel set up her recording equipment, I refreshed our coffees and brought some for Heather as well.

  Because of my close association with the Peters family and with Heather in particular, I kept my mouth shut during the interview process. I couldn’t have added anything. Mel asked her probing questions in a way that was firm but not at all patronizing. She asked about Molly and about Molly’s relationship to Heather and to Dillon as well. She went over everything about the day of Rosemary’s murder in minute detail, pulling out every smidgen of Heather’s remembrance of that day and the days since.

  I stuck with it for a long time, but I have to confess as we neared the two-hour mark and the third tape, I was fading. I had drifted off in the recliner when the phone awakened me.

  “Sorry about this, Mr. Beaumont,” Fred Tomkins said, “but I’ve got me three men down here in the lobby—three policemen—who say they need to come see you right away. I tried to tell ’em it was way too early for them to go up, but…”

  I hadn’t a doubt in the world that Kramer would be one of the three. “That’s okay,” I told Fred. “Send them up.”

  Mel looked at me questioningly. “Kramer?” she asked.

  “The doorman didn’t say, but he’d be my first guess. This should be interesting.”

  I opened the door as Kramer reached for the bell. “Imagine meeting you here,” I said. “You’re turning into a regular.”

  “I’m looking for a witness named Heather Peters,” he said. “I understand she left Harborview Hospital with you last night.”

  “She’s here,” I said. “But she’s busy at the moment. Mel Soames is in the process of interviewing her.”

  Kramer practically levitated off the floor. “I told that bitch last night. This is the city of Seattle. She’s got no jurisdiction here, and neither do you. What happened last night was clearly inside the city limits. I demand that you turn her over to me immediately.”

  Calling Mel Soames a bitch didn’t go over well with me, but I managed to keep my voice steady and my temper under control.

  “You can demand until the cows come home, Kramer, but it’s not going to do any good. What happened on Queen Anne Hill last night is tied in with the Rosemary Peters homicide in Tacoma last week. Because of the possibility that it was an officer-involved domestic-violence case, state law makes SHIT the lead investigative agency. I’m sure Mel Soames will be happy to share a transcript of the Heather Peters interview with you once it’s available. She’ll share any other information she’s gathered as well, but in the meantime I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

  “I don’t want a transcript,” Kramer growled. “And I don’t want to wait. We want to talk to the girl now. As a friend of the family, you should know better than to have any involvement in the interview process. It’s a clear conflict of interest.”

  “I’m not involved,” I returned. “In fact, I haven’t said a word. You’ll be able to tell that as soon as you see the transcript.”

  Kramer’s complexion had gone from red to purple. “You’re interfering with my investigation, Beaumont, and I won’t stand for it.”

  “And you’re interfering with ours,” I returned.

  “I intend to lodge a formal complaint.”

  “Be my guest,” I said. “I’m sure Ross Connors will be more than happy to discuss the situation with you on Monday once he gets to his office, but until then I’d say you’re out of luck.”

  With that, I closed the door in Kramer’s face. Slammed it is more likely. Had he ever had the good fortune to support himself by selling goods door-to-door, Captain Kramer might have had the foresight to stick his toe in the door. But he didn’t. When I turned back into the room, Mel Soames was standing behind me in the hallway, grinning. Heather, on the other hand, was wide-eyed and ashen.

  Mel went back over to her. “How are you?” she asked, trying to take Heather’s focus off Kramer.

  “Tired,” Heather admitted.

  “Hungry?”

  “That, too, I guess.”

  “Well,” Mel said, “that makes two of us, and since Beau here just had the time of his life tormenting poor Captain Kramer, I’m guessing he’ll be more than happy to take us to breakfast. Right?”

  She was right, of course. I had tormented Kramer for no other reason than the fact that I could. And I had enjoyed the hell out of it. “As soon as I know for sure they’re gone,” I said.

  I called downstairs a few minutes later to be sure Kramer and the two detectives had taken themselves away. Heather had forgotten her coat—my old jacket—when she bolted out of the hospital waiting room. Once again, she left my apartment wearing another of my jackets, one that came almost to her knees.

  The three of us had breakfast at the Five-Spot. I was grateful we didn’t run into Marty Woodman. The old man had been kind enough to put me in touch with Wink Winkler. I didn’t want to have to try to explain to him how that connection had resulted in Wink’s death. As we finished breakfast, Amy came by to pick up Heather.

  The girl looked up warily as the door swung open. Amy hurried into the room, scanning the restaurant before she caught sight of where we were sitting. She stopped next to her stepdaughter.

  “Oh, Heather,” Amy said. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Heather leaped up and threw herself into Amy’s arms. “Me, too,” she said.

  And it really didn’t matter what they were sorry about—whether it was Dillon or Molly or Rosemary or all of the above. What mattered most was that they were together holding and comforting each other. The night before, Heather hadn’t been ready to accept comfort from anyone, most especially from her family. But this morning, whatever stresses had been eating away at the fabric of Ron and Amy’s family had melted into the background and were no longer strong enough to keep the family estranged. I could only hope that I had played some small part in making that happen.

  “What now?” Mel asked me a few minutes later, after Amy and Heather had taken their leave. “Did you ever talk to Wink Winkler’s son?”

  The way she asked the question made me feel defensive. After all, I hadn’t exactly been lying around on the job. I was also smart enough to realize that general crankiness is a natural outgrowth of being too tired.

  “Ran out of time,” I said.

  “If you want to track him down this morning, I’d be glad to go along.”

  I really wanted to go back to Belltown Terrace and put in a few hours in the sack instead of the recliner, but manly pride wouldn’t allow me to admit such a thing, not with Mel Soames, bright as a new penny, sitting there smiling at me.

  “I don’t have his address info,” I said, more than half hoping that would dissuade her, but it didn’t. Within seconds she pulled her phone out of her purse and was jotting down Bill Winkler’s home address over on Magnolia as well as the corporate address for Emerald City Security on the far side of Boeing Field.

  We drove to the address on Magnolia and found ourselves in front of a neat brick bungalow. A more than middle-aged woman answered the door. “Bill’s not here,” Mrs. William Winkler III told us in answer to our inquiry. “He doesn’t usually go in to work on Saturdays, but today something came up.”

  “That would be at the Columbia City address?” Mel asked.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Winkler said. “It’s an old warehouse. Not much to look at, but when it comes to rent, the price is right.”

  “Have you set a time for Wink’s services?” I asked.

  “There won’t be any. Once the body is released, we’ll have it cremated and then Bill will scatter the ashes. It’s Bill’s father, after all,” she added after a pause, “so it’s his decision.”

  We left the Winklers’ house and returned to Mel’s Beemer. I would have been happier being driven around in leather-interior luxury had it not been for Mel’s unfortunate tendency to drive like a bat out of hell. No wonder she could ma
ke it from Bellevue to Belltown Terrace in nothing flat, but I know better than to backseat drive. I just held on for dear life and kept my mouth shut.

  “She sounded a little defensive about the ‘no services’ bit,” Mel said once we were inside the 740.

  “We know Wink and his son have been estranged for years,” I replied. “If you’re pissed as hell at the guy, I don’t suppose you’re interested in forking over big bucks for a major send-off to plant him.”

  “No,” Mel agreed, “I suppose not.”

  We wheeled across the Magnolia Bridge and through downtown Seattle at a speed that should have required flashing lights and sirens. Fortunately it was still early enough on Saturday morning that there wasn’t a lot of traffic. I was glad when we turned off onto South Myrtle, a short street nestled between Boeing Field and the Duwamish Waterway.

  Surrounded by a chain-link fence, Emerald City Security sat at the far end of the dead-end street. The gate was wide open. Two vehicles sat next to the run-down, grubby-looking building. One was a white van with the Emerald City logo prominently displayed on either side. The second one was an unmarked Crown Vic that screamed Seattle PD.

  “Damn!” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “I’d be willing to bet money that Kramer’s here,” I said.

  “Great,” Mel replied. “The more the merrier.”

  She parked on the far side of the van. The back gates of the van were open. As we walked past the back bumper, we saw that the vehicle was loaded almost window-high with stacks of wood.

  “Laminate flooring,” Mel announced. “I’d call that a pretty high-class floor covering for a dump like this.”

  “Especially if you’re renting,” I said.

  The front door was standing open to allow for the passage of an extension cord. A portable saw with a pile of damp sawdust next to it stood just outside. We were stepping up to the door when we heard the sound of voices.