“What were you doing on the Isolde at that hour of the morning? What time was it, four-thirty? Five?”
“Five. Señor Gebhardt asked me to come to work then. He said we had a lot to do that day, that we needed to get an early start.”
“What exactly were you doing?”
“Getting the boat ready to go out. I was supposed to help him overhaul the engine starting next week, but he called me on Sunday. He said he had decided to put off the overhaul until later. He said while it was still good weather, he wanted to take the boat out for one last test before we started working on it. I did some other work on the boat the day before, on Monday, checking the equipment, fuel, and fluids—making sure everything was right. Mostly I helped him load stores on board. The next day he told me he wanted me to come help him load on everything else.”
“What everything else?”
Lorenzo raised his shoulders and shook his head. “I don’t know. He said it would be hard work, that it would take all day.”
“There was a wrench,” I said, “a small box wrench that was found near the scene of the car accident. The lady who hit you found it in the street after you left. Do you know anything about that?”
He nodded. “It was on the deck of the Isolde when I came on board,” Lorenzo said. “I stepped on it and almost fell down. I’m sure it was one of Señor Gebhardt’s tools, and I was afraid I had left it out overnight. He was careful about his tools. I was going to return it to the toolbox without letting him know it had been left out. When I picked it up to put it in my pocket, it felt funny, and I wondered why it was covered with paint.”
Sue Danielson had been quiet throughout the interview. She didn’t keep still because she’s some kind of shrinking violet or because I’m particularly brilliant. The truth is, interrogations can shatter like glass with too much handling or interference. Because Lorenzo focused on me and seemed so concerned with whether or not I believed him, Sue simply assumed it was better to leave well enough alone.
Now, though, she stirred. “How long had you known Gunter Gebhardt?” she asked.
“Five years.”
“How did you first meet him?”
“Through my cousin, and one of my cousin’s friends. They went to work for him, fishing, and they asked me to come along. We made good money.”
“Was he hard to work for?” Sue asked.
“It was a job,” Lorenzo answered. “He paid us, and the checks didn’t bounce.”
“You didn’t have any trouble with him?”
“No,” Lorenzo answered. “No trouble,” but for the second time, that same involuntary tic I had seen before flitted across the man’s tense jawline. He glanced reproachfully at June Miller as if to say that exactly what he had feared would now happen—that we would blame him for Gunter Gebhardt’s murder.
Lorenzo stood up, as did his sister. “My leg hurts,” he said. “I want to go home.”
Sue looked at me questioningly, one eyebrow raised. I shook my head, indicating we should let him go. After all, we had come so far in the process that I didn’t want to risk alienating him by pressing any further right then. Besides, the band was tuning up again. Sitting there right on top of the speakers, as soon as the music started, we wouldn’t be able to hear a word.
As the first notes of the next number blasted out of the speakers, I got up and followed the Hurtados out into the night.
“Wait a minute,” I called after them as they started down the streetlight-lit sidewalk.
Lorenzo swung around angrily. “What do you want now?” he demanded.
For an answer, I pulled out my copy of the Identi-Kit picture—the one with Lorenzo’s own likeness staring out from the paper.
“Have you seen this?” I asked, handing it over to Lorenzo.
He glanced down and studied the picture for a moment. Then he nodded and handed it back. “Yes,” he answered. “I’ve seen it.”
“So has everyone else in this city,” I told him. “Including the third party who was on the Isolde with you and Gunter Gebhardt the night he died.”
Beside him, Maria inhaled sharply. Her hand rose reflexively to her throat. Lorenzo’s eyes rose to meet mine. “What are you saying?” he asked.
“Two people are dead so far,” I answered. “If the killer believes you saw him and can possibly help lead us to him, he may very well come looking for you. Thanks to this, we found you, and the killer may be able to do the same thing. Sometimes, in cases like this, we’ll put a witness in protective custody, but I don’t think that would work too well here. Do you?”
Lorenzo looked at me but said nothing.
I knew I was bending the rules, but it sure as hell wasn’t the first time. “If I were you,” I continued, “and if I had anywhere else to go, I would take my mother and sister and go there. At least for a while.”
Lorenzo’s questioning gaze held mine for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. “I have another cousin,” he said. “His name is Sergio Hurtado, and he lives in Yakima. I can take my mother and go there. Maria can’t miss work, but she can stay with friends.”
“Does your cousin have a phone?” I asked. “Can I call you there if I need to?”
“Yes,” Lorenzo answered. “Yes, you can.”
“Is he listed in the telephone directory?”
Lorenzo nodded. And then he offered me his hand.
As we shook, I realized the entire process had been a test, from the moment the two of them stepped inside the door of the Ballard Fire House. It had been a life-and-death examination on the subject of trust, and although there were still many unanswered questions, I knew I must have passed.
20
By the time we left the Ballard Fire House, it was far too late for even the former BoBo Beaumont to pay a call on Else Gebhardt. Besides, I was beat. And the bone spur on my heel was kicking up again. I told myself it came from just watching all that salsa dancing, but it probably had a lot more to do with stumbling around in the dark out at the Camano Island fire two nights before.
In any event, I took off for home, where I dosed myself with prescription anti-inflammatories. The directions on the bottle said that the medication was to be taken with food. Since there wasn’t much of that lying around loose in my bare-bones kitchen, I followed the pills with a chaser of peanut butter. A generously rounded tablespoonful. I figured since peanut butter seemed to be good enough for the other old dogs in my family, it was probably good enough for me.
And it worked, too. Soon after I crawled into bed, the throbbing in my foot lessened enough for me to fall asleep. During the night, I dreamt, not surprisingly, of salsa dancing.
Ralph Ames, who is often an overnight guest in my high-rise condo, has made a crusade of bringing me out of the technological Dark Ages. He had prevailed on one of his electronics/computer-whiz friends to design a dazzling system for my apartment that can do everything but bring me coffee in bed. If I carry a little electronic wafer in my pocket, I can set the thing to automatically adjust lights and music as I move from room to room.
The system also includes a wireless pagerlike controller and intercom that can, from any room in the apartment and without benefit of telephone, answer and open my apartment door as well as the door to Belltown Terrace’s outside entrance. It’s a great gimmick—if I’d just remember to wear it. Most of the time it stays parked on the counter in the bathroom, which is where I most often have need of it.
That was the case the next morning when the doorbell rang just as I stepped out of the shower. It was the bell to the apartment.
Belltown Terrace is a secured building. That means no one is supposed to enter without being buzzed in by either a resident or allowed in by the doorman. If the doorman lets a guest inside the building, he’s supposed to call and check to see whether or not the arriving person is expected and should be allowed to proceed. In other words, whoever was standing at the door to my apartment should have been one of my fellow residents, a neighbor from inside the building.
Heather and Tracy Peters are the daughters of Ron Peters, a former partner of mine. After a disabling line-of-duty injury left him wheelchair-bound, he and the girls moved into a unit on one of the lower floors of Belltown Terrace along with Amy, the physical-therapy nurse who became his second wife. Never having had any nieces and nephews of my own, I appreciated being allowed to borrow the girls on occasion.
“Sure, Heather,” I said, pressing the button. “I’ll be out in a minute. Just let me get some clothes on.”
Eight-year-old Heather had said “we.” I assumed that meant she and her ten-year-old sister would both be waiting in my living room. I was wrong.
I came down the hallway a few minutes later to find both Heather Peters and an amazingly large Afghan hound—who was either Charley, the elevator dog, or Charley’s twin—enthroned on my window seat. Heather’s arm was around the dog’s shoulder, and they both sat with their backs to the room, peering down through yet another morning of Puget Sound’s late-autumn fog.
“Hey, what’s he doing in here?” I demanded.
“Charley’s a she,” Heather corrected primly. “She’s named after the perfume.”
“Well, get her down off my window seat.”
When ordered to get down, Charley complied, but not without a baleful look at me. She sighed, disdainfully shook her footlong ears, and then flopped down at Heather’s feet.
“Have you ever met Charley before?” Heather asked.
“Only once. In the elevator. Is that where you found her?”
“Oh no, I’m taking care of her for the whole weekend. I told Amy and Dad that I’m taking her for a walk, but I need your help.”
I come from an era when people who owned dogs usually had yards to go with them. When the dog needed to be walked, the owner simply opened the door, and the dog walked itself. No one carried pooper-scoopers and plastic bags back then.
“I don’t walk dogs, Heather,” I said, stopping in the kitchen long enough to pour the first cup of coffee from the morning’s second pot. The last statement sounded grouchy, even to me. When Heather’s face fell in disappointment, I modified my position some. “At least I never have up till now,” I added.
Heather brightened instantly. “Did you know it’s Amy’s birthday today?”
Amy Peters is Heather’s stepmother. “I had no idea.”
“I know what I want to get for her birthday present—Frangos. You know, those chocolate things?” Heather prattled on. “She just loves Frangos. I’ve got enough money, but my dad’s too busy to take me to the Bon. I could walk there by myself, if I had Charley along to look out for me, but then what would happen to her when I went inside the store?”
What indeed? Forty-five minutes later, I was cooling my heels on the corner of Fourth and Stewart outside the Bon Marché, one of Seattle’s premier department stores. I stood there hoping to God none of my fellow police officers would see me doing dog-sitting duty with that arrogant, snooty animal. Charley and I seemed to be of the same mind—we were both pretending we’d never seen each other before, which is hard to do when you’re on opposite ends of the same leash.
Much as I hate to admit it, Charley was an exceptionally well-behaved dog. Although nearly as tall as Heather, the dog obeyed all instructions issued by her diminutive keeper. Head held high, Charley pranced along beside Heather when we walked, or sat with her narrow nose high in the air while we waited for lights to change at intersections.
Heather is a cute kid in her own right; always has been. Charley is a beautiful dog, and the two of them were a winning combination. Just like any ordinary regular uncle, I got a boot of pride out of the way passersby craned their necks to take a second look.
We spent some time window-shopping downtown and sauntering through the Saturday morning throngs at the Pike Place Market. I told myself I was just minding my grandmother—taking the time to stop and smell the flowers. Along the way, I picked up some groceries. With the gourmet cook Ralph Ames due to arrive the next day, I couldn’t afford to be caught foodless in Seattle.
Back at Belltown Terrace, I said good-bye to Heather and Charley in the elevator, put away the groceries, then picked up the phone and dialed Ashland, Oregon. Jeremy Todd Cartwright III, my recently acquired son-in-law, answered the phone.
“Kelly’s outside with the kids. Want me to go get her?”
Kelly runs a day-care center out of their newly remodeled home, so she is often “outside with the kids.” One of those kids, Kayla—short for Karen Louise—is my only grandchild.
“Don’t bother. I can talk to you. Do you and Kelly have any plans for Thanksgiving?”
Jeremy paused. “We had talked about going down to Cucamonga, to visit Dave and Karen, but Dave called the other day and says he doesn’t think Karen will be up to having company.”
Karen Livingston, my first wife and Kelly’s mother, has been battling cancer for more than two years now. Dave, her second husband, is a good guy, one I’ve come to respect more and more over the years. But the fact that Karen didn’t want company for Thanksgiving, not even her new granddaughter, was not good news.
“Besides,” Jeremy added gloomily, “I’m not all that sure the old van would make it that far. The clutch may be on its last legs.”
“How about coming up here?” I suggested.
“Kelly would probably like that, but I still don’t know about the van making it over the passes between here and Eugene.”
“Talk it over with her,” I said. “I don’t need an answer right this minute, but if you want to come, we can see about flying you up from Medford.”
Jeremy’s reply was interrupted by my call-waiting signal.
I make it a point not to switch calls when I’m on the phone with someone long distance. That seems rude to me. When call-interrupting starts buzzing in my ear, that’s the time when I long for the good old days when a dialed telephone offered only one of three uncomplicated results—an answer, a busy signal, or no answer. Life was simpler back then, in more ways than one.
“…expensive?” Jeremy was asking, when I could hear him again.
“Don’t worry about the money,” I told him. “What matters is whether or not you want to come.”
“I’ll check with Kelly right away,” Jeremy assured me. “We’ll get back to you with an answer as soon as we can.”
Even though we didn’t rush in finishing up the call, as soon as I put down the phone, it rang again. Whoever was calling was persistent enough to stay on the line for far longer than I would have.
“Hello,” I said.
“Beau?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Stan Jacek here. What do you think of the latest?”
“The latest what?”
“The autopsy results, of course. I faxed them down to Seattle P.D. about half an hour ago.”
“Look, Stan, it’s Saturday,” I pointed out. “This may come as a surprise to you, but I have no intention of going into the office today. I’m trying to learn how not to work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I’ve already put in a helluva long week, and the Seattle Police Department’s new chief isn’t all that keen on sanctioning excess overtime. I figure Monday should be time enough for me to take another crack at all this.”
“Are you saying you’d rather I hang up now, then, so you don’t get the news until after you’ve actually punched in on the time clock Monday morning?”
It seemed to me Stan Jacek was being a bit testy. “Cut the sarcasm, Stan. We’re already on the phone. Go ahead and tell me. What autopsy results?”
“It’s not her.”
Now I was completely baffled. “Who’s not her?”
“Denise Whitney,” he answered. “The dead woman isn’t Denise. The dental records don’t even come close to matching the ones her parents brought down from Anchorage.”
That blew me away. Once again my none
-too-limber mental rubber bands were being stretched to the limit. One minute I was talking to my son-in-law and hoping to arrange a visit with my grandchild over the holidays, and the next I was back in the dark world of murder. A place where things you thought were straightforward suddenly weren’t. And it wasn’t even my case.
“If the dead woman isn’t Denise,” I said, “who the hell is she?”
“Good question,” Jacek answered. “We’re checking missing-persons reports all over the Pacific Northwest—from northern California to Vancouver, B.C., and from the coast as far east as Montana. Nothing so far.”
“What about him?”
Now it was Detective Jacek’s turn to be bum-fuzzled. “Him who?”
“If Denise isn’t Denise, is Gunter Gunter?”
“I guess,” Stan Jacek answered. “At least they didn’t say anything to me about him. But then Gunter’s your case, not mine, so they probably wouldn’t have told me regardless. You’d better check that one out for yourself. I’ll let you go, so you can get back to whatever it was you were doing.”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” I replied. “Now that you’ve dragged me back into a work mode, there are a few things I need to go over with you as well.”
In the next ten minutes, I gave Stan Jacek a brief version of what had gone on since he and I last parted company outside the Public Safety Building. I told him about Sue Danielson’s and my intriguing interview with Kari Gebhardt and Michael Morris, and the results of my salsa-dancing foray. I told him about Lorenzo Hurtado’s revelation that Gunter Gebhardt had been making hasty and ultimately futile preparations to leave town.
“It sounds as though as soon as Kari told him someone was looking for him, he tried to beat it, but the killer or killers got to him first,” I concluded.
“Sounds like,” Jacek agreed, “but why would he be getting the boat ready to ship out when he already had a plane ticket stashed in his car?”
“Good question.” And it was.
“And what about those Wiesenthal guys,” Jacek continued. “I always thought they played it straight up.”
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