by J. A. Jance
“Muddy the water a little,” Huggins suggested. Peters nodded in agreement.
“Had you told anyone that you planned to stay overnight in Pasco?” Ray's homicide instincts were still good, even though he had kicked himself upstairs.
“No. How could I have told someone? I didn't make up my mind until I was almost here and decided to see you.”
“Either he followed you or knew where Mona was staying,” Peters put in. “How did you find out?”
“I asked one of the limo drivers over in Welton.”
“And they told you?”
“They didn't act as if it was any big secret.”
The phone rang again. Ray answered. “Put it through,” he said. He switched on the speakerphone on his desk.
“Is this Chief Johnson?” a voice asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Lee Hawkins. I'm an aide to Governor Reynolds. We're just confirming that you have a suspect in custody in the deaths of Mona and Sig Larson.”
“We do not have a suspect.”
“But we were told—” There was a pause. “What about Ginger Watkins? We understand her death has been reclassified as a homicide.”
“I repeat. We do not have a suspect in custody. In fact, I'll be calling a press conference at seven.” Ray paused, turning his chair to consult an old pendulum clock that hung on the wall behind him. In Roman numerals the clock said the time was six-eighteen. “I'll be issuing the Pasco Police Department's official apology to Detective J. P. Beaumont.”
“But the paper said—” Hawkins began.
“The paper's wrong,” Ray interjected. “They often are, you know. Detective Beaumont is not a suspect in any of the cases, and we have no one else in custody.”
“But the governor is ready to announce that he is withdrawing protection from the parole board.”
“He'd better retract that withdrawal,” Ray said into the phone. “In fact, if I were him, I think I'd extend protection to all parole board family members as well.”
I waved a hand to get Ray's attention. “Ask him about the victim/witness protection program.”
Ray shot me a questioning look, then shrugged. “Someone here is asking about the victim/witness protection program.” I mouthed my question to Ray, and he repeated it into the phone. “Someone wants to know when it will be ready.”
Hawkins knew exactly what we were talking about. “Tell him not until the next legislative session convenes in January.”
“Is that all you need to know?” Ray asked me.
I nodded. Ray put down the phone. “What's that all about?”
“Maxwell Cole said Wilson thought an announcement on that program was imminent.”
“Doesn't sound like it to me,” Ray replied, getting up and opening the door. “LeAnn, let the members of the press know that I'll be holding a press conference at seven A.M. In the city council chamber.”
He turned back inside the room, grinning. “You know,” he said, “I think I'm actually going to enjoy this one.”
CHAPTER
21
We did enjoy the press conference. For once we caught the media absolutely flat-footed. When I walked to the podium with Ray, you could have heard a pin drop.
Ray Johnson went straight to the microphones as naturally as if he had been doing it all his life. In ten months he had indeed become a police chief rather than a homicide detective. He was totally at ease.
“Before I issue my statement, I want to introduce you to some guests. On my right is Detective J. P. Beaumont of Seattle P. D. Next to him is Ralph Ames, Mr. Beaumont's personal attorney. Next to him is Detective Hal Huggins of the San Juan County Sheriff's Department.
“What I have to say is short and sweet. The City of Pasco and its Police Department deeply regret that Detective Beaumont here was mistakenly arrested as a suspect in the murder of Mona Larson. We wish to express our sincere apology for any inconvenience this may have caused.
“We are pursuing several leads in the Larson case and are, in fact, working on a major suspect. I repeat, Detective Beaumont is not that suspect. My understanding is that, after consulting his attorney, Detective Beaumont has agreed not to press false-arrest charges against this jurisdiction. However, some legal action may be contemplated. I believe Mr. Ames will be speaking to that issue. Mr. Ames?” He yielded the platform to Ralph.
Ralph Ames looks unassuming. He dresses conservatively and well, but he's a real tiger in negotiations or in court. He stepped to the bank of microphones.
“Thank you, Chief Johnson. Yes, I have advised my client that false-arrest proceedings would be ill-advised. However, in the next few days we will be reviewing all media coverage of my client's arrest to determine whether we have grounds for defamation of character or libel suits in conjunction with media treatment of the incident. It's possible some of the reports were in fact libelous.”
Ames sat down, leaving the hall in utter silence. I happened to be looking directly at Maxwell Cole when Ames made his pronouncement. Max blanched visibly, his complexion turning a pukey shade of green.
Ray resumed the microphone. “Any questions?”
There were none immediately. No one was eager to leap into the breach. Eventually, one brave soul near the back tentatively raised his hand. “Do you believe there's a connection between Mona Larson's death and that of her husband?”
I could see Ray's smile coming a mile away. “No comment,” he said.
“I understand the governor has now extended State Patrol protection to all family members of the parole board as well as to board members themselves. Is that true?”
“You'll have to ask Governor Reynolds about that.”
“Can you tell us why Detective Huggins is here?”
Ray turned to Hal. “Hal,” he said, “would you care to answer that?”
We were having a good time. I could see Peters in the back of the room with a broad grin plastered across his face.
“No comment,” Hal said.
That got the message across. The reporters could see we were having fun at their expense. There were no more questions.
“Well then,” Ray announced, “I guess we're finished.”
We left the council chambers together. Back in Ray's office, we couldn't help chortling. We milled around for a few minutes, deciding on the next move. Ames and Peters had been up all night; they were worn out. They wanted to use my room at the Red Lion for a nap. My rented car had been impounded, pending investigation. The crime lab agreed to release it to Avis when they were done with it.
Peters left Ames and me in the station lobby and walked two blocks to get his Datsun. For the first time I noticed how haggard and drawn Ames looked. He was weary beyond words. “You look like hell,” I said.
“You wouldn't win any prizes yourself,” he returned, his voice cracking with exhaustion, now that his press conference adrenaline had worn off. He flopped down in one of the brown leather waiting-room chairs, resting his head on the wall behind him.
“We lost.” His voice was low. I almost didn't hear him. It took a minute for me to realize what he was saying. At last I tumbled. “The custody hearing?”
He nodded. “We got an old-fashioned, dyed-in-the-wool conservative judge who figures only mothers are fit to raise children. No matter what.”
I dropped into the chair beside him, chagrined that I hadn't given the custody hearing a moment's thought. I had never seen Ames so down. He's usually the steady one, the eye of the hurricane.
“I'm sorry,” I murmured. “How's Peters taking it?” I felt responsible. Peters had pretty much given up the idea of ever getting his kids back until I butted in, encouraged him to fight for them, and told him we'd turn the problem over to Ames. I had watched Peters' hopes rise as the custody hearing neared. Now all that hope had come to nothing.
“Not well,” Ames said. He looked at me closely. “Have you ever seen those two girls of his?”
I shook my head. “He was divorced long before we
started working together.”
“They're cute as buttons, both of them, and they were ecstatic to see him.”
“What happens now?”
“I don't know. I need to think about it. The New Dawn attorney made a couple of broad hints, but I'm not sure he's on the level.”
Peters pulled up outside and honked. We went out. Ames crawled into the backseat while I slipped into the front with Peters. While we had been involved with the reporters, his face had been animated, alive. Now a morose mask covered his handsome features.
“I'm sorry about the hearing,” I said.
He put the car in gear. “Win some, lose some,” he said, feigning nonchalance. It didn't work.
“But the girls are all right?” I insisted.
“Sure,” he flared. “They can't have shots because shots show a lack of faith. They live on a diet of brown rice and fruit. Milk is a luxury. They have it once a week. On Sundays.” Peters' anger played itself out. He fell silent.
“So what do we do now, coach?” I asked, turning to Ames in the backseat.
He shook his head. “I don't know. We took our best shot. I'll have to see what other avenues are open.” Ames didn't elaborate, and silence lengthened in the little car.
“Thanks for coming to get me, you guys,” I said. “Both of you.”
“It's okay,” Peters responded. “My turn will come.”
Peters and Ames went up to my room to get some sleep. I was wide-awake. I went down to the lobby. On one of the lobby chairs I found an abandoned P.I. Curiosity got the better of me, overcoming my natural aversion to newspapers. I wanted to see what had made Maxwell Cole turn green when Ames mentioned libel suits. By picking up a discarded paper, I could read the column without giving them the satisfaction of paying for it.
Max used the words “rogue cop” over and over. He might have coined the expression himself. The story didn't contain much that was different from the other garbage he's written about me over the years, except for the Mona Larson allegations.
I had a feeling this was one instance where Max's retraction would receive prominent coverage. If I were in his shoes and thought Ralph Ames was coming after me with a libel suit, I'd be looking for cover.
I did pick up one other piece of useful information from reading the newspaper. Ginger Watkins' funeral would be held on Thursday afternoon. No time or place was given, but included in the brief announcement was Ginger Watkins' father's name. He was listed as a resident of Centralia. Tucking that tidbit away in the memory bank, I worked the crossword puzzle in ten minutes flat. For me, that was something of a record.
My presence in the lobby created a continuing stir. Mary Kay ladies sporting May Kay nametags and Mary Kay faces wandered by, staring openly. When I finished the puzzle, I approached the desk and asked if I could use a house phone to bill some calls to my room. The clerk, a sweet young thing with long blond hair, dropped her pen when I announced who I was.
“I'll have to check,” she stammered, retreating into a back office. She returned a few minutes later. “Mr. Dixon says that will be fine,” she gulped.
I smiled. “If anyone asks, tell them I was framed.”
She nodded, wide-eyed, and said, “Thank you.” She was so flustered she forgot to tell me to have a nice day.
I gave the hotel operator my room information, and asked Centralia Information for Tom Lander's number.
“The number is 763-4427.”
I hung up and dialed. There was no answer. I dialed Information again. I'm a longtime believer in the old phone factory adage, “Let your fingers do the walking,” except mine walk straight to directory assistance. This time I asked for a Union 76 station. Again I dialed.
A man answered, an older man whose voice was deep and whose speech was slow. “Tom's Seventy-six. Tom speaking.”
“My name is J. P. Beaumont. I'm a friend of Ginger's. I wanted to let you know how sorry I am.”
“Thanks.” There was a pause. I could hear him struggling to gain control. “It was your car she was driving, wasn't it?” he asked.
I was surprised that he recognized my name. “That's right,” I told him. “I understand the funeral is tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes,” he said. “Two o'clock.”
“I tried calling Darrell but was told the services will be private. I was sorry to hear that. I'd very much like to attend. Do you think that's possible?”
“Far as I'm concerned. I don't know where those characters get off making it private. Funerals should have lots of people. It shows folks care.”
“Where is it? The paper didn't say.”
“Two o'clock in the Congregational Church downtown. In the chapel.”
“Could I come as your guest?”
“Sure.”
“I'll meet you at the church. About one forty-five.”
“How will I know you?”
“I'll be able to find you,” I told him.
“If anybody tries to stop you, tell'em Tom Lander said you could come.”
The next call was to a florist in the Denny Regrade near my apartment. I ordered a bouquet of flowers for Ginger Watkins from Sig Larson. While I was at it, I called a Pasco florist and ordered flowers for Mona Larson, too. I told the clerk to check with the Pasco Police Department to see where and when they should be sent.
She took my credit-card number and wanted to know what to put on the card.
“Sign the card ‘A friend,’” I told her, and let it go at that. I hoped like hell it would be the last batch of flowers I'd be ordering for a while.
CHAPTER
22
It was pouring rain the morning of Ginger Watkins' funeral, the kind of hard, driving rain that demands umbrellas and confirms for unfortunate tourists that everything they say about Seattle's weather is true.
I rummaged through a closet searching for my one battered umbrella, a fold-up relic with two broken ribs and a bent handle. I hardly ever used it. Seattle's rain is usually no more than a misty drip, a dry drizzle that seldom merits use of what Seattelites fondly refer to as “bumbershoots,” otherwise known as umbrellas.
Ames settled into the Westin Hotel. He had work to do and didn't want to be disturbed. Peters went back to the department where one of our Battered Wife/Dead Husband cases was about to come to trial. He spent the day locked up in a series of depositions.
J. P. Beaumont, still on vacation, was left to his own devices. I stopped by to thank Ida Newell for tracking down Ames and Peters.
“I was glad to,” she assured me. “Why, the way they wrote you up in the paper was criminal. Are you going to sue them? They deserve it, especially that columnist fellow.”
“Ames is looking into it,” I told her. “I will if he tells me.”
Later, I went to get a haircut. Virgil has been my barber ever since I moved to the city. I've followed him from his first little hole-in-the-wall shop to gradually more prosperous surroundings. Now he's located in an attractive brick rehab on the corner of Third and Vine.
Busy, Virgil waved me into a chair to wait. “It's about time you came in here,” he griped. “Saw you on TV, and I says to Betty, I says, wouldn't cha know he'd go and get himself on TV when he needs a haircut? Pray God he doesn't tell who cuts his hair, know what I mean?”
I knew exactly what he meant. I was long overdue. Getting haircuts was one of the things I had neglected in the previous months of malaise.
Virgil finished with a retiree from the Grosvenor House and beckoned me into the chair. “Saved all those articles from the paper for you,” he said. “Figured if you was out of town, you might not get'em, you know?”
“Thanks, Virgil.”
“Understand your car got wrecked, too.”
“They're working on it up at Orcas. I guess it'll be all right, eventually.”
He clipped away, humming a country-western tune under his breath. I know enough about music to know he hummed very badly. When he finished, it was only eleven. I walked over to Seventh and stop
ped at the Doghouse, more for the company than the coffee. Doghouse regulars greeted me as a celebrity. After all, the idea of a cop gone bad is a real attentiongrabber. I sat in a back corner booth and did some serious thinking.
About Sig and Ginger and Mona. I had never met Sig while he was alive, but his death had profoundly affected me. Ginger and Mona I knew briefly, only a matter of hours, before they too were dead. The three deaths plagued me, weighed me down. I kept going back to Mona and Ginger. Different, yes, but both young and vital, and both cut down. Something about the two of them nagged at the back of my mind, but I couldn't put my finger on it. The harder I tried to capture it, the more elusive it became.
The fingerprints accused Don Wilson, but where was he? How was he outmaneuvering all efforts to find him? Was he operating alone or with help? These were questions without answers; or if the answers were there, I couldn't see them.
I ambled back to my apartment and made myself a peanut butter sandwich. Sometimes, out of respect for Peters, I occasionally add sprouts to the peanut butter, but the plastic bag of sprouts in the vegetable drawer of my refrigerator had deteriorated to a vile greenish goo. With the sandwich and a glass of milk, I settled in my recliner and dialed the San Juan Country Sheriff's Department.
I more than half expected to be told that Huggins was in Seattle attending a funeral. Instead, he answered.
“Hal? Beau here. You coming to Seattle for Ginger Watkins' funeral?”
“I was going to ask you to go, Beau. I'm up to my neck around here. Think you can swing it?”
“Sure. Homer tried to keep me away, saying Senator Watkins wanted a small, private ceremony, but I got my name on the guest list anyway.”
“How'd you manage that?”
“Her father invited me. As his guest.”
Hal clicked his tongue. “Homer won't like that.” I was sure that was true.
“I take it you've had a couple run-ins with the old man?”
“Like running into a brick wall. I've tried to talk to the husband, and he's stonewalled me at every turn.”