by J. A. Jance
“You invited me, remember?”
“I was asleep. Let's go someplace for coffee.” We drove to an upstairs coffee-and-croissant place on top of Queen Anne Hill. “So what do you want?” Max asked, once we settled at a table.
“I want to know where you got your information on Ginger Watkins.”
Wariness crept over his flabby face. “Why do you want to know?”
“I do, that's all.”
“My sources are confidential.”
“You'd be forced to tell, under oath.”
“There won't be a trial. Wilson's dead.”
“Did Wilson tell you about Ginger? Were you in touch with him after that day on Orcas?”
Max shook his head. “Don't try to trick me, J. P. Why do you want to know? Huggins says the case is closed. He's satisfied Wilson did it.”
“Who set up the meeting on Orcas? Was it Wilson?”
Max nodded.
“What did he say?”
“That something big was going to break, that it would be announced during the parole board retreat. He thought it should go in the special feature I was doing on him.”
“Did he say what this ‘something big’ was?”
“He didn't. I thought it would be about the Victim/Witness Protection Program. That's what he was working on, but nobody's mentioned it since. He must have had his wires crossed.”
“Did you ever publish it? The feature, I mean?”
Max looked stunned to think that I had missed a word of his deathless prose. “I used some of it in the column after Wilson died, but not much. I was still pissed at him for dragging me all the way to Orcas and then missing the interview.”
“Was it Pomeroy?” I asked in a feint-and-thrust maneuver designed to throw him off guard. It didn't work.
“I'm not talking,” Max returned stubbornly. “I already told you that.” I wasn't able to get any more out of him. We finished coffee, and I took him home.
I turned up at the department around ten. Peters, glancing up from a stack of papers, glared at me. “What'd you do? Forget to set your alarm?”
I didn't answer. I sat down at my desk, hoping to reshuffle my priorities and get the two John Does and Teresa Smith back on top of the desk. Don Wilson, the wild card, refused to go away.
“I talked to Hal,” I said to Peters as I passed his desk. “Old Man Scott swears up and down Wilson was dead two to three days at most. If that's true, how come he floated to the surface? That usually takes five days to a week.”
“Current,” Peters offered helpfully. “The current could have washed him up on shore without him necessarily floating to the surface.”
“I wish Baker could take a look at him.” Dr. Howard Baker is King County's crackerjack medical examiner. Nothing gets by him. Dr. Baker is no coroner, but then King County isn't Benton County, either. “Why the hell couldn't Wilson have died inside King County? It would simplify my life.”
“Wish in one hand, shit in the other, and see which hand gets full first.” Peters' comment was philosophical. I love it when he lectures me in parables.
Just then Peters' phone rang. He listened briefly, then slammed down the receiver and jumped to his feet. “Come on,” he said. “We've gotta go.”
“Where?”
“Manny and Al are down in Pioneer Square. They may have a lead in the transient case.”
That effectively put the cap on Ginger and Sig and Mona and Wilson. I followed Peters through the fifth-floor maze and out of the building. Pioneer Square is only a few blocks from the department, down the hill, off James.
As the name implies it's an old neighborhood made up of stately old buildings whose insides have been gutted and brought up to code. Gentrification has brought new tenants—law firms, trendy shoppes, and tiny espresso bars. The only glitch is that the new tenants haven't quite convinced the old ones, the bums, that they don't live there anymore. The merchants and the bums are constantly at war to see who controls the turf.
Peters and I walked down the hill. Manny and Al were in the Elliott Bay Bookstore, downstairs in the book-lined espresso bar. With them was a young woman in tennis shoes and a ponytail. She might have been any well-built teenager poured into a tank top and tightly fitting jeans, nipples protruding under the knit material. She looked like a teenager until you saw her close up. Her face was still attractive, but it showed signs of excessive wear.
Periodically she popped a bubble with a wad of gum, but she kept a nervous watch on a flashily dressed black man two tables away. He sat with both arms folded across his chest, silently observing the proceedings.
“So nothing happened,” she was saying as Peters and I approached the table. “It washed off. He never lit the match, but I told Lawrence I'll bet it's the same guy. When I heard it on the news, I told him.” She nodded toward the man I assumed to be Lawrence. “He said I could tell.”
Al motioned us into two empty chairs while Manny spoke earnestly to the girl. “These are Detectives Peters and Beaumont,” he explained. “They're working the case with us. Would you be willing to do a composite drawing, Sandra?”
She glanced questioningly toward Lawrence. He nodded. Evidently, anything that damaged the merchandise was bad for business. It didn't make sense to let someone set fire to the stable.
“Yes,” she answered.
“This was three nights ago?”
I think she forgot she was talking to a cop. She gave Manny a bat of her long lashes as she answered. “Yes.”
“And there were two of them?”
“Yes.”
“Black or white?”
“White.”
“Blond? Brunet?”
“One of each.”
“How tall?
“I don't pay much attention. I mean, it's not important, you know? Maybe six feet or so.”
“How old?”
“Twenty. Maybe younger.”
“And they both paid?”
“I charge extra for two.” Lawrence shifted uneasily in his chair, but I don't think Sandra noticed. At least he didn't tell her to shut up.
“Where did you go?”
“To a room at The Gaslight up on Aurora.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing…. Nothing kinky,” she added. “Not even both together. But while the second one was getting it up, the first one pulled a bottle out of his coat pocket and poured something on me. It smelled terrible. It burned my eyes.
“The second one started yelling, ‘What are you crazy?’ and the first one said ‘Just having a little fun.’ I jumped up to call Lawrence, but one of them knocked me down, and they took off. The second guy didn't even get his shirt and shoes on. I followed them to the door, screaming like mad. They drove off before Lawrence could catch them.”
“You're sure it was gasoline he poured on you?”
“Yeah. From one of those screw-top Coke bottles. Lawrence said if they'da lit a match I'da died.”
Manny nodded. “It's true,” he said. Sandra swallowed hard. I wondered how old she was. Probably no more than seventeen, although she looked half again that old.
“After that woman died, Lawrence said I could tell. He said this was one time we'd better cooperate.”
Manny nodded again, encouragingly. “Lawrence is absolutely right,” he agreed. “What kind of car was it?”
“White. One of those little foreign cars like maybe a Toyota or a Datsun. I don't know which.”
“What year?”
She shrugged. “But it had some of those university parking stickers in the window. We watch for those. They're usually bad news.”
Lawrence stood and motioned toward the door. Sandra caught the signal and rose obediently. “I gotta go.”
“Can we call you for the composite?” Manny asked.
She nodded. “Lawrence knows how to get ahold of me.”
Lawrence made a quick exit with the girl trailing behind him on an invisible leash.
“I'll just bet he does, the son of
a bitch,” Al Lindstrom muttered under his breath. “That makes me sick.”
Manny glared at his partner. “Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Al. We get paid for solving murders, not for busting hookers and pimps. She's the best thing that's happened to us all week.”
CHAPTER
30
I felt like a goddamned rubber band. Teresa and friends bubbled to the surface while Ginger and friends receded. The four of us went to lunch—Manny, Al, Peters, and I. Manny was high as a kite, while Al was still pissed, speculating that Lawrence made more than all four of us put together. Well, three of us, anyway. I wasn't talking.
Other than comparing notes on what Sandra had said, there wasn't much to do until she completed the composite. We agreed that since Manny had done most of the talking with Sandra, he should make the next contact and set up the appointment. There was no sense in causing Lawrence to be any more squirrelly than he already was.
The idea that the car was a white Datsun or Toyota with a university sticker was some help, but not much. There are literally thousands of cars registered at the U Dub, as locals refer to the University of Washington. We figured somebody should contact the campus police and ask for a preliminary list.
Seattle P.D. and the campus police get along fairly well. As law-enforcement officers, campus cops suffer from a severely restricted sphere of influence. They do a lot of PR work within the confines of their narrow jurisdiction, keeping a lid on anything that might offend the tender sensibilities of well-heeled alumni. Peters and I were to brief them on the current situation. We figured they'd be overjoyed to be involved in a real crime that didn't involve property theft.
As soon as lunch was over, we split up the act. Manny and Al headed for the medical examiner's office to pick up the preliminary report on the Harborview John Doe. Dental charts were our only possible means of identification. There sure as hell wouldn't be any fingerprints. Peters and I were supposed to go to the university. About ten to one, we stopped by the department to pick up a car, but Margie Robles, our clerk, caught us before we got away.
“There you are!” she exclaimed. “I've been looking all over for you.”
“Why? What's up?”
“Somebody named Ames. He's called three times so far. For you or Detective Peters.”
“Why would he call me?” Peters wondered.
“Did he leave a number?” I asked.
“Not the last time. Said you should meet him at the airport at one forty-five. Both of you. Here's the flight number.” She handed me a yellow slip of paper.
Once she was out of earshot, Peters turned on me.
“What's this about? More footwork for Hal Huggins?”
“I guess,” I said.
He glowered at me. “We'd better not take a company car, then. We can just barely make it.” He angrily strode toward the door with me right on his tail. I had an idea Ames wasn't calling about Ginger and friends. He had been in The Dalles, negotiating with New Dawn. If he had sprung the kids, it would be a kindness to give Peters some advance warning, but if he hadn't…. I wasn't about to make that kind of mistake. I let Peters stay pissed.
The Datsun was parked in a cheapo monthly garage at the bottom of James. Peters ground it into gear and angrily fishtailed us out of the parking stall. “You've got more nerve than a bad tooth. We shouldn't work an unauthorized case during regular hours. You'll get us both in trouble.”
I said nothing. It was pure luck that got us to Sea-Tac without a speeding citation. The parking garage was crammed to the gills. We searched through three levels before we finally spotted a little old lady vacating a spot. Peters beat two other cars to it. We were inside the terminal by one thirty-five. Naturally we had to hassle with the security guards over our weapons.
By the time we reached the gate, Northwest Orient Flight 106 from Portland was already parked in place at the jet bridge. Passengers were disembarking. I saw Ames first. He was packing one kid on his hip and dragging the other along by the hand. The girl Ames was carrying spotted Peters. “Daddy, Daddy,” she squalled.
Peters whirled toward her, a look of stunned amazement on his face. As he stood glued to the floor, unable to move, the girl who was walking broke loose from Ames' grip and raced for Peters' knees. She hit him with a full flying tackle that almost toppled him. Meantime, the kid Ames was carrying set up such a howl, he had no choice but to set her on the floor and let her run too.
Peters sank to the floor, buried under a flurry of bawling kids. I moved to where Ames, looking inordinately proud, was attempting to smooth the wrinkles from his usually immaculate jacket. What appeared to be the better part of a Tootsie Roll was stuck to his silk tie.
I grabbed his hand and pumped it. “How the hell did you pull it off?”
“You've just funded their mother on a five-year mission to Nicaragua. No children allowed, of course.”
“Of course,” I said.
“Fully deductible,” he added.
“Of course.” With Ames in charge I should have known the solution would be fully deductible. Peters gradually emerged from the mêlée and came over to Ames and me, one child in each arm. They were cute little imps, five and six years old with baby teeth, long dark hair, thick lashes, and brown eyes.
Peters was more than a little choked up. “I don't know what to say,” he blurted.
“How about introducing me?”
“This is Heather,” he said, indicating the smaller one, “and this is Tracie. My friend, Detective Beaumont.”
“Beau,” I corrected.
The smaller of the two regarded me seriously. “Hello. Mommy says my name is Joy and she's Truth.” She pointed at her sister. They had evidently lived under different names in Broken Springs, Oregon.
“I like Heather better,” I said.
We stood there awkwardly, bottling up the hallway, not knowing what to say or do. It was a moment that could have become maudlin, given half a chance, but Ames took charge. He herded us down the hallway like a bunch of errant sheep, leaving us long enough to pick up luggage. When he rejoined us, he carried only his own suitcase and a briefcase.
“What about them?” I asked, indicating the girls.
“New Dawn's attorney told me I could have them this morning, as is, take it or leave it. I took it. I decided we could get them clothes once they got here.”
One glance at Peters told me Ames had made the right choice. You can always buy new clothes. I doubted he would have gotten a second crack at the kids.
We crowded into the Datsun for the trip back to Seattle. Peters sat in the backseat with the girls. I drove while Ames attempted to clean the chocolate off his tie.
“I guess you're taking the rest of the afternoon off?” I asked.
Peters grinned. “Looks that way. I can't believe you did it!” he said to Ames.
I could believe it, all right. I counted on Ames to smooth it over so Peters would never know exactly how it happened. It would be better for him to believe that his ex-wife had experienced a sudden change of heart. There was no need to tell him certain amounts of money had changed hands.
I got out at the department, and Ames assumed the driver's seat. I tracked down Captain Larry Powell and told him that Peters was gone for the day, explaining that his kids had come home unexpectedly. Powell was glad to hear it, but he didn't press for details. I didn't volunteer any, either.
Once Peters dropped me at the department, I checked out a car and drove to the university. Driving there, I suddenly recalled an old undergraduate pastime that had been called Bum Bashing in my day. It involved dragging home a bum on one pretext or another and then beating the crap out of him once he was there. Of course, back in the old days, I couldn't remember anyone's ever dying of it. Obviously the current generation had elevated the sport from intramural to semipro. By actual count we had three victims dead. My hope was that Sandra's encounter had been with the same bunch and that we could somehow nail them.
As I expected, the officer
of the day, Joseph Randolph, was more than happy to help me. He listened carefully as I explained the problem, then left me in a waiting room while he went to work on it. Forty minutes later, he called me back into his office. With a triumphant grin, he handed me a huge computer printout that must have weighed ten pounds.
“Here it is,” he said. “Every single car that's registered on campus this quarter—make and license number.”
I could tell he was proud of getting it for us so fast. I hated to burst his bubble. “Can you break it down by make and model?” I asked.
His face fell. “I don't know when we could schedule that much computer time.”
I took the whole list back to the department. Manny, Al, and I divided it three ways and began weeding through it. By quitting time, we had found 73 Datsuns and 51 Toyotas. No colors. We called it a job and went home. That's one thing about this kind of work. When you're looking for a needle in the haystack, you don't have to do it all at once. Both the needle and the haystack will stay right there and wait until the next day.
I called Peters at home to find out how things were going. They had just come in from buying bedroom furniture. He said he'd decided to take the rest of the week off. It would take that long to get the girls registered for school and locate a baby-sitter. I told him not to worry, since sorting through the vehicle list would probably take the better part of a week.
Ames turned up, wearing a clean tie and jacket. The two of us went out for a celebratory dinner, co-conspirators congratulating each other behind Peters' back. With the kids in Peters' custody and the major real estate deal canceled, Ames planned to return to Arizona on Saturday. I was sorry to hear it. It cost me money, but I enjoyed having Ames around. I supposed, however, that he did have other clients.
“You making any progress on the Watkins case?” he asked as we left Rosselini's Four Ten Restaurant to walk home.
I shook my head. “Huggins is sure Wilson did it. Since it isn't my case, I don't have much to say about it.”
Ames looked thoughtful. “I can't help but think that the murders and the project might be related.”
“How's that?”