by J. A. Jance
“Insurance fraud!” Ames exclaimed. “A buy/sell agreement funded with life insurance. Why didn't I think of that?” Ames came on-line without missing a beat.
Colleen smiled at him. “That's right, sweetie. Five hundred thousand apiece, with a five hundred thousand accidental-death benefit.”
Ames' accountant mentality took over. He whistled. “That would be plenty to get them out of the woods. When would the claim be paid?”
“Well, now,” Colleen murmured, “that all depends, doesn't it? Two to three weeks if everythin's in order. Much longer than that if there's a problem.'
“Three weeks would be in time to ward off the sheriff's sale.”
Colleen nodded. “These policies are all well beyond the contestable period. We'll be payin' the claims, regardless. Ah just want to be sure in my own mind that we're not payin' good money to a murderer.”
She removed a sheaf of papers from a slender briefcase, handing them to Ames rather than me. Swiftly he skimmed through them. “It's essentially a buy/sell arrangement,” he explained to me a few minutes later, “with all proceeds going to the surviving partners.”
“And the surviving partners are?” I asked.
“Why, Darrell Watkins and his daddy, of course,” Colleen answered sweetly.
“Have you talked to Hal Huggins about this?” I demanded.
“He's got it stuck in his craw that somebody named Wilson did it. But in talkin' to him, Ah kept comin' up with your name, Mr. Beaumont. And then, when Ah started looking into the Belltown Terrace situation, Ah saw your name again.” She smiled. “Seemed like too much of a coincidence to me, wouldn't you say?”
Ames had been studying the papers throughout this exchange. He looked around as though waking from a long sleep. “If both surviving beneficiaries were implicated in the deaths of the other partners, what would happen?”
Colleen smiled again. “Why, sweetie, if someone proves that, the proceeds go to the insured's next of kin.”
Dinner wasn't over. I believe we had dessert and coffee, but I bowed out of the conversation. I sat there thinking about Mona Larson's brother from Idaho and Sig Larson's three kids and Ginger Watkins' father, Tom Lander.
Maybe Hal Huggins was buying the Don Wilson story, but I wasn't. Cody's idea made perfect sense. Darrell and Homer could knock off the others, frame Wilson, and use the three million to bail themselves out of the hole. Greed for motive rather than revenge.
I made up mind on the spot that, if Hal
Huggins wouldn't do something about it officially, then I would unofficially.
I left the table with Ames and Colleen still huddled over a sheaf of papers. I had the distinct impression, however, that they wouldn't stick to business forever.
CHAPTER
33
Hal Huggins didn't answer either at home or at the office when I got back from the Westin. Why should he? After all, it was Friday night. As far as Hal was concerned, he had solved three murders that week. He was probably out celebrating.
I tried again the next morning, as soon as I woke up. Woke him, too. “What's going on?” he muttered, half asleep.
“Did you talk to Colleen Borden?”
“That dingey broad? Yes, I talked to her. Goddamned insurance companies are all alike—do anything to avoid paying a claim. All they want to do is take your money; then, as soon as somebody dies—”
“Hal,” I interrupted, “did you listen to her? I think she's onto something.”
“Look here, Beau,” Huggins bristled. “I'm telling you once and for all. Wilson did it. We've got motive, opportunity, witnesses that place him near the scene, fingerprints on a confession. What the hell do you want?”
“I want to nail the guilty party.”
“You know, Beau, I keep wondering why you're so involved. I heard you were up nosing around Wilson's house the other day. This isn't your case, remember?”
“Are you going to investigate Colleen Borden's allegations or not?”
“The case is closed as far as my office is concerned.”
“My mind's made up, don't confuse me with the facts. Didn't you tell me that once? Does it have anything to do with the fact that Tuesday is election day and Darrell Watkins is a major political candidate? Did the sheriff tell you to stifle?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Huggins replied, hanging up.
I got Ernie Rogers's home number from the Directory Assistance. “It's Saturday. What time are you coming over?” I asked, once I got him on the phone.
Ernie sounded surprised. “I didn't think you still needed me. I thought the case was closed. That's what the paper said.”
“It may be closed there,” I returned grimly. “It isn't here. How long will it take you to get to Seattle?”
“I'll check the ferry schedule and call you back.”
“Screw the ferry schedule. Charter a float plane. I'll pay for it. Get here as soon as you can. Have him land at the Lake Union dock. I'll pick you up.”
He called back a little while later to say that the soonest he could arrive would be one o'clock. It was almost ten. I had three hours to do what I needed to do.
I had kept one of Don Wilson's pictures. I needed to assemble a few others for a rogue's gallery. While I was at it, I decided to kill two birds with one stone.
Directory Assistance gave me Darrell Watkins' campaign headquarters. A quavery-voiced old lady answered the phone. “Do you have access to Mr. Watkins' calendar?” I asked.
“Certainly,” she responded. “It's right here on the wall above my head. That way we all know what's going on at all times. Of course, he's canceled everything now that his wife…” Her voice trailed off.
“I know. I was wondering about some appearances during the last couple of weeks.” I was playing liar's poker and doing my best to sound casual, unhurried. “I'm writing an article about Mr. Watkins. My records show he was in Vancouver and Longview on the eighteenth, and Chehalis, Centralia, and Olympia on the nineteenth. Is that correct?”
“I don't know where you got that,” she snorted. “He was scheduled to be in Bellingham and Everett on the eighteenth and nineteenth.”
There was a catch of excitement in my throat. Everett is a short hop from Anacortes and the ferry to Orcas.
“Is that all you wanted?” she demanded impatiently.
“Do you have any brochures with his picture?”
“Certainly. We could send you a whole packet. Are you interested in doorbelling?”
“No. All I need is one brochure. Can I pick it up?”
“Our campaign headquarters is at the corner of Denny and First North.”
“Good,” I said. “I'll be right over.”
Getting a picture of Homer Watkins proved somewhat more difficult. Not impossible. I finally managed to dredge one out of a newspaper file. It was several years old and dated from Homer's tenure as president of the Washington Athletic Club. It was good enough for my purposes.
I stopped by the department and sifted through the collection of pictures we keep on hand to build montages for witnesses to use when they're trying to identify a suspect. You can't just hand them a picture and say, “Is this the one?” You have to give them a batch of pictures and say, “Do you see anyone you recognize?”
Ernie was true to his word. The float plane pulled up to the dock on Lake Union right at one. The pilot said he'd have lunch and then come back to the plane. Ernie had left his wheel chair at home. Assisted by a steel crutch, he hopped from the plane to the Porsche. Once inside, Ernie and I took off for Rainier Valley.
The Porsche created quite a stir among some kids playing a spirited game of soccer in the parking lot of the Stadium Apartments, a lowincome housing complex on Martin Luther King Way. From the way he had put the Porsche back together, it was clear Ernie Rogers was a top-drawer mechanic, but his skill with language dumbfounded me. The kids broke up their game and admiringly surrounded the car, giving us a thumbs-up greeting. Within moments Ernie was speaking to them in
a language I had never heard before. They responded by enthusiastically directing us to a building near the back of the complex.
People with two good legs never notice stairways. We were directed to a set of dingy stairs thick with the stale odor of boiled rice, rancid cooking oil, and old fish. Ernie turned around, sat down, handed me his crutch, then made his way up the steps on his butt without a word of complaint. We located the correct apartment number and knocked on a flimsy, hollow door.
It opened slowly, revealing an old woman, gray-haired and tiny, who peered cautiously up at us. Ernie spoke to her rapidly but softly in the same musical language he had used on the children outside. Her face brightened, and she favored him with a benign smile. A slight inclination of her head motioned us into the room.
It was empty except for one derelict chair and a floor covering of woven mats. I had the feeling that, moments before we entered, the room had teemed with people. Now it contained only two, the old woman and a venerable old man with white hair and a twisted driftwood walking stick. He sat regally on the only chair—a cane-backed wooden one that leaned slightly to one side. He nodded to Ernie, and spoke to the old woman who disappeared and returned with a folding chair for Ernie. The old man spoke again, addressing Ernie, who turned to me.
“He wants to know if Blia is in trouble.”
“No,” I answered. “We're looking for the man who stole her keys.”
The old man studied me closely as Ernie translated. “The hotel didn't believe her when she said someone stole them.”
“I do,” I told him. When Ernie translated, the old man nodded sagely.
“He wants to know what you want with Blia.”
I reached into my coat pocket and removed the packet of pictures. I handed them directly to the old man. “I want to show her these. One of those men may have been the one who stole her keys. Maybe she'll recognize him.”
The old man examined the pictures minutely in the dim light of the curtained window, then he spoke quickly to the old woman who shuffled from the room. Moments later she returned, leading a shy young woman with waist-length jet-black hair. The younger woman seemed reluctant, but the old woman prodded her forward. When Blia saw Ernie, her face brightened. She moved forward more willingly.
The woman led Blia to the old man, who handed her the pictures. “Ask her if she saw any of those men at Rosario the day she lost her keys.”
Ernie translated. The girl walked to the curtained window and studied the pictures. I held my breath as she leafed through them one by one. It was possible she had seen nothing, would recognize no one. Suddenly she stopped. She handed one of them back to Ernie, who passed it to me.
The face in the picture was that of Homer Watkins.
I'm sure my face betrayed the impact the picture had on me. I had expected it to be Darrell Watkins, wanted it to be him so badly I could taste it. There are very good reasons why neither doctors nor detectives should work on cases too close to home. It warps perspective.
I looked up. Everyone in the room was staring at me. “Ask her when she saw him,” I said to Ernie.
He translated for her, then turned to me with Blia's long response. “She was cleaning her last room. Someone had checked in and then changed his mind. The desk wanted the room recleaned because they thought they could rent it again. When she came out of the room, he was standing by her cart. A few minutes later she realized her keys were missing.”
“Can she remember exactly what time it was?”
“Late. After dark. Around seven o'clock.” Blia hadn't moved from her place near the window. She watched me warily, gauging my reactions to each translation.
“Tell her thank you,” I said. “And tell her there's a reward. Someone will be in touch with her next week to arrange it. He will be authorized to pay her five thousand dollars, but she may have to testify in court.”
Ernie looked at me quickly before he translated. He spoke for a long time. Blia's face changed several times, mirroring surprise, joy, doubt, and, finally, after the old man spoke sternly, agreement.
“She'll testify,” Ernie said. “If you need it.”
The old woman showed us out of the apartment. “Five thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Ernie said as he bumped his way down the stairs. “Where'd it come from?”
“Beats me,” I replied. We were both quiet after that until we were in the car and halfway back downtown. “Whose picture?” Ernie asked.
“Not the guy I expected,” I said.
“You can't tell me who, though?”
“No, I'd better not.” He accepted my refusal good-naturedly. I felt obliged to explain. “If word leaks out before we're ready on this one—”
“Forget it,” he said. “It's no big deal.”
We stopped at the Doghouse for coffee before I took him back to the plane. Once the float plane was airborne above Lake Union, I went home.
There was no sense in calling Huggins. His mind was made up. And there was no sense in calling Peters. His hands were full. I called the Westin and was told Mr. Ames had changed his mind. He hadn't checked out, after all. I left a message saying that I would need him in Seattle during the week and that he shouldn't leave without checking with me first. I had a feeling Ames' virtue was no longer intact.
I settled into my recliner. I'm not one of the trendy types who sits in a half-lotus position to do his thinking. My legs would stick permanently. A recliner and a steaming cup of strong coffee are all I need to get the creative juices flowing.
The ball was definitely back in my court. What I had to do more than anything was think it through. There was far too much at stake to go off half-cocked.
Homer. Blia Vang had fingered Homer. He had been at Rosario that Friday afternoon, and no one had known it. So he had gotten the keys and then let Wilson into Ginger's room to get the calendar? That didn't make sense, but that was the way it looked.
I tried to put myself back in that Friday afternoon, to remember all the events in the exact order in which they had occurred. It can be done. It's a process very much like a self-induced hypnotic trance. Or a time machine.
The parole board meeting got out at four. Ginger and Sig were supposed to meet at five, but Darrell called and held Ginger up, made her late. By the time she reached the rendezvous, Sig Larson was dead.
Homer Watkins and Don Wilson, an unholy alliance. Unless…Something Blia Vang had said jumped out at me.
Someone had rented a room at Rosario and then changed his mind. Who? And what about Darrell Watkins' campaign appearances in Everett and Bellingham?
The thought had no more than crossed my mind when I was out of my chair, emptying my cup in the sink and shrugging my way into the shoulder holster.
Either Homer and Darrell were in it together, or Darrell was next on the list.
CHAPTER
34
The Porsche loves to get on the freeway and go. I headed north to Everett, driving directly to the offices of the Everett Herald. It's a smalltown paper. The receptionist, a bored teenager, was happy to have some company.
I flashed my badge at her, and she bustled around, finding me what I needed—all papers from the two-week period prior to October eighteenth. I located the information I wanted, eventually. Buried among wedding announcements, Pop Warner football scores, and pre-holiday church bazaars was an article detailing Darrell Watkins' campaign swing through Bellingham and Everett. He was to address the Bellingham Rotary and Jaycees on Friday afternoon and a League of Women Voters convention at the Everett Holiday Inn Friday evening. Saturday morning he was scheduled to be the keynote speaker at a Merchant's Fair breakfast.
Thanking the receptionist for her help, I drove to the Holiday Inn. I didn't mess around with the desk clerk. I asked to speak directly to the manager. He was an eager Young Turk, fresh out of school with a degree in hotel management. His nametag pegged him as Mr. Young, which seemed entirely appropriate.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, after minutely examining m
y identification.
“I'd like to see your guest register for the night of October eighteenth.”
“This is, of course, highly irregular.”
“Mr. Young,” I said firmly, “I'm attempting to prevent another homicide. There's not much time.”
“Can't this wait until Monday when I could check with my superiors in Seattle?”
“No. Someone else could be dead by then.” Youth can often be intimidated by a steady, middle-aged stare. It worked like a charm.
“Oh, all right. I don't see how it could hurt.”
There were lots of registration slips. Many of the women had registered separately, even though they were staying in the same room—a variation on the female penchant for separate checks. I thumbed through them carefully. I was close to the bottom before I found the one I wanted, a slip that read Darrell Watkins. I jotted down the license number of the car, an '81 Audi.
Mr. Young had stood peering over my shoulder the whole time. “Did you find what you needed?” he asked.
“Yes. Can you make me a copy of this?” I showed him the slip.
“This is nuts. I shouldn't have shown it to you in the first place without a court order. Now you want me to make you a copy?”
“By the time I can get a court order,” I said, “the killer may strike again. The score is four to nothing right now. The killer's winning.”
He made me a copy. “One more question,” I said as he handed me the paper. “Who on your catering staff handled the League of Women Voters convention?”
“That would have been Sue Carleton.”
“Is she here?”
He sighed, exasperated. “She's upstairs.”
Sue Carleton turned out to be a heavyset dame in her middle years. I had a feeling she had come up through the ranks—without a degree in hotel management but with a healthy regard for and an easy ability to work with other people. She had a pleasant manner and a sparkling sense of humor.