Improbable Cause (9780061745034)

by Jance, Judith A.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said.

  There was a knock on the door behind us. The uniformed guard poked his head inside. “Detective Beaumont?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s somebody out here asking to see Martin. What do you want me to do?”

  “Who is it?”

  “She says her name’s LeAnn something. She says you know her. My orders are not to let in any unauthorized people, but if you’re willing to accept responsibility…”

  “Have her wait,” I said. “I’m not finished yet.”

  The guard disappeared with my message, but moments later LeAnn Nielsen bounded into the room. The guard was right behind her. “Hey, lady,” he was saying. “I told you, you can’t go in there.”

  The guard was followed by a young woman in a gray pin-striped suit with a brunette, Dutchboy haircut and huge dark-rimmed glasses.

  “Mrs. Nielsen,” the woman was saying, “I must warn you—”

  LeAnn’s face was desolate. She’d evidently cried until she couldn’t cry anymore. She glanced briefly at Larry Martin on the bed, but she walked straight up to me.

  “You can’t do this,” she said, grabbing my jacket by the lapels and shaking me. “He was only trying to help. Larry didn’t hit Fred, I did. Don’t you understand that?”

  The guard reached out and took LeAnn by the arm, attempting to lead her from the room. At that, the second woman sprang into action. She grabbed his wrist. “You let her loose, you son of a bitch!”

  The guard swept her hand away, and she cut loose with an impressive stream of profanity.

  “Who’s she?” I asked.

  “She claims to be this one’s attorney.”

  “Let them stay,” I said. “It’ll be all right.”

  “If you say so,” the guard said doubtfully, but he seemed only too happy to leave the room. He beat a hasty retreat while the attorney, still cussing, turned on me.

  “I don’t know who the hell you think you are. Are you trying to question my client without allowing me to be present?” She was a belligerent cat, puffed up and spitting and hissing.

  “No, I’m not. Mrs. Nielsen came in here of her own accord,” I said. “And I haven’t asked her anything.”

  “You damned well better not, either!”

  During this heated little exchange, LeAnn decided to let the attorney and me duke it out while she walked over to Larry Martin. “Are you all right?” she asked, leaning over the bed.

  He nodded, patting her hand when she placed it next to him. “I’m fine,” he said.

  Satisfied, she came back to me. “You’ve got to let him go, Detective Beaumont. Don’t you see? Larry didn’t do anything. I’m the one who hit him. I just didn’t know I hit him that hard.”

  LeAnn Nielsen had spent long enough thinking she was responsible for her husband’s death. Alice Fields had pulled her out of the Hi-Spot Cafe before I ever got a chance to tell her that Dr. Frederick Nielsen had died with a dental pick stuck through his throat, not from a crack over the head with a broken flowerpot. It was time to set her straight.

  “You didn’t,” I said.

  “What did you say?”

  “You didn’t hit him that hard. The flowerpot isn’t what killed him.”

  LeAnn stepped away from me, looking first from me, then to Larry, and then back to me. “What did then?” she asked.

  “A dental pick. Somebody stabbed him with a dental pick while he was out cold in the chair.”

  By then LeAnn had backed far enough away from me that she was leaning against the edge of Larry Martin’s bed. It’s a good thing. If she hadn’t been, she would have fallen flat on the floor.

  “You mean I didn’t kill him?” she asked. Her voice shook with disbelief. “You mean I really didn’t do it?”

  “No.”

  “Who did, then?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  “Why’s Larry locked up like this, then?”

  “That’s a whole other problem. We’ll have to work on that one later. This is the best I could do on short notice.”

  I turned to the attorney, who was standing, speechless, exactly where the guard had left her. “Any objections, Counselor?” I asked.

  She shook her head and didn’t say a word.

  “Good,” I told her, “because I’m going home. I’m off duty. It’s been one hell of a day.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  I planned to go home. I meant to go home. I dropped the departmental vehicle off in the garage of the Public Safety Building, called upstairs to tell Margie I was gone for the day, and headed for Belltown Terrace with every intention of putting my feet up and settling down with a nice, cool drink.

  There’s a free bus zone in downtown Seattle, an area where people can hop on and off Metro buses without having to pay a fare. It’s designed to help reduce automobile traffic in the downtown core, although I can’t see it’s made much difference. There still aren’t any parking places when you need one.

  That particular summer, they could just as well have posted Under Construction signs on the outskirts of downtown Seattle. Massive construction projects were everywhere, from the convention center rising over the freeway to the transit tunnel burrowing under the city. It was a noisy, dusty, crowded mess. What had once been a pleasant, straight-shot stroll from work back to my condominium now meandered through a maze of wooden walkways past buildings going up and holes going down. Dump trucks, some empty, some full, rumbled past while the jarring racket of jack-hammers reverberated up and down the street.

  With what I had been through that day, starting with Alice Fields and ending with Larry Martin, I didn’t need to fight my way through an earsplitting obstacle course to get home. Bearing that in mind, I left the department and dashed down the hill to First Avenue where I climbed on board one of the free buses. I’m not cheap. Old habits die hard.

  It was rush hour, so of course the bus was jammed, but I didn’t mind standing for what should have been a seven- or eight-minute ride from James Street to Battery. Unfortunately the bus was not only free and crowded, it was also one of the kneeling ones, a vehicle that hydraulically lowers a wheelchair lift so disabled riders can board.

  The bus stopped for someone in a wheelchair. Standing riders pressed farther back into the bus to make room for the chair. By the time the bus made two more stops, I was stuck between a reeling, reeking drunk who breathed noxious odors over my shoulder and a heavy-set lady who kept both her purse and shopping bag jammed firmly into my ribs.

  That did it. Walking past construction sites was preferable. I got off the bus at First and Stewart.

  Coming down Second Avenue’s slight incline toward Belltown Terrace, I had to walk directly past Cedar Heights. I looked up at it, and my mind shifted out of neutral and back into high gear.

  Statistics say that if a homicide isn’t solved within the first forty-eight hours, the chances of its ever being solved go down appreciably. Dr. Frederick Nielsen’s case was well beyond that forty-eight-hour limit. We were a hell of a long way from figuring out who had killed him. Not that I personally gave a shit, but the Seattle Police Department frowns on unsolved homicides. No matter what I had come to think of the late Dr. Nielsen, his case file had my name on it—my name and my reputation.

  Instead of walking straight past Cedar Heights, I paused briefly in front of the building and gazed at the glass door to Dr. Nielsen’s office. There was a police padlock on the door with yellow CRIME SCENE NO TRESPASSING signs attached.

  While I stood there staring, the earlier question I had been dealing with returned. If LeAnn Nielsen and Larry Martin hadn’t killed Dr. Frederick Nielsen, who had? Who else had opportunity? And motive.

  My memory did a free-fall through all the information Big Al and I had gathered, coming to rest on what the building resident manager had said about Debi Rush, how he had seen her hurrying into Dr. Nielsen’s office at nine o’clock on Monday morning when she had told
us she’d been there since eight.

  It was a discrepancy we hadn’t had time to check out yet, one that had considerably more weight to it in view of what LeAnn had told us about Debi Rush and Dr. Nielsen.

  Lost in concentration, I focused momentarily on Debi Rush—the obliging dental assistant, the lying dental assistant, all puns intended. On the lady who had been only too willing to offer Dr. Frederick Nielsen the cleaning and conjugal services his wife had declined to provide. On Debi Rush, the lady with the gangly, nervous, dental-student, dumb-shit husband.

  The answer I had been looking for came to me in a sudden flash. Cuckolded husbands have plenty of motive. I know something about that from the injured-party side of the fence. If I’d ever had a fair crack at him, I cheerfully would have murdered Karen’s chicken ranching/egg conglomerate second husband. My heartbeat speeded up. Maybe I was on to something, but a voice interrupted my train of thought before the idea had a chance to jell.

  “Hey, you can’t go in there.” It was the resident manager from Cedar Heights, still wearing his orange coveralls. He hurried out of the residential lobby next door, motioning for me to stay away. “The police told me not to let anyone go monkeying around here.”

  “I am the police,” I said. “Detective Beaumont, remember?” Reaching out to shake his hand, I tried to recall the man’s name, but it was gone, erased completely from my memory bank. Fortunately, he recognized me.

  “Oh, I know you. You’re the detective, aren’t you? The one I talked to yesterday?”

  “That’s right. Has anyone else been snooping around here?”

  The man shrugged. “Some reporters, I guess, and a few television people. That’s about all.”

  I was impatient to get away, to follow up on my latest brainstorm, but I delayed long enough to make polite conversation with the overeager manager. It’s called public relations.

  “Have any of the tenants in your building reported anything unusual about last Saturday morning?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not to me, they haven’t, but then, I go for weeks without seeing some of the people who live here. They’re in and out. Busy folks, you know.”

  “I’m sure they are,” I agreed. “We need to talk to them, all the same. We should have done it today, but there was too much going on.”

  “I heard all about that. In fact, you were on TV just a few minutes ago. That was something else, wasn’t it? They say the same guy’s a suspect in this case, too.”

  I let it pass. Trying to explain otherwise about Larry Martin would have been too complicated, would have told too much.

  “As I was saying, we should probably talk to the residents of the building and the commercial tenants as well. Would it be all right if my partner and I came around tomorrow morning to do that?”

  The manager hedged a little. He was eager to help, but I could see he was torn. “I don’t know. I suppose it would be all right as long as I was with you. This is a security building. The residents don’t want a bunch of strangers wandering through the halls. They get real steamed up about that.”

  I nodded. “I can understand that. I live in a secured building myself. Detective Lindstrom and I will be here sometime tomorrow morning.”

  “Fine.” The manager nodded. “We’ll work it out. I’m on the reader-board in two places, under manager or under Calloway, either one. One of us will make the rounds with you, my wife or me.”

  I was grateful he had finally supplied me with his name. “Thanks, Mr. Calloway,” I told him. “Is nine too early?” He shook his head.

  As soon as Calloway walked away, I went back to Tom Rush. My mind lit on him like a vulture snagging a day-old road-kill. Why the hell hadn’t I thought about him before?

  I remembered how eager he had been to escape the confines of Dr. Nielsen’s office while we were questioning Debi. He had been upset, shaken, hardly able to wait to get outside. I recalled that he had been tall, not necessarily strong, but that didn’t matter. Shoving a dental pick into an unconscious man’s throat doesn’t require tremendous strength. And certainly that particular instrument would fall easily to hand if the hand happened to belong to a dental student. He’d also know how to run an autoclave.

  Turning, I sprinted away from Cedar Heights. I ran the remaining block to Belltown Terrace, dashed in the garage door, caught the elevator to P-4, and was in my Porsche heading out of the building less than a minute later.

  I shouldn’t have bothered to run. It was a case of hurry up and wait. Traffic on Broad wasn’t slow, it was dead. Grid-locked. I had to wait through three complete stoplight cycles to get across the intersection at Second, and again at Denny. While I waited, I got out my notebook and checked on Debi Rush’s address—2139 Eastlake Avenue East.

  When I got there, the place turned out to be a rundown, clapboard, multiunit building. It gave the impression of being a onetime motel that had been converted into apartments. It was badly in need of another dose of rehabilitation.

  Faded green paint was blistered and peeling. Wooden steps creaked under my feet. The thin, straggly grass had turned brown during the weeks of exceptional heat. In short, it was exactly the kind of apartment building impoverished students have lived in forever—cheap and old but relatively close to the university.

  Through a sagging screen door, I saw that the inside door was wide open. A radio blared rock music somewhere in the background, bellowing incomprehensible words over the hum of a room-sized fan that stood near the doorway.

  I knocked on the door and Debi Rush herself appeared. Barefoot, she wore a halter top and a pair of short shorts. She was far too well endowed both above and below the belt for the combination to be remotely appealing, but she was cordial enough.

  “Hello, Debi,” I said. “May I come in?”

  She opened the door. “It’s hot in here. I was just making some lemonade. Would you like some?”

  “Sure.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen while I sat down on the ratty couch. Thankfully she switched off the music. Even with the fan, the room was unbearably hot and cluttered, too. Cluttered and dirty. The end table next to my elbow was gray with a thick layer of gritty dust. Evidently Debi’s cleaning and polishing fetish ended at Dr. Nielsen’s office door. The room was lined with bookcases of the classic brick-and-wooden-plank variety. One living room window had been covered with a vivid Mexican serape in a futile effort to block out the afternoon sun. These were definitely student quarters.

  Debi came back into the living room carrying two tall glasses. “They say it’s going to get all the way up to ninety-five today. It’s a killer, isn’t it?”

  People in other parts of the world laugh when Seattlites complain bitterly about ninety-five-degree weather, but ninety-five is no joke in a climate where very few buildings are air-conditioned. I mopped the sweat off my brow and wished I could take off my jacket.

  Debi handed me a glass. “Of course, I don’t suppose you came here to talk about the weather,” she added.

  She was right about that. I wasn’t interested in idle chit-chat. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t. Where’s your husband?”

  She looked puzzled. “He isn’t here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Still down at the university, I suppose. He likes to do his lab work in the afternoons when it’s too hot for him to study here.”

  I was relieved to know Tom Rush was out of the house. I’d make a lot more progress with Debi if I talked to her alone. I got straight to the heart of the matter.

  “Where was he Saturday afternoon?” I asked.

  “Tom?” she asked, setting her glass down on the armrest and shifting uneasily in her chair.

  “Yes, Tom,” I answered. “Do you have any idea where he was between noon and say two o’clock? Was he here?”

  “I don’t understand. Why are you asking me about him?”

  I refused to pussyfoot around with her. “Debi, you neglected to mention to us that you and Dr. Nielsen were having a
n affair,” I said.

  She paled and swallowed hard. “I didn’t think it was important,” she responded after a long moment, her voice bleak and very small. At least she didn’t try to deny it. I’ll give her that much credit. “How did you find out?” she asked.

  “Dr. Nielsen told his wife, that afternoon when he came to the office. He bragged to her about it.”

  I waited a moment, allowing my words to strike home. “Does your husband know?” I continued.

  She straightened suddenly in her chair. “No, he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

  “What if somebody else already did?” I returned. “What if someone told him and he went down to Nielsen’s office on Saturday afternoon to do something about it?”

  A look of horror flashed across her face. She put her hands to her ears as if trying to shut out my words, my voice.

  “He didn’t,” she whispered. “He couldn’t. It isn’t possible.”

  “Isn’t it? Where was he, then? You still haven’t told me.”

  “I don’t know. He left that morning when I did. He said he was going over to the U to study.”

  “Where at the U?” I demanded.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. In one of the labs, I guess. He has a lot of lab work now. I don’t go with him. I’m usually at work when he’s there.”

  “And what time did he come home?”

  “Late. Five o’clock or so.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual in his behavior that afternoon or evening?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Was he wearing the same clothes he had on when you saw him that morning?”

  “I don’t remember what he was wearing. I can’t remember what I was wearing.” Debi Rush was growing more and more agitated. I could see it in her face, hear it in the intensity of her voice. “He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have done it. He’s a kind, gentle, nice boy.”