by J. A. Jance
“Let’s go, Johnny,” I repeated. “I’m sure Detective Kramer has work to do.”
Hoping we wouldn’t meet too many of my fellow detectives along the way, I herded Johnny down the hall and into my cubicle. Once seated at the chair next to my disaster of a desk, my visitor began fumbling in the purse. What he finally excavated was an envelope containing a carefully folded newspaper article.
“A reporter called me this morning from The Seattle Times,” Johnny said. “She interviewed me about finding the body. The article came out in this afternoon’s edition. Since my name actually appears in this one, I thought I’d rather send it home to Mother instead of the first one where I’m only the nameless jogger.”
JOGGING INTO HEALTH AND HOMICIDE
Johnny handed me the article, and I scanned the first several lines:
When Johnny Bickford went jogging down along Alaskan Way on New Year’s morning, she was only keeping a New Year’s resolution to take better care of herself. Trying to get into better shape has now embroiled the lower Queen Anne resident in a homicide investigation. She has spoken to police detectives in regard to one of the two violent deaths and several assaults that marred Seattle’s New Year’s celebration.
As Ms. Bickford rested on Pier 70, catching her breath, she spotted a body floating facedown in the waters of Elliot Bay. Seattle police investigators have since stated that the victim, a white male in his late thirties, died as a result of a gunshot wound. The victim has been tentatively identified, but his name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin.
I looked up at Johnny Bickford, who was watching me with rapt attention. “Where do you want me to sign this thing?” I asked.
“Right under the headline, I suppose,” Johnny said. Shaking my head, I started to comply. “You didn’t tell me he died of a gunshot wound,” Johnny continued reproachfully.
“It wasn’t something you needed to know,” I returned. “As a matter of fact, the newspapers weren’t supposed to know it, either.”
Johnny Bickford mulled that last statement while I finished signing the article and passed it back to him. “I suppose you think it’s morbid, my wanting you to sign the articles,” he said.
“It’s none of my business one way or the other,” I answered.
“You see,” Johnny went on, “I’ve always secretly wondered what it would be like to be involved in a murder investigation, and now I am.”
“Excuse me,” I returned. “You discovered a body, but that doesn’t mean you’re involved.”
“But couldn’t Seattle P.D. use someone like me?” Johnny asked. “As an informant or something? Believe me, I could get into places a regular cop could never dream of going.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but I don’t think the department is in the market for that particular kind of information.”
“But Detective Kramer said…” Bickford stopped.
“What exactly did Detective Kramer say?”
“That each detective develops his own network of informants. I thought maybe I could work for you. On a voluntary basis, of course. I wouldn’t expect to be paid anything. I just think it would be utterly fascinating.”
The phone rang at my elbow. In order to answer it, I had to unearth it from beneath a mound of loose paperwork. “Detective Beaumont, here.”
A brisk female voice came on the line. “This is Sally Redding, with Yellow Cab. I understand you were looking for some information?”
“Just a sec,” I said into the phone. Then I turned to Johnny. “This is private,” I told him. “You’ll have to go.”
Nodding, Johnny picked up the purse and started toward the door. “But, if you change your mind…”
“If I do,” I said, “I’ll be in touch.” Johnny left my cubicle, and I turned my attention back to the phone. “Sorry,” I said, “someone was here in my office, and yes, I did need some information.”
“The owner of the company has authorized me to tell you what you need to know,” Sally Redding said. “The car you were asking about is number eleven forty-eight. On that particular night, the twenty-eighth, it was driven by Norm Otis. He picked up a fare from thirty-three hundred Western at approximately twelve-twenty A.M. and drove her to a building on Main Street in Bellevue. The number there is one zero two eight five Main.”
“Is that a house or an apartment?” I asked, jotting the information in my notebook.
“I can’t tell that from the record,” Sally Redding answered. “We have building information for pickups, but not for dropoffs.”
“When can I talk to Norm Otis?”
“He came on duty at six tonight, but he’s off on a call right now. Do you want me to have him get back to you when he’s available?”
“Please,” I said. “The sooner the better.” I gave her my collection of possible phone numbers.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sally returned, but she didn’t sound exactly overjoyed at the prospect.
“I appreciate your help, Ms. Redding” I said. “I really do.”
“Right,” she said, sounding unconvinced.
“And be sure to have him try the home number first. I’m leaving the office as soon as I finish gathering things up. I should be there in just a matter of minutes.”
I parked the 928 on the P-4 level of the Belltown Terrace garage and took the elevator as far as the lobby, where I stopped off to pick up my mail. As I headed back toward the elevator, the lobby door opened and in came Gail Richardson and her Afghan hound, Charlie.
A renter of one of the larger upper units, Gail is some kind of bigwig on a Seattle-based sitcom that had just been renewed for a second season. She’s a tall, good-looking woman in her late forties. Her hair is snow white, without, as she tells it, the benefit of any chemical enhancements. She is one of the few people I know who can manage the difficult feat of appearing totally dignified while holding a leashed dog in one hand and a plastic bag of still-warm dog crap in the other.
When I stepped aside to allow her and the dog aboard the elevator first, however, she looked decidedly harried. And knowing that some of her holiday company had been staying with her for the better part of three weeks, I guessed at the problem.
“When do you finally get your life back?” I asked.
She flashed me a woebegone smile. “Maybe never. I’m sure you heard all about it.”
“All about what?”
“My mother took Charlie for a walk today and forgot how to get back to the building. Luckily, one of the Denny Regrade security officers spotted them and knew where they belonged. I hate to think what would have happened if he hadn’t come to the rescue.”
I had been introduced to Gail’s mother, Nina Hopper, at a Belltown Terrace pre-Christmas party. Nina, a birdlike woman in her mid-to-late eighties, had seemed bright enough when I talked with her, but we had spoken for only a matter of minutes.
“She forgot where the building was?” I asked.
Gail nodded. “My sister had mentioned her growing forgetfulness and that it was becoming more and more worrisome. She had talked about getting one of those bracelets for her, so other people could help her find her way home if need be. Here in a strange city, her getting lost like that could have been disastrous. And then after that mess with the hot tub…”
“What mess with the hot tub?” I asked.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear about that. It even made the news. Mother thought she would help me out by cleaning the bathroom. She must have put half a bottle of liquid soap in the tub. Then she turned on the water and the jets and shut the bathroom door. By the time I realized what was happening, the bathroom was floor-to-ceiling bubbles. I guess it made a terrible mess in the party room.” The door opened and Gail and Charlie stepped off.
“You mean your mother did that?” I asked, holding the door open.
“Yes.”
“Did you know that Dick and Francine blamed Heather and Tracy?”
Gail nodded. “It’s an understandable mi
stake, I suppose. I didn’t have a chance to tell them about it until late last night, after I finished cleaning up the mess in my own apartment.”
I tried not to let my face betray the smug relief I felt now that the girls had been totally exonerated. “I’m sorry things are so bad with your mother, Gail,” I said sympathetically. “Is there anything I can do?”
She looked at me and smiled. “You already did it,” she said. “You gave me a way of letting off steam before I walk back into the apartment. Believe me, that’s a big help. Good night.”
I rode on up to my own floor. It struck me that Dick Mathers, Belltown’s resident manager, ought to go on TV and make a public apology for accusing Heather and Tracy of the hot tub bubble caper, but that didn’t seem likely. Dick Mathers isn’t the apologizing type.
Once in the den, I pored over the tapes on my big-screen TV. Unfortunately, it didn’t make any difference. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make out the license number on the back of the Crown Victoria. I’m enough of an expert to know that enhancing a video image is possible, but I didn’t have either the technical skill or the equipment to do so, not there in my apartment at nine o’clock at night.
The phone rang about then, offering a welcome interruption. “Detective Beaumont?” a man’s voice asked uncertainly.
“Yes.”
“This here’s Norm Otis with Yellow Cab. I know I was supposed to call you earlier this evening, but it’s been real busy tonight. This is the first chance I’ve had.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Otis. Did Sally Redding tell you what I wanted?”
“She sure did. About that poor girl from last week. I’m glad to hear someone’s doing something about it. I felt really sorry for her, just as sorry as I could be. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anybody cry as hard as that. Like her heart was broken. But she didn’t hire me for my advice—only to drive the car—so all’s I could do was take her where she wanted to go.”
“Where was that?”
“Main Street in Bellevue, number one zero two eight five Main Street.”
“Sally Redding already gave me that,” I told him.
“If you already knew where I dropped her, why do you need to talk to me?” Norm asked.
“Is that a house? An apartment?”
“Neither. A business,” Norm answered. “Looked to me like a china shop. It worried me that she was getting out at such a strange place in the middle of the night, so I made sure she was safely inside before I drove away.”
“Do you remember the shop’s name?”
“A woman’s name, but I don’t remember any more than that.”
“It wasn’t open, was it?”
“Are you kidding? This was the middle of the night. Sometime after midnight. No, but she had a key. She let herself in, and I saw her monkeying with a keypad right by the door, so she must have been turning off an alarm.”
“It’s probably where she works,” I surmised.
“I’d say,” Norm Otis agreed.
“Did she mention anything at all about what had gone on before you picked her up?”
“No, but you could sort of figure it out. I mean her clothes were torn half off. She had a cut on her lip. And the asshole who did it had nerve enough to walk her out to the curb. Had to be him, because he was in his shirtsleeves, and she was wearing a man’s jacket. He tried to open the door for her like a gentleman, just as nice as can be. As if nothing in the world had happened. But she wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with him.”
“And she didn’t say a word about what had put her in that state?”
“Nope. Not a word. Like I told you. She gave me the address and then cried her eyes out the rest of the trip, from downtown Seattle right on across the I-Ninety bridge.” Norm paused a moment and then added, “Are you going to get that guy, Detective Beaumont?”
“I don’t have to,” I told him.
“Why not?” Norm asked.
“Because somebody else already has. He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Norm repeated.
“Murdered,” I said.
“Hot damn!” Norm replied. There was another pause. “Who did it?”
“I don’t know. I’m the detective assigned to the case. I’m working on it.”
“It wasn’t her, was it?”
All too clearly I remembered what Latty had said to Don Wolf on the tape and in the heat of absolutely understandable anger: If you touch me again, I swear to God I’ll kill you.
“It could have been,” I said carefully.
“Jesus,” Norm Otis whispered. “I hope not. She was a real pretty little girl. Looked just like a young Marilyn Monroe. Isn’t there such a thing as justifiable homicide in cases like that?”
“There is,” I said, “but it’s hard to prove. Besides, I’m just a cop. All that legal crap is up to the prosecutor’s office and the defense lawyers.”
“Maybe she’ll find herself one of those smart lawyers who’ll get her off,” Norm Otis said wistfully. “But let me give you my home number just in case somebody needs it. I mean if it would help for someone to know what kind of shape that poor girl was in that night, I’ll be glad to go to bat for her.”
“We’ll see,” I said. “Go ahead and give me your number. We’ll need to get a statement from you anyway. Just in case.”
Ten
I fell asleep some time before the news came on, and slept like a log. One phone call at a time, I was making progress, and my evening’s worth of phone calls made me feel as though I was on track. I woke up early, rewrote the several reports the computer had eaten the day before, and then headed for the office. I was sitting in my cubicle using the Ethernet card on my computer to send files to the printer on our local area network when Watty poked his head in at the doorway.
“The captain wants to see you,” he said. “He’s looking for your paper.”
“He can have my reports,” I said, “just as soon as I finish printing them.”
I never should have said it aloud. The words were no more than out of my mouth when a message decorated with a tasteful stop sign flashed on the screen. PRINTER IS OFF LINE OR OUT OF PAPER it said. PLEASE CHECK YOUR PRINTER AND TRY AGAIN.
“Damn!” I exclaimed, heading down the hallway toward Captain Powell’s office. “If Henry Ford’s Model T’s had been this undependable, we’d still be using the horse and buggy.”
“Aren’t you going to try to fix it?” Watty asked after me.
“No,” I told him. “That’s not my job. I’m a detective, not a nerd.”
Captain Powell was waiting in his fishbowl office. A brass plaque on his desk gave his name and rank. On the front of it, someone had attached a Post-it that announced, “This is a computer-free zone.” My sentiments, exactly, I thought, as I dropped into a chair in front of the cluttered desk.
“Any reports for me this morning, Detective Beaumont?” Captain Powell asked. “Or are you too busy handing out autographs these days to bother doing mundane things like actually writing reports?”
Even though I had figured Kramer would try to make the most of Johnny Bickford’s visit, I guess it still surprised me to have the first derogatory comment come back to me from Captain Larry Powell. Gritting my teeth, and trying not to let on how much that bugged me, I went into my lame 1990s version of “My dog ate my homework. Twice.”
Powell listened impassively to my sad story. Because he doesn’t actually use computers, I think he considers himself above the fray. “I want those reports,” he said, when I finished. “I want them on my desk ASAP. You realize, of course, that this is turning into a very sensitive case.”
Double homicides are always sensitive, I thought, but I didn’t say it aloud. Powell’s glower as he sailed a piece of paper toward me was enough of a warning that this was no time for one of my typically smart-mouthed comments.
I caught the paper in midair. On it was a list of four names—names and nothing else: Carrol Walsh, Crystal Barron, Martin Rutherford, and DeVar Leste
r.
I read through the list. None of the names belonged to people I knew personally, but they were nonetheless names I recognized. These were all high-profile people. You couldn’t live in Seattle without knowing something about them.
Carrol Walsh was a newly made software multimillionaire who had created a media splash by donating a mountain of money to Fred Hutch cancer research. Crystal Barron, an heiress from back East, had taken up life on a Lake Union houseboat after divorcing her fourth hubby, an aging Hollywood star. Martin Rutherford was a corporate free spirit who had been cut loose in an acrimonious buyout by one of Seattle’s premier family-owned and -operated coffee roasting companies. DeVar Lester was an ex-football player who had made a bundle on an outrageously overpriced rookie contract with the Seahawks only to end up blowing his knee in a preseason workout without ever playing a single pro game.
I dropped the paper back on Captain Powell’s desk. “What about them?” I asked.
“Those are the people Detectives Kramer and Arnold are off to interview this morning.”
I picked up the list and studied it again. “Interview them?” I asked. “How come?”
Powell leaned forward in his chair. “Because these people are recent major investors in D.G.I., or did you already know that?”
“No,” I admitted. “I had no idea.”
“And you probably also have no idea that Martin Rutherford, the ex-coffee-bean guy, is dating the mayor.”
Seattle’s mayor, Natalie Farraday, is a divorced single mother who, since her election, has gone through several boyfriends at the rate of about one a year.
“I guess I had heard that,” I said, now understanding the implications and how this had suddenly become such a sensitive case. “I’d heard it, but I think maybe I’d forgotten.”