by J. A. Jance
“So what exactly are you doing to solve it?” Powell asked.
Hurriedly, I gave Captain Powell a shorthand version of what I had learned so far. He seemed even less impressed with that then he had been with my tale of computer woes. When I finished, Powell sat looking at me, drumming on the surface of his desk with a pencil eraser.
“I spoke to Detective Kramer at some length before he and Detective Arnold hit the bricks,” Powell said thoughtfully. “Based on this new information,” he said as he gave the list of names a meaningful tap, “I was going to assign another pair of detectives to the case, but Kramer asked me not to. He said that pulling in more people at this point would probably do more harm than good. He says he thinks the three of you will be able to pull it out of the fire. What do you think?”
The public seems to like the “task force” approach to major crimes. Unfortunately, from my point of view, when it comes to effective investigations, less is usually more.
“Kramer’s probably right, Captain Powell. I think we’re making progress.”
“And you don’t think you need any more troops?”
“Not at this time.”
Captain Powell glanced at his watch. “All right, then,” he said. “I’m giving the three of you twenty-four hours to bring this case to some kind of order. If I don’t have really solid progress by tomorrow morning at this time, the head count goes up. Understood?”
Nodding, I rose to my feet. “Is that all?” I asked.
“Not quite,” Powell answered. “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Let me remind you, Detective Beaumont, complacency can be a dangerous thing.” While he spoke, the captain’s steady gaze held mine. “When cops lose their edge—when they stop being hungry—that’s about the time they get careless. The next thing you know, somebody gets hurt.”
I paused in the doorway. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do yourself a favor,” Captain Powell returned. “You’re a cop, not a professional ball player, Beau. Until further notice, no more autographs. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly!” I said.
I stormed back to my office, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the great outdoors. “Hey, Beau,” Watty said as I charged past his desk. “Where are you going? You forgot to sign out.”
Initially, I headed for the motor pool. I think if I had run into Paul Kramer along the way, I would have punched his lights out. Halfway to the motor pool, I changed my mind—not about cleaning Kramer’s clock but about taking a company car.
“Hell with it,” I muttered under my breath, startling a sweet young thing clerk headed downstairs with a cartload of file folders. Kramer could be pissed off about where and how I lived, and Captain Powell could order me to not sign autographs, but if I wanted to drive my Guards Red Porsche on my trip to Bellevue, then I would, and nobody—including Captain Lawrence Powell—was going to stop me.
The 928 didn’t exactly observe the speed limits as I crossed Lake Washington on the I-90 bridge. Fortunately, the state patrol didn’t spot me or pull me over. That would have been tough to explain. By the time I turned off on Bellevue Way, I had cooled down a little.
For someone who has lived downtown for years and who often walks from home to work, the problem of going from Seattle to Bellevue isn’t so much a matter of geography as it is one of mind-set. Seattle has a city feel and smell and look to it. Office workers and tourists, drunks and bums mingle on sidewalks on multilane one-way streets filled with traffic.
Bellevue, on the other hand, a city one quarter the size of Seattle proper, is an alien kind of place where, although high-rise buildings dot the skyline, Main Street is still a narrow, two-lane cow path. For some strange reason, North East Eighth, the real main drag, is several blocks to the north.
Downtown Seattle seems intent on banking and commerce while downtown Bellevue is more inclined toward serious shopping. It’s a place where Mercedes-wielding, Nordstrom-bound matrons have been known to run down any fellow shoppers who have nerve enough to try to reserve a parking place without benefit of a four-wheeled vehicle. Seattle’s largely liberal, pro-Democrat citizenry see Bellevue as a suburban hotbed of rich, recalcitrant Republicans—a questionable place to visit and one where you certainly wouldn’t want to live.
I arrived on Main Street in what is quaintly called Old Bellevue, with all my Denny Regrade, dyed-in-the-wool Seattleite prejudices still firmly intact.
It turned out to be easy to find the address I’d obtained from Yellow Cab. Dorene’s Fine China and Gifts—complete with a woman’s name—was right where Norm Otis had said. Finding the place was simple. Getting in wasn’t. Dorene’s was closed. A sign on the door said they supposedly opened at nine-thirty. My watch read nine-fifteen.
Like Seattle, Bellevue seems to have an espresso cart stationed on every corner. The one outside Dorene’s was no exception. I figured the price of a latte and biscotti would give me the right to ask the cart’s long-haired proprietor what, if anything, he knew about Dorene and company.
He shrugged his grunge-clad shoulders and shook his purple-tinged locks. “I think Latty goes to school in the morning. She usually doesn’t come to the shop until after noon,” he said. “The old lady usually opens up, but she more or less gets here when she gets here, earlier or later, depending.”
It was an answer, although not a very definite one. I hung around for a few more fruitless minutes. Finally, it made sense for me to try seeing Eddie at Northwest Mobility first and come back to Bellevue about the time Latty herself was due to show up for work.
I headed off toward Snohomish, threading my way through the maze of suburbs with the help of my faithful companion, The Thomas Guide. Since Ron had told me that Eddie and his wife had started out as hot-rodders, I headed for Rich’s Northwest Mobility with a whole headful of preconceptions. I expected a run-down garage with derelict vehicles scattered behind it, maybe an aging, marooned motor home of an office, and a motley collection of worker-bees whose grease-covered clothing went far too many overhauls between washings.
Turning left off Maltby Road onto a narrow paved track that ran through a thicket of towering trees, I was sure my worst suspicions would be confirmed, especially when I saw the ominous sign that warned, in no uncertain terms: STAY ON PAVED ROAD. That generally means if you wander off, you’ll be caught in mud up to your hubcaps before you can say Triple-A Towing.
My first inkling that I was mistaken came when I saw the second Rich’s sign, the one sitting in the middle of an ornate bricked entryway. I rounded a corner and found myself looking at a collection of several neat, low-built buildings, all painted an inviting pale yellow, nestled at the base of a grass-covered hill. I counted three separate garages on either side of a central paved area. At the far end of that central courtyard was a well-maintained house and yard. Taken together, the garages and house formed a U-shaped outline, the interior of which was parked full of wheelchair-accessible vans. Some of them looked brand new. Others were obviously older and waiting for service at one of the stalls in the various garages, all of which seemed to be fully occupied at the moment.
I parked my 928 out of the way as best I could. At the near end of the U was a sign that must have been a holdover from the old hot-rod days: STREET ROD ALLEY. Unnoticed, I walked toward a group of people gathered around one of the shiny new vans where a heavyset man in a wheelchair was laughingly rolling himself up a gentle ramp into the vehicle. Once inside, he turned around and gave his audience a triumphant thumbs-up. While they responded with a rousing burst of applause, the man headed, chair and all, toward the driver’s side of the car, where he seemed to clamp his chair in place.
Looking down at the ground clearance of the Aerostar van, I noticed that it was no more than three or four inches off the ground. That might be fine for getting the wheelchair in and out, I thought to myself, but how the hell is he going to get over the major speed bump between here and Maltby Road?
As
if in answer to my question, the man switched on the engine. Without the slightest hitch, the ramp retracted and the outside door closed. Then, with a pneumatic sigh, the van’s fender began to rise. When it quit moving, the van sat on ordinary tires, with the floor level and frame the exact same level as any other minivan. Meanwhile, the guy in the chair put the van in gear and began backing out of the lot. I stepped out of the way to let him pass. When he drove by me, he was grinning from ear to ear and waving in every direction, like the marshal of a Fourth of July parade.
“Sorta gets to you, doesn’t it?” a tall, green-eyed man said, stepping over to where I was standing. “Watching ’em drive off the lot on their own that first time always puts a lump in my throat.”
He paused for a moment, watching the van disappear from view. Then he turned to me, holding out his hand. “By the way, I’m Eddie Riveira,” he added. “Is there something I can do to help you?”
“Yes,” I answered, pulling out a card and handing it over. “My name’s Detective J. P. Beaumont with the Seattle Police Department. I’m looking for some information.”
Eddie smiled. “Most people are,” he said.
“A friend of mine owns one of your units, one of those Braun Chair Toppers.”
“Really, who’s your friend?” Eddie asked.
“Ron Peters.”
“Oh, that’s right. The young cop from Seattle P.D., the one who wiped himself out by going off one of those unfinished freeway interchanges that used to be down by the Kingdome?”
“That’s the one,” I said.
“I had a message from him a little while ago, but I haven’t had time enough to return the call. How’s he doing?”
“Fine,” I answered. “He and his wife are expecting a baby. In April sometime.”
“He already has kids, doesn’t he?”
“Two,” I told him.
Obviously, Eddie Riveira took a very personal interest in the people who were his clients, because he clearly remembered Ron Peters. “Last time I saw him he had wrecked his car. We moved that old Topper of his from one vehicle to another—to a Buick, I think—and modified the brakes and accelerator. With two kids already and a baby on the way, he’s going to have to break down and get himself one of my vans. He’ll love it. Is that what you came to talk to me about?”
“Actually, it isn’t. I’m working a case that may involve somebody with a Chair Topper a lot like Ron’s. Only this one is on a 1988 lavender Crown Victoria.”
Eddie frowned. “Lavender?” he said. “I only know of one eighty-eight Crown Victoria, but that one’s powder blue.”
I shrugged. “I saw it at night. I could be mistaken about the color.”
“Virginia, then,” Eddie said. “It belongs to Virginia Marks.”
“Do you know where she lives or how I could get in touch with her?” I asked.
“Sure. If you’ll come into the office for a minute, I can probably give you her number.”
We started toward the office—a real one, not a makeshift motor home. Along the way, where once converted hot rods must have sat, now at least a dozen spanking new vans were parked, side by side, showroom style. Eddie Riveira must have been reading my mind.
“It’s the same technology we used to utilize raising and lowering hot rods. We just put it to a little higher use, that’s all.”
Once in the office, Eddie called up Virginia Marks’ name on a computer screen. “Here it is,” he said. “This may be an old address. She used to live in a little complex over in Kirkland. I don’t know if she’s still there or not. At one time, she had talked about moving to downtown Bellevue. From what I can tell, she probably spends more time working out of that car of hers than she does at home.”
“You say she works out of her car? What does she do, run a vending machine route? Work as a sales rep?”
“She’s a detective,” Eddie Riveira told me. “Same as you.”
Except Virginia Marks wasn’t just like me. I’m a cop. Virginia was a freelancer, a private eye. Eddie fumbled through a plastic holder and ended up showing me Virginia Marks’ business card. AIM RESEARCH, it said. Those few words and two phone numbers were the only things printed on the card.
“The bottom number is a cell phone,” Eddie said. “That’s the one where you’re most likely to catch her.”
“What can you tell me about her?” I asked.
Eddie shrugged. “A little rough around the edges. Personally, I don’t have that many dealings with her. Usually, Nancy or Amanda handles her. Virginia doesn’t like men, and she doesn’t make any bones about it. We’re in business to service the customer. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, that’s fine with us.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked.
“Wrong?” Eddie repeated.
“How did she end up in a chair?”
“Pulled out in front of a Suburban right here on State Route Five Twenty-two. The car she was driving back then was a little one, a Honda, I believe. The accident barely dented the Suburban, but it creamed Virginia’s car and sent her to the hospital for six months and rehab for six months after that. She came out a paraplegic at age forty-eight. According to Amanda—that’s my wife, by the way—one of the reasons Virginia Marks likes that old Crown Victoria of hers so much is that it’s big. Maybe sitting inside all that sheet metal helps make her feel safe.”
A worker, a young man in startlingly clean coveralls, hurried up to where Eddie and I were standing. “Sorry to interrupt, Eddie, but could you come look at something for a minute?”
Eddie excused himself and went away. I stood looking around. Behind the house and the one garage was a minipark with broad sidewalks that ran through a carefully manicured grassy area to two separate gazebos. In the middle of the plot of grass was a complex, fortresslike jungle gym built over a bed of freshly spread bark. On the sidewalk next to the play area, a woman bundled in coat and gloves sat in a wheelchair, watching while two little girls whooped and shrieked from the top of the jungle gym’s slide.
Eddie came back. “Sorry. Is there anything else?”
“Just one other thing. How much does one of these vans set a guy back?”
“About forty thou,” Eddie answered. “About the same as one of your basic luxury cars.
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for the help. By the way, where’s the nearest cup of coffee?”
He pointed east. “Coffee you can have here, but if you want something to go with it, I recommend the Maltby Café,” he said. “Go to the end of the road and turn left. It’s not far.”
“And the food?” I asked.
“Their breakfasts are great.”
I treated myself to French toast and tried calling Virginia Marks of AIM Research at both numbers listed on her card. I tried several times. Each time I hung up just as the voice mail recording came on. I wanted to talk to Virginia in person. I had no interest in leaving a message at the sound of the tone.
Voice mail is fine, but only up to a point.
Eleven
No longer famished and in a somewhat more agreeable frame of mind than I had been earlier, I headed back to Bellevue. It was eleven-thirty by then. The sign on the door of Dorene’s Fine China and Gifts had been flipped over from CLOSED to OPEN.
When I stepped inside, a bell over the door tinkled merrily, announcing my presence. The guy at the espresso cart had said that Latty was usually in the store by now, but the person behind the counter was a white-haired woman. I guessed her to be somewhere beyond her mid-seventies.
“May I help you?” she inquired, looking at me over a pair of rectangular half-size glasses that perched on the very tip of a beakish nose.
“I’m looking for Latty,” I said.
“Is that so?” the woman said in a brisk, businesslike fashion. “Well, as you can see, she’s not here. Is there something I could help you with?”
“I came to talk to her about a friend of hers,” I said.
The woman was barely five foot three, but she puffed
herself up and straightened her shoulders so she looked an inch or two taller. She spoke firmly, reminding me of a teacher offering guidance to a recalcitrant schoolboy. “I already told you. Latty isn’t in yet. She won’t be until much later this afternoon.”
“Do you have any idea where I could find her between now and then?” I asked, pulling out one of my cards and placing it on the countertop between us. The woman picked up the card. After peering at it for a moment, she shot me a questioning look, then she returned the card to the counter. Bird-boned but nonetheless formidable, she was one of those much-facelifted women—one who wasn’t giving in to the aging process without putting up one hell of a fight.
“She’ll be in when she’s in and not a moment before. I’m Latty’s aunt Grace. Her great aunt, really,” she added with a disdainful sniff. “I’m Latty’s grandmother’s sister, but let’s don’t split hairs. I don’t go in for all that great stuff. Plain Aunt Grace will do just fine.”
“Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m not making myself sufficiently clear. This isn’t a social call. If you have any idea where Latty is at the moment, I must insist that you put me in touch with her. This is a serious matter. I need to ask her a few questions.”
“Such as?”
“As you can see by my card, Mrs.—”
“Miss,” Aunt Grace supplied, placing clear emphasis on the word. “Highsmith. Miss Grace Highsmith. You see, unlike my sister Florence—Latty’s grandmother, that is—I never married.”
The first time I heard Grace Highsmith’s name, it seemed oddly familiar somehow, but I dismissed that momentary impression and forged ahead. “As you can see from my card, Miss Highsmith,” I continued, “I’m with the Seattle P.D. The Homicide Squad. We’re currently investigating the death of an individual who died sometime New Year’s Eve. We have reason to believe that your grandniece may have been acquainted with that person.”
“I see,” Miss Highsmith said. Behind me, the bell chimed over the door once more. I turned to see a bent woman, leaning over a metal walker, come tottering into the room.