Name Withheld

by J. A. Jance

  That one was from Lucille Enders down in La Jolla. “Detective Beaumont,” she said, “I just left Anna Dorn’s house. I’ve talked to her, told her that Don Wolf is dead and that her daughter may be as well. That way, in case something shows up on the news, at least she’s been warned. She’s taking the whole thing pretty hard. She requested that you not call back until tomorrow morning. I did ask her if she knew any other next of kin on her son-in-law, and she said she couldn’t help us there. She told me that if he had any family, he never mentioned them to her.”

  Bless you, Lucille, I said to myself as I erased her message and wrote Captain Powell’s name directly beneath Hilda Chisholm’s. Being able to tell him that the next-of-kin notification was a fait accompli might help bail me out of the Larry Powell doghouse, as far as Grace Highsmith’s public nonconfession was concerned.

  Lucille Enders’ message buoyed me up. The third one left me reeling.

  “Hello, Beau,” the voice said. “This is Dave—Dave Livingston, calling from Rancho Cucamonga.”

  My heart fell. I would have recognized Dave Livingston’s voice even without the tagline introduction. Dave is my first wife’s—Karen’s—second husband. I could tell from the minute quaver in his voice—the slight hesitation between words—that this wouldn’t be good news. Karen had been battling cancer for more than two years—most of that time without my knowing anything about it. I gripped the phone tightly and braced myself for whatever was coming.

  “I had to take Karen back into the hospital early this morning,” his disembodied voice continued. “I’ve been here all day. In fact, that’s where I’m calling you from right now—a pay phone in the lobby. I’ve been in touch with the kids. Scott should be home within hours. Kelly will be coming with Jeremy and little Kayla. They’ll be leaving Ashland sometime this evening and driving straight through. If you want to come down…”

  Dave broke off. I could hear him struggling to regain his composure before he went on. “Sorry about that,” he said finally. “I guess I got a little choked up. As I was saying, if you want to come down, too, it would probably be better if you did it sooner than later. Sometime in the next two or three days. I’m off work, so I can pick you up from the airport anytime. You’re welcome to bunk in here with me if you like. It’s a big house. Even with the kids, there’ll be plenty of room. I’m leaving pretty much this same message on your machine at home in case you miss this one. I told Kelly I’d let you know, so she and Jeremy won’t have to worry about getting in touch with you before they leave town. I probably won’t be back at the house until fairly late tonight—sometime around midnight. Give me a call then. However late it is, I doubt I’ll be asleep.”

  Then he hung up. I held the receiver away from my head, staring uncomprehendingly at it through tear-dimmed eyes. Faintly, very faintly, I heard the recorded voice mail reciting its familiar directions: “To replay this message, press four. To erase this message, press seven. To save it, press nine. To disconnect, press star.”

  But at that precise moment, I was incapable of pressing any number at all. The receiver simply tumbled out of my hand. For some inexplicable reason, it came to rest exactly where it belonged—in its cradle—automatically disconnecting the call.

  Dave’s chilling words sank in slowly. Karen was dying. The surgery, the chemo, the radiation had worked together and had bought her a little relief and a little time—enough for her to see her granddaughter born and to see her daughter, Kelly, happily married. But very little beyond that. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

  And here was Dave—staunch old bighearted Dave—calling to see if I wanted to come down. Calling with the very generous offer of letting me decide whether or not I wanted to be included in the looming family crisis when there was no good reason for him to do so. When most people in his position would have said, “Screw you, buster. You blew your chances a long goddamned time ago.”

  I can’t quite enumerate all the conflicting emotions that washed over me in the course of those next few awful minutes. Terrible sadness. Anger that life could be so unfair and that Karen would die so young. Regret that I had ever lost her in the first place. Thankfulness that, of all the guys out there in the world, the one she had chosen to marry had turned out to be as kind and caring as Dave Livingston inarguably was. Jealousy that Dave was there at her side instead of me. And last of all, the appalling realization that had our situations been reversed, I might not have been nearly as openhanded to him as he was being to me.

  God help me, I didn’t cry. Some kind of stupid pride stuck in my craw. I didn’t let myself go, although it probably would have done me a world of good. Instead, I sat there stunned and empty and not moving for a very long time—ten minutes? Fifteen? Maybe longer. I have no idea.

  Finally, almost like an electric shock, something else took over. Force of habit kicked in, and responsibility and maybe a kind of stiff-necked pride. Of course I’d go. I had to. I’d call Dave back and tell him I was coming, but not until after things were straightened out. After all, I was in the middle of a case. I couldn’t just walk away and leave the job half done, could I?

  The answer to that question should have been an unequivocal yes. The sensible thing would have been to pick up the phone right then. I should have called Paul Kramer, given him everything I had, and then caught the very next plane to southern California. But for some reason, I didn’t do that. Couldn’t do that.

  When I glanced at my watch again, it was almost seven-thirty. That gave me four and a half hours before I could call Dave back. Opening my notebook, I thumbed through until I found the numbers Dave Riveira had given me for Virginia Marks. I tried the cellular number that was listed there. She answered almost immediately, “AIM Research.”

  “Hello,” I said. “Is this Virginia Marks?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “My name’s Beaumont. Detective J. P. Beaumont with the Seattle P.D.”

  “I know who you are,” she said. “What do you want?”

  Her reaction wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, but she didn’t hang up on me, either. I hurried on. “I need to talk to you, Ms. Marks. I’d like to do it as soon as possible. Tonight, if it’s convenient.”

  “Cut the ‘convenient’ crap, Detective Beaumont. I know what this is about, and I know I have to talk to you, so we might just as well get it over with. I’m already late for one meeting, but I’ll probably be done with that by eight-thirty or so. How about nine o’clock?” she concluded.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “My place, I suppose.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s in Bellevue,” Virginia answered. “It’s a new condo at the corner of Bellevue Way and Northeast Twelfth. It’s called The Grove on Twelfth. You’ll have to park under the building and then call my unit from the security phone next to the elevator.”

  “Good enough,” I said. “I’ll be there right at nine.”

  Since I had to go back to Bellevue anyway, I decided to try to kill two birds with one stone. I dialed information and asked for Bellevue information. “Name, please,” the information operator asked me.

  “Gibson,” I said. “Latty Gibson on Main Street.”

  “I have an S. L. Gibson on Main Street.”

  “That’s the one.”

  She gave me the number and I dialed it immediately. It rang several times, but when there was no answer, I finally gave up on making any more calls, and devoted the next forty-five minutes to writing up a series of reports for Captain Powell. They detailed my day’s worth of activities and clued him in on the unofficial ballistics information I’d picked up from Gabe Rios.

  Flush with the illusion of having accomplished something, of having made some small progress, I left the office and headed home. There wasn’t a lot of time between then and my appointment with Virginia Marks, but there was enough so I could spend a few minutes sitting in the recliner with my feet up.

  In retrospect, I suppose I should have recognized that feel
ing of false euphoria for what it was, but I didn’t. Instead, I took it at face value. I found some comfort in the idea that I was doing something constructive. That illusion kept me from thinking too much; kept me from contemplating the emotional quagmire that was lying in wait for me down in Rancho Cucamonga. Instead of seeing things for what they were, I blithely headed out into the night, convinced that I was perfectly capable of handling whatever was coming.

  I suppose I shouldn’t be too hard on myself about that. After all, when you’ve spent a lifetime stuffing your feelings, it isn’t easy to change.

  Down at Belltown Terrace, I didn’t bother pulling into the garage. Instead, I parked on the street and then walked up to the lobby entrance so I could stop and pick up the mail before continuing on upstairs.

  Kevin, Belltown Terrace’s newest doorman, left his desk and hurried to meet me. “Good evening, Mr. Beaumont,” he said, clearing his throat. “There’s someone here who’s been waiting to see you.”

  “Really?”

  I glanced around the lobby. There, on one of Belltown Terrace’s two handsome but highly uncomfortable lobby couches, sat a grim-faced middle-aged woman who looked as though she had just stepped out of a Grateful Dead concert. Her hair was a wild mane of unconstrained curls. She wore a tie-dyed ensemble—T-shirt and gathered skirt—that matched only insofar as the wild colored dies were of somewhat the same hue. Her small, gold-framed, round-lensed glasses reminded me of the kind John Lennon used to wear. White socks under black socks completed her outfit. A well-used, grubby briefcase sat on the floor next to her feet.

  My first thought was that maybe this was Grace Highsmith’s niece. Whoever this woman was, no doubt she, too, had friends with one-word names. In fact, maybe she had a one-word name. “You’re waiting for me?” I asked.

  “If you’re Mr. J. P. Beaumont,” she said.

  Rising from the couch and hefting the briefcase off the floor, she reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a business card. She handed it over to me and waited, unsmiling, while I looked at it.

  The name was definitely one with two words: Hilda Chisholm, the card read, Investigator, Child Protective Services.

  “I left a message on your phone at work,” she said.

  “I know,” I replied. “I was just down at my office and took your message, but I thought it was too late to call tonight.”

  “That’s all right. I was here doing some interviews and I decided to do my paperwork here just in case you came home before I left. I would have called ahead, you see,” she added, “but your telephone number is unlisted.”

  The accusatory way in which she said that single sentence made my hackles rise. She made it sound as though my having an unlisted telephone number was both suspect and antisocial, something I had done deliberately and for no other reason but to inconvenience her.

  “I’m a homicide detective,” I said, making an effort to speak in a civil fashion, more for Kevin’s benefit than for hers. “I think, if you checked with some of my peers down at Seattle P.D., you’d find that most homicide cops have unlisted numbers. We all do the same thing, and for obvious reasons. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here to talk with you about Heather and Tracy Peters,” she answered.

  “Child Protective Services isn’t wasting any time on this, are they?”

  “Mr. Beaumont, as you are no doubt aware, my agency has been vilified far too often in the past for letting things go on and on without taking timely corrective measures. Where the safety and welfare of children are concerned, time is of the essence, don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I said.

  There was no escape. I could see that even with my appointment with Virginia Marks looming at nine o’clock, I was going to be trapped into a conversation with Hilda Chisholm. My intention was to keep it short and sweet.

  “I’ll be happy to talk with you, Ms. Chisholm,” I said, glancing pointedly at my watch. “You’re welcome to come up to my apartment, but I do have a nine o’clock appointment.”

  “I don’t expect this will take very long,” she said with a chilly smile. “As a matter of fact, it shouldn’t take long at all.”

  I pushed a button to open the elevator door and then waited—in the gentlemanly fashion my mother always insisted upon—for Hilda Chisholm to step aboard first. I stepped in after her and punched the button marked PH for penthouse. The doors swished shut quietly.

  “You’re right,” I said. “It shouldn’t take long at all, because what I have to say on the subject can be said in one minute or less: Amy and Ron Peters are excellent parents. It’s ridiculous for anyone to imply otherwise.”

  “What makes you think I’m here to discuss Ron and Amy Peters?” Hilda Chisholm asked, eyeing me coldly.

  That surprised me. “Aren’t you?” I asked.

  “Actually,” she replied, “no, I am not.”

  “I see,” I said, although that was a lie. I didn’t see at all.

  When we reached Belltown Terrace’s top floor, once again the elevator doors swished open. “This way,” I said, pointing her to the door of my apartment. Using my key, I unlocked the door, then held it open to allow Hilda Chisholm to enter.

  My high-tech security system was on, which meant that as we entered the foyer, both lights and music came on automatically. I motioned Hilda into the living room. Again, alerted and directed by a sensor I carry on my key chain, both lights and music followed.

  Hilda Chisholm stopped in the middle of the room and glanced around. “Very nice,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I replied, although I didn’t realize until much later that she never intended her comment as a compliment.

  “Won’t you sit down?” I invited.

  Most people coming into my apartment for the first time are irresistibly drawn to the spectacular view to be seen from the window seat that lines the entire western exposure of the living room. Seated on the cushions under a long expanse of glass, my guests look out over the shipping lanes both in and out of Elliott Bay as well as farther out on Puget Sound. With the help of a mirrored corner column, nighttime visitors can also peer around the corner of the building to view the panorama of downtown city lights. In daylight, when the weather is clear and the Cascades aren’t shrouded in clouds, that same mirror sometimes reflects back glimpses of a snowcapped Mount Rainier rising up above and beyond the downtown high-rises.

  Hilda Chisholm made for the window seat, all right, but obviously, she was no connoisseur of views. Without even bothering to glance outside, she sat down with her back to the window, with her briefcase balanced on her lap, with her sock-clad legs clapped firmly and primly together and with her sour expression permanently etched on her face. Everything about her manner announced clearly that this wasn’t a social visit. That being the case, I saw no reason to play host. Settling into my leather lounger, I pushed it back into a fully reclining position.

  I was tired. I’d had one hell of a day. Still, I suppose dropping into the recliner that way showed a certain contempt for someone who, as an investigator for Child Protective Services, ought to have been a cosupporter of truth, justice, and the American way. In view of what was coming, however, a little healthy disrespect for my fellow public servant was definitely the order of the day.

  “If you didn’t come to talk to me about Ron and Amy’s parenting skills, what are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I came to talk about you,” she said.

  “Me?” I asked in surprise. “Why me?”

  “Because you are a prime consideration in my investigation.” Once again, she smiled her chilly smile, one that lowered the temperature in my living room by a full ten degrees. “What I’m most interested in knowing, Mr. Beaumont,” she continued, “is why a man like you—a man with all the money in the world and with known transsexual contacts—would take such an unhealthy interest in those two little girls.”

  “Transsexual contacts?” I echoed.

  “One of your fe
llow detectives mentioned to me that Johnny Bickford, one of Seattle’s most infamous cross-dressers, is a special friend of yours.”

  “Special friend!” I choked. “Are you kidding? I barely know the man, but obviously, you’ve been chatting with Detective Kramer behind my back. That creep…”

  “Naturally, I spoke with several of your coworkers,” Hilda returned, unperturbed. “I’m conducting an investigation, you see.”

  Gradually, an understanding of the scope of her accusations was beginning to seep into my consciousness. “An investigation, or a kangaroo court?” I demanded, while my temper rose several degrees.

  The room was quiet for several moments while Hilda Chisholm eyed my reaction with a disquieting, coolly speculative gaze.

  “The girls’ mother, Constance Peters, is very much concerned about that, especially now that she’s learned—through a local television news broadcast, no less—that the girls are sometimes left alone in your care and under your control.”

  “Give me a break! Are we back to those stupid soapsuds again?” I sat up abruptly, letting the recliner’s footrest slam down to the thickly carpeted floor with a resounding thump. “If so, you need to talk to Gail Richardson down on nineteen. Her mother’s been visiting. It turns out she’s the one whose attempt at cleaning turned into a mountain of suds.”

  “This has nothing whatever to do with soapsuds,” Hilda interrupted, “although that incident is part of what brought this unfortunate situation to our attention. If the girls had been properly supervised at the time—”

  “What unfortunate situation?” I interrupted.

  “Your inappropriate involvement with the Peters girls.”

  “Inappropriate!” I exclaimed while the social worker’s cold, unwavering stare sent a chill clear through me.

  “Wait just a damn minute here! What exactly do you mean by inappropriate?”