Payment in Kind (9780061749216)

by Jance, Judith A.

  While he was still on the ladder, it had been impossible to tell how big he was, but once he was on the ground, I realized that Rex Pierson was a giant of a man—six seven at least—with forearms like small tree trunks and hands the size of serving platters.

  He carried the tangle of garland as far as the glass doors of the building, punched a code into the security phone, and led me inside, where he dropped the garland in a large heap along with several others on the carpeted entryway floor.

  “What's this all about?” he asked me, wiping his chilly hand on the leg of his coveralls before extending it to me.

  “I'd like to talk to you about Sunday night,” I said. “About your giving Andrea Stovall a lift down to the school district office.”

  “Well, of course I gave her a ride,” he said. “I mean I couldn't very well let her go down there all by herself, not after what happened.” He squatted down and began straightening the garlands.

  “What exactly did happen?” I asked.

  “Well, after that crazy bastard came bustin' in here and practically knocked her door down, I wasn't about to leave her alone.”

  “What crazy bastard?”

  “Why, you know, the guy you cops are lookin' for, the one whose wife got iced just down the hill here. In fact, I started to call you about it, but my boss said to let it be. Said it would be bad if prospective tenants heard about it, so I kept my mouth shut, but I've been thinkin' to myself that maybe he did her first, his wife I mean, and then came lookin' for Mrs. Stovall. Or maybe it was the other way around. At any rate, by the time we got down there, it was already too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “To warn her, his wife, that her husband was on a tear and looking for her.”

  “Maybe you'd better tell me exactly what happened. From the beginning.”

  “The alarm in the building went off, right around eleven I think it was. Since I'm a resident manager, the alarm sounds in my unit, so I went looking to see what was going on. We've had a break-in or two, but nothin' very serious. Somebody had come in through the front door, pried it open and come in, but there wasn't any sign of them on this floor, so I go up in the elevator, stopping on each floor and listening.

  “Up on five I hear this crazy guy pounding on the door and squalling for somebody to open up. So I go up to him and ask him what seems to be the matter. He's raving away that his wife's in there, in that apartment, and that if they don't open up, he's going to break the mother down.

  “So I call through the door to Mrs. Stovall—it was her apartment, you see—and ask her if she's okay, and she says she is but that there's nobody in there but her, that she's all alone. Then this guy starts yelling again, saying that she's lying, so I ask Mrs. Stovall real nice and quiet-like if she'd mind opening the door so he could see for himself that his wife wasn't there, and she did. She opened it right away, and this guy goes barging in like he owned the place.

  “I wasn't worried about that, although I think Mrs. Stovall was. You see, I can handle guys like him. They're no problem. Anyway, he went stormin' through the apartment, lookin' in closets and bathrooms and out on the balcony and even under the bed, but just like Mrs. Stovall said, there wasn't anybody there. She was all alone.

  “After he finishes lookin', I tell this guy that maybe he made a mistake and that he should get the hell out. He starts out the door and then he turns and looks back and tells Mrs. Stovall that if she ever breathes a word of it, he'll take care of her.”

  “He threatened her? Those were his exact words?”

  “Near as I can remember. Anyway, he left then, without any more hassle. I wanted to call the cops, but Mrs. Stovall was all shook up, cryin' and shakin' and she says that she has to go down to her office and warn her friend—Marcia was her name. That's what she said, gotta go warn Marcia.”

  “And you offered to take her?”

  “Wouldn't you?” he returned.

  “I suppose I would,” I replied. “So what happened then?”

  “I take her down to the office, you know, the school district office, just down the hill here. She points out this Marcia's car in the parking lot and says she must still be there. She jumped out of the car before I even had it stopped good, and she went inside.”

  “How?”

  “What do you mean, how? The way most people do, through a door. She let herself in with a key, but she came back out a couple minutes later and said she couldn't find anybody there, but she brought a note out with her and put it on the driver's seat in the other lady's car.”

  So consulting a handwriting expert wasn't going to be necessary in order to learn who had written the warning note. “A” was indeed Andrea Stovall. What I wanted to know now was exactly what Pete Kelsey had just found out and didn't want Andrea Stovall to tell.

  Pierson had finished straightening the tangle of garlands and was now busily wrapping them around a huge wooden spool. It was one of those spools the phone company uses for storing and transporting cables. Most people couldn't have hefted it by themselves, but Rex, muscles bulging, lifted it as though it were a child's plaything.

  I stood there for a moment watching him. “No one reported the disturbance to the police, did they?”

  Rex shook his head. “Mrs. Stovall said not to. He settled right down as soon as I got there. Most people do.” He smiled, and I saw what he meant. On my best days, I wouldn't have been a physical match for Rex Pierson, and neither would Pete Kelsey.

  “By the way, is she here?” I asked.

  “Who? Mrs. Stovall. Could be. I haven't seen her today. She's usually at work by now, but then, I've been busy taking down the decorations. You can try giving her a ring on the security phone if you like. She might be there.”

  I tried the phone, but if Andrea Stovall was inside her apartment, she still wasn't answering. I was sure, her sickness-excuse to the contrary, that she had indeed gone out of town and was lying low someplace. I could only hope that Kramer knew where.

  Hanging up the phone, I turned to Rex. “Do you mind taking me up to her apartment?”

  Rex Pierson stopped what he was doing and looked me straight in the eye. “That's not legal.”

  “But what if something's happened to her?”

  His eyes bulged. “You don't really think something's happened to her here, do you?”

  “We should check.”

  He nodded wordlessly and led the way to the elevator. Wide school hallways had been broken up by strategically placed walls. Polished floors had been covered over with carpet. Only an occasional bulletin board or trophy case and the broad, glassed-in stairways gave any hint that the place had once been a school.

  An unopened newspaper lay on the floor in front of the door to Andrea Stovall's unit. A clutch of worry gripped my stomach. Supposing Pete Kelsey had made good his threat against Andrea.

  I glanced at Rex Pierson. Obviously concerned about the same thing, he was already reaching for the key ring at his belt. “I can't let you in there,” he cautioned, “not without an official warrant or something, but I can go in myself and check if you want.”

  He went in and came out a few moments later. “Nothin's wrong that I can see,” he said.

  For the moment, there wasn't anything more to be done. We went back down to the entry, where I handed Pierson one of my cards. “If you see her, give her my card and ask her to call me, would you?”

  “Sure thing,” he said.

  I started to leave, and then thought of one more question. “Did you ever see Marcia Kelsey around here?”

  With studied concentration Rex Pierson carefully fastened the last piece of garland with a five-inch tie-wrap. None of that garland was going to unravel from the spool until Rex Pierson was ready for it to unravel. Eventually he looked up at me and answered the question.

  “I don't want to say nothin' against somebody,” he said, “I mean nothin' that would get anyone in trouble.”

  “I'll try to keep whatever you tell me in strictest co
nfidence,” I said.

  He nodded. “Well, sir, you see, I haven't been here in the building all that long. When it comes to a job like this, it takes time to connect people and faces and names. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, for a couple of months, I thought she was one of the residents.”

  “Marcia Kelsey? You mean she was here that much?”

  He nodded. “I recognized her from the picture in last night's paper. And if she was married all that time, I can kinda see how her husband might be just a little bent out of shape, know what I mean?”

  Indeed I did, but even so, murder is never the answer.

  Thanking Pierson for his help, I left. On the way back to the department, I stopped off at the Doghouse for a quiet cup of coffee. It was after the lunch hour proper and the place wasn't very crowded. Glad to be away from the hubbub of the fifth floor, I used the privacy of a dimly lit booth to write another report for Sergeant Watkins. This one detailed my interviews both with Freddie Petrie at Seattle Security and with Rex Pierson.

  The good thing about writing reports is that it forces you to gather your thoughts, forces you to sift through what you think you know and helps clarify what you don't.

  It was time to draw the logical conclusion that Andrea Stovall and Marcia Kelsey had been lovers, with or without Pete Kelsey's knowledge. That was an understandable triangle, an age-old pattern for trouble, but a triangle did nothing to clear up the problem of Alvin Chambers. Where did he fit in?

  I was sorry I had returned Ron's copy of the P.-I. I did my best to recall exactly what Charlotte Chambers had said in the article about those “godless” women. Those were Charlotte's words, not Alvin's, but clearly Alvin had known what was going on between Andrea and Marcia. He had known and didn't approve. From the sound of it, he would have been reluctant to be associated with those kinds of people, so once more I came back to the same old question: What the hell was Alvin Chambers doing in that damn closet?

  I thought about everything Rex Pierson had told me. His comments put a far different light on Pete Kelsey's claim that he and Marcia had shared an “open marriage.” Evidently there were some things they hadn't been so open about, some things Pete Kelsey wasn't prepared to ignore or forgive. But if Marcia had been that unhappy with the marriage, and if Pete had been that miserable as well, what the hell had kept them together? Why hadn't they called the whole thing off and split? Their marriage had evolved beyond the tie-that-binds stage into something more like a noose—and every bit as deadly.

  The beep of my pager startled me out of this reverie. The call-back number was Peters'. He's probably busy tracking the bomb threats on his lunch hour, I thought with annoyance, but I went to the noisy phone booth by the cash register and called him back.

  “What's up?” I asked.

  “Beau, where are you?” Ron Peters sounded anxious.

  “At the Doghouse, having coffee. Why do you want to know?”

  “Hold on a minute. Let me check something out.”

  He put me on hold while I entertained myself watching the Wednesday afternoon crush of lucky lottery players line up for their individual cracks at winning four million bucks, that week's Lotto prize.

  Eventually Peters came back on the line. “Okay,” he said. “I got hold of him and he's on his way to see you. Wait right there.”

  “Who's on his way?”

  “Maxwell Cole. He came up to me this morning right after the press briefing and asked if I knew where to find you. I told him I didn't have a clue and that he should check with Margie, but he was adamant that he didn't want to be seen on the fifth floor. He said it was important. He insisted that he talk to you privately. Nobody else would do. I told him I'd try to locate you, but this is the first I've had a spare minute.”

  “He's coming here?” I asked.

  “That's right. He said he'd be there in ten minutes or so.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I'll wait here.”

  I went back to the booth, and Wanda brought me another cup of coffee. I had barely taken off the top layer when Maxwell Cole came steaming in the door, huffing and puffing and out of breath. Hurriedly he looked around the room. Relief showed on his face when he finally caught sight of me.

  He rushed over to me, hand outstretched in greeting. “Thank God you're still here, J.P.,” he said, easing his heavy bulk into the booth across from me. “I didn't know if you'd wait or not.”

  Wanda approached the table to offer coffee, which Max accepted with a grateful nod. He still looked sick enough that he probably shouldn't have been out of bed. His nose was bright red, and his eyes were watery.

  “What's the matter, Max? Is something wrong?”

  Nervously chewing on one end of his drooping mustache, Max glanced anxiously around the room as if checking to see if anyone was listening. When he spoke, it was in a confidential whisper. “I need your help, J.P.”

  “With what?”

  He swallowed hard before he answered. “With Pete.”

  “With Pete Kelsey? Do you know where he is?”

  Max nodded. “I do. When he saw the paper this morning, I thought he'd tear the place apart. I've never seen him like that.”

  “Reading the paper set him off?”

  “Of course it did. I mean, the things that woman said!” Max answered indignantly. “I can't understand how they could print such terrible things about Marcia. They're not true. They couldn't be. If they were true, don't you think I'd know it? I can't imagine what those damn editors were thinking of!”

  He shook his head miserably and sneezed into a wrinkled, much-used handkerchief. It was almost comic to think of Max being so offended by something printed in his own newspaper. No doubt it was the first time someone he truly cared about had been on the receiving end of hatchet-job reporting. Dishing it out is always a whole lot easier than taking it, but this was no time to revel in the irony of it all. Maxwell Cole knew where Pete Kelsey was, and I wanted him to tell me.

  “Where is he?” I asked. “At your house?”

  “He's willing to turn himself in,” Max said. “But there's a condition.”

  “Suspects don't get to name conditions, Max. You know I can't make any deals.”

  “But he doesn't want much,” Max pleaded. “Marcia's funeral is tomorrow. All he wants is your guarantee that he'll be able to go to that.”

  “Come on, Max. We're talking homicide here.”

  “Please, J.P. I swear to you, no matter what you think, Pete didn't kill Marcia. He couldn't have.” Max's voice broke as he finished, and he buried his face in his hands.

  Maxwell Cole looked so troubled, so miserable, that I couldn't help feeling sorry for him. Pete and Marcia were no doubt his best friends in the world, and what had happened to them was tearing him apart. I gave him a moment or two to pull himself back together.

  “How well do you know Pete Kelsey?” I asked finally when Max looked once more as though he were capable of speech.

  “Jesus Christ, J.P.!” Max exploded. “We already went over that! I know him like my own brother.”

  “Did you ever hear of anyone named John David Madsen?”

  “No. Who's that?” Max asked with a frown.

  “If you don't know John David Madsen, Max, then you don't know Pete Kelsey, either. Where is he?”

  “At my house. He came there yesterday afternoon. I swear to God, I didn't know you were looking for him until the paper came this morning.”

  “Is he armed?” I asked.

  “Of course he's not armed. What kind of a fool do you think I am?” Max demanded.

  “Are there any weapons in the house?”

  Maxwell Cole thought for a moment and then said, “Well…”

  His hesitation told me what I needed to know. I stood up, dropping a fistful of change onto the table. “Where are you going?” Max asked.

  “To call for a backup. Kelsey got away from me yesterday. That's not going to happen twice.”

  “No dea
l then?”

  “No deal.”

  Maybe Pete Kelsey wasn't asking for much, but it was far more than he was going to get.

  CHAPTER

  20

  It was done without sirens or fanfare. And without any reporters, either.

  Two cars, one marked and one not, accompanied Maxwell Cole and me back up Queen Anne Hill to Max's house. I had told him that under no circumstances would he be allowed to approach the house, but while I was busy strategically placing my six backup officers, Max slipped away from me and made a beeline for the front porch. He was opening the door before I realized what he was up to, and by then it was too late to stop him.

  Leave it to Maxwell Cole to blow my cover. One way or another, Kelsey/Madsen now knew we were there. We had lost whatever small advantage might have been gained by the element of surprise. If he chose to make a stand, to force us to come in after him, Max's huge old house stood there like an impenetrable fortress. And then there was always the possibility that Kelsey would take Max hostage and attempt to use him as a bargaining chip.

  While I was still assessing the situation and trying to determine whether or not to summon the Emergency Response Team, the door opened and both Max and Kelsey stepped outside onto the wide front porch. Kelsey walked with both hands held high over his head.

  Quickly I moved to intercept them, my whole body tense and alert for any sign of trouble. In one hand I gripped my new Beretta and fervently wished it was my trusty old Smith & Wesson.

  “Step aside, Max,” I ordered, motioning him away with a sideways jerk of my head. He complied, but not without argument.

  “Put the gun away, J. P. I told you there wouldn't be any trouble. I told you Pete was ready to turn himself in.”

  Kelsey/Madsen was looking me straight in the eye. “Will I be able to go to Marcia's funeral?” he asked.

  “I already told Max that we don't make deals, Madsen. Now, up against the wall, feet apart and hands over your head. You're under arrest.”

  For a long moment Pete Kelsey didn't move. He leveled his ice blue eyes at me in a steady, unblinking stare, but the working muscles across his jawline told me that my use of his real name had hit home. At last, when he dropped his eyes, his whole body seemed to sag. He started to lower his hands.