Improbable Cause

by J. A. Jance

  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 use 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 an 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."

  "Is that why you were screwing around on him behind his back?"

  "We needed the money," she said. "Dental school is very expensive."

  "The money? What money?"

  "Dr. Nielsen offered me a raise, a big raise. He said his wife didn't understand him. I know how that sounds, but he said that she wouldn't have sex with him anymore. He said if I'd sleep with him, it would be good for both of us."

  I snorted. "That's right. Wages are deductible."

  Two angry red spots appeared on both her pale cheeks, but she didn't continue. I finally broke the silence.

  "Let me ask you another question, Debi. Why did you lie to us about yesterday morning?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know what I mean. You told us you got to the office on Monday morning at eight, that you were there right on time. But I have a witness who says he saw you come racing into the building at nine o'clock. What happened? Did you go inside and see something that made you think your husband might have been involved?"

  "No. I didn't."

  "You didn't what? You didn't come in then, or you didn't see something to link Tom with the murder? Which?"

  "It wasn't like that at all. You don't understand."

  "Explain it to me."

  "When I saw Dr. Fred, like I told you, I was scared to death. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't think. I started to call the police right away, but then I remembered my diaphragm, the one I kept in the office. I was afraid if someone found it, they'd ask questions. So I got rid of it."

  "How?"

  "I took it out to the dumpster and threw it away."

  "But the dumpsters are in the back alley. You were seen entering by the front door."

  "I tried the back door, but I couldn't get out. Someone had taken the key to the dead bolt from the drawer. It wasn't where it was supposed to be."

  Of course it wasn't there. LeAnn had taken it, but I didn't tell Debi that.

  "And you don't have one?"

  "No. I always used the one in the drawer."

  "And was the dead-bolt lock changed when the other ones were?"

  "Yes. I made the arrangements. I called the locksmith and set up the appointment. Dr. Fred asked me to."

  "And how long ago were the locks changed?"

  She shrugged. "A couple of weeks ago. I'm not sure of the exact date."

  "After LeAnn Nielsen moved out?"

  Debi nodded.

  "What time will your husband be home?"

  She glanced nervously at a clock on the wall. "Any time now," she said.

  I got up to leave. "All right," I said. "I'm going. We'll be checking on your husband's movements on Saturday."

  "Are you going to tell him?" Debi asked.

  I searched her face. "What makes you think he hasn't already found out?" I asked. "And even if he hasn't, you must realize that he will by the time this investigation is over. You'd better be the one to tell him."

  With that I turned away and left her sitting there. I didn't have enough evidence in hand to accuse Tom Rush of Nielsen's murder, and if the poor simple bastard really didn't know his wife was fucking around on him, I didn't much care to be there when she told him.

  I don't like to see half-grown men cry.

  Back home in Belltown Terrace, I settled into my recliner and sat there thinking about Tom Rush—wondering if he'd done it, hoping he hadn't.

  The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. After all, I personally had walked several miles in Tom Rush's moccasins. I didn't want to have to arrest him for something I might well have done myself if I'd only had the opportunity.

  I fell asleep with the sure knowledge that I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  CHAPTER 17

  I went to the Doghouse for breakfast the next morning and discovered J. P. Beaumont was suddenly a local media hero. "Saw you on the eleven o'clock news, last night.” Wanda told me as she unloaded a platter of bacon and eggs in front of me. "Somebody else saw you on
the five o'clock. They said you went in and talked that crazy guy into giving up."

  "For once the news got something straight," I said.

  "Weren't you scared? Looked to me like you were wearing one of those bulletproof vests."

  "I was," I said. "What I really needed, though, more than a bulletproof vest, was a batting helmet."

  Wanda stood there with her arms crossed, frowning. "What's that?"

  "A batting helmet, like they use in baseball games. The guy didn't have a gun, he had a baseball bat."