Breach of Duty (9780061739637) (24 page)

“Richard Danielson was her ex-husband,” Kramer replied. “Of course it was domestic violence.”

“It may have been one, but it was also the other,” I insisted. “Richie Danielson was a drug dealer. Sue was doing her job when she kept him from making those deliveries, when she kept him from using his own children to transport drugs. Sue may have been off duty at the time of her death, but the real reason Richie killed her was because she had fouled up his chance to make a big score.”

“She didn't know about that,” Kramer argued. “The drugs weren't found until much later. I'm calling it a domestic and that's how it's going to stay.”

“No,” I said, “it isn't. Detective Danielson was my partner. By the time I reached her, she was hurt so bad she could barely hold my Glock, but the last thing she did is what partners are supposed to do for one another. When I went down the hall after Richie, Sue was my backup, Kramer, off duty or not. She told me that if Richie made it past me, she'd make sure he didn't make it past her.”

“Beaumont,” Kramer said, “you're way too emotional about all this…If you'll just calm down…”

“Emotional?” I demanded, hearing my voice rising. “You damn well better bet I'm emotional. In fact, I'm more than emotional. Sue was my partner and a hero. So help me God, she and her kids are going to get every honor she deserves or I'm going to know the reason why. Either you change this DV label, Kramer, or I'll go up and down the chain of command until I find someone who will. And when I'm finished, if you're still squad commander, I'll eat my fucking shoe.”

With that, I sailed the paper across the desk at him and I left. Sergeant Watkins was sitting at his desk when I stormed out.

“Way to go, Beau,” he muttered after me under his breath. “Way to go!”

F
unerals and memorial services are something that have to be gotten through. They honor the dead, but they're
for
the living. On Friday, we all did the best we could. The funeral home was packed, wall to wall. As expected, police officers came from all over the region to honor Detective Sue Danielson. The picture of her, on an easel at the front of the room, was the official portrait taken when she graduated from the academy. All I could think of as I sat there looking at it was how very young she was and what a waste it was that she was dead.

The reception in the Regrade Room at Belltown Terrace was also jammed with people spilling out onto the Pickleball court and running track. Mary and her staff did an excellent job, but still when they ran out of dishes and glasses, they had to ask for help. I wasn't surprised to find my grandmother in the party room kitchen busily washing plates, glasses, and silverware. What did surprise me was seeing Lars Jenssen in there with her, armed with a dish towel and playing wiper to my grandmother's capable washer. At the time I noticed that her face was beet red, but I chalked it up to having her hands in warm dishwater.

I had heard that Richie Danielson's remains were being shipped back to Alaska for burial. I asked both Jared and Chris if they wanted to go. If they had wanted to, and if Sue's parents hadn't been able to spring for the airfare, I would have, but neither one of them said yes. I didn't blame them.

I'm not entirely sure how I made it through the next two weeks. I was at loose ends and in a funk. Not working for the first time in my adult life, I had no idea what to do with myself or with my life. Ralph suggested I go with him to a driving range and try my hand at hitting golf balls, but that didn't grab me. Once we did go out for an evening cruise on Cassandra Wolcott's forty-two-foot Chris-Craft, but I'm afraid I was pretty much a wet blanket. Cassie Wolcott may be great, but she's not for me. I mostly did crossword puzzles, went to a lot of AA meetings and tried to stay out of bars.

A week after the funeral my phone rang early on a Monday morning. “Beaumont?” a voice asked.

I was still trying to get used to that missing “Detective.” “Yes,” I said.

“Chief Rankin here. How are you doing?”

“All right,” I said.

“Good. Glad to hear it. The reason I'm calling is, we're getting ready for the Police Officers Memorial Service at Police Plaza. Sue's name is going on the wall. We asked her parents if either one or both of the boys could come back out for the service, but Mr. Hinkle said they just couldn't swing it. So I was wondering if you'd be willing to come to the service in their stead.”

Years ago, a fraternal organization called International Footprinters—made up of retired and active police officers as well as interested citizens—started sponsoring nationwide memorial services in honor of fallen police officers. In recent years the City of Seattle has assumed sponsorship of the local service.

“I'll be there,” I said.

As soon as I got off the phone with Rankin, I called Cincinnati and talked to Mary Beth Hinkle. I offered to send tickets so the boys could attend as well.

“You shouldn't do that,” Mary Beth said. “You've already done so much, what with the hotel rooms, and the reception, and all.”

“It's only money,” I told her. “Your daughter was a hero, Mary Beth. Those boys have every right to be proud of her. This is an honor for her and for them, too. I'd like them to be part of it.”

“All right, then,” she agreed. “I'll ask them as soon as they get home from school. If they want to come, we'll let them.”

And so, on a glorious May evening exactly two weeks after Sue's funeral, we all assembled in the Police Plaza at 4th and James. The Hinkles were there along with Jared and Chris and me, as well as any number of local dignitaries, from the mayor and police chief right on down. There were other relatives on hand as well—surviving family members of police officers who had died in previous years, including a gangly but poised African American teenager named Benjamin Weston whose father, Officer Benjamin Harrison Weston, had two years earlier.

The keynote speaker was a sixty-three-year-old man whose father had died when he was only eight. When he spoke of missing his father—of never having had a chance to get to know him—I knew once again that those kinds of hurts never go away, no matter how old you get.

When the ceremony was over, a suddenly grownup Jared Danielson turned to me and shook my hand. “I've been thinking about what you said, about me being like my mother. And I think that's what I want to do,” he added. “Be a cop. Like her and like you.”

I can't help it. I'm a sentimental slob. I teared right up.

“Good for you, Jared,” I said.

A little later, someone came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. “Mr. Beaumont?”

“Yes.” I turned around. The guy looked familiar, but I had no idea who he was.

“I don't think we've ever been introduced,” he said. “My name is Ross Connors.”

As soon as I heard the name, I realized I was speaking to the attorney general of the state of Washington. He held out his hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Connors,” I told him.

“Likewise,” he said, “but please, call me Ross. I've been hearing lots of good things about you from some of my folks. Now that you're retired from SPD, several of the boys on my homicide investigation team…squad…have been asking about you, wanting to know if we could recruit you. Have you ever considered working for us on our statewide hit squad?”

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

“We always have a spot for really experienced investigators. If you're at all interested, I'd be happy to have the department head give you the sales pitch. What do you think?”

We were still standing on the plaza, but the crowd had thinned enough so that I had a clear view of the spot on the wall where Suzanne Michelle Danielson's name had been chiseled into the gray granite.

“I'll think about it, but let me ask you a question,” I said. “Do your people work partners?”

“Sometimes,” Connors answered, “but not necessarily. Why?”

“Because,” I said, “J. P. Beaumont doesn't work partners anymore.”

J. A. JANCE
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
Paradise Lost
and
Kiss of the Bees
. Ms. Jance was born in South Dakota, brought up in Bisbee, Arizona, and now lives with her husband in Seattle, Washington, and Tucson, Arizona. Readers can visit her online at
www.jajance.com.

J
OANNA BRADY MYSTERIES

Desert Heat

Tombstone Courage

Shoot/Don't Shoot

Dead to Rights

Skeleton Canyon

Rattlesnake Crossing

Outlaw Mountain

Devil's Claw

Paradise Lost

J.
P. BEAUMONT MYSTERIES

Until Proven Guilty

Injustice for All

Trial by Fury

Taking the Fifth

Improbable Cause

A More Perfect Union

Dismissed with Prejudice

Minor in Possession

Payment in Kind

Without Due Process

Failure to Appear

Lying in Wait

Name Withheld

Breach of Duty

Birds of Prey

AND

Hour of the Hunter

Kiss of the Bees

Partner in Crime

Praise for J.A. JANCE

and
BREACH Of DUTY

 

“One of the country's most popular mystery writers.”

Portland Oregonian

“As always, Jance paints a vibrant picture, creating characters so real you want to reach out and hug—or strangle—them. The dialogue always rings true, and the cases unravel in an interesting, yet never contrived way.”

Cleveland Plain-Dealer

“A disillusioned, cynical hero in the classic hard-boiled tradition.”

Journal-American

“Jance's artistry keeps the reader guessing—and caring.”

Publishers Weekly

“Not for the fainthearted, this is a rare reading experience.”

Romantic Times

“Believable and intense.”

West Coast Review of Books

“Jance doesn't disappoint.”

The Gazette (Colorado)

“J.P. Beaumont is a star attraction.”

Booklist

“Solid entertainment…”

Kirkus Reviews

“Any story by Jance is a joy.”

Chattanooga Times

“Jance brings the reader along with suspense, wit, surprise, and intense feeling…She has the great ability to put the reader into the setting in which she writes…”

Huntsville Times

“Jance is an expert at writing rich mysteries filled with as much human decency as skullduggery.”

Publishers Weekly

“Jance just keeps getting better.”

Traverse City Record-Eagle

“Jance always seems to deliver a fresh story using today's headlines.”

Sioux Falls Argus Leader

“Jance combines a well-rounded sense of humanity with a genre known for its plot-driven dynamics…”

Bellingham Herald

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

BREACH OF DUTY
. Copyright � 1999 by J. A. Jance. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Excerpt from
KISS OF THE BEES
© 2000 by J. A. Jance

Epub edition July 2002 eISBN 9780061739637

First Avon Books printing: November 1999

First Avon Books hardcover printing: February 1999

10 9 8 7 6

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