Lying in Wait (9780061747168) (11 page)

I left Belltown Terrace and drove straight down Clay to Western. A short twenty minutes after I got off the phone with Captain Lawrence Powell, I was standing in the reception area of the
Seattle P.-I
.

Times have changed in the country, and not nec
essarily for the better. In the old days, it was possible to walk into an airport or a radio station or a newspaper office without having to go through a whole security rigmarole. Compared to getting into the
P.-I
., breaking into an armed camp would have been easier.

“I'm sorry, but Mr. Cole isn't available,” the receptionist told me with a blandly sweet smile. “He's on special assignment today.”

“Where?”

“I'm sorry, I'm afraid I can't give out that information.”

“When will he be back?”

“Probably later on this week. For sure by next Monday morning.”

Captain Powell hadn't given me until Monday. He wanted results today. Now. And so did I.

“Is he calling in for messages?”

“I'm not sure. Somebody up at the City Desk could probably answer that better than I can.”

The switchboard phone rang, not once but three separate times in a row. And each time the receptionist handled the phone before coming back to me. It's the same kind of song and dance that happens in auto-parts stores or hardware stores where the important person on the phone always takes precedence over the poor hapless boob who is actually standing in front of the counter with money in his hand waiting to buy something.

The receptionist came back to me eventually. She looked at me as though she'd never laid eyes on me before. “May I help you, please?”

“Maxwell Cole, remember? You were going to
connect me to the City Desk.” By then I was no doubt clenching my teeth.

The light came on. Dim, but a light. “Oh, that's right. Sorry. Just step to that phone over there.”

In the long run, the City Desk folks wouldn't or couldn't give me a straight answer on Maxwell Cole's whereabouts, either. But someone did finally agree to connect me with the “City Beat” voice-mail line.

“Max,” I snarled into the phone. “This is Detective Beaumont. I need to talk to you. ASAP. And I mean talk in person, not just play telephone tag back and forth on these damn voice-mail networks.”

I left both my home and office numbers on the voice-mail message and then stalked back outside, where my 928 waited next to the curb. Even after maneuvering through downtown morning rush-hour traffic, I parked in the garage on James and still made it into the Public Safety Building and up to the homicide digs on the fifth floor a good fifteen minutes before Sue Danielson.

“What are you doing here, Sleeping Beauty?” she asked when she caught sight of me. “The last time I talked to you, I thought you were going back to bed.”

“So did I,” I grumbled. “Right up until Captain Powell called to ream my ass out.”

“What about?”

I handed her a photocopy of Maxwell Cole's column, one that had magically appeared in the middle of my desk by the time I arrived at work. Sue read the column in silence, then gave it back to me.

“Where did he get his information?” she asked.

“That's what Captain Powell wants to know. It wasn't from you, was it?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you accusing…?”

I cut her off, stopping her in midreply. “No, I'm not, but I had to ask. Forget it. Powell gave me orders to find the leak. I'm going through the motions, that's all. But if you didn't talk to Maxwell Cole, and if I didn't, who else is there?”

“The two guys from Patrol who took the initial report and Bonnie Elgin herself.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, remembering my late evening phone call to the Elgins' house. There had been a lot of noise in the background. “That has to be it.”

“What does?”

“When I called Bonnie about the prints, it sounded as though there was a party going on. Maybe there was. I'll bet either Maxwell Cole was there in person, or else one of his big-mouthed sources was.”

“When Bonnie shows up for fingerprinting, we'll have to check that out,” Sue Danielson said.

“Yes,” I agreed. “We certainly will.”

As it
turned out, I was nowhere near the Public Safety Building by the time Bonnie Elgin and Sue Danielson finished up with the prints and sketch.

About 9:15
A.M
. Detective Stan Jacek came wandering back through the fifth-floor maze of cubicles and found me sitting at my desk, holding up my head and working on paper.
Paper
paper. Somebody needed to let Maxwell Cole know that not everybody at Seattle P.D. had a handy-dandy laptop computer at his or her disposal.

Stan hadn't slept any longer than I, and he was equally grouchy. “How can people stand living and working in a place like this?” he demanded irritably. “It took me ten minutes just to find a parking place.”

I've never visited Stan Jacek's home turf up in Coupeville, but it's safe to assume that parking isn't that much of a problem in the downtown area of Island County's county seat on Whidbey Island.

“It's no big deal,” I said. “All you have to do is be born in a parking place, and then you're set.”

Detective Jacek wasn't up for that kind of early morning quip. “Very funny,” he said. “You want to come for a ride or not?”

“Where to?”

He pulled out a notebook and thumbed through the scrawled-on, dog-eared pages. “Remember the letter we found in the Caddy parked out in front of the house last night?”

“The one signed ‘Mom'? What about it?”

“I finally managed to track that back to the woman up in Anchorage who wrote it,” he answered. “She and her husband are flying into town later on today. She's willing to help as much as she can, but she doesn't have access to any of her daughter's more recent dental records. They'll bring along whatever they do have.”

The condition of the dead woman's body had meant that dental records would be necessary to establish a positive I.D. My heart went out to those two unfortunate parents—to any parents—forced to set out on that kind of devastatingly awful mission. They might be hoping for the best, yet I'm sure they were dreading the worst.

“It's going to be rough on them,” I said.

Jacek nodded. “I'll say. In the meantime, the mother gave me a line on their other daughter—Denise's older sister. Her name is Deanna Meadows. She lives down in Kent in a place called Fairwood. Ever heard of it?”

I shook my head, but then there are lots of places in the Puget Sound area that I've never heard of.

Jacek shrugged and continued, “It doesn't matter. I've got an appointment with her about forty-five minutes from now. I thought maybe you'd like to ride along.”

For an answer, I stood up and put on my jacket. “Lead the way,” I said.

We crossed Lake Washington on I-90 in fog so thick that the water was invisible. We might have been driving in a universe made of cotton balls. Detective Jacek was far too aggressive a driver for me to be able to doze off and catch forty winks. Instead, I stayed wide awake the whole time, gripping what I call the “Oh-shit bar,” and thinking about all those fog-caused multicar pileups that happen every year on that long stretch of California freeway they call “the Grapevine.”

I was relieved when we finally turned off Interstate 405 onto the Maple Valley Highway. Valley population and traffic has far outstripped the capacity of that piece of rural two-lane road, and it's certainly had its share of head-on collisions, but at least there Stan Jacek slowed down to a relatively sane sixty.

For all the ease of finding our way, we might just as well have been traveling in the middle of the night. The fog was that thick. But as we rose up out of the valley onto a plateau, the sun began to burn through the haze.

We meandered around a housing development that had been built around the perimeter of a golf course. For golf-course houses, the places were fairly modest. The new cedar shake roofs told me the development must be about twenty years old. The little kid tearing up the middle of the street on a Big Wheel was probably the child of a second generation of owners.

The house we stopped in front of was much newer construction than some of its neighbors. It
was one of those new phony French-château places with a three-car garage that covered almost the whole front of the house except for a front porch three stories tall. The porch light was so far up on the wall that you'd need an extension ladder just to reach it and change the lightbulb. A brand-new white Infiniti, still wearing temporary plates, sat by itself inside one open garage door.

“Yuppies,” I muttered to myself, thinking the people who lived there were probably ex-Californians who deserved to have to use a ladder just to change a lightbulb. “Definitely yuppies.”

Detective Jacek must have thought I was saying something important. “Huh?” he asked, pulling his finger back from the doorbell without pressing the button. “What did you say?”

“Never mind,” I told him. “It's nothing.”

Deanna Meadows turned out to be a woman in her early-to-mid-thirties. She wore a thick terry-cloth bathrobe. Her carrot-colored hair was pulled up on top of her head with a dark blue band of some kind. It looked as though she had started out wearing makeup, because two twin trails of drowned mascara still lingered on her cheeks. There was nothing besides the dead mascara to cover the fine sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks. She had been crying. When she opened the door, she was still sniffling.

Detective Jacek introduced himself and showed her his I.D. Deanna nodded. “I remember. You're the one I talked to earlier.”

“And this is Detective Beaumont of the Seattle Police Department. He's working on this case as well.”

Deanna Meadows led us into a spacious living room. Looking beyond the living room and out through the dining-room picture window, I could see one of the fairways on the golf course outside. That smooth expanse of green, evenly mowed-and-manicured grass provided a backyard that was long on lush and low on homeowner-driven maintenance. The thought crossed my mind that maybe not having to spend every Saturday pushing around a lawn mower outweighed the hazard of an occasional golf ball bouncing in through a window and landing on the dining-room table.

“I'm sorry things are in such a mess,” Deanna Meadows apologized.

Mess? I didn't see much mess. A few scattered newspapers were strewn around on the floor. There were two coffee cups sitting on an end table along with a pile of soggy, crumpled tissues. Other than that, the room was spotlessly clean, with no sign of kiddy-type debris anywhere. Unless there was an ever-vigilant nanny stowed somewhere upstairs, it was safe to assume that Deanna Meadows and her unnamed husband—she was wearing a wedding band—were childless.

Deanna motioned for Jack and me to sit down on the green-and-white living-room couch. “Coffee?” she asked.

We both accepted gratefully. While she hurried off to the kitchen to make it, I examined the two rooms that were visible from where I sat. They were furnished in a tasteful, uniformly comfortable style. The house seemed like some kind of safe haven in which Detective Jacek and I, along with
our ugly reason for being there, provided the only jarring notes.

Deanna Meadows was talking when she came back into the dining room, shouldering open the swinging door between that room and the kitchen.

“I was on the phone with my aunt just before you got here,” she said. She paused long enough to pass us mugs of coffee and to offer cream and sugar.

“Aunt Mary is my mother's sister. I was all right for a while, but as soon as she started talking about Denise, it set me off all over again. I don't know what's the matter with me. I just can't seem to stop crying. It's hard to believe that it's happened—that she's really dead.”

Sipping his coffee, Detective Jacek nodded sympathetically. “I'm sure this is all very difficult for you—and having us show up so soon like this must seem pretty heartless. But in order to solve cases we have to gather information as quickly as we can.”

Deanna nodded. “I know,” she said. “Mom told me. I promised her I'd do whatever I could to help.”

“What can you tell us about your sister?” Stan Jacek asked. “Her neighbors up on Camano Island knew her name and recognized her on sight, but she doesn't seem to have sought out friendships with any of them. No one could tell us much about her background—about where she came from and all that sort of thing.”

Deanna blew her nose. “I'll tell you what I can, but I have to watch the time,” she said. “My folks left Anchorage by plane this morning. They're due
in at Sea-Tac two hours from now. I'll have to leave before too long to go pick them up.”

“That's where you're from—Alaska?”

Deanna nodded. “Not originally. My folks moved up there from Dayton, Ohio, during the oil rush. They liked it so much they never left.”

“What do your parents do?” I asked.

“My father used to be a minister,” she said. “Now he's the chief administrator in a convalescent home.”

“That's a big change.”

Deanna Meadows shrugged. “He pretty much had to do it. Dad just couldn't bring himself to stand up in front of people and preach Sunday sermons when his own family life was in such disarray.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Because of Denise,” Deanna answered, with more than a trace of bitterness in her voice. “It was always because of Denise. Isn't that why you're here?”

“I'm not sure,” Jacek said. “Maybe you'd better tell us.”

It took a while for Deanna Meadows to answer. “I guess you've heard all the bad talk about preachers' kids,” she said at last. “About how awful they are.”

“I've heard rumors to that effect,” Jacek agreed, “but from what I hear, teachers' kids are just as bad…or maybe even a little worse.”

“
Some
of them are,” Deanna asserted, placing careful emphasis on the word “some.” “Not all, but some.”

“So you're saying your sister went haywire?”

“She didn't
go
haywire; she always
was
haywire, but I don't think anyone realized it at first. As a little kid, she was so pretty. She got good grades and was smart as a whip—a lot smarter than I ever was. They tested her at school once. Her scores were off the charts. Genius-level I.Q. But she had this dark side to her, mean almost.

“As far as Denise was concerned, rules didn't exist. Not for her, anyway. Only for other people. The first time she got busted for soliciting, she was thirteen years old. She told my parents she was going to a slumber party with some of her friends from school. Instead, she was downtown trying to hustle visiting businessmen.”

“Thirteen's pretty young,” Stan Jacek agreed. Deanna Meadows; to make it easier for her to continue. I knew I'd seen hookers in Seattle who hadn't seen their twelfth birthdays yet, and I'm pretty sure Jacek had, too. Maybe even in Coupeville.

“What happened?” I asked.

“The cops called my parents. Dad went down to juvie to get her; to bail her out. On the way home, he asked her what she was thinking of; how come she did it. She said she did it for the money, because she didn't get enough allowance. She told him she'd figured out that she could make more by the hour screwing—although she called it something much worse than screwing—than he did after twenty years of being a minister.”

“That must have been hard on him,” Jacek said.

Deanna laughed a harsh, raw, humorless laugh.
“
Hard
is hardly the word for it!” she exclaimed. “Denise killed something in my father when she told him that—robbed him of something important—his dignity. He took it personally. Having Denise act like that made him feel like his whole life was a fraud, a joke. He must have thought he had failed his entire family.”

There was a long pause while Deanna Meadows gazed off into the middle distance and collected her frayed emotions. When she spoke again, I could hear the unvarnished bitterness behind her words.

“Of course, I was there and doing all right. While Denise was out raising hell, I was busy finishing up my last year in high school and getting good grades, but that didn't seem to matter. It didn't count. I don't think anybody even noticed. That's what they say. The squeaky wheel is always the one that gets the oil.”

“What happened after your father brought Denise home?” Jacek asked.

Deanna shrugged. “He must have written his letter of resignation that very night and turned it in the next day. He never preached another sermon. I used to love his sermons. He and Mom were both hurting, but Denise didn't give a damn. My parents tried to pick up some of the pieces—tried to glue them back together. They did all the things parents do, like going to counseling and all that, but it didn't work. Nothing worked. Denise didn't want to get better because she didn't think there was anything wrong with her.

“Eventually, my parents just gave up. They had to. They ran out of time and energy and money
all at the same time. They couldn't afford to keep of fighting. By then, my father had gone back to school to get a degree in hospital administration, and my mother was working as a receptionist in a doctor's office. Denise ran away for good when she was fourteen. I was already down here, going to school on a scholarship. I met a guy here at school. Gary's the best thing that ever happened to me. We ended up falling in love and getting married.”

“And Denise?”

“She dropped out of sight completely. No one heard from her for years and years. Then, about a year and a half ago, out of a clear blue sky, she turned back up. Someone rang my doorbell one morning, and when I opened the door, there she was. ‘Hi,' she says with this big grin on her face, as though nothing had ever happened, like the years in between the last time I saw her and right then didn't exist.

“‘It's your baby sister,' she says. ‘Remember me?'”