Name Withheld : A J.p. Beaumont Mystery (9780061760907) (17 page)

“This is Detective Beaumont,” Orting said, short-circuiting the necessity of an instant replay of his own set of questions. “He's with Seattle P.D. He claims he had an appointment with Virginia Marks last night regarding some cases he's working on, but that she stood him up. This is Detective Tim Blaine and Detective Dave Dawson.”

While Orting answered the question, I pulled out a pair of business cards and gave one to each of the Bellevue detectives.

“But I'm telling you, this was the guy,” the man was insisting, practically jumping up and down. “I knew from the way he was skulking around that he was trouble.”

The guy was like a broken record, and he kept right on, hammering away in that same vein. Meanwhile, one of the cops, after examining my card, reached out and shook my hand. “I'm Detective Blaine,” he said. “What is it you're working on?”

“A double homicide,” I said. “A man and a woman tentatively identified as his wife. Virginia Marks was a private investigator. She was working for the aunt of a woman who may very well end up being a prime suspect in one or both of those cases. I think we'll need to talk.”

Tim Blaine, a bull-necked, weight-lifting type who looked far too young to be a homicide detective, nodded gravely. “I see,” he said.

“You're certain the victim is Virginia Marks?”

“We've got a positive I.D.,” Tim Blaine said. “From her bookkeeper—the woman who found the body.”

“Cause of death?”

“This isn't official, of course,” he said. “The M.E. isn't here yet, but I'm calling it a single bullet wound to the head.”

“To the back of the head?” I asked.

Blaine's eyes bored into mine as he nodded. “You're right,” he said. “We
will
need to talk. We have several interviews lined up to do in the next little while. If you have to go somewhere, leave a trail so I can find you later.”

As he turned back to help his partner deal with the still-agitated resident, I used my keyless entry to unlock the 928 from across the garage. The taillights flashed once. As I walked away from the
group by the elevator and headed for the car, I left behind a period of stunned silence and a not-so-subtle exchange of questioning glances. I've learned over time that homicide cops who drive brand-new Porsche 928s aren't exactly a dime a dozen. Nor are they always particularly welcome.

Once inside the Porsche, I reclined the seat, then lay back, and closed my eyes. My head was pounding. I had the shakes. My eyes hurt. Even so, I knew I had to call in and give Sergeant Watkins his shot at me.

“Why, Detective Beaumont,” Watty said when he heard my voice on the phone, “how good of you to call. Did you finally decide to rise and shine?”

“I'm working,” I said. “I'm over here in Bellevue, and I'm working. They've got a body over here that's most likely connected to the Wolf cases. I don't have any idea what time I'll be in.”

“Maybe you'd like to pass that information on to Captain Powell and your fellow investigators? Detectives Kramer and Arnold are just now briefing the captain. I'll put you through to his office.”

As soon as Captain Powell's tin-can voice came through the receiver, I knew he had switched on the speaker phone. “Nice of you to join us, Detective Beaumont,” he said. “We were just talking about you. What's this about a murder over in Bellevue?”

“The woman who's dead is Virginia Marks. She was a private investigator who was working for Grace Highsmith on investigating Don Wolf.”

“Grace Highsmith again,” Powell said. “We were talking about her just now, too, and about her possible connection to the alleged murder weapon. Where did she say it came from?”

“I believe she said a gentleman friend of hers. Those may not be the exact words, but they're close. She refused to give me his name. She said she didn't want to drag him into all this.”

“Oh, he's in all right,” Captain Powell replied. “He's in regardless. Detective Arnold, maybe you'd like to tell Detective Beaumont here what you just found out about that little Seecamp auto.”

“I called the factory,” Sam Arnold said. Over the speaker phone he sounded tinny and distant, and more than a little nervous. “I gave them the serial number, and they gave me the name of the person who purchased it.” He stopped dead and didn't continue.

“And…” I urged.

“His name's Foster. Darrell Foster,” Arnold said.

Another astoundingly familiar name. My pounding headache was suddenly that much worse. “Not
Red
Foster?”

“The very one,” Captain Larry Powell muttered. “However did you guess!”

Darrell Foster—Red Foster—was one of the good old boys who retired as the head of the Washington State Patrol years ago, sometime back in the mid-fifties, while I was still in grade school. Now in his eighties, he sometimes shows
up at Police Guild events. For the last two years, he had tossed the coin for the Bacon Bowl, an annual fund-raising football game played by rival teams made up of police officers from Tacoma-and Seattle-area agencies.

“How did Red Foster get mixed up in all this?” I asked.

“Good question,” Powell said. “Maybe you boys could get going and try to find out the answer, especially now that there's a possible connection to yet a third case. Where are you again?”

“In the garage of a place called the Grove on Twelfth at the corner of Northeast Twelfth and Bellevue Way in downtown Bellevue.”

“Before we do anything else, we'd better get to the bottom of this gun stuff. What kind of transportation do you have?” Powell asked.

“My own,” I said. “The nine twenty-eight.”

“Detective Kramer, how about if you check out a car and go pick up Detective Beaumont. You and he can go pay a call on Grace Highsmith over there in Kirkland while Detective Arnold here tracks down Red Foster. I think he lives downtown here in one of the retirement homes.”

“Ask him about the tapes,” I heard Kramer say from the background.

“Oh, that's right. I understand from Detective Kramer that you've been given access to a security videotape that could show a clear motive for Don Wolf's murder on the part of Grace Highsmith's niece. Is that true?”

“The tape catches Don Wolf in the act of raping Latty Gibson,” I answered.

“So you've actually seen it?” Powell asked.

“I have a copy of it,” I answered.

“Where?”

“It's at home, still plugged into my VCR. I took the D.G.I. tapes there so I could watch them on a bigger screen, on a television set with better resolution than the one in the conference room.”

“I'll just bet,” I heard Kramer mutter in the background.

“But you haven't shared this material with either one of your fellow investigators on this case, with either Detective Kramer or Detective Arnold,” Powell continued.

“No,” I began. “There wasn't enough time to—”

Powell cut me off in midexcuse. “May I suggest, Detective Beaumont, that if there isn't enough time to share important evidence with your fellow detectives, then you'd better make it. Homicide detection is a team sport,” he added. “You'd better either get on the team or off it. There is no middle ground.”

I
knew it would take a minimum of fifteen minutes to half an hour for Phil Kramer to show up in Bellevue, so I used the time to make some of the calls I should have made the night before. The first one was to the house in Rancho Cucamonga. When no one answered, I was more relieved than anything else. For a change, I was more than happy to wimp out and leave a message.

“This is Beau, returning your call. Sorry I couldn't get back to you last night. I was out on a case.” I swallowed a little after that last sentence. It wasn't exactly a lie, but it was certainly less than honest. “Thanks for letting me know what's happening. I'll keep trying.”

After ending that call, I looked around the garage. There was no sign of either of the two detectives. The only officer visible was that same
uniformed cop—an officer named Ryland—still standing guard at the garage entrance. With no potential interference on the horizon, I dialed in Lars Jenssen's number. Calling my AA sponsor then was a little late—like locking the barn door and all that crap—but it was better than not calling him at all.

The phone rang eight or nine times. I knew better than to hang up too soon. Lars is pushing eighty. If he doesn't rush to answer his phone, he has the perfect excuse.

“Hello,” he bellowed into the mouthpiece when he finally lifted the receiver off the hook.

“Hello, Lars,” I said. “It's Beau.”

“What's that? You gotta speak up. I can't quite make you out.”

I could hear him fumbling with buttons, most likely turning up the volume control on his telephone. “It's Beau,” I repeated. “Is that better?”

“You bet. What can I do you for? Haven't seen you at too many meetings lately.”

One of the things I've always liked about Lars Jenssen is his straightforward manner, the way he always comes right to the point.

“As a matter of fact,” I returned sheepishly, “that's one of the reasons I'm calling right now. I had a little problem last night.”

“How big a little problem?” Lars asked. “You in jail?”

“No, nothing like that…”

“Been in a meeting yet today?”

“Not yet. I'm at work right now, and—”

“Work?” Lars Jenssen sputtered. “Did you say
work
? If you know what's good for you, you'll haul your sorry ass off to a meeting and you'll do it now. Where are you?”

“I'm over here in Bellevue, and—”

“Bellevue? You hang on a minute. I'll be right back.”

Lars slammed the phone down in my ear. I could hear him rummaging through papers, pulling drawers open and then shoving them shut, the whole while muttering under his breath. He's a widower who lives alone in a downtown high-rise retirement complex. His only son died in Vietnam, and his wife's been dead now for many years. When I first came back from treatment in Arizona and ventured into a neighborhood AA meeting down in the Denny Regrade, Lars Jenssen was the first person to come over to me and tell me how glad he was that I had come to the meeting.

“You keep coming back, now,” he had told me as I headed for the door. “Just keep coming back.”

In the last few months, I hadn't been back very often. I had let being busy get in the way of following that one very important piece of advice.

“Here it is,” he said. “I knew I'd find it eventually. Hang on, let me find my damn magnifying glass. I swear, they make this gol-durned type smaller all the time. There it is. Okay, where are you?”

“Bellevue, but—”

“Hang on, hang on. Don't get your sweat hot. Now, what day is it again?”

“Thursday, I think. January fourth.”

“Okay. Thursday. Let me see. It says here, there's a noontime meeting over there on Thursdays at a place called Angelo's. On a street called One hundred thirtieth. Think you can find it?”

“Lars, I swear, it was just a little slip,” I began. “A one-time thing. I only called to talk for a couple of minutes. Like I said, I'm right in the middle of a case, and—”

“A case?” Lars repeated. “Baloney. And don't say it was a
little
slip. There's no such thing, and you know it. You let one of those go, and it'll turn into a whole damned train wreck right before your eyes. You get yourself to that meeting, Beau. Here's the address.”

He was so insistent that I wrote down the restaurant's address when he gave it to me, but to be perfectly honest, I was just going through the motions. I was busy. I had my hands full with not one, not two, but three separate homicides. Detective Kramer was on his way to pick me up. I didn't really have any intention of taking off at noon to go wandering off to an AA meeting.

“You get that address all right?” Lars asked.

“Right, but—”

“No
buts
, and no time to talk,” he interrupted. “I'll see you there.”

“What do you mean, you'll see me there?” I asked.

“At the meeting. I'll be there, too. I haven't
been to a meeting so far today. It'll do me good.”

“But Lars,” I objected. “It's in
Bellevue
.”

“So?” he returned. “What do you think, I was born yesterday? I'll catch a bus. Like I said. I'll see you there.”

He hung up. End of argument. Shaking my head, I got out of the car and walked over to where Officer Ryland was waving one of the medical examiner's gray vans into the garage. I wasn't all that surprised when Audrey Cummings stepped out of the driver's seat.

“Not you again,” she said, catching sight of me as she heaved a heavy leather satchel out of the back of the van and headed for the elevator. “Isn't this a little off your beat, Detective Beaumont?”

“Different beat; same case,” I told her. “There's a woman dead upstairs. She happens to be a private eye who was hired to investigate Don Wolf's background.”

“I see. What does it look like up there?”

I shrugged. “Like you said, it's not my beat. I haven't been invited upstairs. There are two Bellevue detectives up there, but if you see anything you think I ought to know, let me know.”

She nodded. “Of course. By the way, did Detective Kramer tell you about the car?”

“What car?” I asked.

“Lizbeth Wolf's. It turned up in the visitor's parking place in the Lake View Condominiums. Detective Arnold found it. So we can be pretty sure that's who it is, although I'm still waiting for
someone who knew Lizbeth Wolf to give me a positive I.D. Do you have anything for me there?”

“I've located Lizbeth Wolf's mother down in southern California. Her name's Anna Dorn. You should be hearing from her sometime today.”

The elevator door opened. Sergeant Orting stood waiting inside, with one finger holding the
DOOR OPEN
button. “Good work, Beau,” Audrey said as she stepped inside. The door started to close, but I pried it back open.

“Wait a minute. What about our deal?” I asked. “What's happening with those prints?”

“The ones we took off Don Wolf?” Audrey asked. The door had been held open too long, and the alarm began to howl. “I sent them over to the latent fingerprint lab. They asked me what they were supposed to do with them,” she continued, raising her voice so she could be heard over the alarm. “I told them to run them through AFIS for an I.D. That is what you wanted, isn't it?”

“That's what I wanted all right,” I answered, letting the door slide shut. “For whatever good that will do.”

I walked the length of the garage and walked up the ramp into vivid midday sun. After the gloom inside the garage, the unexpected sunlight was almost blinding. The glare hurt my burning eyes and escalated the pounding between my ears. My mouth felt dry and cottony, and it tasted even worse. Standing with my hands in my pockets and waiting for Detective Kramer to show up,
I longed for a breath mint, for something that would combat the sour taste in my mouth. Kramer still hadn't arrived when I caught sight of a drugstore across the street.

“If anyone comes looking for me, tell them I'll be right back,” I called over my shoulder to Ryland. “I'm going across the street for a minute.”

I was back on the sidewalk and sucking on an Altoid when Kramer showed up in a full-size Chevy bulge-mobile a few minutes later. By then, though, I think excess MacNaughton's must have been leaking out through my pores. When I climbed into the car and shut the door, he wrinkled his nose in distaste and made a production of rolling down his window. “Where to?” he asked.

I looked up Grace Highsmith's address in my notebook and read it off to him.

“Where's that?” he demanded. “I'm from Seattle, remember? I don't know diddly-squat about Eastside.”

“Is that so?” I returned. “I was under the impression you knew damned near everything. Since you don't, and neither do I, you might want to talk to Officer Ryland back there in the garage and see if he can give us directions.”

Kramer put the bulky Caprice into a rubber-squealing U-turn and drove back to the garage entrance. While he was out of the car asking directions of Officer Ryland, I popped another relatively useless Altoid into my mouth. I briefly considered going back to the 928 to retrieve my
Thomas Guide
to make it easier for us to stumble around in Bellevue and Kirkland. I decided against it, though. Why go out of my way to be helpful with good old Detective Kramer, my son of a bitch partner pro tem.

“I don't like being kept in the dark,” Kramer fumed as he crawled back into the car and headed out of the garage. “You've been holding out on us.”

“Holding out about what?” I asked.

“About your interview with Grace Highsmith, for starters. And then there's ballistics info, to say nothing of—”

“
Holding out
implies I had a chance to pass along information and didn't. After we all left the Lake View Condos yesterday morning, I never saw you again until just now. So don't give me that. And if you're interested in picking a fight, I'll be more than happy to oblige. You've been sitting on some info of your own, Kramer.”

“For instance?”

“Finding Lizbeth Wolf's car, for one thing. And then, there's just being a general all-around asshole. Like spouting off your big mouth about my presumed sexual orientation to an investigator from Child Protective Services.”

A flush crept up Detective Kramer's thick neck. “I didn't mean anything by that,” he said. “It was nothing but a little joke. After all, it isn't every day some swish guy sashays around the fifth floor looking for autographs. I thought it was funny.”

“It's funny, all right,” I told him. “An absolute scream. Madame Hilda Chisholm of Child Protective Services seems to be under the impression that not only am I switch-hitter, I'm a pedophile as well. As a matter of fact, I'm considered such a serious threat as a child predator that Amy and Ron Peters may very well end up losing custody of his two kids by virtue of my being a friend of the family.”

“I'm sorry,” Kramer said. “I didn't mean to cause any trouble.”

“Sure you didn't,” I sneered, crossing my arms and staring out the window. “And when you went crying to Captain Powell about my holding on to the rape tape, I don't suppose you meant to do any harm with that, either.”

For several minutes, we drove north through Bellevue and Kirkland, along Lake Washington Boulevard and Juanita Drive, in tight-lipped silence. Kramer was the first to speak.

“Look,” he said, “Detective Arnold and I didn't ask to be put on this case with you. And if those rape tapes have something to do with our investigation, we should all have access to them. I thought Captain Powell ordered us to be a team.”

“Kramer,” I said, “Captain Powell ordered us to
work together
. He can't order us to be a
team
. Turning the two of us into a team would take an act of God!”

And that was pretty much where things stood when Kramer gave the wheel a sharp twist and
sent us speeding down a steep, winding road through a forested ravine. I figured his temper tantrum was going to kill us both, but I was damned if I'd tell him to slow the hell down. When we finally reached the bottom of the hill, we turned north on Holmes Point Drive past a narrow band of high-priced, lakefront homes.

Remembering the almost reverential manner in which Suzanne Crenshaw, Grace Highsmith's attorney, had spoken of Grace's Lake Washington digs, and after seeing some of the nearby waterfront homes, I was prepared to be confronted by something downright palatial. I was surprised, then, when the numbered address in my notebook turned out to be attached to a ramshackle single-car garage that teetered on the edge of a steep cliff. The garage crouched between two massive houses that rose up in three-story splendor on either side. Like pricy waterfront properties everywhere, parking spaces in that neighborhood were at a premium. Grace Highsmith had evidently manufactured an extra, one-way-in-and-out space by leveling the ground above a retaining wall that was meant to keep her ancient garage from tumbling down the mountain. A berm at the end of the ledge was designed to keep cars from falling as well.

Kramer parked the Caprice with the front bumper grazing the berm. “Great view,” he said, looking out over the lake, “but a hell of a bad place to have your brakes go out.”

We got out of the car and walked forward to a
garage that came from an era of smaller, narrower vehicles. The door had been left open in order to accommodate the enormous tail fins of a hulking 1961 classic all-white Cadillac that didn't quite fit inside the four walls.

Next to the garage, a set of wooden plank steps, flanked by a two-inch pipe handrail, led down to a house tucked tidily into the side of the bluff some twenty-five steps below street level. Pausing at the top of the steep flight of stairs, we were almost even with the level of a rooftop chimney. A column of wood smoke spouted out of the chimney and curled out over the water.