Second Watch (19 page)

New knees or not, I was going to make a condolence call on Delilah Ainsworth’s husband and daughters, and for that I would need to dress the part. I owed them at least that much.

When Mel called, I was dressed, sitting in my recliner, drinking coffee, and waiting for breakfast, which, from the smell of it and without my having to ask, was going to be all protein all the time. At this point, however, whatever Marge was cooking would, by definition, be exactly right. This was a case of beggars can’t be choosers. Marge would fix it. I would eat it. End of story.

“How are things?” Mel wanted to know.

“I’m up, showered, dressed, and waiting for the physical therapist to show up,” I said.

“Sounds like this whole Nurse Nora thing is working out pretty well for you?” Mel commented.

I wanted to say that Marge Herndon was the kind of woman who didn’t play well with others and that we got along swimmingly as long as I did precisely as I was told and didn’t try to color outside the lines. I knew instinctively, however, that Marge’s kind of take-no-prisoners nursing would be right up Mel’s alley, so I didn’t bother saying any of those things.

“Fine,” I said.

“One eyebrow or two?”

“No, really,” I said. “It’s fine. She’s fine. She’s out in the kitchen making breakfast right now. When do you think you’ll get home?”

“I think the last question disqualified both of your previous ‘fines,’ ” Mel said.

She was right, of course. I said nothing.

“Aspen’s arraignment is this morning,” she went on.

“On a Sunday?” I was surprised.

“Special circumstances,” Mel answered.

“Did you ever get a confession?”

“We certainly did!” I could hear Mel’s smile over the phone. “Signed, sealed, and delivered. Her court-appointed attorney will have a fit. I need to be here for the arraignment. After that I have a ton of paperwork to do, but with any kind of luck, I should be home tonight, though I’ve kept the hotel room in case I can’t get away until tomorrow. You can bet I’m taking some comp time next week.”

“Good,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too. Yesterday was so crazy that we barely had a chance to talk. I’ve seen the news, but tell me. Have you learned any more about what happened to Delilah Ainsworth?”

And so I told her. Not just what was on the news—which was still reporting it as a homicide/suicide—but what I had learned on my own from Rosemary Mellon and Gerald Spaulding. Mel heard me out in silence.

“Sounds like MacPherson had something on somebody important,” Mel said thoughtfully. “And the investigation you and Delilah reopened was about to blow up in that person’s face. If those two had to go, what if you’re next?”

Mel’s concern wasn’t far off the mark. That very thought had occurred to me as well.

“The problem with that is, I don’t know anything.”

“If whoever it is thinks you know something, if he or she believes Delilah had somehow clued you in before she drove out to MacPherson’s house in Sammamish, then you’re the next logical target anyway, so be careful.”

“Belltown Terrace is a secure building,” I pointed out.

“Still,” she said. “Don’t take any chances. And when that physical therapist shows up, be sure you check her ID.”

“Will do,” I said. “Good suggestion.”

Marge appeared just then, with a serving tray in hand. Three eggs, two strips of crisp bacon, two slices of whole wheat toast along with orange juice, more coffee, and my morning’s ration of pills.

“Have to go,” I told Mel. “Breakfast is served.”

Marge handed over the tray and then watched to be sure both the food and the pills went down the hatch. “The therapist isn’t due here for another half hour,” she said. “So while you finish, I’m going to go downstairs and have a smoke. I noticed there aren’t any ashtrays, so I’m assuming smoking here is off-limits. There’s a sign in my unit that says no smoking, too. I just wish all those nanny-state folks would get off my back. Who needs ’em?”

“There’s a spot on the sidewalk,” I said helpfully. “Just outside the garage door. It’s Sunday, though, so if you want to get in and out from P-1, you’ll need to take the garage door clicker.”

Marge gave me a scathing look. “What do you think I am, stupid? I already figured that much out on my own!”

With that, she turned on her heel and left me in peace. While I ate, I tried turning on the television, hoping for a news update on the Sammamish homicides. Unfortunately, it was Sunday morning. There wasn’t much news. Once I finished breakfast, I plucked my iPad off the table at my elbow. I was about to go scrolling through some of the local news sites when I remembered the press conference and the panoramic photos Marge had taken.

For someone using a piece of equipment that was totally foreign to her, Marge had done an impressive job. I went up and down each row, one face at a time, looking for someone familiar, someone who shouldn’t have been there but was. I saw no one. I was still engrossed in studying the faces and was almost at the back of the audience when Marge returned, bringing the physical therapist along with her. From the clinging odor of cigarette smoke, it was apparent that they had both lit up before coming upstairs.

It turned out that checking the woman’s ID wasn’t necessary. She was wearing a name badge around her neck—
IDA WITHERSPOON
—and the badge came complete with a photo ID embedded in it. Ida was Ida and nobody else. We whipped through the exercises in jig time. Then we went down to the sixth floor and took a single turn around the running track. The building covers half a block lengthwise and half a block from side to side, and the running track goes around the outside rim.

It was a cool, foggy September morning, and it felt wonderful to be outside. And yes, my knees still hurt, but they didn’t hurt the way they had for months. I could walk. I was getting better. This was going to work.

When we went back inside, Ida administered my range-of-motion test, and smilingly told me that I had passed with flying colors.

“So now what?” Marge asked, once Ida was on her way back to the elevator. “How do you plan to spend the rest of the day?”

“I’m going to need you to help me get dressed in some real clothes,” I said. “Then we’re going for a ride. We have some errands to run.”

One of the items Marge had brought along in her bag of tricks was a thingamajig made of plastic and string that made it possible for me to put on the knee-high compression socks that I was supposed to wear. Using that made putting the damn things on a snap. And then I dressed for work, complete with a bullet-resistant vest, holster, weapon, and a suit and tie.

Marge looked askance at my .38. “Are you sure you need that? Aren’t you making a condolence call?”

“I wouldn’t be dressed without it,” I told her, pausing for one last check in the mirror. “Now, my car or yours?” I asked.

“Definitely mine,” she insisted. “I’ve seen that fancy contraption of yours, and I’m not going anywhere near it.”

We left the Belltown Terrace parking garage in her Honda with a fine cloud of cigarette ash floating in the air around us as she drove. My first choice would have been Ballard Blossom, but they’re closed on Sundays. We had to make do with an arrangement from a nearby QFC. I knew flowers would be mostly meaningless in the face of the Ainsworth family’s terrible loss, but I couldn’t face the idea of turning up on their doorstep empty-handed.

The Ainsworths lived on North Sixty-first Street, just north of the Woodland Park Zoo. The fog had burned off, leaving behind a beautiful fall Sunday afternoon. Consequently, parking places in the neighborhood were clearly at a premium, especially with at least three local media vans parked front and center. Marge jerked to a stop in an almost nonexistent spot outside a small brick bungalow surrounded by an old-fashioned ornamental iron fence. On either side of the gate leading up to the front door, the whole length of fence had been turned into a makeshift memorial that was lined with the usual collection of candles, teddy bears, American flags, and bedraggled grocery store bouquets not much worse than the one in my hand.

“Are you just going to drop yours off here?” Marge asked, nodding at the collection of memorials.

“No,” I said. “I’m going to take them to the door.”

“You and what army?” she asked.

I could see she was right to be skeptical. The house had a shallow front porch that was two steps up from the walkway. I was sure I could manage the steps just fine on my walker. Holding on to a bouquet of flowers at the same time wasn’t going to work, though.

“Do you mind carrying the flowers up to the door for me?” I asked.

“All right,” she agreed grudgingly, “but once I hand them over, I’m coming back to the car for a smoke.”

That was fine with me. This was going to be a hard enough conversation without having Marge along to serve as a witness.

“And what if one of those reporters asks me about who I am or who you are?”

“Just say I’m a family friend. That will cover it.”

I led the way through the gate and up the concrete walkway with Marge following, carrying the flowers. Once we negotiated the steps, I parked the walker in front of the door. Then, after ringing the doorbell, Marge handed me the bouquet and beat a hasty retreat. As I said, it was Sunday. I dreaded the idea that one of Delilah’s daughters would answer the door. Instead, her husband did. I didn’t have to ask. The man looked a wreck.

“Mr. Ainsworth?” I asked.

Brian nodded numbly. “Are you from the funeral home?”

“No,” I said, offering him the bouquet. “My name is Beaumont. Your wife and I were working together on a case at the time of her death. I wanted to stop by and express my condolences.”

“It was you?” he demanded. “You’re the one she was working that cold case with?”

Still holding out the flowers, I nodded. I figured this was going to go one of two ways. He would either invite me inside or he would punch my lights out. In the end, he accepted the flowers and stepped back from the door, allowing me inside rather than inviting me.

“She said you were in the hospital. That’s why she had to go see that guy alone.”

I hobbled into the room, found a chair with a pair of sturdy arms, and dropped into it.

“I tried to talk her out of that,” I said. “I told her not to go alone. She didn’t listen.”

“That’s Delilah,” he said sadly, and then swiped at a pair of coursing tears that were too close to the surface. “Telling her not to do something just didn’t work.” He shook his head.

“I wish I’d known that,” I said. “Maybe I could have tried something else.”

Brian Ainsworth gave a half laugh that morphed into a stifled sob. “What are you doing here?”

“Have you done anything about planning a funeral?”

“Of course. The chaplain from Seattle PD showed up last night, right after the M.E.’s office released the body to the funeral home. He wanted us to wait until next Saturday for the funeral so they could arrange for a big law enforcement presence, and he suggested we hold it at Key Arena in Seattle Center. I told him no. I also nixed the offer of a police escort to take the body from the M.E.’s office to the funeral home. I told him I didn’t want to turn Del’s death into a media event, although, from the flowers outside, you can see that’s already happened. And I didn’t want to put my girls through waiting for a whole week to tell their mother good-bye. Their grandmother had to hustle them out the back door to avoid the people outside.

“So the funeral is scheduled for Wednesday afternoon, at our church, Crown Hill Baptist. The sanctuary holds two hundred people max, including a lot of relatives who are coming in from South Dakota. The church isn’t big enough to allow for a couple hundred cops to show up. And the parking lot isn’t big enough to hold a couple hundred cop cars, either. Like I told the chaplain, I want to keep the service small and relatively private—limited to the people who actually knew Delilah, and the people who loved her. People who served with her and would like to attend are welcome, but I don’t want a show of uniforms. I don’t want to turn it into a circus.” Brian’s voice broke, and he stopped talking.

“That’s why I’m here,” I said. “I want to ask a favor.”

“What?” Brian asked.

“I hadn’t known your wife long, but we were working together. I respected her, and I’d like to honor her by serving as an honorary pallbearer.” I waved in the direction of my walker. “I can’t really carry anything with that damned thing, but I want to be there. No matter what you want, the media is going to be there, and I want to let people know that Delilah Ainsworth and I were working together at the time of her death. I want to serve notice to whoever did this that she and I were partners. With any kind of luck, he’ll come looking for me next, and I’ll be ready.”

“What do you mean?” Brian demanded. “How could he? The guy who shot Del is dead.”

I had assumed that someone would have been keeping the victim’s family apprised of the direction of the investigation. Obviously no one had. With two new knees, it’s not easy to insert a foot in your mouth, and it’s even harder to get it back out.

“Mr. Ainsworth,” I told him, “I have reason to believe that there was someone else in Rory MacPherson’s home that night, someone who murdered both your wife and Mac MacPherson.”

“If someone else was at the house, how come nobody told me that?” Brian demanded. “Detectives Monford and Anderson never mentioned a word about it, not last night and not this morning, either.”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it, either,” I said. “Now that I have, I need to ask you to keep it quiet.”

“Why wouldn’t the detectives tell me?”

“Monford and Anderson are capable enough cops,” I told him, “and this is what homicide detectives do. They hold back information. In this case, I’m sure they don’t want the killer to realize that they might be onto him. If he’s convinced he’s home free, he might make a mistake. The cops working the case are doing just that—working the case. For me, it’s different, Mr. Ainsworth. It’s personal. I’m hoping that by announcing my presence at the funeral, we’ll actually be able to draw the killer out. I want the guy to come looking for me, if for no other reason than to be able to take him down.”