Taking the Fifth (24 page)

“I don’t feel much like celebrating,” I told her dourly.

“Why not?”

“Because something’s out of whack. Something’s wrong and I can’t tell what it is.”

“Maybe you’re feeling cheated.”

“Cheated?” I repeated the word, puzzling over it. “How so?”

“You didn’t get to take him in. Somebody robbed you of the arrest. Doesn’t that bother you?”

She was on the money, but I didn’t let on. “Not particularly,” I said. “Should it?”

She smiled behind her cup. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“What exactly have you heard, and where?”

“You’re something of a legend, you know. They say that you sleep and eat your job, and that you don’t give up. Incidentally, you’ve got quite a reputation around the department, especially among the raw recruits. The story goes that J. P. Beaumont is only one small step below godliness.”

That made me laugh. “Your over-the-hill legend seems to have feet of clay,” I said. “You should have seen me this afternoon.”

She cocked her head to one side and looked at me. “Why?”

“Because Jasmine Day could have kicked shit out of me, if you’ll pardon the expression, and I never even saw it coming.”

“Don’t do that,” she said sharply.

“Do what?”

“Don’t apologize for talking like a cop. I’m one too, remember?” She got up abruptly, taking her check with her. I caught up with her at the cash register.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Don’t talk down to me,” she said. “My ears won’t fall off if I hear those words.”

She paid for her own breakfast and opened her own car door, but she accepted my ride home and gave me a thank-you peck on the cheek, which only served to puzzle me that much more. I drove home to Belltown Terrace pondering man’s age-old question of what is it that women really want.

I walked into my apartment without bothering to turn on any light. The only light in the room was the blinking red one, counting off the messages on my answering machine. Any other time, I might have been tempted to ignore it, to go to bed and take the messages off the machine in the morning, but too much had happened in the last few days. There were too many loose ends hanging that needed tying up, and I didn’t dare ignore anything that might give me a lead.

I counted five messages in all. I sat down in the recliner, eased it back, and pushed the playback button. The first one was from Mrs. Grace Simms Morris.

“Detective Beaumont, I just wanted to call you and thank you for talking to Mr. Wainwright for me. He called just a few minutes ago, and he’s coming over to pick me up. He never would have listened to me if it hadn’t been for you. I really appreciate it.”

I was no longer reclining. I sat up straight and punched the rewind button. Wainwright hadn’t said anything to me about talking to Mrs. Morris. And I remembered him saying distinctly that he had no intention of talking to her. I replayed the message, but it still said exactly the same thing.

This time, when the message finished, I let it go on. The next three messages were from Peters and Amy. Two of the calls were nothing but attempts to find me. The third one left detailed information about the DEA bust in L.A. But it was the fifth message, the last one, that put the frosting on the cake.

It was Grace Simms Morris again, or at least someone who sounded like her, but the voice was so tremulous, so indefinite, that I had to turn up the volume on my recorder to hear her.

“Please, Detective Beaumont, call me the moment you get home. I don’t care what time it is, just call me. It’s urgent. I thought about calling your office, but I don’t dare. I don’t know who to trust. Please call.”

She had left her number and I called her back immediately. Mrs. Morris must have been sleeping with the phone in her lap. She answered after only half a ring.

“Detective Beaumont?” she said, before I had a chance to open my mouth. “Is this you?”

“Yes, it is. What can I do for you? You sounded upset.”

Suddenly she was blubbering into the phone, sobbing in my ear. “I didn’t know what to do, whom I should call. It’s terrible, just terrible.”

“What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

“It’s him,” she said. “Wainwright.”

“What about him?”

“He called me at the hotel, a little while after you left. He told me he was sorry, that there had been a terrible mistake. He said he understood now how valuable the evidence was that my son had provided, and would I go with him right then to get it.”

“Wainwright said that?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, yes. He said we’d have to hurry to get to the bank before it closed. He said to be ready, that he’d pick me up and fly me to Bellingham so we could be there before the bank closed at six.”

“And did you make it?”

“Yes. We were at the bank about twenty minutes before six. I got the stuff out of the safety deposit box and handed it over to him. There must have been twenty envelopes in all. It seemed like that many, but I don’t know exactly. I didn’t count them.”

“What did Wainwright do with them? Did he show you what was inside?”

“No. He sent me home in a cab. We had taken a cab from the airport into town. He said he’d take charge of the evidence, see that it got into the proper hands.”

Mrs. Grace Simms Morris paused to blow her nose. Over the phone, it wasn’t exactly a ladylike sound. I’m sure she would have been embarrassed to know she sounded like a foghorn trumpeting in my ear.

“I still don’t understand why you’re so upset,” I said.

“Just wait a minute. I’m coming to that. The cab dropped me off at my house. There was so much mail piled up that I didn’t feel like looking at any of it right away. I went around the house and opened windows and unpacked and started a load of wash before I picked up the mail.”

She had been rushing forward. Now she paused, as if to draw breath.

“Have you ever gotten a letter from someone after they’re dead?” she asked. “I mean, a letter someone wrote before they died, and you didn’t get it until after you knew they were gone?”

“I guess I have,” I said. “At least once.”

“It’s a weird feeling, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Well, when I finally sat down to do the mail, there was an envelope from Richard, one that he had mailed on Wednesday afternoon. I knew it was from him because of the handwriting, and for a long time I couldn’t bring myself to open it. I just sat there and held it. Finally, I had to open it, had to know what it said.”

“What did it say?”

“There was no letter, just a note telling me to put this away along with the other stuff at the bank.”

“This what? What was it?”

“A tape. A cassette tape.”

“So what did you do?”

“I was a little angry at Mr. Wainwright,” she confessed. “I mean, it would have been polite for him to at least show me what was in those envelopes after I had kept them for all that time. But he didn’t bother. So I decided to listen to the tape. I wanted to know what it was that Richard was doing. I needed to know. Can you understand that?”

“Yes. So did you listen to it?”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped. Her answer was almost a whisper. “It’s him,” she said. “Wainwright.”

“Tell me,” I commanded.

“I heard these two men talking. They said nobody had to worry about getting caught, since Wainwright was running the show. I’m scared, Detective Beaumont. What should I do with this tape? What if he comes back here looking for it?”

My mind was racing. “Does he know you have it? Did you call him?”

“No. I wanted to hear it first, and then, afterward…”

“You’re sure they were talking about drugs?”

“Do you want me to play it for you?”

“We can try it.” She tried, but I couldn’t understand what was being said. There was too much interference. “Just repeat it for me in your own words,” I told her. “Tell me what it says as best you can. Can you make out any names?”

“Yes, I think so. One seems to be named Dan, and the other is Ray. Yes, that’s it.”

“Shit!” I said.

“Pardon me?”

“Never mind,” I said. “I just sneezed.”

“I don’t understand this, but first Dan asks if the setup is working, and Ray says yes. That she’s gone out with all the dealers, and that when they pull the rug out, it’s going to look as if she was doing it all on her own.”

That has to be the comps, I thought. So it was a setup. The whole thing. Maybe even the whole tour.

“After that, that’s when one of them says Wainwright’s a genius. You know, I rode all the way home with that man in a plane. I almost got sick when I heard that.”

“Me too,” I echoed. “What else?”

“Then they talk about the money, lots of it, and then later, they say that with Wainwright running the show, nobody had to worry about what L.A. was doing. That’s it.”

I tried to keep my voice calm. “You’re sure that’s what they said: ‘With Wainwright running the show’?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Are you calling me a liar, Detective Beaumont?”

“No, I just wanted to be sure. Mrs. Morris, do you understand how important this is?”

“I certainly do,” she answered. “If the man from the DEA is selling drugs, who can be trusted?”

“He’s not just a man from the DEA, Mrs. Morris. He’s the guy running the DEA here in Seattle. He’s scared and dangerous, like a cornered rattlesnake. Are you there by yourself?”

“I’ve locked all the doors,” she said. “Closed all the windows.”

“Listen to me. I’m going to call the Bellingham police department. I’m going to ask them to come get you and put you in protective custody—do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Don’t open the door to anyone but a uniformed police officer, and whatever you do, don’t let that tape out of your possession, not even for a minute, is that clear?”

“Shh,” she said.

“What?”

“I thought I heard a noise.”

A wave of gooseflesh ran down my legs, and a torrent of helpless rage washed through my body.

“Turn off the lights,” I ordered. “Hide the tape somewhere, and don’t hang up the phone. I’m going to be off the line for a minute.”

I pressed the switch hook and got a dial tone on my other line, thanking Ralph Ames for his insistence that I have two lines on my phone. My hand shook as I dialed the operator. “This is a matter of life or death,” I said. “Get me the Bellingham Police Department.”

The dispatcher sounded sleepy when he came on the phone. “It’s an emergency,” I said. “Send everything you’ve got to 1414 Utter Street. Hurry! There’s an armed robbery in progress at that address.”

“I’ll have to get your name and address,” the dispatcher said.

They always want to fill in all the forms. They always want the paperwork right. I wanted to rage at him, yank his ears through the telephone, but the only weapon I had at my disposal was to keep calm, to force him to get on track.

“My name is J. P. Beaumont. I’m a detective with the Seattle Police Department. I was talking long distance with Grace Simms Morris when somebody started trying to break into her house.”

“How do you know…”

I depressed the switch hook one more time, turning on the three-way calling. I heard shattering glass and a woman’s scream. A moment later, the line to Grace Simms Morris went dead.

“Are you there?” I shouted at the dispatcher. “Did you hear that?” But he was off the line too.

I sat there, strangling the phone with hopeless impotence, remembering all my other failures, counting them up: Ann Corley and Ginger Watkins and, yes, Ron Peters too. Maybe that’s my cross to bear in life, to always want to help, but to never quite measure up, never be there quite on time to do any good, always to miss the mark.

Suddenly the dispatcher was back on the line. “We have officers at the scene, Detective Beaumont. We had a patrol car that was only two minutes away.”

“Is she all right? Is she still alive?”

“I don’t know. Stay on the line. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.”

He went away again, and I sat on hold, uttering an urgent prayer for Mrs. Grace Simms Morris and for J. P. Beaumont too, that for once in my life I might be the knight on the white horse who wouldn’t be too late. The minutes loomed into what seemed like hours before he came back on the line again.

“We have a suspect in custody,” the dispatcher said. “And an ambulance is en route.”

“Is she okay?” I demanded. “Is she still alive?”

“Mrs. Morris is okay,” the dispather said. “She threw a vase at him and broke a window. It cut him pretty good, but the medics say he’ll make it.”

I felt a war whoop rising in my throat. I wanted to dance and sing and throw a vase through my own window. But I stifled the impulse. Twenty-four stories is a long way for broken glass to fall. I managed to get control of myself.

“Who is it?” I asked. “Who’s the suspect?”

“Just a minute,” the dispatcher said. “I’ll check.” Once more he was off the phone. Soon he was back. “His ID says his name’s Holman, Ray Holman. Does that mean anything to you?”

Jubiliation died in my throat. “It sure as hell does. Is he alone?”

“They found a rental car. No one else was in it.”

I took a deep breath. “Listen to me. This is vitally important. Holman isn’t in this alone. He’s got an accomplice named Wainwright who works for the DEA. Mrs. Morris has evidence, incriminating evidence, that they’ll do anything to lay their hands on.”

“The DEA, really?” the dispatcher said.

“You’ve got to get Mrs. Morris out of there,” I said. “Put her in protective custody. Lock the tape in a safe, and don’t let anybody near either one of them—you got that?”

“Yes, sir,” the dispatcher said. “I’ll get right on it.”

I gave him my number. “Call me back here when you’ve got it done,” I ordered. “Leave a message on my machine. I won’t be here, but I’ll be able to get my messages.”

“Right,” the dispatcher said. “Will do.”

I opened the drawer in the table that held the answering machine and took out the remote that Ames had also given me. He had told me someday I’d thank him for being able to pick up my messages without having to be home.

That day had just come. Maybe I’d like Ames better if he wasn’t always right.