by J. A. Jance
Big Al nodded his thanks and reached into his pocket, where he retrieved his somewhat depleted roll of tape. He tore off a hunk and passed it to Ron, who dutifully stuck it to his own badge.
“And as for you,” Peters said, turning to me, “I’m real happy that bullet didn’t come any closer. If it had, we’d all be wearing two pieces of tape instead of just one.”
“That’s an old joke, Ron. I’ve already heard it once this morning from Captain Powell. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?”
Ron Peters looked from Big Al to me and back again. “Well, it’s certainly not sweetness and light around here, is it. I take it you two are up to your eyeballs in this Weston case?” he asked.
“Actually, we’re not,” I told him. “You’re looking at the Weston Family Task Force second string. I’m about to write a report on my interview with the mother of the one unrelated victim. That’s my part of the case, and I’m expected to stick to it. And, as you’ve already heard, Al’s assignment today is to hand out black tape. He’s locked out of the investigation because he was friends with several of the victims, and I’m sidetracked because Paul Kramer hates my guts.”
“Sounds almost as political as working in Media Relations,” Ron said with a halfhearted grin that wasn’t really funny.
Ron and I had been partners in Homicide before a permanent spinal injury put him in his chair. After long months of rehabilitation, he had come back to the department as a Media Relations officer, but I knew he longed to be back home with the detectives on the fifth floor, where the action is. I couldn’t blame him for that. For my money, working with murderers is often a whole lot less hazardous to your health than working with reporters.
“By the way,” Ron said, “that’s another reason I’m here. My job. It seems Maxwell Cole has turned over a new leaf. He says he understands the Weston Family Task Force guidelines. For a change, he’s not trying to go around them. He wants me to get a quote from you-a direct quote, if possible-about how it feels to have dodged out of the way of that stray bullet yesterday morning.”
Max is an old fraternity brother turned columnist and long-term media adversary. He went to work for the local morning rag, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, about the same time I hired on with the Seattle Police Department. We’ve been on each other’s backs and down each other’s throats ever since. He’s the least favorite practitioner of my least favorite profession.
“Max wants a direct quote?” I asked.
Ron nodded. “You know him. He wants something short and punchy, but fit for publication in a family newspaper.”
“Tell him ”good.“”
“Good?”
“That’s right. You asked me how it feels, and you can tell him my answer is ”good.“ Period. That should be short and punchy enough for Maxwell Cole.”
Ron Peters grinned, a real grin this time. The shadow of a smile even flickered across Big Al’s somber face.
“Somehow I don’t think it’s exactly what he had in mind,” Ron said, “but it’ll have to do.”
I figured that now that he had what he wanted, Ron would head straight back upstairs. Instead, he moved his chair closer to our desks. “Okay, you two,” he said. “All bullshit aside, I want you to tell me what’s really going on.”
“With what?”
“With the task force. Believe me, I know the party line. I’m in charge of disseminating the party line-that Ben Weston and his family died in an apparently gang-related multiple homicide. But scuttlebutt has it that Ben himself is being investigated for some allegedly illegal financial activities-conduct unbecoming an officer, they’re calling it. I want to know the straight scoop.”
Big Al Lindstrom cut loose with one of his half English-half Norwegian streams of profanity. Having grown up in the Ballard section of Seattle, I may not know enough adolescent Norwegian to be able to cuss fluently in a second language, but I understand it well enough.
“Hold it down, Al,” I cautioned. “You don’t want Kramer or Watty to hear you carrying on like this.”
“But isn’t it just what I told you? If this gets out, and it’s bound to, they’ll end up trying Ben in the press, even though he’s the one who’s dead, for Christ’s sakes! They’ll make out like it’s all his fault that somebody killed him.”
“Maybe gangs did do it,” I told Ron, “but, if so, it sure as hell wasn’t the usual gang-type hit.”
Ron Peters nodded. “That’s what I thought,” he said. “Unless the gangs have hired some retired Marine Corps drill instructor to do their dirty work.”
“You’ve seen Baker’s autopsies then?”
“I probably wasn’t supposed to, but, yes, I have. And I’ve seen some of Kramer’s stuff too, and that’s what’s got me so puzzled. Why’s he so hot and bothered about that bank loan stuff? I mean, if I were a police officer who was going to risk breaking the law, I’d sure as hell pick something more lucrative than student loans.”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
Ron Peters looked me right in the eye. “I’m convinced those loan applications are legitimate,” he answered. “They’re too damn corny not to be. Have any of those kids been found yet?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“But I thought Detective Danielson was working on that.”
“She was, but she struck out completely when she got as far as the various registrars’ offices. They stonewalled her. Now Kramer’s pulled her away from that to go talk to some stray paperboy, an alleged witness, down at Garfield.”
“And he didn’t assign anybody else in her place with the colleges?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was my idea, for one thing,” I told them. “Like I said before, Kramer hates my guts.”
Big Al nodded. “There’s always that, Beau,” he agreed, “but that’s not all. Kramer doesn’t want to see his pet theory blown out of the water. Those loan applications are the only chinks he can find in Ben Western’s armor, and he doesn’t want to let loose of them.”
“Maybe,” Ron Peters asserted quietly, “someone will have to pry them out of his hands.”
Saying that, Ron reached behind his chair, opened the knapsack that hangs there for ease of carrying things, and pulled out a sheaf of paper-thirty pages or so of continuous-feed computer printout. He handed the papers over to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Last summer, a reporter from the Los Angeles Times called and asked me about the gang-related data base he had somehow heard we were working on up here. Supposedly, it was a data base analysis of local and visiting gang members and their various arrests and activities. He wanted to know how much of Seattle’s gang problem had been imported from California and Chicago.
“I don’t know how a reporter from L.A. heard about it, because I had a hell of a time tracking it down. As far as I could discover, no one had been officially assigned to do that kind of study and Ben Weston wasn’t exactly going around bragging about it, but eventually the trail led me to him. It turned out he was working on the project at home, on his own computer, on his own time.”
“That was well before he transferred into CCI, wasn’t it?” Big Al asked.
Ron Peters nodded. “Right. One of those labors of love, I guess. When I asked him about it, he showed me this-a preliminary copy of what he had done so far-but he told me he wanted to keep a low profile, that he didn’t want a lot of publicity on the project. So I squelched the story with the reporter, and since he didn’t need it back, I ended up keeping this. I had forgotten all about it until this morning. When I remembered, I had to dig through months of accumulated paper to find it. I’ve spent the last hour and a half going over it with a fine-tooth comb.”
“And?”
“Remember, this go-down is nine or ten months old. Between then and now, Ben transferred into the gang unit and started working on a similar but officially sanctioned project on a full-time basis. I’m sure he must have
used the information he had previously gathered as a starting point, but I’m sure he’s added a great deal.”
“Have you looked at what’s there now?”
“No. Just this, but even so, even from way last summer, two of the four names on the loan applications are already here.”
“No kidding. Which ones?”
“Dathan Collins and Leonard Washburn.”
I scanned through the list far enough to locate Dathan Collins’s name. The information on him gave his given name, his parents’ names and addresses, his street name, his gang affiliation, his schooling background, his girlfriend’s name and address as well as a brief synopsis of his rap sheet. The intelligence Ben Weston had collected was surprisingly thorough. I passed the papers on to Big Al, who studied them in turn before passing them back to Ron.
“This is pretty impressive,” I said. “It’s like the complete Encyclopaedia Britannica analysis of Seattle’s street gangs. Where’d he get all his information? Did he do all this on his own before he went to work for the gang unit?”
Ron nodded. “That’s right. It’s a hell of a lot of work. My guess is that the other two names will show up in the computer along with whatever else he’s done since then.”
“We’ve got to get a look at that file,” I said.
Ron Peters grinned. “My sentiments exactly. I tried, but it didn’t work. Ben’s stuff is stored in one of the department’s secured PCs. You can’t call it up without proper authorization-which I can’t get because I’m in Media Relations-and/or Ben’s personal identification number-which, of course, we don’t have either.”
“If it’s a number,” Big Al chimed in, “we can get it. That’s easy.”
“Easy? How come?”
“Ben Weston was a smart man, but he couldn’t remember numbers worth a shit. Most people can remember the numbers they use most often off the tops of their heads, but Ben had to have them all written down-his PIN from the bank, his telephone credit card number, even Shiree’s work phone number. He kept them all in that little directory in his Day-Timer. If he had to have an ID number to get in and out of the computer, we’ll find that one there, too, along with all the others. I’d bet money on it.”
“Great,” Ron Peters said. “So where’s the Day-Timer?”
There’s an old saying about how you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. With Homicide detectives, it’s just the opposite. You can kick them off the fifth floor, but you can’t necessarily get them out of the habit of being detectives. Ron may have been booted upstairs into Media Relations, but his mind and instincts were still those of a working homicide cop.
“Ask Janice Morraine,” I said. “The last I saw, there was a Day-Timer with Ben Weston’s initials on it lying on the floor of his bedroom.”
“I can’t ask Janice Morraine for the time of day,” Ron Peters replied. “I’m not a detective, remember? How about if one of you ask her?”
“No can do, either,” Big Al grumbled morosely. “I’m aced out of it completely-Captain Powell’s orders.” He glanced at me. “You’re not much better off yourself. You’re supposed to be doing Adam Jackson. Maybe you’d better pass it along to Kramer.”
“Like hell!” I said. The three of us stared at one another. In our own way, we were all benched second stringers. We had a perfectly good piece of information, but no above-board way of acting on it.
My telephone rang just then, and the caller was none other than Sue Danielson. “Hi, Beau. I wanted to get back to you. I talked to that kid, the one down at Garfield. He really is a witness, at least to your part of the incident, and I thought you’d like to know about it.”
“Any information at all is welcome,” I said. “Want me to come to you or do you want to come to me?”
“Neither. Not here on the floor, anyway. Detective Kramer would have a fit if he saw us together. I missed lunch today. How about if you meet me at that little Mexican joint on Marion, Mexico Lindo, I think it’s called.”
After my Little Cheerful threshing-crew-type breakfast, I wasn’t quite up to dos tocos or even uno for that matter, but the offer of information was irresistible.
“See you there in ten minutes,” I told her, hanging up and standing up, all in the same motion.
“So where are you going?”
“That was Sue Danielson on the phone. She wants to meet so she can tell me what some kid told her about the guy who took the shot at me.” As I said the words, the glimmer of an idea came into my head. “Who knows? Maybe we can arrange some kind of trade on this computer thing.”
Big Al looked surprised. “Are you sure? She’s Paul Kramer’s partner.”
“It’s not a social disease,” I countered. “You were stuck with him once for a case or two, and so was I. Remember how it felt?”
Allen Lindstrom nodded. “Coulda killed him myself.”
“I rest my case,” I returned. “I’m off to meet the lady for lunch. Wish me luck. The rest of us may be benched, but she’s not, at least not yet.”
CHAPTER 14
It was drizzling lightly as I set out up a crowded Third Avenue sidewalk on my way to Marion and the quaint, upstairs Mexican restaurant frequented by downtown-type Mexican food freaks.
As I walked, I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. Sue had called out of courtesy offering to volunteer information she was under no obligation to share with me. In return, here I was planning to use her for my own underhanded ends. That didn’t seem quite fair, but I wanted to be part of learning whatever could be learned from Ben Weston’s computer file. Given a choice, Paul Kramer sure as hell wouldn’t clue me in. Because she’s a straightforward woman, Sue Danielson was the weak link in Kramer’s chain of command. By the time I reached the restaurant I had more or less convinced myself that in this case, the ends really did justify the means.
I made good time, but Sue was already there, seated in the smoking section of the restaurant and puffing away like a chimney long before I arrived. A hostess with an authentically thick Mexican accent led me to the table and tried to tempt me with a margarita. Fortunately, I was wearing my margarita repellent.
“So are we having a secret rendezvous?” I asked Sue teasingly, with what I hoped passed for a mischievous grin. “Do you think Detective Kramer had either one of us tailed?”
She didn’t laugh. In fact, she never even cracked a smile. “This is no joke, Beau. What’s with you two guys, anyway? When I mentioned to him that I intended to tell you what I’d learned from the paperboy, Kramer pitched a fit all over that brand-new private office of his.”
“It’s just a little personality conflict,” I assured her. “Nothing serious, but the animosity cuts both ways, if that’s any consolation. I don’t like him any better than he likes me.”
“Great!” she said, shaking her head in disgust. “Some men never grow up, do they. Is this another one of those locker room mine’s-bigger-than-yours situations?”
It pains me to admit that she was probably fairly close to the mark, but I refrained from dignifying her comment with a reply, and she left it at that.
“By the way, I hope you like Mexican food,” she added.
“You go right ahead,” I told her. “I’ll just have coffee. What’s up?”
The waitress came by. Sue ordered a combination plate and a Coke. Although close to my limit, I ordered more black coffee. “Tell me about the paperboy,” I said. “I want to hear all about him.”
“Have you ever had a paper route?” she asked.
It was a typically female way of starting a conversation from way out in left field without directly tackling the issue at hand. Over the years, however, I’ve managed to develop considerable patience, and I played right along.
“Not me. I worked in a movie theater as a kid-hawking tickets and popcorn and jujubes. I’ve been a night owl all my life. I never could have roused myself at some ungodly hour to go deliver morning papers, and an evening route would have screwed up my extracurricular activi
ties. How about you?”
“I had one,” she replied, “back in Cincinnati. A city’s funny at that hour of the morning. It’s so still and peaceful when you’re the only person out and around. You wander up and down streets and through neighborhoods while cars are still parked wherever people happen to leave them overnight. You know who gets up first, who will already be up and waiting for a paper by the time you drop it on the porch. You see all kinds of things, including some things you shouldn’t. Just before the sun comes up, I used to pretend I was invisible.”
She paused and studied me with a searching look. “Am I making sense?”
I bit back the temptation to tell her to hurry up and get to the point. “More or less,” I said.
“Anyway, this kid from Garfield-Bob Case is his name-has had the same Seattle Post-Intelligencer route for three years. He says he used to see Ben Weston out running every morning at the same time, rain or shine. He claims to know most of the cars and drivers that belong in the neighborhood and what times they come and go. He says that in the past few weeks there’s been a lot of extra traffic in the early-morning hours.”
“What kind of traffic?”
“He mentioned three in particular. One is a late-model Lexus with a cellular radio antenna.”
“That doesn’t help much. I don’t remember the last time I saw a Lexus without a cellular phone, do you? All the ones I’ve seen do.”
Sue glowered at me. “Let me finish. He says he got a real close look at it the morning after the murders. Too close, actually. It almost ran him down just half a minute or so after whoever it was took a potshot at you. He heard the noise and thought it was a backfire until the guy almost ran him and his bicycle off the street three blocks away from Ben Weston’s house.”
“How come it took him until now to come forward?” I asked.
“He’s scared, Beau. He’s out on that paper route by himself every single morning. He’s afraid if whoever it was hears he’s gone to the cops, they’ll come back looking for him next. He made the mistake of telling his mother about it, and she called us.”
