Injustice for All

by J. A. Jance

  His questions had gone far enough. I resented the insinuations in his clumsy quest for an infidelity motive. “Look, Pomeroy,” I told him, “if you want to ask questions about the position of the body, or what time it was, or whether we saw anyone else on the beach, that's fine. But if you're making accusations, you'd better read us our rights and let us call an attorney. If not, I'll shove that gold star where the sun don't shine.”

  A stunned expression spread over his flabby countenance. He lumbered to his feet. “I'll go back and wait for Detective Huggins.”

  “You do that.”

  I banged the door shut behind him and returned to the table. Ginger had unwrapped her turban and was toweling her hair dry. She looked relieved.

  I picked up the phone and dialed the desk. “You didn't bring shoes,” I growled when Fred answered.

  “I didn't? Sorry. I can't do anything about it right now. A whole bunch of people just got here. I have to get them settled.”

  “Never mind,” I told Fred. “I'll get them myself.”

  Ginger gave me her key. I walked to her room through a lightly falling evening mist. Opening her door, I expected to find the room well ordered and neat. Instead, it was a shambles. The place had been ransacked. I picked up the telephone receiver. Holding it at the top in an effort to disturb as few prints as possible, I called the desk. “Was Mrs. Watkins' room torn apart when you came after her clothes?” I asked.

  “Why no, Mr. Beaumont. It was fine.”

  “It isn't now,” I said grimly. “When that detective gets here, send him up.”

  “He's right here. Want to speak to him?”

  “Put him on.”

  “Hello,” a voice mumbled. “This is Detective Huggins.”

  “I'm Beaumont.

  “J.P. Beaumont? Are you shitting me? This is Hal, Huggins. Haven't seen you since I left the force ten years ago. How the hell are you?”

  It took me a minute to place the name and the face and the mumbling speech. Hal Huggins had opted for being a big fish in a very small pond when he left Seattle's homicide squad to go to work for the San Juan County Sheriff's Department in Friday Harbor, hiring on as their chief detective. Probably their only detective.

  “I'm fine,” I replied.

  “What are you up to?”

  “I was with the woman who discovered the body this afternoon.”

  “No shit. Pomeroy is lining me up to go talk to her.”

  “You'd better come to her room first. Have the desk clerk bring you up.”

  “Okay, we'll be right there. Hey, by the way. There's someone else here you know. I just ran into him in the lobby. Remember Maxwell Cole?”

  Does Captain Ahab remember Moby Dick? Cole is a crime columnist for the Post-Intelligencer. He's been on my case ever since I beat him out of a college girl friend, packed her off, and married her. As a reporter, he has dogged my career for as long as I've been on the force. Karen and I have been divorced for years, but I'm still stuck with Max. It's like I threw out the baby and ended up having to keep the dirty bathwater.

  “Don't tell him I'm here,” I cautioned. “What's he doing here anyway? The Sig Larson story?”

  “Probably, although he didn't say.”

  “Don't ask. And don't bring him along.”

  Fred led Huggins and Pomeroy into Ginger's room. The clerk's mouth gaped. “What happened here? It wasn't like this when I picked up her clothes.”

  “What time was that?” Huggins asked.

  Fred walked around the room as if at a loss for words, examining the debris. “What time?” Huggins repeated.

  “Forty-five minutes ago,” Fred replied. “No more than that.”

  Huggins looked at me. “So what's this got to do with the stiff on the beach.”

  “I took Ginger Watkins to my room to warm up after we left the beach. Fred here,” I said, indicating the desk clerk, “came up to get her some dry clothes. Not quite an hour later, I discovered this when I came to pick up a pair of shoes.”

  “Maybe she trashed it herself.”

  “No. She's still in my room. It's too cold to be wandering around barefoot.”

  Huggins glared sorrowfully around the room before turning to Pomeroy. “Call the crime-lab folks, Jake. Have them come take a look. Coroner's got the body, and the beach is covered with water, but they'd better see this all the same.” He turned stiffly to me. “Take me to the lady. She can answer questions barefoot. Nobody's taking any shoes out of this room until the lab's done with it.”

  Pomeroy lingered near the door. “I told you to get, Jake, and I mean it,” Huggins growled. Jake got, with the desk clerk right behind him.

  Hal and I strolled back toward my room. “You're a little out of your territory, aren't you, Beau?” It was a comment rather than a question, asked without rancor.

  “I'm here on vacation, an innocent bystander.”

  “Pomeroy seems to think otherwise.”

  “Pomeroy's got a dirty mind.”

  He chuckled. “How'd you get dragged into this, anyway?”

  “I heard a lady scream and went to check it out. I never saw her before six o'clock this evening.”

  “Pomeroy says if you only met her tonight, how come she's sitting in your room barefoot with a towel around her head, wearing your bathrobe? He told me she had just stepped out of your shower. He thinks you're a hell of a fast worker.”

  “She was cold, goddammit. I tried to tell him that.”

  “He's not buying. Envious, I think. Claims she's pretty good looking.”

  “She is that,” I acknowledged.

  “What did you say her name is?”

  “Ginger Watkins. Her husband's Darrell Watkins.”

  He stopped short and whistled. “The guy who's running for lieutenant governor against old man Chambers?”

  “That's right.”

  Huggins shook his head. “What did I ever do to deserve this?” he asked plaintively.

  “I don't know,” I said, “but whatever it was, it must have been pretty bad.”

  Ginger rose to let us in, a worried frown on her face. “What took so long?” she asked. “I was afraid something had happened to you.”

  “This is Detective Hal Huggins,” I said as he stepped forward, hand extended. “He's from the sheriff's department in Friday Harbor. Hal needs to ask you some questions. Hal, Ginger Watkins.”

  She offered him a firm handshake, while Hal examined her with care.

  “Glad to meet you, Mrs. Watkins, but I'm afraid I have some disturbing news.”

  Her face darkened. “What?”

  “We've just come from your room. The place has been ransacked.”

  She paled. “Ransacked! When?”

  “Between the time the desk clerk picked up your clothes and when I went to get your shoes,” I told her.

  “But who would do something like that?” she demanded.

  “We were hoping you could tell us, Mrs. Watkins.” Hal settled himself on the edge of the bed. “Any ideas?”

  Ginger shook her head. “None,” she said.

  “No one else had a key to your room?”

  “Sig did. We always kept keys to each other's rooms on trips, as a precaution in case one of us was sick or hurt. I was sick once and he had to break in. It was just a safety precaution.”

  Huggins looked at her closely. “We'd better go over the whole thing,” he said, leaning stiffly against the headboard. “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  Huggins had barely asked his first question when the phone rang. I answered it—the phone, not the question. The voice on the other end of the line was one degree under rude. “I'm told Ginger Watkins is there. Let me speak to her.”

  “May I say who's calling?”

  “No you may not! If she's there, put her on.”

  I don't like imperious schmucks. I fought fire with fire. “Mrs. Watkins is busy at the moment. Can I take a message?”

  He
fired off a verbal volley. I held the phone away from my ear long enough for the shouting to stop. “Give me your name and number,” I told him. “She'll call back.”

  “I already left one message, damn it. Put her on. Tell her it's Homer.”

  When I heard his name, I remembered the forgotten message. I hung up the phone, cutting short his tirade. “It was Homer,” I told Ginger. “He wants you to call.”

  Something flickered across her face, but I couldn't tell what. Anger? Fear? She turned her attention back to Huggins. “What were you saying?”

  He regarded her with a sad-eyed glower. “I understand you discovered Mr. Larson's body. Now someone has ransacked your room. These incidents may or may not be related. We can't afford to assume they're not.” He shifted on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. “Isn't it unusual for coworkers to have keys to each other's rooms?

  “Sig and I were close.” Huggins waited as though expecting her to say something further. She didn't.

  He sighed. “Did you have any valuables in your room? Items of jewelry, something like that?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Anything else of value—cameras, prescription medications?” Again she shook her head. He continued doggedly. “Any paperwork concerning parole board business that might be considered damaging or in some way usable? Maybe something you and Mr. Larson were working on together?”

  There was a slight hesitation. “I brought some papers from home. They have nothing to do with work.”

  “May I ask what they are?”

  “I'm filing for divorce on Monday,” she said levelly. “I brought the paperwork with me. Sig and I planned to discuss it this evening.” Her answer was calm, but her eyes betrayed a turmoil of warring emotions. I noticed it. So did Huggins. “That's why I was late to see Sig,” she went on. “Darrell called. Someone told him.”

  Hal sat up. “You didn't tell him before you left?”

  “No.” Ginger gave him a wan smile. “It was a surprise.”

  “Someone told him. Who?”

  Ginger shrugged. “I don't know, not for sure.”

  “Did he mention what time?”

  “Sometime today, I know that much.”

  “Can you guess who it was?”

  “Probably Mona.”

  “Mona?”

  “Sig's wife, Mona Larson.” The antagonism in Ginger's voice set little alarm bells ringing. Had Sig Larson died in a matrimonial crossfire between his wife and Ginger's husband?

  “But how did Mrs. Larson know?”

  “I wrote Sig a letter last week, the day I made up my mind. He suggested I not file until after we had a chance to discuss it.”

  “Why talk it over with him? What did he have to do with it?”

  “I told you before, he was my friend…. My best friend,” she added defiantly. “Why wouldn't I discuss it with him? We weren't having an affair, if that's what you mean.” Her denial of an unspoken accusation gave credence to Huggins' line of questioning. Sig's having her room key made it even more plausible.

  Hal's disbelief must have showed. She continued. “Our families were involved in a joint venture, a condominium project in Seattle. I didn't want to jeopardize Sig's position.”

  “Would you have?”

  Her smile was caustic. “Evidently not. Homer and Darrell seem to have covered all possible contingencies.”

  I had sat quietly as long as I could. “Who the hell is Homer?” I demanded.

  “Homer Watkins,” she replied, her answer permeated with sarcasm. “My illustrious father-in-law.”

  “I don't know him.”

  “You haven't missed a thing.”

  Huggins pulled himself to a sitting position and studied his notes. “How will a divorce go over with the voters?” he asked, approaching from another direction.

  Ginger bit her lip. “It won't make much difference. No one will pay any attention. It certainly won't cost him the election.” She looked at Huggins closely. “Does Mona know about Sig?” she asked.

  “Not yet. We still haven't located her.” Huggins sighed. “Let's talk about today, from the beginning.”

  “I came over on the ferry early this morning,” Ginger said.

  “Alone?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you bring your car?”

  “No. It's in Anacortes. I didn't think I'd need it.”

  “What time did you check in?”

  “Our meeting started at one. I checked in sometime before that.”

  “What time did Mr. Larson get here?”

  “I don't know. I didn't see him before the meeting. During our afternoon break we arranged to meet on the beach. That's when I gave him my key.”

  “Do you have a key to his room?”

  “No. Mona was coming.” Her answer spoke volumes.

  “Oh, I see,” Huggins said. “Was anyone else aware you planned to meet on the beach?”

  Ginger shook her head. “Not as far as I know.”

  Hal Huggins was meticulous. “You got out of the meeting at four. What did you do then?”

  “I went back to my room. I took a nap. Then Darrell called.”

  “What time?”

  “I was almost ready to go meet Sig. It must have been right at five.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked me to reconsider.”

  “And you said?”

  “No.”

  Huggins reminded me of a doctor, probing and poking to find out where it hurts. “Was he upset?”

  “He seemed to be. That surprised me. If I didn't know him better, I would have said he was jealous.” Her tone was resigned. Ginger Watkins had long since come to terms with her losses, whatever those might be.

  “Why wouldn't he be jealous?”

  “He's not the type.” She gave a half-assed grin, the kind people use to cover their real feelings, to hide something that hurts more than they're willing to admit. Huggins skirted the issue, leaving me wondering what kind of husband wouldn't be jealous of Ginger Watkins.

  I had never met the man, but I decided I didn't like Darrell Watkins, candidate for lieutenant governor. As a matter of fact, I was sure I wouldn't vote for him.

  “Where did he call from?”

  “He didn't say. It could have been anywhere in the state. He's out campaigning.”

  “You don't keep a copy of his schedule?”

  “No.”

  “Supposing he were jealous. Would he have done something to Sig Larson or maybe hired someone to do it?”

  “You mean put out a contract? No, for two reasons. Number one, he wouldn't have the money. Number two, I don't believe he's that much of a hypocrite.”

  “I see,” Huggins said sagely. “You mean he fools around himself?” Ginger's lips trembled. She dropped her gaze and nodded.

  Hal's questions had led circuitously to the heart of the matter. I had to give him credit. He made another note. “Watkins is an old, respected name in Seattle. Long on reputation and money both. Supposing Darrell did want to get rid of Sig Larson, why wouldn't he have the money? It only costs a few grand to put out a contract.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” she said. “I'm not working gratis, you know.”

  “Which means?” Hal prompted.

  “It means we need the money. Some of Homer's investments haven't turned out so well. The parole board job was designed to help out. Connections are nice. How else do you think someone without a degree could walk into a forty-thousand-dollar-a-year job?” Her voice carried a defensive edge.

  The phone rang, and I answered, recognizing Deputy Pomeroy's officious voice. “Detective Huggins,” he demanded.

  I handed the phone to Hal. He listened for a few seconds before he said, “Keep her at the desk until I get there. And, Jake, if one of those goddamned reporters gets near her before I do, I'll have your badge, understand?”

  Hal bolted for the door, then stopped, turning slowly back into the room. “It would be
best if you stayed here,” he told Ginger. “I'll let you know when you can return to your room.”

  She nodded. “All right.”

  “The lab guys'll call when they finish.” He strode into the darkness to the sound of steady rain. I closed the door behind him, feeling uncomfortable, not knowing what to say. Ginger Watkins was a stranger I knew far too much about. “Warm enough?” I asked awkwardly.

  “I am now.” She paused. “I might as well call Homer and get it over with.”

  “Why call him at all? You can afford to ignore your soon-to-be ex-father-in-law.”

  She picked up the phone. “Ignoring him is the worst thing you can do to Homer.” She dialed the desk to charge the call to her room number, but the desk didn't answer.

  “Dial it direct,” I told her, and she did.

  “You called?” she asked. From across the room I could hear a renewal of his verbal barrage. “What do you want?” She interrupted him bluntly, dealing with rudeness in kind.

  There was a long pause while she listened. I watched her. Her hair had dried. Honey-blond waves framed her face. She paced back and forth, tugging on a phone cord that didn't give her quite enough leash.

  “I'm not going to change my mind, Homer,” she said at last. “I've finally seen through the fog well enough to know what's going on.”

  Again there was a pause. “When I wanted to do something about it, he couldn't be bothered. Now it's too late. I don't care if he's upset. I'm getting out.”

  She waited. “That's not true, and you know it. What I do won't make a bit of difference, one way or the other. Besides, why should I care who wins?”

  His answer to that question was brief, and she stiffened. “I've found jobs before. I'll find one again.” She slammed the phone down, eyes blazing. “That bastard,” she muttered.

  The phone rang again, and she angrily snatched it off the hook. “Hello!” Sheepishly, she handed me the receiver. “It's for you,” she said.

  The desk had a message for me from Maxwell Cole. He would be in Room 143. He wanted to talk to me. I put the phone down and turned to Ginger. “Are you all right?” The phone call had genuinely disturbed her.

  “I'm fine,” she answered without conviction. She walked across the room and stared blindly out the darkened window like a lost, lonely child in need of comforting.