Injustice for All

by J. A. Jance

  “What did Wilson say?” My tone was flat and empty.

  “That we'd pay for his wife and daughter. We didn't know, Beau. Can you understand that? There was an administrative foul-up. The rest of Lathrop's records weren't found until much later. We didn't know he had sworn to get even with Denise Wilson. We had no idea where she lived. Washington doesn't keep track of witnesses or victims, not even to protect them.”

  “When did Wilson threaten you?” I could tell from her voice it was important that I believe her.

  “I don't know. Several times. He's always hanging around. In fact, Sig and I were surprised Wilson wasn't here today. He stands outside every meeting, carrying signs, passing out petitions, but I never thought he'd really do it.”

  “Petitions for what?”

  “For a victim/witness protection program.”

  “But he wasn't here today?”

  “No. Sig even mentioned it.” I got up and went to the phone. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I'm calling Huggins. He needs this information.” Fred answered. “Is Detective Huggins still around?”

  “No,” came the reply. “He left in the police boat right after the crime-lab guys took off. He's probably in Friday Harbor by now.”

  “Call him and tell him to come back,” I ordered. “It's urgent.”

  Fred's response wasn't hopeful. “I doubt he'll want to come back tonight.”

  “Tell him we've got a suspect. That'll bring him back.” I hung up.

  Ginger followed me to the door. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “I've got to find Maxwell Cole. You stay here, understand?” She nodded. “Lock the door behind me. Don't let anyone in.” I dashed outside and headed up the path to Room 143. No one answered my knock. I glanced at my watch. It was after eleven. The Vista Lounge was still open. I hurried back toward the main building, a converted mansion that serves as lobby, dining room, and bar. The lounge is a long, narrow room facing Rosario Strait. In its previous life it had been a sun porch. Now it was a posh watering hole.

  Maxwell Cole's ample figure slouched on a stool at the end of the bar. He was downing handfuls of salted cracker goldfish and regaling the poor guy next to him with one-sided conversation. I tapped his shoulder.

  “Hey, Max. I need to talk to you.”

  He heaved himself around on the bar stool to face me. “What's this? A change of heart? Decided you can afford to spend some time with your old fraternity buddy after all? Fuck off, J. P. Who needs it?”

  He turned away and picked up his beer. I tapped his shoulder again. “I want to talk to you.”

  Barney is a good bartender. He has a sixth sense for trouble and can spot it before it starts. He ambled down the bar to where Cole was sitting.

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “This guy's bothering me,” Max whined. “I was sitting here minding my own business.”

  Barney glanced up at me. “I need to talk to him,” I said tersely over Max's head. “About what happened this afternoon.”

  Max set down his half-empty glass. Barney swept it away and poured the contents into the sink. “After you talk to this gentleman,” he said, “I'll buy you another beer.”

  “Why you—” Max objected.

  “You'd better go, fella, before I get upset.”

  Barney is a beefy former Green Beret who looks as though he could inflict a considerable amount of bodily harm with his bare hands. Max finally scrambled down from the bar stool and reluctantly followed me into the next room, muttering under his breath. Once we were out of earshot of the bar, I turned on him. “You have any pictures of Wilson on you?”

  “Hell no. Why should I?”

  “Because you just might.”

  “Maybe one, but it'll cost you.”

  “How much?”

  “An exclusive interview with Ginger Watkins.”

  “Ginger Watkins is not for sale.”

  “You say that in a rather proprietary manner, J. P. You got something going with her? I heard what she said about getting a room. She's a married lady, you know. Her husband is big. Very big.”

  “I want the picture, Max.”

  “No way.”

  He was wearing an ugly striped tie, still knotted, but hanging loose around his neck. I grasped it in my fist and lifted him to the tops of his toes. “I'm not on duty, Maxey, so don't tempt me.”

  “Okay, okay,” he sputtered. “It's in my room.”

  “Go get it and bring it to me. I'll wait in the lobby.”

  He shambled off. I hurried to the pay phone near the front desk and dialed Peters, my partner, at home, long-distance, collect. I figured that would get his attention. He sounded half-asleep when he answered the phone. “What's up?” he asked when he recognized my voice. “Where are you? And why the hell are you calling me collect?”

  “Rosario,” I growled. “Send me the bill. Now listen. Remember the Lathrop case? Get down to the department and gather everything you can find on it. A detective from Friday Harbor will be calling for it. I want it ready when he does.”

  “Just a fucking minute, Beau. Do you know what time it is? It's a long way from Kirkland to the department.”

  “So move to town. It's not rush hour. It won't take more than twenty minutes to get to Seattle.”

  “Beau, you're supposed to be on vacation, for chrissake. What's gotten into you?”

  “I'm asking a favor, Peters. Please.”

  “Oh, all right, but I'm gonna remember this. The Lathrop case, you said?”

  “Yes, and everything you can find out about the victims' family, particularly Don Wilson, the father.”

  “Anything else? I'm already awake. Don't you want me to pick up some groceries or a newspaper while I'm at it?”

  Maxwell Cole was lumbering toward the building. “Cut the comedy, Peters. This is serious.”

  “Okay, Beau, okay. I'm on my way.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “This better count for more than one.”

  “It does.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  I knocked. “Who is it?” Ginger called.

  “Me, Beau.” I opened the door with my key. Ginger stood near the bed, her face drawn and wary. She glanced at the manila envelope in my hand. “What's that?”

  I came inside, shutting and locking the door behind me. I opened the envelope and handed her the picture Maxwell Cole had given me. She looked at Don Wilson's likeness.

  “Where'd you get that?”

  “Good ol' Max saves the day for a change.”

  Ginger retreated to a chair in the corner of the room, where she curled up with her legs folded under her and began brushing her hair with a vengeance.

  “Huggins is on his way,” I told her. “He'll want to go to work on this picture tonight. He'll show it to everyone he can find on or near the ferries, passengers and workers alike. He'll try to get to them while someone still remembers seeing Wilson, either coming over or going back.”

  Ginger put the brush in her lap. Her voice when she spoke was very small. “Do you think he's still here?”

  “I don't know. My gut instinct says yes.”

  “What can we do?”

  “First we talk to Huggins. After that, I don't know.”

  “Can I stay here, Beau? With You?” Anxious green eyes held mine.

  I felt a catch in my throat, remembering the feel of her body against mine as she wept for Sig Larson. “I don't know why not. I'd as soon have you here where I can keep an eye on you. I was going to see if there were any rooms available in Eastsound, but this makes more sense.”

  She picked up her brush and silently resumed brushing her hair. I called the desk. Fred and I had gone round and round over the room problem one more time after Max gave me the picture. I had pulled rank on him, hoping Detective Beaumont would elicit more action than Mr. Beaumont. No such luck. His tone was somewhat guarded. “Yes, Detective Beaumont. What can I do for you?”

/>   “You have a roll-away bed down there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want one up here, on the double. Mrs. Watkins will stay here with me. We have reason to believe Larson's killer is still in the area. He may try to reach her next. Don't leak a word of this, is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. I'll deliver it myself. Not even the maids will know. I can pick it up in the morning before I leave.”

  “And if she has any calls,” I continued, “put them on hold and check with me before you put them through.”

  “I understand.”

  “When's your shift over?”

  “I'm pulling an extra one tonight. I won't get off until eight tomorrow morning.”

  “All right. Have the roll-away back out of here before you go. I guess that's all.”

  “Detective Beaumont?”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone said Detective Huggins is just pulling up at the dock.”

  “Good. See if you can locate any coffee, would you?”

  “Sure thing.”

  When Huggins knocked on the door, he was carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and three cups and saucers. “Somebody handed me this tray. Whatever you've got, Beaumont, it better be good.”

  “It is, Hal,” I assured him. “Believe me.”

  Ginger poured coffee while I brought Hal up to date and showed him the photograph of Wilson. When I finished, he shook his head sadly. “It's a pisser. The wrong goddamned people get killed. Wilson'll end up on Death Row with Lathrop, and probably beat him to the gallows.”

  I interrupted Huggins' grim soliloquy. “Look, Hal, I called my partner in Seattle. He's gathering everything Seattle P.D. has on Lathrop and Wilson. It'll be ready when you call. He'll bring it out himself if you ask for him.”

  “Is he one of the old-timers?” Hal asked. “Somebody I'd remember?”

  “No. He's brand-new, but a hell of a nice guy.”

  “What's his name?”

  “Peters. Ron Peters.”

  He made a note of the name before turning to Ginger. “Can you remember exactly what Wilson said when he threatened you and Mr. Larson?”

  Ginger shook her head. “Not the exact words. Just that he'd make us pay, that it wasn't fair for his wife and child to be dead while we were still alive.”

  “But you didn't think of him this afternoon when you discovered Mr. Larson's body. Why not?”

  “I didn't think Wilson was here. If he's around, he's usually out front picketing with all his signs and paraphernalia. I forgot about him completely until that reporter said Wilson didn't show for a meeting.”

  “Which reporter?”

  I answered him. “Max, Maxwell Cole. Wilson called him this morning and set up an interview here at Rosario at four o'clock. Max waited. Wilson never came.”

  Huggins focused once more on Ginger. “You said you mentioned the threats to your husband. He advised you to disregard them?”

  Ginger nodded. “He said the world is full of harmless crazies.”

  “This one is far from harmless.” Huggins sighed, glancing in my direction. “Any ideas, Beaumont?”

  There was a quiet tap on the door. When I answered it, Fred stood outside with a rollaway bed. “This is the first I could get away,” he said. “It's all right if Detective Huggins knows, isn't it?”

  Since the bed was already there, it was too late to debate secrecy. I stepped aside and helped pull the bed over the threshold. He pushed the bed just inside the door, then ducked back into the night. Fearless Fred.

  “This is my brainstorm,” I said, turning to Huggins. “She stays with me tonight. Without knowing whether Wilson is still on the island, I'm not willing to risk leaving her alone.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Good thinking. I was going to suggest flying her to Seattle, but I'd prefer having her here in case there are more questions in the morning. The county budget doesn't handle a whole lot of commuting back and forth to the big city.”

  Huggins stood up. “I'm going, then.” He held Wilson's picture up to the light, examining it minutely. “I'll copy this sucker tonight and plaster the island with it tomorrow—the island and every single ferry that stops here. I'll send someone by Wilson's house. It's late. I'd better hit the trail.”

  I followed him to the door. He turned to me and said in an undertone, “You got a piece on you?”

  “It's locked up in a suitcase, but—”

  “I'm deputizing you as of right now, Beaumont. I don't want there to be any jurisdictional fuss. Besides, I need you. Get it out, and keep it handy.” He poked his head back inside the door. “You're in good hands, Mrs. Watkins. J.P. Beaumont is the best there is.”

  “You'll give me a swelled head, Hal,” I said.

  I came back into the room, once more carefully locking the door behind me. I went around the room, double-checking the locks on the windows. Ginger watched me, her eyes gravely following my every move. I took my suitcase from its place in the closet and removed my .38. I put the gun on the bed beside me. Women usually retreat from firearms. Ginger held her ground.

  “Are you?” she asked.

  “Am I what?”

  “The best there is?”

  “I don't know about that.” I sat looking at my revolver. A gun is a tool, an instrument, until it kills something you love. Then it takes on a life of its own, alien, evil.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing,” I answered quickly. “Just woolgathering.”

  “What happened to your wife?”

  “Karen?” I shrugged. “She ran off with a chicken magnate from Cucamonga, California.”

  “Chicken?”

  “Yeah. He was an accountant scouting for a new plant site for an egg conglomerate. Karen was supposed to be selling him real estate.”

  “He married her?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Kids?”

  “Two. A boy and a girl, Scotty and Kelly. They're mostly grown, thriving in California. I see them during the summers.” I didn't mention Anne Corley. It was a deliberate oversight.

  “Girl friend?”

  “None at the moment. Why all the questions?”

  “Everyone's been asking me questions all evening. Turnabout is fair play. You said earlier you were having a mid-life crisis. How come?”

  “Mid-life crises are very trendy these days.” I responded with a congenial grin I hoped would derail the question. I didn't want to go into that, to examine motives and lost illusions.

  “Will you still be a cop?”

  I shrugged. I couldn't imagine being anything else. “Unless you have some other bright idea.”

  She looked at me seriously, squarely. “You've been hurt too.”

  “Does it show that much?”

  “It shows.”

  I winced at her direct hit and changed the subject. “You said something earlier that's been bothering me: that you were working because you and Darrell needed the money. How come?”

  “We're part of a syndicate that put together a downtown luxury high-rise project, just before the bottom dropped out of the real estate market. Most of our capital—ours, Homer's, and Sig's—has been tied up keeping the project afloat, waiting for the market to turn. Meantime, ready cash is in short supply.”

  “That's why you and Sig ended up on the parole board?”

  She nodded. “Sig was actually well qualified. He knew it from the inside out without ever being either a prisoner or a guard. He did volunteer work at Walla Walla for years. He used to live near there, even started an A.A. group inside. He had every right to be on the board. I was the hanger-on.”

  Ginger looked at me earnestly. “I tried, though, Beau. Especially after Sig got me dried out. I read everything I could lay my hands on. I did a good job. The Lathrop case was an administrative nightmare.” She willed me to believe her. It was important to her that I not lay blame.

  “Those things happen,” I conceded.

  She accepted my remark as a form of absolu
tion. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “What will you do if you resign from the board?”

  She shrugged. “Something,” she replied. “Homer told me tonight he'll see to it that I don't get a penny.”

  “That's just a threat. He can't get away with it. You have an attorney. He'll see that you get a fair shake.”

  She laughed. “You don't understand. Homer Watkins' name isn't up in lights. He doesn't make headlines, but he's a mover and shaker in this state. Stone-cold broke, he can still pull enough strings to get anything he wants, including electing his son lieutenant governor. I'll be lucky to get out of the house with the clothes on my back.”

  “I have an attorney,” I offered. “Maybe he could help.” I was thinking about Ralph Ames, who even then was preparing for a custody hearing to wrest my partner's two kids out of a religious cult in Broken Springs, Oregon.

  Ginger smiled, condescendingly. “How far do you think I'd get paying for an attorney on my own? It takes money to fight the system. I won't have any.”

  “Ames would do it if I asked him. He's from Arizona. Phoenix. He handles all my personal affairs. Let him take a look at your situation. It wouldn't cost you anything.”

  A smile flickered around the corner of her mouth. “Beau, listen to me. These are big-time lawyers with big-time staffs. They'd chew up your little guy and spit him out. But thanks. It's kind of you to offer.”

  “Promise me you'll let Ames look it over first. Talk about the best there is, Ames is it.”

  Ginger laughed aloud. “All right, all right. If you insist, but he'd better not show up wearing cowboy boots and riding a horse.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  I spent some time looking for a delicate way to suggest we get ready for bed. There was no easy way. I finally said it straight out. Ginger retreated into the bathroom to change while I grappled with the Chinese-puzzle roll-away bed. Partial assembly required.

  The bed was unfolded and sitting in front of the outside door when Ginger emerged from the bathroom. She wore a jade-colored silk robe with a hint of filmy nightgown underneath. Seeing her, I realized I didn't have a pair of pajamas to my name. I'd been a bachelor so long, my last pair of Christmas pajamas had bitten the dust.