Injustice for All

by J. A. Jance

  “The works,” I told him. “Eggs over easy, hash browns, toast, juice, coffee.”

  He looked questioningly at Ginger. “I'll have the same,” she said with a smile.

  My water glass had a narrow sliver of lemon in it. I speared the lemon with my fork, then offered it to Ginger across the table. Puzzled, she sat holding it.

  “What's this for?” she asked.

  “To wipe that silly grin off your face,” I replied. “People might get suspicious.”

  She laughed outright, but soon a cloud passed over her face. “I believe,” she said thoughtfully, “I'm beginning to understand what Sig meant.”

  Outside our window the sky directly over-head was blue. As we watched, a thick bank of fog marched toward us, rolling across the water, obscuring the strait beyond the resort's sheltered bay.

  We were well into breakfast when, over Ginger's shoulder, I saw an obese but well-groomed woman pause at the dining room entrance, survey the room, then make her way toward us like a frigate under full sail. She wore a heavy layer of makeup. Her fingers were laden with a full contingent of ornate rings. A thick cloud of perfume preceded her.

  “Ginger.” Her voice had a sharp, schoolmarmish tone. Ginger started instinctively, then composed herself.

  “Good morning, Trixie.”

  The woman stopped next to our table and appraised me disapprovingly. “I went by your room several times last night and this morning, but you weren't there.” She paused as if waiting for Ginger to offer some kind of explanation. None was forthcoming.

  “Trixie, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, J.P. Beaumont. Beau, this is Trixie Bowdeen, chairman of the parole board.”

  “Glad to meet you,” I said.

  Trixie ignored me. “Have you gotten word that the meeting's canceled?” she asked coldly.

  Ginger countered with some ice of her own. “I think that's only appropriate.”

  Trixie forged on. “We're all leaving this morning. Do you need a ride back to Seattle?”

  “No, thanks. I can manage.”

  “All right.” Trixie turned her ponderous bulk and started away. Then she stopped and returned to our table. “Under the circumstances, it's probably best if you don't go to Sig's funeral.”

  All color seeped from Ginger's cheeks, but she allowed herself no other visible reaction to Trixie's words. “Why not?” Ginger asked.

  Her question seemed to take Trixie aback. “Well, considering…” Trixie retreated under Ginger's withering gaze, turned, and in a rustle of skirt and nylons, left the room.

  Ginger carefully placed her fork on her plate and pushed it away. “Can we go?”

  I took one look at her face and knew I'd better get her out of there fast. Trixie Bowdeen had just layered on the straw that broke the camel's back.

  CHAPTER

  9

  The fastest way out of the building was down the back stairs and out past the long, narrow, bowling-alley-shaped indoor pool. By the time we reached the terrace outside, Ginger's sob burst to the surface. She rushed to the guardrail and stood leaning over it, her shoulders heaving, while I stood helplessly to one side with my hands jammed deep in my pockets so I wouldn't reach out to hold her.

  I've never seen fog anywhere that quite compares to Orcas Island fog. One moment we stood in the open; the next we were alone in a private world. As the fog swept in, Ginger faded to a shadow. I moved toward her, grasping her hand as the building disappeared behind us. She was still crying, the sound strangely muffled in the uncanny silence.

  Pulling her to me, I rocked her against my chest until she quieted. I continued to hold her, but I also glanced over my shoulder to verify we were still invisible to the dining room windows. She drew a ragged breath.

  “Are you all right now?”

  She nodded. “I am. Really.”

  “That was an ugly thing for her to do.”

  “Trixie enjoyed passing along Mona's message.” There was a shift in Ginger's voice, a strengthening of resolve. “I've got to resign. Without Sig, I can't stand up to those people. They're all cut from the same cloth.”

  Ginger broke away from me and moved along the terrace, running her hand disconsolately along the guardrail. I trailed behind her, at a loss for words, wondering what made her think Trixie had served as Mona's emissary.

  “The fog feels like velvet,” Ginger commented. “I wish I could hide in it forever and never come out.”

  “That's not the answer.”

  “Isn't it? When you're drunk you don't feel the hurt.”

  “What are you going to do?” Her remark had sounded like a threat to start drinking. If she was truly a recovering alcoholic, a drink was the last thing she needed.

  “It's okay. Don't worry. I'll go to a meeting. There's one in Eastsound tonight.”

  “What meeting?”

  “An A.A. meeting. Whenever Sig and I were on the road, we went to meetings together. We planned to go to this one tonight. I don't remember where it is.”

  “Can I come?”

  Ginger stopped and faced me, looking deep into my eyes before she shook her head. “It's a closed meeting, Beau, not an open one where everyone is welcome. I'll go by myself. If I'm not going to Sig's funeral, it'll be my private remembrance for him.”

  She made the statement with absolute conviction. I couldn't help but respect her desire to have a private farewell for the man who had pulled her from the mire. We didn't discuss it again. The subject was closed.

  The fog lifted as quickly as it had come. I moved discreetly away from her. “You're one hell of a woman, Ginger Watkins, I'll say that for you.” She gave me a halfhearted smile and started toward the building.

  “Are you sure you want to go in there? There's probably a whole armload of reporters having breakfast by now. The murder of a public official is big news.”

  She stopped, considering my words. “Reporters? In there?” She nodded toward the dining room overhead.

  “The desk clerk told me last night that some of them stayed over. I know for a fact Maxwell Cole did.”

  “He was that funny-looking fat man you were talking to in the lobby when I came back from being fingerprinted? The one who was supposed to meet Don Wilson?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Who does he work for?”

  “The P.I. He writes a crime column.”

  She paused thoughtfully. “Is that all he's interested in? Crime?”

  I couldn't see where the discussion was going. “Why are you asking?”

  She grinned impishly. “I told you I'd get Darrell, starting now. I'll file on Monday, but it'll hit the papers Sunday morning. The only reason they want me to reconsider is to keep it quiet until after election day. Believe me, Darrell doesn't want me back. Now, where do I find what's-his-name?”

  “Max? Probably under a rock somewhere.”

  “I mean it, Beau. I want to talk to him.”

  Hell hath no fury, and all that jazz. I figured Darrell Watkins deserved just about anything Ginger could dish out. “Go on into the Moran Room and wait by the fireplace. I'll see if I can find him and send him there. I'm also going to have your things moved to another room for tonight, if you're going to stay over.”

  “Why? Can't I stay with you?”

  I shook my head. “Discretion is the better part of valor, my dear. You can sleep wherever you damn well please, but you'd better have a separate room with your clothes in it or you'll get us both in a hell of a lot of trouble.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I guess I should've thought of that.”

  Maxwell Cole was eating breakfast. Talking to him was tough because all I could see was the blob of egg yolk that dangled from one curl of his handlebar mustache. “Ginger Watkins wants to talk to you,” I said.

  His eyes bulged. “No shit? Where is she?”

  “In the Moran Room, just off the lobby, waiting.”

  Cole lurched to his feet, signaling for the waiter to bring his check. “Hey thanks, J.P. I c
an't thank you enough.”

  Max persists in calling me by my initials. My real name is Jonas Piedmont Beaumont. Mother named me after her father and grandfather as a conciliatory gesture after my father died in a motorcycle crash before he and Mother had a chance to tie the knot. It didn't work. Her family never lifted a finger to help us. She raised me totally on her own. They never forgave her, and I've never forgiven them. It's a two-way street.

  I shortened my name to initials in high school. In college people started calling me Beau. Except for Max. He picked my initials off a registration form, and he's used them ever since, mostly because he knows it bugs me.

  “How about if you drop the ‘J.P.’ crap, Maxey? That would be one way of thanking me.”

  With a hangdog expression on his face, Max followed me out of the dining room to the crackling fireplace in the Moran Room. Afterwards I stopped at the desk to reserve a new room for Ginger. Just as I finished, someone walked up behind me and clapped me on the shoulder. It was Peters.

  I shook his hand. “Huggins got ahold of you, then?”

  “No. I came because a little bird told me.” Peters grinned. Then in a lower voice, “What the hell are you doing packing hardware? You're supposed to be on vacation.”

  “It's a long story,” I said.

  “I'm sure it is. The ferry was crawling with deputies. They're handing out copies of Wilson's picture to everyone who gets on or off the boat. What's up?”

  Peeking around the corner, I could see Ginger and Max in deep conversation. I had noticed a small, glass-walled conference room just off the dining room. I asked to use it. Once inside, with the doors safely closed against unwanted listeners, I told Peters all I knew. Maybe not quite all. I left out a few details. He didn't have any business messing around in my personal life.

  Peters shook his head when I finished. “I wouldn't be in Huggins' shoes for all the tea in China. If this thing gets blown out of proportion, lots of political heads could roll. Homer Watkins isn't a lightweight.”

  “How come you know so much about him?”

  “There's enough in the papers that you can piece it together. Your problem is, you only read the crossword puzzles. Crosswords do not informed citizens make.”

  “Leave me alone. They're nothing but propaganda.”

  “Let's don't go into that, Beau. I like current events. You like history. I like sprout sandwiches. You like hamburgers. Neither of us is going to change.”

  I reached for the file folder Peters held in his hand. “Wait a minute. I'm supposed to give this to a Detective Huggins. You're not the investigating officer.”

  “For God's sake, Peters,” I protested. “Don't be an ass. I'm the one who called and asked for it, remember?”

  “Captain Powell gave me specific orders that the report goes to Huggins. You're on vacation. Powell doesn't want you screwing around in somebody else's case.”

  “I'll be a sonofabitch,” I said.

  Peters ignored my outburst. He had joined forces with the captain and the chaplain to corner me into a “vacation.” He, more than the rest, understood my loss. “How're you doing, Beau?” he asked solicitously, changing topics. “You're looking better, like you're getting some rest.”

  I smiled to myself, considering my total sleep from the night before. I decided against depriving Peters of his illusions.

  “Sleeping like a baby,” I said, grinning.

  Huggins showed up about then. He saw us through the plate-glass windows and knocked to be let in. I introduced him to Peters. Within minutes the table was strewn with the grisly contents of the envelope. Maybe Peters couldn't give them to me, but nobody told Huggins not to.

  The pictures were there—the senseless slaughter, the bloodied house. Denise Wilson had fought Lathrop. She hadn't died easily. She had battled him through every room before it was over. The pictures sickened me, as did Lathrop's smirking mug shot. There was no picture of Donald Wilson in the file. Without Maxwell Cole's contribution, we would have been up a creek.

  “We're screening all the people on the ferries. We'll be talking to employees and guests here today,” Huggins told us. “Someone will have seen him. You don't just appear and disappear like that unless you're a goddamned Houdini.”

  “He's not at his house?” I asked. Huggins shook his head. “Is there any other way to get here besides a ferry?” I continued.

  “There are float planes and charter boats. We're checking all of them, but it doesn't look to me as though he has that kind of money. He came over on the ferries, I'm sure of it, and we've got those babies covered.”

  Peters smiled. “You've heard that old joke going around Seattle, haven't you?”

  “What's that?”

  “What does a San Juan County police officer use for a squad car? A Washington State Ferry with blinking blue lights.”

  Huggins glared at him. “Very funny,” he said, “but we do a hell of a good job around here.”

  Every once in a while Peters pulls a stunt that convinces me he's not nearly so old as his years. Then there are times when he's as wise as the old man of the sea.

  This wasn't one of those times.

  CHAPTER

  10

  I called Ralph Ames, my attorney in Phoenix. Along with the car, I inherited Ames from Anne Corley. In six months' time, he had become an invaluable friend over and above being my attorney. I called him at home.

  “What're you doing?” I asked.

  “Cleaning the pool,” he replied.

  I have little patience with people who own pools or boats. They're both holes you pour money into. Not only that, it's a point of honor to do all the work yourself, from swabbing decks to cleaning filters.

  “Did you ever consider hiring someone to do it?”

  “No, Beau. I don't jog. Cleaning the pool makes me feel self righteous.”

  “To each his own. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “Flying to Portland. Didn't Peters tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “We have a custody hearing in The Dalles on Tuesday. Keep your fingers crossed.”

  Peters was at war with his ex-wife. She got religion in a big way and went to live with a cult in Broken Springs, Oregon, taking their two little girls with her. Peters wanted them back. Ames took the case, joining the fray at my request and on my nickel. What's the point in having money if you can't squander it?

  “That closemouthed asshole. That's good news.”

  “So what do you want, Beau? This is my day off. It is Saturday, you know.”

  “How about flying into Sea-Tac today instead of Portland tomorrow? I'm up on Orcas Island. There's someone here I'd like you to meet. I told her you'd take a look at her situation.”

  “Which is?”

  “Divorce. Messy. With political ramifications. Looks like collusion between her husband and her father-in-law to toss her out without a pot to piss in.”

  “Are you giving my services away again, Beau?”

  “I care enough to send the very best.”

  He laughed. “All right. I'll see what I can do. Let me call you back.”

  I gave him the number. As I hung up, Ginger appeared at my elbow. “Who was that?”

  “Ames, my attorney from Phoenix, remember? I told you about him. I asked him to come talk to you.”

  “Here? On Orcas?”

  “Sure.”

  “But you said he was in Phoenix.”

  “He is. He was coming up tomorrow, anyway. He's trying to get a reservation for this afternoon.”

  “From Phoenix?”

  “If you're going to file on Monday, you need to talk to him tonight or tomorrow.”

  “How much is it going to cost?”

  “Nothing. He'll put it on my bill.”

  I correctly read the consternation on Ginger's face. “How do you rate?” she asked. “I thought you were just a plain old, ordinary homicide detective. How come you have a high-powered attorney at your beck and call?”

&nbs
p; “It's a long story,” I said. “I came into a little money.”

  “A little?” she echoed.

  “Some,” I conceded.

  “I see,” Ginger said.

  “You done with Cole?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “He's one happy reporter.” She grinned. “That story will make Darrell's socks roll up and down. It should hit the paper tomorrow.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Enough. I named names. At least a few of them. A private detective had already checked those out. Darrell will come across as an active philanderer. Hot stuff.”

  We left the lobby and walked toward the new room where housekeepers had moved Ginger's things. “What do you think Darrell will do?” I asked.

  She gave a mirthless laugh. “He'll huddle with Homer and the PR man. The three of them will decide how to play it. Name familiarity is name familiarity. They may get more press if they do an active denial. They'll take a poll and decide.”

  “That's pretty cold-blooded.”

  “Um-hum.”

  “But how are you going to feel with your personal life splashed all over the front page?”

  We reached the building where her new room was. Ginger stepped to one side, waiting for me to open the door. The eyes she turned on me were luminously green and deep.

  “I just found out about personal,” she said softly. “None of that is going in the paper.”

  There was a tightening in my chest and a catch in my throat. Mr. Macho handles the compliment. I tripped over my own feet and stumbled into the hallway. I found her room, unlocked the door, and handed her the key.

  “Are you coming in?”

  The invitation was there, written on her face, but I shook my head. “Ames is supposed to call my room. I'd better not.”

  “Does that mean I can't see you? Have I been a bad girl and you're sending me to my room?” she teased.

  “No. Let me see what's happening as far as Ames and Peters are concerned. Maybe you and I can go on a picnic.”

  “Terrific. I'll change into jeans.”

  “Wait a minute. I said maybe.”

  She looked both ways, up and down the hall, then gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Please.”