Injustice for All

by J. A. Jance

  A harried desk clerk managed to find me a room. Once safely shut away, I picked up the phone and asked for Mona Larson. “I'll ring,” the operator told me.

  “Hello.” The voice was low and husky. For a second I thought I was talking to a man.

  “Mona Larson, please,” I stammered.

  “This is she.”

  “My name is Beaumont. I'm here investigating a homicide. I need to talk to you.”

  “How the hell did you find me? That's why I didn't go home. I'm sick of being hounded.”

  “I'm a detective; that's how I found you. But it's only me. I've ditched the press.”

  Her tone mellowed a little. “That's a relief. Those bastards have been driving me crazy.”

  “Would you care to have a drink…coffee?”

  “I could use a drink. Where are you?”

  “In my room. I can meet you in the coffee shop or the bar.” Sig Larson didn't drink. Maybe Mona didn't either. It was best to offer the lady a choice.

  “All right. It'll take me a few minutes. I'll meet you in the bar. How will I know you?”

  “From the looks of the lobby as I came in, I'll probably be the only man in the place.”

  She laughed. “You'll be the onion in the Mary Kay petunia patch.”

  She was right. Walking into the Starlight Lounge unnerved me. It was cocktail hour. All the old jokes about salesmen on convention came to mind and did a flip-flop. Saleswomen were just as bad. They sat in groups of twos and threes, giving me a clothes-stripping once-over. Other than the bartender, I was the only man in the room.

  I had barely sat down when a woman in her mid-forties sidled up to my table. “Care for a drink?”

  I looked around in consternation, hoping she wasn't talking to me. She was. Her face was a paper-smooth mask, eyes shadowed with a disconcerting blend of several different colors. Her lips, darker on the outside than on the inside, made me wonder what a two-toned tube of lipstick looked like.

  “Sorry,” I answered. “I'm meeting someone.”

  “Too bad,” she said with a wink. She returned to her table while the bartender appeared at my elbow. “Drink, fella?”

  “A McNaughton's and water,” I said. He paused to wipe the table. “This is a little weird,” I commented under my breath.

  He laughed. “You think it's bad now, wait until nine o'clock when they're all on their lips.”

  The bartender returned to the bar. I sat there, conspicuously alone, waiting for Mona Larson. At Welton she had looked quite bizarre, but now I was anxious to see her. Mona's dramatic clothing would be a welcome contrast to the unrelenting pink, her disdain an antidote to the uncomfortable attention I was receiving at the moment.

  Mona rescued me, all right. She had changed her black dress for a black, zippered jumpsuit. Her hair had been pulled up to the top of her head and stuck there with an unlikely comb. A few loose tendrils of hair trailed softly down her neck. Still wearing several pounds of silver and turquoise, she sauntered into the bar with a feline grace that disposed of the pink ladies once and for all.

  “Mr. Beaumont?” she asked, extending her hand.

  I half rose in greeting. Her handshake was firm, her dark brown eyes straightforward. “Don't bother getting up,” she said, sinking gratefully into a low-backed chair opposite me.

  “Thanks for saving my bacon,” I said.

  She glanced around the room disdainfully. “From what? These horny broads?” She turned to me and grinned. “You look like you can take care of yourself.”

  From what Ginger had said about Mona Larson and from what I had seen at the funeral, I was prepared not to like her, but her manner had a disarming forthrightness about it, and very little of the grieving widow.

  “Sorry it took so long,” she apologized. “I had a phone call. Are you from Orcas?”

  The bartender brought my drink and took her order for Chivas on the rocks while I contemplated my situation. I was in no way from Orcas, and as a Seattle homicide detective, I had no business asking her anything at all.

  I took a sip of my drink. “No. I'm from Seattle.”

  “I didn't know Seattle was involved in the case.”

  “We are now,” I said.

  “Do you have a card?”

  There are times when I think I'll just stick my little toe in some water. Before I know it, I'm in over my head. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my leather cardholder. I handed her one of my business cards, which she examined without comment and put into a zippered pocket on the leg of her pants. Her fingers were long and slender, but the nails were close-cropped.

  “So what do you want to know?”

  “How well did you know Ginger Watkins?”

  “Well enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were shirttail relatives. Homer and Sig's first wife were brother and sister. Our families had some business dealings together.”

  So that was the connection. I had wondered about it.

  “Were you and Ginger friends?”

  “No.”

  I waited, hoping she'd expand on the subject. She didn't. “You and Darrell, then?”

  “Darrell Watkins is an asshole,” Mona said. “He's why I was late. He called from Seattle while I was at the funeral, wanted to explain why he wasn't there. As if I give a rat's ass.” She extracted a pack of cigarettes from another zippered pocket. I hurried to offer her a light. She leaned back inhaling.

  “Did you know Ginger was going to get a divorce?”

  “You bet. I called Darrell to tell him.”

  “Why?”

  She regarded me coolly. “Look, Mr. Beaumont, I played that side of the fence once. You're married to a jerk. Some nice guy sympathizes, listens to you, tells you what a bad deal you've got. First thing you know, you ditch the jerk and marry the nice guy. That's the name of the game, survival of the fittest.”

  “You think Ginger was trying to pack Sig off?”

  She blew a languid cloud of smoke. “Not on purpose. She was so fucked up, she probably didn't know she was doing it. They were nice people, both of them.”

  I tried reconciling Mona's words with the person who had forbidden Ginger to attend Sig's funeral. It didn't add up. “Why didn't you want Ginger to come to the funeral?”

  “Who said?”

  “That's what I understood,” I replied. “It came from someone, maybe Trixie Bowdeen.”

  “That cow? All she does is make trouble. She minds everybody else's business. Ginger could have come if she wanted to. It wouldn't have bothered me.”

  She glanced away from me, angrily swiping a tear. Pain lurked behind Mona Larson's tough exterior, under the brittle wit.

  “You loved him very much, didn't you.”

  She looked at me, her eyes bright with tears. “That's not how they see it in Welton,” she said. “I'm the gold digger who married Sig Larson for his money. What a laugh!”

  “Did you?” Mona's manner encouraged a direct approach.

  She didn't deny it. “There's not much left,” she countered.

  “The money from the farm?”

  “Gone. He left me a mortgaged condo on Lake Chelan, plus my share of the Seattle project, whatever that's worth. I own my Harley free and clear, and that's it, except for my jewelry.” She fell silent. I felt sorry for her. Ginger Watkins' calculating bitch wasn't nearly as ruthless, close at hand.

  “You work on the Harley yourself?”

  She cocked her head. “What made you ask that?”

  “Your nails are a whole lot more serviceable than the rest of the nails in this room, like maybe they get a little grease under them on occasion.”

  “Good guess,” she said.

  “What do you know about Don Wilson?” I asked, switching topics.

  She looked me straight in the eye. “I told him if he called again I'd file a complaint.”

  “For what?”

  “Telephone harassment. I knew all about his wife and kid, but he'd call in th
e middle of the night, making wild threats. He finally stopped.”

  “When?”

  She thought. “A month or so ago, maybe longer.”

  “He threatened Sig?”

  “Constantly.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he'd make Sig pay.”

  “Did Sig do anything about it?”

  “Mostly he laughed it off. Initially he tried reasoning with the guy, but you can't talk to someone like that. They won't listen.” She paused. “Do you think he did it?” The question was quiet. The noise of the room ebbed and flowed around us.

  “It looks like it, at least for now.”

  She signaled the bartender for a drink. When he brought it, she lit another cigarette. “It's funny. Sig was so glad to get the appointment to the board. He thought, with his experience at Walla Walla, he could help; that he'd make a real contribution.” She stopped, words giving way to reflection. It was an awkward silence.

  “I understand Sig didn't drink.”

  She took a sip from her Chivas. “He wanted me to quit, too. There's nothing like a reformed drunk.” She gave me a forlorn smile. “I would have, eventually.” There was another long pause. She needed comforting and I was at a loss.

  “Would you like to have dinner?” I asked at last.

  She shook her head. “Not now, maybe later. I have some things I need to do first.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “An hour or so. I'll give you a call when I finish.”

  She jotted my room number on the back of my card, and returned it to her pocket. We talked a while longer before she got up to leave. She held out her hand. “It was nice meeting you, Detective Beaumont. I'll see you later.”

  I watched her walk away, striding purposefully out of the room, a lady with places to go and people to see. It was only after she was out of sight that a wave of concern washed over me. I left money on the table and hurried after her, but she was nowhere in sight. I found a house phone and dialed her room. It rang and rang, but there was no answer.

  Stopping by the desk, I asked what kind of car Mona Larson had registered. The clerk didn't bother to look at her card. “She's the one with the Harley, mister.” He grinned. “Doesn't seem possible someone her size could handle one of those suckers.”

  I roamed through acres of parking lot to no avail. Finally I went back to my room and tried calling Ray in Pasco. No answer. I tried Mona's room several times as well, but there was still no answer. Giving up, I turned on the movie channel. I don't know when I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER

  19

  A sharp rap on the door jarred me awake. Flipping off the droning television set, I opened the door to find two uniformed police officers standing in the hallway.

  “Are you J.P. Beaumont?” the first one asked, stepping uninvited through my open door. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and chewed a cud of gum with unbridled enthusiasm.

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  The second officer was heavyset: not fat, but with a definite paunch. “You know a lady named Mona Larson?”

  “Yes, I do. What's up?”

  “When's the last time you saw her?”

  “I don't know. What time is it?”

  The one in glasses looked at his watch. “Eight-thirty,” he said, wrapping the gum around the tip of his tongue and giving it a small, interior pop.

  “I saw her about six-thirty. She said she had some things to do.”

  “Did she say what?”

  I shook my head. “No. What's going on?” I kept asking the question, but they disregarded it.

  The heavyset one pulled a business card out of his inside jacket pocket and turned it over, examining both sides. I recognized it as one of my own. “Says here you're Detective Beaumont. You here in Pasco on official business?”

  A twinge of uneasiness warned me something wasn't right. “No,” I said after a pause. “I was at a funeral in Welton this afternoon and decided to spend the night.”

  “Sig Larson's funeral?” There was an unpleasant undertone to his question.

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, it was.”

  The gum-chewer wandered over to the window. “Mind if we have a look around?”

  “No. Yes. What's this all about?” I demanded, getting my back up.

  “He asked you nice like,” the heavyset one warned. “Now, can we look around or not?”

  I retreated to the bed and sat down, more than half angry. Obviously there was some mistake. They had no business pushing me around like a common criminal. I wanted to get to the bottom of whatever it was. “Go ahead,” I said, managing to control myself.

  Glasses searched the whole room—under the bed, in the closet, in all the drawers, in the bathroom—while Fatso kept an eye on me, all the while fingering his nightstick. “No luggage?” Glasses asked when he finished.

  “I didn't plan to spend the night.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Are you going to tell me what's going on?” I felt as though I had fallen into a bad dream where things happen and no one tells you why. There wasn't much I could do about it. It was two against one. They were calling the shots.

  “You got anyone who'll say where you were between six-thirty and now?”

  “I already told you. I've been right here at the hotel, mostly asleep. Now tell me what the fuck is going on!”

  Glasses rolled his eyes. “Isn't that what they all say, Willy? I was asleep the whole time. All by myself.”

  Willy grinned. “That's what they say.”

  “Now wait just a goddamned minute. You'd better tell me what's happening.”

  “You want to tell him, Joe?” Willy asked.

  “Naw, you go ahead. Since he's so anxious to hear.”

  “Well sir,” Willy said, savoring the words, “It's about this lady we found along the road a little while ago. Victim of a hit-and-run. She had your card in her pocket with a room number written on the back.”

  “Mona?” I asked. “Is she all right?”

  “Didja hear that!” Joe exclaimed. “She's dead as a doornail, and he wants to know if she's all right. You'd better move on over to the wall. Put your hands above your head.”

  For a second I sat there, too stunned to move. Mona too? I had just had a drink with her, talked to her. We were going to have dinner. Willy took a menacing step toward me. “He said move.”

  I was in no position to argue. I did as I was told. Willy patted me down. Removing my jacket from a chair, he discovered my shoulder holster underneath. “Why, looky here, Joe.” Willy tossed my .38 to Glasses. “Read him his rights.” Willy pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and held them in front of me. “Turn around, buster,” he ordered. “You're under arrest.”

  “What the hell do you clowns think you're doing?”

  “Clowns, Joe. You hear that? This renegade big-time cop from Seattle thinks we're a couple of clowns.”

  “You have the right to remain silent—” Joe began.

  “You guys have to be shitting me. Ray Johnson used to be my partner—”

  “You have the right to an attorney—”

  “And your uncle George sits on the Supreme Court. Right, funnyman?” Willy sneered.

  “Anything you say may be held—”

  “I said turn around,” Willy repeated, his words taking on an ominous edge. I turned. The handcuffs snapped shut behind me. “Did you hear your rights now, Mr. Beaumont?” He gave the cuffs a sharp yank, making sure they were fastened securely.

  “I heard them.”

  “Did you understand them?”

  “Yes.”

  He spun me around so I faced him. “We wouldn't want any question of abrogating your rights, now would we?”

  “You asshole—” I began.

  He grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me toward the door. “Where are your car keys?”

  “Find them yourself,” I snapped.

  “Here they are, Willy,” Glasses called from
the dresser.

  “Bring 'em. We'll check out the car on the way.” They led me handcuffed through the front lobby of the Red Lion, where several dozen women watched in openmouthed wonder.

  I've arrested plenty of people in my time, but being arrested was an entirely new and painful experience. Handcuffed wrists in the small of the back make you feel humiliated and trapped and scared and guilty, even if you're not. I wanted to hide my face in my hands, to shield myself from gaping, prying eyes. I couldn't, not with my hands cuffed behind me.

  I had parked the Rabbit near the front door. Now it was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is it?” Willy demanded.

  “I don't know. It's gone. Somebody moved it.”

  Glasses and Fatso nodded at each other knowingly. “Sure they did,” Willy said. “What kind of car is it?”

  “A Rabbit, a red, rented Rabbit.”

  “Sounds about right,” Willy said. “Bring the car, Joe. We'll drive around through the parking lot and see if Mr. Beaumont here can remember where he left it. Musta been driving in his sleep.”

  Maybe the reason cops hate reporters and vice versa is that we're so much alike. The same kind of questioning minds end up in both professions. The difference lies in what we do with the answers.

  It came as no surprise that the same thought process that had brought me to the Red Lion in search of Mona Larson would do the same for a reporter. Fate alone dictated that the reporter should be Maxwell Cole. He arrived just as Willy shoved me into the backseat of a patrol car, blue lights flashing. Cole almost walked past us, but then he spied me. “J. P.” he yelped. “Hey, what's going on?”

  I prayed we'd leave right then, but we didn't. Joe meandered through the well-lit parking lot, searching for my car. By the time we located the Rabbit in the back row of the lot, a noisy cortege of people had formed behind us. “That's it,” I said, nodding toward the Rabbit.

  Joe left the patrol car idling and sauntered over to it. Through the open door, I could hear a chorus of questions. Glasses ignored them. He knelt in front of the car and examined the front bumper, then he stopped long enough to peer into all the windows. He hurried back to the patrol car. “Hand me the pliers, Willy.”