Injustice for All

by J. A. Jance

  With my key, Glasses unlocked the door on the rider's side. He used the pliers to lift the latch and open the door. I was grateful for that. At least he wasn't disturbing my evidence. He leaned into the Rabbit, then straightened and came back to the patrol car. “Call for a backup, Willy. Tell them to get someone to impound the car while we drag our friend here off to jail.”

  “Why? What have you got?”

  “Remember the desk clerk told us she was wearing a bunch of Indian jewelry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Looks like it's all there, and the front end is smashed all to shit.”

  “That's impossible! I tell you, I've been asleep in my room since seven o'clock.”

  “We've got you dead to right, mister,” Glasses said.

  “I swear I didn't do it.”

  “Save it for the judge,” he said.

  We waited in the car interminable minutes until a second patrol car with flashing blue lights and a wailing siren worked its way through the onlookers.

  By the time we got to the station, there was a crowd of reporters milling outside, with Maxwell Cole leading the pack. Many of the out-of-town newsiest had decided to stay over, thus gaining admittance to the third media event of the day. When Willy opened the door, I didn't want to get out. My mouth was dry; my knees shook, not with fear so much as helpless rage and indignation.

  “Get out,” Willy commanded.

  I didn't couldn't. Willy grabbed me by the shoulder and bodily pulled me from the car. Again I wanted a shield, a sack, a cloak of invisibility—anything to lock out the eyes and the cameras and the voices and the nightmare. Willy and Joe herded me into the station and handed me over to a woebegone detective named Barnes.

  Barnes struck me as a detective's detective, an old-time cop who used common sense as opposed to some computerized procedural manual. He brought me a Styrofoam cup of bitter coffee. “They read you your rights?” I nodded. Over his voice, in the background, I could hear the demanding questions of the reporters who were laying siege to the Pasco City Police Department.

  Barnes cocked his ear as if listening to the uproar outside. “You want to tell me what happened?”

  How could I tell him what happened when I didn't know? Mona Larson was dead, but I didn't know how or why or where. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “How long did you know Mrs. Larson?”

  “I just met her this afternoon.”

  “At her husband's funeral?”

  “No, later, when she came back to the hotel, after the funeral.”

  “You followed her?” It was a leading question.

  “Yes.”

  “You went to her room?”

  “No. I called her, from my room. We met for a drink.”

  “Why?”

  “To talk.”

  “About?”

  “Sig, her husband.”

  “You knew him, then?”

  The questions were getting worse. So were the answers. “No. Not until after he was murdered.”

  Barnes' eyes glittered with that now-we're-getting-somewhere look. I recognized it. I've used it myself during interrogations. “After?”

  “I heard a woman screaming from my room at the Rosario Resort on Orcas Island. I checked it out and found Ginger Watkins with Sig Larson's body. I've been working unofficially with Hal Huggins, the detective from Friday Harbor. Call and ask him. It's the San Juan County Sheriff's Department.”

  “I probably will give him a call,” Barnes said reasonably. “After we finish here. So you met Mrs. Larson for a drink, in the bar?”

  “Yes. I think it's called the Star Light Lounge.”

  “And you talked about?”

  “I don't remember exactly…her marriage, Welton, her stepchildren. Lots of things. Then she had to leave.”

  “Did you go with her?”

  “No.”

  “Follow her?”

  “No. I told you, I went back to my room for a nap.”

  “Come on, Detective Beaumont. Let's get to the bottom of this. Did you and Mrs. Larson quarrel about something?” His position solidified. Up till then, I had answered his questions in a warily cooperative fashion, but something in his manner shifted, warning me. Before, I had believed we were on the same side. It was now clear that we weren't.

  “Where's Ray Johnson?” I asked.

  “The Chief? What business is that of yours?”

  “Call him,” I said flatly. “Ray and I used to be partners on the force in Seattle.”

  I could tell my words made some impact. Barnes got up and walked across the room, hands deep in his pockets. “Mrs. Larson was deliberately run down by a man driving a red car. Witnesses saw a Rabbit leaving the scene. Aren't you driving a red Rabbit?”

  I didn't answer. He walked back across the room and looked down at me accusingly. “So what have you got against the parole board, Detective Beaumont? Did they let out a crook you thought should have stayed locked up?”

  “I'm trying to tell you—”

  “You've been on the scene of two recent homicides before this one.” He picked up a newspaper that had been lying facedown on his desk. “Not only that, Mrs. Watkins died in your car, a red Porsche. How come you like red so much?”

  “Call Ray Johnson, for chrissake! He'll vouch for me.”

  “The chief is unavailable. He and his wife are celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary with a second honeymoon in Spokane. I'm not calling him for anybody.”

  “What about Hal Huggins, the detective over in Friday Harbor?” I struggled to restrain my temper.

  Barnes smiled indulgently, as if I were a not-too-bright kid who had screwed up some simple directions. “If you want to call somebody, I'd suggest you call your attorney, not a character witness. You want to use the phone?”

  “No, I don't want to use the phone. I want out.”

  His smile disappeared. “I don't believe you understand, Mr. Beaumont. You're being booked on an open charge of murder.”

  The words filled the room, sucking out the atmosphere. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. “You're right,” I said, caving in, “I want to use the phone.” I tried Peters first. No dice. He was in The Dalles, with Ames, for the custody hearing. I didn't know where they were staying.

  It's easy to panic in a situation like that, to decide that you're totally isolated and there's no way to get help. I finally dialed Ida Newell's number, collect. Ida, my next-door neighbor, is a retired schoolteacher, the proverbial little old lady in tennis shoes. She collects crossword puzzles for me and mothers me as much as I'll tolerate. It was ten-thirty, but she stays up late to watch the news.

  “Why, Beau,” she said pleasantly, once the operator connected us. “Where are you?”

  I didn't entirely answer that question. “I need your help, Ida. I've got to get in touch with my partner and my attorney. I won't be able to call out after this. Could you please find them and give them a message?”

  “Certainly.” Thankfully, she didn't ask any questions.

  “Their names are Ron Peters and Ralph Ames. They're staying somewhere in The Dalles.”

  “Where?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Look here, Beau, if you don't know where they're staying, how do you expect me to find them?”

  I wanted to bully her to action, but I fought to keep impatience out of my voice. “They'll be at the best hotel or motel in town. Try the phone book, the Yellow Pages.”

  Ida sounded dubious. “If I find them, what do I say?”

  “Have Ames call me.” I glanced at Barnes, who nodded reluctantly. I read her the number off the phone.

  “That's all?”

  “Tell him it's urgent.”

  “Well, all right.”

  “Thanks, Ida. You've no idea how much I appreciate this.”

  I put down the phone. Twenty minutes later, after fingerprints and a mug shot, I was locked up in a cell. Out of deference to my being a police officer, they gave me a private
cell.

  It was small consolation.

  CHAPTER

  20

  I slept. I don't know how, but I did. Maybe when you're up against something you can do absolutely nothing about, sleep is Mother Nature's balm for the insoluble problem. I slept, blissfully ignorant of what went on around me. Everyone told me about it. Later.

  Through the wonders of modern telecommunications, old J. P. Beaumont hit the eleven o'clock news on every major television station in the Pacific Northwest—Spokane, Seattle, Portland, and Boise. The lead story was all about Seattle's rogue cop being booked into Pasco City Jail on an open charge of murder. It made for very splashy journalism and pushed Sig Larson's funeral back to just before Sports.

  As far as the press was concerned, my guilt was a foregone conclusion. Not everyone had access to the kind of material Maxwell Cole did. They had to content themselves with only the immediate story. Max sat down and composed an in-depth piece that he transferred by modem to the P.I. in downtown Seattle. He dredged it all out of his fertile memory—the kid in the alley when I was a rookie, Anne Corley, Ginger dead in my Porsche. His column would have done the National Enquirer proud.

  I slept.

  Peters saw the story on a Portland station in The Dalles. He dialed Ames' number and found it busy. Ida Newell had just reached Ames at the Papadera Inn, The Dalles' only Best Western motel. Peters came to Ames' room while Ralph was still talking to Ida. Before the news was over, Ames and Peters were checked out of their rooms and driving hell-bent-for-leather to Tri Cities.

  I sawed logs. It's called the sleep of the just.

  In the bridal suite of Spokane's Ridpath Hotel, Evie Johnson fell asleep while Ray congratulated himself on his performance, not bad for twenty-five years of marriage. He could still hold his own in the bedroom department.

  With Evie drowsing contentedly beside him, he switched the TV on low. He'd watch the news for a couple of minutes. He woke Evie scrambling out of bed. She sat up as he pulled on his clothes.

  “Where are you going?” she demanded.

  “I've gotta go, hon,” he said. “You stay here. I'll leave the car so you can come home tomorrow.”

  “Why? What's wrong?”

  “Someone back home lost his marbles and arrested Beau for first-degree murder.”

  “Can't you call?”

  “I can't knock heads over the phone.”

  By the time Ray was ready, Evie had called the airport and discovered that the last plane for Tri Cities left at the fifty-five. She dressed quickly, throwing things into the suitcase. “I'll go with you,” she told him. “There's no sense in staying here alone.”

  And still I slept.

  San Juan County Sheriff Bill Yates woke Hal Huggins out of a sound sleep. “What the hell is going on?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I rented a float plane. He'll put you down on the Columbia. Get over to Pasco and find out.”

  So Hal Huggins, too, began a midnight trek to Tri Cities while I slept on, dreaming I was slicing off one of Maxwell Cole's gaudy ties with a huge pinking shears. No wonder I didn't want to wake up.

  Ray hit town first. He came roaring into the jail, waking everybody, including a couple of drunks in the next cell who complained bitterly about being disturbed. “Why the hell didn't someone call me? I could have told you…” he shouted over his shoulder as he came down the hall. I could see Barnes hovering at a discreet distance.

  “Come on, come on,” he growled as the jailer fumbled with the key. “Open up, you nitwit!”

  I swung off my cot and slipped into the plastic slippers that had replaced my shoes. I was wearing a bright orange jail jumpsuit that was more than slightly too short in the crotch and, as a consequence, more than moderately uncomfortable.

  “Where the hell are his clothes?” Ray rumbled at Barnes. “Go get'em.”

  Barnes disappeared down the hall. Ray hurried into the cell as the door opened. “Are you all right, Beau?”

  “Sure, Ray. I'm fine. It was a mistake, that's all.”

  “Why the hell didn't you call me?”

  “They said you were celebrating your twenty-fifth anniversary and couldn't be disturbed.”

  “I'm disturbed, all right! You can bet your ass I'm disturbed!”

  Ray hustled me down the hall and into a restroom where Barnes brought me my clothes. “How did you hear about it?” I asked.

  “It was on the news. At eleven.”

  “Where, in Spokane?”

  “That's where I saw it, but I'll bet it was all over. You should see the mob of reporters outside right now. The place is crawling.”

  “Great,” I muttered. “That's just great.”

  He led me into his office, a place not much bigger than the cubbyhole the two of us had shared in the Public Safety Building in Seattle. This one boasted a polished wooden desk, not the institutional gray/green metal of Seattle P.D.

  “Where is Evie?” I asked. “I'll bet she's pissed.”

  Ray grinned. “She was until she found out it was you. She drove back with me. Evangeline always had a soft spot in her heart for you, Beau. There's no accounting for taste. You hungry?” he asked.

  Once he reminded me, I was actually far beyond hunger. “Starved,” I told him.

  He picked up the phone and dialed a number. I heard a phone ringing somewhere outside. “Go pick up a couple of chili-burgers from Marie's,” he barked into the phone. “Tell her they're for me, with extra cheese and onions. And make a new pot of coffee. We're going to be a while.”

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his gradually widening girth. “What the hell is going on?”

  Partway into my story, there was a knock on the door. A pretty young woman entered, carrying two steaming platters of chiliburgers. She left us with them and went out, returning with two freshly brewed cups of coffee. “Thanks, LeAnn,” Ray murmured as she set a mug in front of him. LeAnn flashed him a shy smile.

  “See there?” He grinned once the door closed behind her. “Around here I get some respect.”

  The two platters contained burgers smothered with thick chili, melted cheese, and chunks of chopped onions. Ray took a bite, followed by a sip of coffee. “Reminds me of the Doghouse,” he said. “Sometimes I really miss that old place.”

  The Doghouse is a restaurant a few blocks from my condo in Seattle. Ray and I frequented it the whole time we were partners. I go there less often now that Peters and I work together.

  I was ravenous. We had barely made a dent in the two platters when we heard a commotion outside. Ray's phone rang. “What is it?” He listened, then held the phone away from his ear and covered the mouthpiece.

  “Somebody named Ames. Says he's your attorney.”

  “Ames! Ida must have found him.”

  “You want to see him?”

  “Sure.”

  “And a guy named Peters?”

  “Him too.”

  LeAnn opened the door. Ames strode purposefully into the room, talking as he came. “Look here, Chief Johnson, I demand to see my client at once!” Ames stopped abruptly when he spotted me sitting with a plate on top of Ray's desk scarfing down chili-burger as fast as I could shovel. Peters, directly behind Ames, almost rear-ended him.

  “What the hell!” Peters exclaimed. The looks on their faces would have been comical if they hadn't been so serious. They had broken speed laws in two states, driving through the night to rescue me from jail, only to find me happily chowing down with the Chief of Police.

  I stood up, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “Ralph, I'd like you to meet my former partner, Chief Ray Johnson. Ray, this is Ralph Ames, my attorney, and my new partner, Detective Ron Peters.”

  “You guys hungry?” Ray asked, indicating the half-consumed chili-burgers. “We could order a couple more. It would only take a minute.”

  Peters stifled a shudder of disgust and shook his head. Ames said a polite “no thank you” and got straight to the point. “What'
s going on?”

  So I started the story again, from the beginning. I had reached almost the same point where Ames and Peters had made their entrance when the phone rang again. “No lie? He's here?” Ray said. “Send him in.”

  Hal Huggins came in. Ray showered him with the effusive cordiality one reserves for a late arrival at a class reunion. Once pleasantries were exchanged, the story reverted to square one. I was beginning to wish I had taped it on the first go down so I could turn on a machine and listen to it, rather than repeating it again and again. When I finally finished, there was a long silence.

  Huggins spoke first. “I didn't figure him to be that smart,” he said.

  “Who?” I demanded. Obviously, Huggins knew something the rest of us didn't.

  “Wilson. Don Wilson.”

  “Why him?” Peters asked.

  “The calendar,” Hal answered. “Ginger Watkins' calendar. Beau found it in a garbage can up at Rosario Sunday night. Wilson's prints are all over it.”

  “Where'd you get a copy of his prints?” I asked.

  “From the F.B.I. Wilson served in the army.”

  Ray looked dubious. “How'd you get an F.B.I. report back so fast? Those things take months.”

  “You forget. Parole board members are political appointees. Governor Reynolds placed a call to the White House, and the F.B.I. found his prints in short order.”

  “So it is Wilson after all,” I mused.

  “Looks that way,” Huggins agreed. “I'm getting a search warrant today.” He turned on me. “You're sure he wasn't at the funeral?”

  “I'm sure. Believe me, I looked.”

  Huggins was thinking aloud. “I wonder if we could request any of the television videotape and have someone go over it looking for him.”

  “Could be,” Ray agreed. “Some of them are pretty good about it.”

  Hal continued. “He had to be there, must have followed you to the Red Lion. He saw you meet Mona Larson and decided to add one more notch to his scorecard. And frame you in the process.”

  I thought back on my drive into Pasco. I could remember no cars on the road behind me, but I hadn't been looking. I shook my head. “I didn't see any,” I said. “But why frame me? It doesn't make sense.”