“One of Agnes Ferman’s neighbors told us that someone came by not too long ago, someone from the family she used to work for. According to the neighbor, Agnes claimed that person had come to check on her well-being. Would that person happen to be you, Mr. Considine?”
“Yes. I guess so. What if it was?”
“You must have had a fairly close relationship with Agnes. Or else, your parents did.”
“I suppose we all did,” Frederick Considine said, although he didn’t sound entirely convincing. And the fact that his young wife wasn’t even aware of Agnes Ferman’s name made it even less so.
At that point in the interview I found myself a little baffled. Driving to Boeing Field I had assumed, erroneously, that Frederick Considine would be upset by the news of Agnes’ death. I had expected him to express surprise and possibly some grief as well. The fact that he did neither set off little warning bells in my head. What was emerging in grief’s stead—more through body language than through anything Considine said aloud—was a sense of relief. Gratitude almost. Frederick Considine didn’t seem any more grief-stricken about Agnes Ferman’s death than did her various greedy relatives. That raised the number of “don’t cares.” Now the score was five to one.
“Let me ask you this,” I continued. “During most of that forty-year period while Agnes worked for your family, was she live-in help?”
Frederick nodded. “There’s a carriage house out behind the main house,” he said. “Agnes stayed there during the week. She went home to her own place on her days off.”
“Is there anything in what you saw of Agnes Ferman that would have led you to believe she was fairly well-off?”
“Well-off?” he repeated. “No. Not at all.”
“Would it surprise you, then, to learn that in the aftermath of the fire we found a fair amount of cash hidden on her premises? A large part of it seems to date from some point in the midseventies.”
Fred Considine stared past me as though suddenly transfixed by something happening in the stark emptiness of the airplane hangar outside the window-lined walls of the office. For the better part of a minute, he said nothing at all, then he reached across the desk, picked up a phone, and punched in a few numbers.
“Excuse me for a moment, if you will,” he said. “Ray, please,” he said, speaking into the phone when someone came on the line. “Tell him it’s Fred Considine.”
“Hi, Ray,” he continued moments later. “Yup, we’re back. Just got in a few minutes ago. It was great. Late in the season, of course, but still great and not very crowded. Right, next time we should all go. Sure, but that’s not why I’m calling you just now. I have a pair of Seattle PD homicide detectives sitting here in the office at the hangar. They’re asking all sorts of questions about Agnes Ferman. What should I do?”
There was another pause, a long one, while Ray—an attorney, presumably—issued some kind of marching orders. His side of the conversation was long-winded enough that, by the time it was over, it was verging on lecture proportions. At the end of it, Frederick Considine put down the phone.
“That was Ray Crosse on the phone,” he told Sue and me. “He’s our family attorney. Has been for years. He’s in the process of contacting a criminal attorney and told me not to say anything more until we hear from Mr. Drachman.”
At the sound of the name, Sue sent a startled look in my direction as if to say, “What the hell is going on?”
Caleb Winthrop Drachman III—Cal for short—is one of Seattle’s most prominent defense attorneys. He’s not quite the same caliber as O. J. Simpson’s defense team, but I have no doubt that someday he will have that kind of national prominence. In the meantime, when it comes to defending criminal matters that involve the state of Washington’s rich and powerful, nobody has more of a sterling reputation than Cal Drachman.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Considine. We came here to ask you about Agnes Ferman’s money. Why would you need the services of a defense attorney?”
Considine looked at me across the desk. “I guess Ray feels it’s the prudent thing to do,” he said.
The phone rang. He grabbed the receiver. “Yes,” he said into it. “That’s right, Mr. Drachman. Thanks for calling me right back.” He paused. “Yes,” he added. “They’re both still here. Yes, Detectives Beaumont and Danielson. No, I haven’t answered any other questions.”
There was yet another long pause during which we could periodically hear a man’s voice coming through the phone although it was impossible to make out anything that was being said. Finally, Considine pulled the receiver away from his ear. “My attorney wants to talk to you,” he said, handing the handset across the desk to me.
“Hello, Mr. Drachman,” I said. “Detective J. P. Beaumont. We met a few years ago. That double homicide in the school district office on Queen Anne Hill.”
“That’s right, Detective Beaumont,” Cal Drachman returned at once. “I remember now. The Kelsey case. How’s Pete Kelsey doing these days?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “I haven’t heard from him since.”
“That’s not too surprising,” Drachman said with a chuckle. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t heard from him, either. I hope he’s getting his life back together. Now what’s all this with Mr. Considine? Is he under arrest?”
“No. Not at all. We came to see him in regard to the arson death of one of his family’s long-time employees. We found a rather large amount of cash concealed in an old refrigerator at her residence. Detective Danielson and I came to see if Mr. Considine had any idea where all that money might have come from. There was absolutely no hint that he was under arrest or even under suspicion. Instead of answering our questions, however, he called you.”
“I’m sure my client will want to cooperate fully with your investigation,” Drachman assured me. “But it’s always wise to have an attorney present during an interview process. Bearing that in mind, I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from asking any further questions until I have an opportunity to confer with my client.”
“Right,” I said.
“Where are you now?” he asked.
“We’re down here at Boeing Field—hangar 441. I believe Mrs. Considine took his vehicle, so if you’d like, Detective Danielson and I could give him a ride…”
Although it sounded like a reasonable enough offer on my part, all of us—with the possible exception of Fred Considine himself—knew what was at stake. Everybody else understood exactly how an automobile ride with two homicide detectives might play itself out. More than one guilt-ridden suspect has spilled his guts during a purportedly harmless “ride” downtown, regardless of whether or not any official questioning was going on at the time. Unfortunately for Sue and me, Cal Drachman saw right through the ruse.
“That’s mighty nice of you, Detective Beaumont,” he said. “A kind offer, but no thanks. Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll have one of my assistants drive straight down there to bring Mr. Considine directly to our office. I’m sorry, what hangar did you say again?”
“Number 441.”
“And remember,” he added, “any further questioning is to be done in my presence.”
“Of course.” I put down the phone. “Mr. Drachman is sending someone to pick you up and give you a ride into his office.”
Considine nodded. “Good,” he said. “Is that all then?”
It was. Since there didn’t seem to be any point to hanging around, Sue and I left right after that. “What the hell was that all about?” she demanded once both doors closed on our bulgemobile.
“Beats me,” I said.
“He was answering questions right along until we got to the part about the money. That’s when he clammed up.”
“I noticed that, too,” I responded. “What do we know about the Considines?”
“Not much. Just what Hilda Smathers told us,” Sue said, flipping back through pages of her notebook. Frowning, she scanned her notes. “Old-time pioneer-type timber money, possible booze smuggling during Prohibition that gr
ew into quite respectable banks during the war years. I remember Hilda saying something about the two boys being terribly spoiled.”
I remembered that, too. “Do we have any idea when or how Lucas Considine died?” I asked.
“None at all,” Sue returned, “but I should be able to find out.” She stopped long enough to scribble a note.
“What do you think about the way Considine took the news?”
“That Agnes was dead?” Sue asked.
I nodded. “Well,” Sue said thoughtfully. “If you ask me, he didn’t seem very upset about it.”
“Upset, nothing,” I said. “He looked downright relieved. Happy, almost. Ever since we’ve known about that money, we knew it couldn’t be legitimate. If it was earned income, Agnes would have put it in a bank account. She wouldn’t have stashed it in a refrigerator. Let’s think about this for a minute. Agnes was a trusted part of one of the city’s leading families for nearly forty years. The Considines are wealthy people. Not only do they have money, they also carry a certain stature in the community, as well. If there were any skeletons in the Considine family closet, Agnes Ferman would have known about them.”
“You’re suggesting blackmail?” Sue asked.
“Why not?”
“It makes sense.”
Just then something else came to me. “When you were counting all that money, was there any way to tell how much came in at a time?”
Sue shook her head. “No. There was that one big chunk. After that, it probably came in by dribs and drabs. A thousand at a time? Two maybe? I didn’t really pay that much attention, and from here there’s no way to tell, especially since some of each payment may have been spent without ever making it as far as the refrigerator.”
“Maybe there’s a reason Agnes put Hilda off and didn’t give her the money immediately. Maybe there was another payment coming due and by waiting until it arrived, it kept Agnes from having to transfer money in and out of the refrigerator.”
“I wonder if it isn’t more likely that Agnes didn’t want to go get the money at the time because Hilda was right there watching. Hilda Smathers doesn’t strike me as absolutely trustworthy. If I had been her sister, I wouldn’t have wanted her to know that I had a bundle of cash lying around free for the taking.”
“Point well taken,” I agreed, “but let’s say, just for argument’s sake, that Agnes was blackmailing Frederick Considine. What would she have had on him that was worth that much money to keep quiet?”
We drove several blocks without speaking. “It would have to be murder,” Sue replied at last.
“Murder,” I repeated. “Why do you say that?”
“According to my inventory, the money started coming in as early as the midseventies. If it were based on anything besides murder, the statute of limitations would have run out long ago.”
“Good thinking,” I said.
Sue grinned again, reassuring me that I had somehow managed to worm my way back into her good graces. “Not bad for woman’s intuition, right?” she asked.
“Right,” I agreed. “Not bad at all.”
Thirteen
It was late enough when Sue and I made it back downtown that I drove her straight to her car and dropped her off. Because parking is so much cheaper in the Seattle Center garage than it is around the department, Sue usually leaves her Ford Escort there and then takes the Monorail and free bus back and forth to the Public Safety Building. I pulled over next to the curb on Mercer to let her out of the Caprice.
“If anyone comes around looking for a report,” she said, “tell them I’ll type it up on the laptop at home and send it in by modem,” she said, stepping out onto the sidewalk. “Tomorrow we can go check the casino and start chasing after the Considine stuff, unless you want to start tracking that tonight.”
“No, thanks,” I told her. “Tomorrow sounds fine to me. If something’s been hanging fire since the midseventies, one day more isn’t going to make a difference. By the way, good luck tonight.”
A cloud seemed to pass briefly over her face. “We’ll be fine,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
With that she slammed the door shut. I opened the trunk so she could retrieve her computer then watched her jog up the stairs until she disappeared crossing the skybridge. Alone in the bulgemobile and reluctant as hell, I drove back down to the Public Safety Building.
Because I’d had more than enough of Paul Kramer to last me for one day, I stayed at the department only long enough to turn the car in at the garage and to check both Sue and me out on Watty’s attendance board. After that, I headed home. Truth be known, I bugged out early as much to avoid Sam Nguyen as I did to dodge Paul Kramer. Sure, I had agreed to have Sam ask the ME’s office about doing the DNA comparisons. And I would do it, too—the first time I happened to run into him.
My Hurricane Cafe hamburger had been late enough in the day that I wasn’t particularly hungry. Still, I was tempted to take another run past the restaurant just in case Jimmy Greenjeans had chanced to drop by on his day off. At the very last minute, that’s exactly what I did—I turned into the old familiar parking lot outside the Hurricane Cafe.
The after-work crowd wasn’t quite what it used to be. A brief survey of the room told me Mr. Greenjeans wasn’t there, but at the nearly deserted bar, I caught sight of a familiar figure—Maxwell Cole. Hunkered down on a barstool, he was staring disconsolately into the depths of what appeared to be a half-consumed Manhattan. Even in my drinking prime, Manhattans were something that could leave me puking drunk in no time. I always figured it was because I was allergic to maraschino cherries.
Kramer had given me orders to stay away from both Jimmy Greenjeans and Maxwell Cole. One of my lifelong problems has been an automatic, knee-jerk reaction to being told anything is verboten. Unfortunately, my being older and supposedly wiser hasn’t changed things.
I had spotted Max’s hulking figure from the back without the columnist seeing me. It would have been simple for me to simply fade back out the front door and into the street, but I didn’t do that. Instead, I slipped onto an empty stool beside him and fanned some of the cloud of cigarette smoke out of my eyes.
“Hair of the dog?” I asked.
He glowered at me and knocked a column of ashes into the ashtray. “You shoulda let me drive myself home, J.P.,” he grumbled. “If you’da just minded your own damned business, I’d still have a car.”
So much for gratitude over my saving him from a possible DUI or worse. “Maybe not,” I said cheerfully. “You were drunk enough that you might have wrecked it anyway, even without Anthony Lawson’s help. Still, it’s probably time you got yourself new wheels. You’ve had that old hunk of orange sheet metal for as long as I can remember.”
“Hell,” Cole growled forlornly, fingering the drooping strands of his foot-long handlebar moustache. “The odometer was just coming up on a hundred-fifty thou. With a Volvo that means it’s just getting broken-in good.”
“It was a junker, Max. Get yourself a new car. The way you’re swilling those down,” I nodded at his glass, “you could probably use a set of front-seat air bags.”
“What can I get for you?” the bartender interrupted. This one was a delicate little guy with a lisp, not one but three separate nose rings, and a distinctly girlish sway to his hips. I wondered if he was really a bartender or if he had landed in the Hurricane Cafe straight from central casting.
“Coffee,” I said. “Black.”
“And another one of these for me,” Max called after him. “Put it on his tab,” he added, jerking his head in my direction. “He owes me big, so he’s buying.”
I turned around on my stool and surveyed the room again. I had already ascertained that Mr. Greenjeans wasn’t there. Now I checked for the neighborhood ghouls, Mr. Atkins and Mr. Newsome. They weren’t there, either, but it was early for them—still daylight. Bats and vampires don’t usually venture out until well after dark.
“So why’d the poor bastard have to lift my car to do
himself in?” Max whined.
“It was probably the only one left in the lot.”
Max glared at me. “It wouldn’t have been if…”
“We’ve already been over that once, Max. Give it up. So, are you on foot tonight, or what?”
“No. My insurance agent told me that until they get the car cut loose from the impound lot, she won’t know whether or not it’s totaled. For the time being, she had me rent one of those little toy cars from Enterprise. It’s okay, I guess. Little, but with some pep. Still, it’s not a Volvo, know what I mean?” He had put the first cigarette out. Now he paused long enough to light another.
I suppressed a momentary impatience with the man and his mumbled, prattling whine. It may have been just minutes past five, but Maxwell Cole was already on the verge of being three sheets to the wind. The bartender delivered our drinks. I saw his guarded glance as he collected Max’s empty Manhattan glass. I’ve been on the receiving end of looks like that. I knew from experience that would be Maxwell Cole’s last drink of the evening—at least at the Hurricane Cafe. Which was a relief to me. No matter what condition Max was in, I had learned my lesson. I wouldn’t be offering him another ride home anytime soon.
“So you remember running into me here last night?” I asked.
Max straightened on his stool. “Sure, I do,” he replied, sounding offended. “Whaddya think, I was drunk or something?”
“Do you remember anything else about last night?”
“That’s the thing. I remember talking to him, to Chief, but I never woulda thought he’d take my car. I thought we were buddies. Pals.”
“Chief?”
“Most people called him Tony. But once I knew he was an Indian, I called him Chief. He seemed to like it, too. He’d stand up real tall and straight whenever I called him that. He’d grin at me and say, ‘You damn betcha.’ That was funny. Here was a guy who looked like he was pure Native American, but he sounded more like one of those old square-headed Swedes or Norwegians from Ballard.”
Doctors don’t operate on themselves and cops aren’t supposed to investigate cases involving themselves, their friends, or any members of their own family. I wondered whether those same kinds of prohibitions applied to journalists.
Breach of Duty (9780061739637) Page 16
