"The detectives showed me a picture of you and Marie on a beach."
"You told them that the woman in the pictures was Marie?"
"Yes."
"Did they seemed surprised?"
"Now that you mention it, they did."
" 4What did they ask you when you said that?"
"They wanted to know if Marie had ever mentioned you, but they wouldn't tell me why they were asking."
Ritter hesitated. Then she said, 4 Judge, Marie and I weren't close. Especially these past few years. I was hoping you could tell me what went wrong. How this happened."
"Ms. Ritter, I would like to talk with you about Marie, too. If I took the shuttle to Seattle, would you meet with me tonight?"
[2]
The shuttle touched down a little after six P. M. Twenty minutes later, the cab Quinn hired at Sea-Tac Airport rounded a curve on the freeway and the judge saw the massive, glass and concrete structures that dominated Seattle's city center. Seattle had its share of interesting architecture: the Space Needle towered over everything, and the Pike Place Market, a collection of ramshackle stalls, shops and restaurants seemingly held together by glue, tottered on a hillside overlooking Elliott Bay. However, Seattle's buildings were nowhere near as spectacular as its geography. The "Emerald City" sat on a narrow strip of land between Puget Sound and eighteen-mile-long Lake Washington. Massive Mount Rainier dominated the landscape east of the city, and to the west were the jagged peaks of the Olympic Mountains.
Shortly after reaching the city, the cab turned off the interstate and traveled downhill toward the Pioneer Square Historic District, an area of late-Victorian and early-twentieth-century buildings that had been built up after the Great Fire of 1889. Day and night, the district swarmed with crowds attracted to its galleries, restaurants, antique shops and theaters. Denise Ritter had agreed to meet Quinn in an espresso bar at First and James near the original Pioneer Square. Quinn spotted the totem pole in the square before he located the cafe, a dark and narrow space squeezed between a gallery featuring Native American art and an occult bookstore. Toward the back of the espresso bar, a woman wearing a peasant dress nervously scanned the door.
Denise Ritter bore little resemblance to her sister. She was five nine and stoop-shouldered. Her hair was black like Marie's, but it was frizzy and collected behind her in a barrette, and her blue eyes hid behind thick, tortoiseshell glasses. Behind the thick lenses, Ritter's eyes were red from crying. When she noticed Quinn walking toward her, Ritter seemed to pull into herself. It took Quinn a moment to realize that Marie had modeled her Claire Reston persona on her real sister.
"Tm Richard Quinn," the judge said when he reached Ritter's table. Ritter held out her hand selfconsciously and Quinn took it. The skin felt cold and she looked exhausted.
"Are you all right?" Quinn asked as he sat down.
"No," Ritter answered frankly. "Seeing Marie like that was really hard for me."
She could not go on and Quinn was relieved when a skinny waiter in jeans and a T-shirt walked up to the table. Quinn asked for coffee. Ritter was nursing a latte.
"I appreciate your willingness to meet with me, under the circumstances," Quinn told Ritter.
"I'm doing this as much for me as for you. Marie was my sister. What I don't understand is your interest."
"What did the police tell you about me?"
"That you knew Marie."
"Did they say that I was a suspect in Marie's death?"
The question startled Ritter. She shook her head while examining Quinn more closely.
"And Marie never mentioned me to you, or talked about a judge that she knew?"
Ritter looked down at the tabletop. "I rarely talked to Marie about her business."
"What exactly did you understand Marie's business to be?"
Ritter sighed sadly. "Marie was a call girl, Judge. A prostitute."
Quinn should have been shocked, but he wasn't. If you wanted to hire a woman to seduce a man, seeking the services of a professional made sense.
"Did Marie work in Seattle?"
"Yes."
"Did she ever work in Portland?"
"I don't know. She never told me she did, but I disapproved of Marie's . . . lifestyle and she knew it, so it was rare for her to discuss her profession with me."
"I want you to know that before today I did not know that Marie was a prostitute," Quinn said firmly. "She told me that she designed belts. I thought she worked in the fashion industry. Did she ever do anything like that?"
"Marie! Not that I knew of."
"Would you mind talking about your sister?"
Ritter brushed at her eyes. Her lower lip trembled.
"Marie was two years younger than me. She was always rebellious. I was a good student. Marie was at least as intelligent as I am, but she barely passed. She was into drugs, boys. My parents tried everything. Eventually, they gave up. When she was eighteen, Marie was arrested for prostitution and my parents kicked her out of the house. She wasn't really living at home then, anyway. After that, they wouldn't have anything to do with her."
"Do your parents know that Marie is dead?"
"No. I haven't told them. I don't know what to say. They wrote Marie off years ago."
"How close were you to your sister?"
"That's hard to answer. We saw very little of each other when I was at college and graduate school. After I moved back to Seattle to take a teaching job we started meeting a little more, but there wasn't any plan to it. Sometimes she would just drop by or she'd call on the spur of the moment and we'd go out for dinner. A lot of the times when she called I thought it was because she was lonely, but, if I asked her, she would always pretend to be upbeat and tell me how great her life was."
Ritter paused and took a sip of her latte. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes.
"There were other times when she would show up out of the blue, strung out or just needing a place to stay. I knew she wanted help when she came to me like that. I even got her to go into a rehab program once. The last few times I saw her I think she was clean, but I'm so naive I don't think I could really tell if she was using."
Quinn handed Ritter his handkerchief.
"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I guess we really weren't that close. We were so different. But she was my sister and she was so lost. The last time we were together I tried to talk her into getting a straight job. She just laughed. She said she was doing great and was going to do better. She looked like she was, too. She was wearing expensive clothes and jewelry I hadn't seen before."
"Where was she getting her money? I know you said that she was a call girl. Was that her only job? Did she have a pimp?"
"No, not a pimp. From what I could figure out, she worked for an escort service. But it was a front for a call girl operation."
Denise paused. She suddenly looked very thoughtful.
"That last time I saw Marie, the time I told you about, when she was dressed in the expensive clothes, that was in mid-February. She was very up, very excited, and that was strange, because I knew she didn't enjoy earning her money the way she did. She'd told me that much."
Quinn had been in St. Jerome in late February. He was sure that Marie Ritter's sudden, mid-February good fortune was connected to the blackmail plot.
"Did Marie tell you why she was excited or how she got the money for the clothes?"
"Not specifically. She did talk about making a lot of money and I had the impression that the money she was going to make wasn't connected to the escort service.
That it was something that she had going on the side. But I can't be certain of that."
"Did your sister have any friends I might talk to?"
"Marie mentioned someone named Christy a few times and another woman named Robin, but all I know about them is their first names."
"Did your sister ever talk about her customers?"
"I didn't encourage Marie to talk about what she did. It was very distasteful to me, that kind o
f life." Ritter shuddered. "I can't even imagine it.
"When she did speak about the men she'd been with, it was usually with contempt, but she never mentioned their names and I didn't ask. She thought most of them were pathetic. There were a few she said were okay, but generally she would laugh about them. As I said, I didn't enjoy discussing what she did, except to try to get her to stop."
"Denise, did your sister ever mention any customers from Portland?"
"Not that I can recall." Ritter paused. "She did tell me that there was a man she had seen more than once who lived in Oregon. He had some kind of business in Seattle. It was something odd."
"Can you remember what it was?"
Ritter brightened. "She said he was an undertaker. Marie thought that was funny."
Quinn felt a surge of excitement. "Denise, this is important. Did she describe this man? Can you remember anything she said about him?"
Ritter frowned, then shook her head.
"All I remember was his business."
"She never said how old he was?"
"She said he didn't dress or act like she thought an undertaker would. I think he was a flashy dresser and he liked to dance all night, so I assumed that he was young, but she never told me his age."
" Do you have any idea how I can get in touch with Marie's escort service?"
"No. I don't even know where Marie was living these past few months."
Ritter paused. Then she looked directly at Quinn.
"I've been trying to build up the courage to ask you something since you walked in, Judge."
"Go ahead and ask your question."
"What was your connection with my sister?"
"I met her on a plane when I flew to the Caribbean to speak at a legal conference. We spent the next day on the beach you saw in the picture. I think Marie was hired to make friends with me, then seduce me. When the police searched the hotel room where Marie was murdered, they found those pictures in her suitcase and they brought me to the hotel room. They thought that I might have killed her, but I didn't. I could never hurt someone the way your sister was hurt."
Ritter digested this information. Then she took a deep breath and looked directly at Quinn.
"The detectives . . . They only pulled back the sheet enough to show me Marie's face and I was too upset to ask. Was she . . . ? Did she feel much pain?"
Quinn flashed back to the room. For a brief moment, he saw Marie Ritter's savaged body.
"I'm afraid she did," the judge answered gendy.
Ritter's eyes watered. She bit her lip.
"Please tell me what happened."
"Marie, you don't want to know that. That isn't going to do you any good."
"Please," Ritter pleaded.
Quinn sighed and described what he had seen in the hotel room as delicately as was possible. When he was through, Ritter spaced out for a moment.
"I knew this would happen if she stayed in that life. I tried to talk to her, but she wouldn't listen to me."
"You can only do so much. Don't make the mistake of thinking that this was your fault or that there was some way that you could have saved her. Some people don't want to be saved. Promise me that you're not going to take this burden on your shoulders."
Ritter sighed. "No, I won't make that mistake."
"Good. That's good. The killer took your sister. Don't you let him take you, too."
[3]
Quinn was barely conscious of the fifty-minute flight back to Portland. All he could think about was the information that Denise Ritter had given to him. Mary Garrett had filed a pretrial discovery motion claiming that she had not received all of the police reports in the possession of the prosecution. To resolve the issue, Quinn had been forced to review the reports. He had read Detective Anthony's interview with Charles DePaul. If Junior knew that his father was going to change his will, he would have a clear motive for hiring Jablonski to kill his father and Ellen Crease. If Junior knew that Crease could not benefit from the will if she was convicted of her husband's murder, Junior would have a motive to blackmail Quinn. Quinn suddenly remembered the argument between Junior and his father at Hoyt Industries that Anthony had learned about during his interview with Stephen Appling. Were they arguing about the will?
How could he find out the cause of the argument? Only Junior and his father were present. An idea occurred to Quinn. Karen Fargo had to be the woman who was going to be the new beneficiary of Hoyt's will. She was his mistress when the argument occurred. Men talked to their mistresses about the things that bothered them.
Quinn's first impulse was to tell Ellen Crease about his discovery in Seattle. Jack Brademas could talk to Fargo. He was a professional investigator, a former policeman. But that wouldn't work. Fargo would never talk to anyone connected to Ellen Crease. He would have to do it.
A light rain was falling when Quinn's flight landed at nine-thirty. He found Fargo's address in the phone book and drove straight from the Portland Airport to her yellow and white Cape Cod. The judge parked out front shortly after ten o'clock. There were lights on in the front room. Quinn dashed across the street and huddled under the overhang that shaded the front door. He rang the bell. The sound from a television show stopped and a curtain moved. Moments later, the front door opened as wide as the safety chain would permit.
"Ms. Fargo?"
"Yes?" she responded warily.
"I'm Richard Quinn. I'm a judge. I heard the case against Ellen Crease."
Fargo recognized Quinn from the television broadcasts about the case.
"What do you want from me?"
Quinn smiled to put Fargo at ease. "It would be great if I could get inside. I forgot my umbrella."
Water was running down Quinn's face and beading on his raincoat. Fargo opened the door and let Quinn inside. He ran a hand through his hair to rid it of some of the rain.
"I apologize for coming so late and not calling first. I wouldn't disturb you if this wasn't important."
Fargo walked into the living room and gestured toward the couch. Quinn took off his coat so he would not dampen her furniture. Fargo sat forward on her chair watching Quinn.
"You know that I ruled against the State in the pretrial hearings?"
Fargo nodded.
"Some new information has come to me that I didn't have when I made the ruling. I'm afraid I can t tell you what it is. I hope you understand."
"Certainly."
"I've learned that Lamar Hoyt and his son had an argument shortly before Mr. Hoyt was murdered. It's suddenly become important to find out the substance of the argument, but no one knows what they talked about. I was wondering if Mr. Hoyt mentioned it to you."
"Yes. He did. I ... I never told anyone about it because I didn't think that it was important."
"That's okay, Ms. Fargo. You wouldn't have understood why I need to know about the argument. Can you tell me what Mr. Hoyt said?"
"I don't remember the date."
"That's okay."
"I do remember Lamar visiting in the early evening. He was very angry about Junior."
"Why?"
"He thought he was skimming money from the mortuary business. Profits were down and he was furious. He was having Junior investigated and the investigator had found out that Junior was living way beyond his means. The argument occurred when Lamar confronted Junior with the things that the investigator found."
"Did Mr. Hoyt mention anything specific that the investigator had found?"
Fargo colored. "Most of it had to do with women."
"Dates?"
Fargo shook her head. "There was some of that, but Lamar said that Junior was also paying expensive prostitutes. Lamar also thought that Junior was using cocaine. It was very sordid and Lamar was furious."
[4]
Laura's calls had been on Quinn's mind all day, but he had been either too busy to call her or too afraid. If she wanted a divorce, he did not want to learn about it when he was tired and run-down. But what if she wanted him back? As soon a
s he returned to his apartment, Quinn poured himself a stiff drink and phoned Laura.
"Dick!" Laura responded with obvious relief when she heard his voice. "Where are you? I've been trying to reach you all day."
"I'm at my apartment, but I was in Seattle earlier today."
"What were you doing there?"
"It would take too long to explain. Fran told me that you called several times. What did you want to talk to me about?"
"I need to see you." Laura's voice wavered. "Can you come home?"
"Now?"
"Yes. Please."
Quinn had rarely heard uncertainty in Laura's voice and this was the first time he had ever heard her plead. If she was anything, Laura was a model of self-confidence, always certain that she was right, always the one who made the demands, never the supplicant.
"I'll come over right away."
"Thank you, Dick."
Quinn hung up the phone and stood quietly for a moment. He had wanted to say something more, to tell Laura that he still loved her, but he couldn't, because he was afraid of what she would say.
? ? *
Laura looked tense when she opened the front door for Quinn. She was dressed casually in a blue warm-up suit, but she had put on makeup and her hair was combed carefully. He hoped that was a good sign.
"Take off your coat. Let's sit down." Laura pointed toward the living room. "I even made you a drink."
Quinn saw a glass of Scotch resting on an end table next to the couch. He shucked his coat and followed Laura. She sat opposite him with a coffee table between them.
"I've been rehearsing this, so let me just talk, okay? When I married you we seemed to have the same goals. Then you left the firm to become a judge. It was hard for me to accept that. I felt betrayed. It wasn't just the money. It was the life I'd planned for the two of us. I couldn't understand how you could walk away from your partnership, something that I coveted so much. I think we started drifting apart after you made that choice. I'm not saying it was your fault. But it's true. Something changed in the marriage. Or maybe I changed. It doesn't matter.
"I really was sorry when the Miami client hired me, but I honestly believed that I owed it to the firm to take him on. Then the job turned out to be a hoax. I was furious. All I wanted to do was to fly back to Portland. I started to phone the airline when I remembered how sad you had been when I told you I couldn't go with you to St. Jerome. I remembered your voice on the phone. You sounded so . . ."
The Undertaker's Widow Page 21
