“That still doesn’t sound like a straight answer to me. Come on. What gives?” Watty insisted, pushing me into a corner.
“This is all supposition, of course, but I’m leaning toward justifiable homicide.”
“Justifiable! What makes you say that?”
“According to the wife, there was a fight. Nielsen tried to attack her and she fended him off, with the help of this other guy, a carpet installer named Larry Martin.”
“The one you’re going to talk to now?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to arrest him?”
“No, I’m not going to arrest him. I already told you. I just want to ask him some questions. My guess is it’ll probably boil down to self-defense.”
Watty was silent, but only for a moment. “Tell me about the wife, Beau. Is she a looker? Your recent track record isn’t so hot, you know. It wouldn’t be the first time a pretty lady’s turned your head.”
“Go to hell, Watty,” I snarled.
“By the way, Al says the medical examiner wants to know if you’re psychic or what. He says there was a helluva bruise just behind Nielsen’s left ear, a bruise and some pottery fragments.”
“I’m psychic, all right,” I told him. I hung up the phone long enough to cut the connection, then I dropped the receiver again, leaving it hanging loose the same way I had found it.
Behind me, Daisy came into the kitchen carrying a cardboard box. She opened it on the counter and carefully began removing and unwrapping the contents—a set of fine, bone china teacups and saucers. She held a delicate cup up to the window and examined it in the sunlight.
“Dotty wants us to use her things,” she said. “I’m afraid we’ll break them.”
I could understand her concern. The china was as far from their worn Melmac as a shiny new Mercedes is from a broken down VW bus. Behind us the telephone squealed, letting us know it had not been hung up properly. We ignored it.
Daisy escorted me back through the living room. On the bed in the corner, Dorothy Nielsen appeared to be sound asleep.
“I couldn’t help overhearing,” Daisy said, once we were outside the apartment and well beyond Dorothy’s earshot. “Did you say something about arresting someone?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” I told her. “That was my supervisor downtown. He’s overeager. This is an important case. The department wants some action, especially after Maxwell Cole’s piece in the paper this morning, but it’s far too soon to arrest anybody.”
“Do you have a suspect?” she persisted.
I didn’t want to offend her, but I didn’t want to spill my guts, either. “Look,” I said kindly, “I can certainly understand your concern, but I can’t answer that question without jeopardizing the investigation. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
She shook her head. I put one foot inside my car then pulled it back out. “By the way, Sergeant Watkins did tell me that they’ve scheduled a press conference for twelve-thirty. That’s when they’ll release your nephew’s name. I know word leaked out before, but this will be the first official announcement.”
“All right,” she said. “Thanks for telling me.”
She seemed strangely subdued, far different from the angry woman I had seen the day before, one who had been pitching heavy boxes and furniture into a U-Haul trailer. Today she was less angry, more approachable. I decided to go ahead and ask her the question that had been bothering me ever since my conversation with Dorothy Nielsen. After all, if Daisy turned on me, the worst that could happen would be having the car door slam shut in my face.
“How did your sister break her hip?” I asked.
“You heard what she said,” Daisy replied. It was an answer that avoided my question.
“I heard her say she was stupid, but stupidity doesn’t usually break bones.” Daisy turned her face away from me. Her eyes seemed to focus on a pair of squawking crows arguing noisily in a nearby tree. I tried another tack.
“What did you think of your nephew?” I asked.
She swung her face back toward me with something of the previous day’s fire snapping in her eyes. “He was a worthless little no-account, no matter what his mother says.” With that, Daisy turned on her heel and marched into the house.
Her opinion of Dr. Frederick Nielsen tallied with everyone else’s—everyone’s but his mother’s.
I drove back to 1-5 on Forty-fifth and got on the freeway heading north. The Lake City Way exit is only two off-ramps above where I was. I cut across Seattle’s north-end urban sprawl and through Lake City itself.
Someone in Lake City had recently invested a wad of money in a local neighborhood beautification program. Trees and shrubs had been set in the median along Lake City Way. The greenery was accompanied by some artwork that looked for all the world like baked potatoes with knives stuck in them. It’s part of a program called Art in Public Places.
I call it Rocks in Public Places. For obvious reasons.
My notebook told me that Larry Martin’s address was on Erickson Place N.E. I never would have found it without a map. It was a short street, not much over a block or two long, off to the right, north of Lake City proper. I spotted the address first, then the orange-and-black FOR RENT sign in the window.
The apartment fronted on an alley. It was a small frame walk-up built over the garage of a weathered house that faced the street. I climbed the steep stairs and knocked. There was no answer.
“You lookin’ for a place to rent?” a voice called up to me.
I turned around and looked down. An old man in a faded blue plaid shirt sat in a wobbly deck chair on the back porch of the main house. The chair had been positioned to take advantage of the single patch of sunlight that wasn’t shaded by a huge, overhanging alder.
“Actually, I’m looking for Larry Martin,” I answered. “I understand he lives here.”
“Used to live here,” the old man corrected. “Lived here right up until this morning.”
“What do you mean?” I climbed down the steps and crossed a tiny scrap of yard to where the old man sat. He was gnarled and wizened and totally bald. An old-fashioned hearing aid protruded from behind one ear. He leaned down and held out a misshapen paw of a hand.
“Name’s John Caldwell,” he said. “Larry came tearing in here in that little red bug of his just about an hour and a half ago. Looked like he’d been in a cat fight, if you ask me. He was cut up pretty bad, had stitches all over his face. Told me his mother was real sick. He said she was so bad off that he was going to have to move back home to help take care of her. He asked me if he could have his deposit back, but I told him no way, not without at least a month’s notice in advance so we’d have half a chance to rent it to someone else.”
“He moved out, just like that?”
“Yup. Lock, stock, and barrel. He left some boxes in storage in the garage. Said he’d be back for those later. I called Gertie, my wife. She still works downtown. I’m retired, you see. So while he was packing, I called Gertie and asked her what she thought. She said he’d been a real good tenant, been here the better part of five years, always paid his rent on time, always kept the place neat, never was any trouble whatsoever. He was a hard worker, too. Worked all day and went to school at night over to the university. He never said what he was studying.
“Anyway, Gertie says to me, you give him half his deposit today, since it sounds like he needs the money, and you tell him that we’ll send the rest of it when we rent the place. So I did like she said. I gave him the hundred and fifty-three in cash, and he was real happy to have it. He must’ve been in a hurry. He went rushing off and didn’t tell me where to send the stuff or when he’d be back for it.”
My mind was racing. Why was Larry Martin in such a hurry to leave town? I could think of only one possible reason.
“What time did you say he got here?” I asked.
The old man shrugged. “Right around ten-thirty, thereabouts. No later than that. Maybe a little before,
now that I get thinking about it.”
I glanced at my watch. I had talked to LeAnn Nielsen between nine and ten. If she had known how to reach him, that would have given her time enough to warn Larry Martin that I was prowling around asking questions. Was it cause and effect?
I’ve been a cop far too long to think otherwise.
Playing it low key, I tried not to alarm the garrulous old man. I didn’t want to shut off the flow of information.
“Did he happen to mention where home was?”
“Nope. If he did, I don’t remember. Seems like he was from around these parts somewhere, but the details escape me. Gertie might know. She’s good at remembering. Want me to call her and ask?”
“Sure,” I said. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”
The old man helped himself up with the aid of a four-pronged cane that had been lurking beneath his chair. Once up, he paused long enough to straighten his shirt and snap his red suspenders.
“It’s gonna be a scorcher by afternoon,” he said, peering up at the cloudless blue sky overhead. “I don’t like it when it gets too hot. Don’t like it one bit.”
He tottered into the house, leaning heavily on the cane. I paced impatiently back and forth in the tiny yard, waiting for him to return. At last he reappeared at the back door.
“Nope, Gertie don’t remember either. She says she thinks he’s from somewhere down around Raymond or Aberdeen maybe, but she can’t say for certain. By the way, you didn’t say what you wanted him for. He’s not in any trouble, is he? I’d sure hate to think he was.”
“So would I,” I said.
Taking a piece of paper from my notebook, I jotted my home telephone number down and handed it to him. “If you hear from him, give me a call at this number, would you?”
“Sure thing. By the way, know somebody who’s in the market for an apartment? We’d make ’em a good deal, I can tell you that.”
“I can’t think of anybody,” I told him, edging toward my car. “But if I do, I’ll have them stop by.”
Once back in the car, I tried reaching Big Al by radio. I had a tough time getting through. All the dispatchers were busy with a major problem of some kind that seemed to center in the Fremont district. I waited my turn. Finally someone patched me through to Al.
“Beau, where the hell are you?”
“What do you mean, where am I? I’m coming back from Lake City just like I told Watty I would. Why? What’s up?”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what, damn it?”
“Larry Martin’s holed up at the carpet store. He’s gone berserk. He’s barricaded himself in that room with Richard Damm. Nobody knows if he’s armed or not. The secretary thinks so.”
“How do you know it’s Martin?”
“The secretary called 911. She said it was him. Watty came flying in here and wanted to know if that wasn’t the name of the suspect in the Nielsen case. I told him yes. He’s ready to pull you limb from limb. He tore out of here mumbling something about you and justifiable homicide. I’d watch my butt if I were you.”
Grabbing my flasher, I stuck it on top of the car and jammed the gas pedal to the floorboard.
“So what else is new? Where is he?”
“Watty? He’s en route to the scene. Probably there by now. He said to send you there on the double as soon as we heard from you.”
“I’m on my way,” I said. “What’s the situation?”
“They’ve evacuated the building itself and some of the neighboring ones as well. They’re deploying the Emergency Response Team right now. The Fremont Bridge is closed to all traffic. They’re not letting anybody through. That whole area’s tied up in knots.”
“What’s the best way to get there?” I asked. By then I was approaching the freeway on Lake City Way.
“Hang on,” Big Al responded. He was off the radio for a moment, then he came back on. “Recommend taking Aurora southbound. Exit south of the bridge, then beat your way down the hill as best you can.”
His directions came back just in time. I darted across 1-5 and headed for Aurora.
“Who’s in charge there?”
“Captain Logan,” Al replied.
Dick Logan, the Emergency Response Team squad leader, is a tough, well-respected, longtime cop. I was relieved to hear his name. He’s someone you can count on when the chips are down.
“What about you?” I asked.
“Me?” The word exploded in my ear as Big Al’s voice shook with frustration. “Me? I’m stuck here waiting for the damn prosecutor! All I can say is, they’d better convict that crook. If they don’t, I may just finish him off myself.”
It wasn’t the kind of calm, routine interdepartmental communication the brass likes to have broadcast over police band radios.
Fortunately, the brass, both collectively and individually, were far too preoccupied with the crisis at hand to pay any attention to Big Al’s profaning of the airwaves.
Truth be known, I was probably the only one listening.
CHAPTER
13
Something that always amuses me whenever I watch television or movie police dramas is the Hollywood version of the car chase scene. They make it look so easy. Traffic melts out of the hero’s way, letting him ride to the rescue just in time. Whatever doesn’t move is either crashed through or jumped over.
In real life, traffic doesn’t magically disappear, and municipalities frown on having their vehicles used in demolition derbies. That’s just not the way it works in real life. And it’s not the way it worked on Aurora Avenue that afternoon, either.
By the time I neared Green Lake, Aurora Avenue was stopped dead. One inattentive driver had rear-ended another, snarling the flow in both directions. So much for Big Al Lindstrom’s impromptu traffic advisory.
The City of Seattle is separated into sections by a string of interconnected lakes and channels—Lake Washington, the Montlake Cut, Lake Union, the Lake Washington Ship Canal, and Salmon Bay.
Damm Fine Carpets was on one side of the water. Naturally, I was on the other. With the Fremont Bridge closed to all traffic, I had no choice but to cut all the way across to Fifteenth in Ballard and cross the Ship Canal on the Ballard Bridge. Then I headed back toward Fremont on Nickerson.
And all the time I drove, my mind was racing. My justifiable homicide theory was pretty much out the window. Innocent people don’t panic and take hostages. LeAnn Nielsen had warned Larry Martin, and he had snapped. That meant the two of them were in it together. I knew where Larry Martin was. All of Seattle knew where Larry Martin was, but what about LeAnn?
Damn. I had let her walk out of the Hi-Spot Cafe with Alice Fields without getting so much as an address or phone number. If Sergeant Watkins was pissed now, it would be worse when I gave him that bit of information.
Just past Seattle Pacific University I ran into a roadblock. A uniformed police officer told me that a command post had been set up at the top of the hill on Dexter, just above the intersection where Dexter, Westlake, Fremont, and Nickerson converge. Now I was on the wrong side of Damm Fine Carpets from the command post. Some days are like that.
The patrolman let me pass. I eased my vehicle through a crowd of dismayed people. Some of them were from small neighboring businesses, including the beer-drinking late-lunch crowd from the 318 Tavern across the street, who mingled with stunned evacuees from a service in progress at the funeral home half a block away. It was certain to be one of the most memorable memorial services any of those people ever attended.
I inched around on steep, North Queen Anne side streets, trying to reach the command post. Finally, I gave up on driving altogether, parked on Fulton, and walked the last few blocks. There was the usual collection of news media types and curiosity seekers. They stood congregated just outside yet another set of barricades. I dashed through the gauntlet as fast as I could, looking neither right nor left.
When I broke free of the crowd, I had a clear view of the garage entrance to Dam
m Fine Carpets. There, parked under the steaming cup of billboard coffee, tucked in among several other vehicles, sat a bright red VW bug. The backseat was stacked to the gills with boxes. A heap of clothing occupied the rider’s seat.
Larry Martin was there, all right.
Captain Dick Logan was speaking crisply into a hand-held microphone as I approached the command post vehicle. His barked orders were issued in a clipped but unperturbed manner.
“You’ve got everybody out of the funeral home now?” he asked into the mike.
“Affirmative on that. What next?”
“Hold tight until I verify that all the other buildings are empty. I’ll get back to you,” Dick said. He looked up then and saw me standing there. He raised one bushy black eyebrow. “It’s about time you showed up, Detective Beaumont. I understand from Sergeant Watkins that this guy’s a suspect of yours.”
I nodded.
“What do you know about him?”
“Not much,” I answered.
“Is he dangerous?”
“I don’t know. I can’t say. I thought he was pretty much an innocent bystander.”
“Like hell!” said an angry voice behind me. I swung around. There was Watty, his face grim, his mouth a thin, taut line. “You sure know how to pick ’em, Beaumont.”
I turned back to Logan. “Do you know if Martin’s armed?” I asked.
“Not for sure. The secretary said that she thought he was, but she couldn’t be positive.”
“Have you made voice contact yet?”
Logan shook his head. “Not so far.”
“What about the secretary? Where is she?”
Logan gestured with his head. “Over there, in one of the patrol cars. I had a detective take her statement.”
“Let me talk to her,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” Logan replied while his radio crackled with another report.
As I walked from the command post to a cluster of other police vehicles, I was aware of the television cameras following me. I resent doing this job in the glare of television lights. It makes me feel like an insect on a slab of glass under a microscope. All I can do is squirm helplessly while my every movement is examined and recorded.
Improbable Cause (9780061745034) Page 12
