Ring In the Dead

by J. A. Jance

  By the time I went back outside, the response to the incident made for mayhem on the street. Although the ambulance had already taken off, there were still fire trucks and plenty of patrol cars, marked and unmarked, in attendance. I tracked down the patrol sergeant and gave him what I had gleaned as far as descriptions were concerned. Having done what I could, I drove to Harborview Hospital, where I planted myself in the waiting room of the ER and waited for word on whether or not Pickles Gurkey was going to make it.

  I was there when a sergeant from Patrol brought Anna Gurkey to the hospital and dropped her off. Previously, I had never met the woman, but I knew who she was when she walked up to the admitting desk and asked the clerk about her husband, Milton Gurkey. Whatever was going on with the patient right then, he wasn’t being allowed visitors. Having been given that information, Anna retreated to one of the straight-­backed chairs lining the room. As soon as she was seated, I went up and introduced myself.

  Anna Gurkey looked liked she might have stepped out of the movie version of The Sound of Music. She reminded me of the homely woman who keeps who bobbing and nodding to the sounds of applause when her group is given its second place award in the talent contest. In other words, Anna wasn’t a beauty-­queen showstopper. She had a broad face with rough, reddish skin. Her dingy, graying hair was pulled back in a straggly bun. Anna’s basic plain-­Jane looks were worsened by the reality of where she was and what had happened. She looked the way family members found in ER waiting rooms always look—­haggard, terrified, and shell-­shocked.

  “You’re Jonas?” she asked when she heard my name. “Were you there? What happened? The officer who brought me here couldn’t tell me a thing.”

  Wouldn’t tell was more likely than couldn’t tell, but I was under no such constraints. I told her what I knew. That we’d been working; that we’d stopped off at the Doghouse for a dinner break; that Pickles had excused himself to make a pit stop. After that, for reasons I didn’t understand, it had all gone to hell, with Pickles caught up in a shootout in the parking lot.

  I had finished telling the story when a doctor emerged from behind closed doors. He sought out Anna, spoke with her in a low, grave voice, and then took her back through the swinging doors with him into the treatment rooms. Anna walked away from me without so much as a backward glance. Considering the seriousness of the situation, I didn’t blame her. I waited around awhile longer. When no one came out to give me an update, I finally gave up. On my way home, I stopped by the department to write up my report. That’s when I learned that even with the help of timely eyewitness information, Pickles’s two assailants had disappeared without a trace.

  It was far later than it should have been when I finally drove into the garage at our place on Lake Tapps. The kids were already in bed, and so was Karen. I poured myself a McNaughton’s—­probably more than one—­and sat there waiting for sleep to come. I worried about whether Pickles would make it, but I have to say, not once that day—­not one single time—­did it ever occur to me that Pickles was the one who shot Lulu McCaffey, but of course, that was just me. I was his partner. What did I know?

  When I got to work the following morning, the world had changed. Captain Tompkins called me into his office, where he gave me the welcome news that Pickles was still alive. He was gravely ill and still in Intensive Care, but he was resting comfortably and his condition was listed as stable.

  In other words, as far as his health was concerned, Pickles was in better shape than could have been expected. As far as his career was concerned, however, he was not. It turned out that the slug the medical examiner had pulled out of Lulu McCaffey’s body had come from Pickles’s gun.

  As of now, Internal Affairs was on the case. In spades.

  The captain sent me straight upstairs to IA, where I spent the next three hours being interviewed by the IA investigator assigned to the case. Lieutenant Gary Tatum was a guy with attitude who was used to throwing his weight around and having ­people dodge out of the way. We detested each other on sight. I wanted to tell him what Pickles had told me about two guys running away. Tatum didn’t want to hear it. He was far more interested in what I knew about the “well-­known” feud between Pickles and the dead waitress. I told him about Pickles’s water-­in-­the-­crotch experience with Lulu McCaffey, not because I thought it was funny but because it was the truth.

  Lieutenant Tatum listened to my version of the story and then nodded. “I’ve heard that one before.” He said it in a bored fashion—­as though he hadn’t needed to hear it again from me. “But as I understand it, that was a long time ago—­a ­couple of years anyway. There has to be something more recent than that—­something more serious—­for them to get in this kind of beef.”

  “There wasn’t any beef,” I explained. “Detective Gurkey went to take a leak. I’m not sure why he went outside, but he was there when whatever went down went down. He may have been in the parking lot when Lulu was shot, but that doesn’t mean he did it.”

  Tatum gave me his phony Cheshire cat grin complete with an offhand head shake that implied he wasn’t buying a word I said and that he thought I was a complete idiot.

  “Detective Gurkey’s prints are on the gun,” Tatum told me. “His are the only prints on the murder weapon. As far as I’m concerned, that means he pulled the trigger. He’s also got shot residue on his hands.”

  “We were at the range yesterday morning,” I countered. “We were doing target practice. You can check with them to verify that.”

  “Oh, we’ll be verifying that story, all right,” Tatum assured me. “In the meantime, as long as Detective Gurkey is under investigation, you need to know that you’re under investigation as well.”

  “Why?” I demanded. “What did I do? I was sitting there eating my hamburger and minding my own business when the shots were fired. I don’t understand why you’re investigating me.”

  “You know the drill,” Tatum said with a shrug. “It’s the old what-­did-­you-­know-­and-­when-­did-­you-­know-­it routine. I’ve told Captain Tompkins to keep you sidelined for the next little while. I wouldn’t mind that much if I were you. I got a look at the next week’s weather forecast. It’s going to be hot as Hades outside. You’ll be way better off cooling your heels at a desk job than you will be out tracking bad guys on sidewalks hot enough to fry eggs.”

  I didn’t dignify that statement with a response. Instead, I asked, “What about the two runners—­the guys who skipped out on paying their tab, the ones Lulu came outside chasing. What about them? Are you even looking for them?”

  “Detective Beaumont,” Tatum said with a grim smile. “I don’t believe you understand. This matter is not yours to investigate. Internal Affairs is handling it. What we do or do not do is none of your concern. Am I making myself clear?”

  The threat was there and so was the message: Stay the hell out of the way or get run over and risk your career in the process.

  “Detective Gurkey did not kill that woman,” I declared.

  Tatum smiled again. “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it.”

  We sat there for a length of time, doing a stare down. “May I go?” I said finally.

  “Of course,” he said. “Just so long as we understand one another.”

  We did that! I rode the elevator down to the fifth floor in a cloud of outrage, where I soon discovered I was not alone. Every detective in Homicide was pissed. They all figured like I did that Pickles was getting a bum rap. He was within months of being able to pull the plug and get a pension. If IA somehow made a homicide charge stick against him, he would be out on the street with nothing.

  Pickles remained hospitalized for the next ten days. Captain Tompkins found me some inane busywork checking inventories in the Evidence Room. That’s what I was doing a week later, when I made it a point to track down the McCaffey murder case file. Among the items in evidence I located the piece of paper�
�­the blank order form—­Bob Murray had used to write down the names of potential witnesses in the case. A quick check in the murder book revealed that not one of those folks had been singled out for additional interviews beyond my brief questioning of them in the bar at the Doghouse the day the shooting happened. Unbelievable! Pickles Gurkey was being railroaded fair and square.

  It was almost time to go home. I had stopped by Pickles and my cubby on my way out. Pickles’s desk was awash in cards and flower and balloons. I was sitting there wondering if I should drag all that stuff up to the hospital before I went home, when my phone rang.

  “Hey,” Bob Murray said. “I’ve been calling and calling. How come you never answer your phone?”

  “Because I haven’t been at my desk,” I said curtly. “Did you ever think of leaving a message?”

  “Is it true Internal Affairs is out to get Milton?” Bob asked.

  Police departments are a lot like families. We can say whatever we like about other ­people inside the organization, but outsiders aren’t allowed the same privilege. I wasn’t about to badmouth Lieutenant Tatum or what he was doing.

  “Internal Affairs is handling the investigation,” I said evenly.

  “Yes, I know, and you can take it from me that Lieutenant Gary Tatum is an arrogant asshole,” Bob Murray responded. “He came in here for a steak once and sent it back to the kitchen because he said it was too tough to eat. I wouldn’t give him the time of day.”

  That made me laugh outright. The Doghouse menu says right there in black and white that the tenderness of steaks can’t be guaranteed.

  “So he thought you were what, the Canlis?” I asked.

  “Do you want to be cute or do you want me to talk to you?” Bob growled.

  “Talk to me,” I said. “What have you got?”

  “I was talking to my produce guy the other day,” he told me. “He says the same thing that happened to Lulu has been happening to a lot of ­people in different restaurants all over town. Two guys come in, order, eat, and then do the old dine-­and-­dash bit. One minute they’re there. The next minute they’re gone without a trace and their bill is still on the table. Nobody ever sees ’em drive off in a vehicle. They just disappear into thin air.”

  “A tall guy and a short guy?” I asked.

  “From what he told me, the tall guy is always there—­the one with the light-­colored hair. The problem is, he doesn’t always seem to hang out with the same guy.”

  “So the second guy varies?”

  “That’s my understanding,” Bob said.

  “Has the produce guy talked to Lieutenant Tatum?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Murray said. “Listen, this is my produce guy. I’m the one he talks to.”

  “And these other dine-­and-­dash incidents,” I said. “Has anyone ever reported it?”

  “Probably not. Guys like me don’t want to get involved in all that police report crap, and we don’t want the names of our restaurants showing up in local police blotters that may be sent along to the media. They figure it’s like shoplifting—­it’s all part of the cost of doing business.”

  “It is shoplifting,” I corrected. “What they’re lifting is your food.”

  “Yes, but the amounts are small enough that it doesn’t make sense to make a huge issue of it. Lulu, may she rest in peace, was a hothead, and she always raised absolute hell about it. That’s how come she chased those guys out into the parking lot, acting like the price of their meal was going to come out of her hide. I’ve never once dinged one of my servers because somebody skipped. It’s not the waitress’s fault if the customer turns out to be a dick, pardon the expression. Why should they take a hit for it?”

  Lots of ­people call detectives dicks. I try not to take it personally.

  “Would your produce guy talk to me?” I asked.

  “In a heartbeat,” Bob Murray said. “Be here tomorrow morning at ten, and I’ll see to it.”

  The next morning at ten o’clock sharp, I entered the Doghouse for the first time since the shooting. The booth where the two killers had sat that fateful afternoon had an OCCUPIED sign on it even though the only thing there was a collection of wilting bouquets, their bedraggled flowers dripping dead petals. Around that small sad memorial, the rest of the Doghouse bustled with business as usual.

  Bob Murray met me at the host station and escorted me to a seat at the far end of the counter. “As soon as Alfonso gets here, I’ll send him your way.”

  I was halfway through a plate of ham and eggs when a smallish Mexican man slipped quietly onto the stool beside me.

  “You the detective?” he asked.

  I held out my hand. “J. P. Beaumont,” I said. “And you are?”

  “Alfonso Romero of Al’s Produce,” he said. “I’m Al.”

  It made sense. In Seattle’s white-­bread business districts, a Hispanic vegetable delivery guy could pass himself off as white or at least as Italian by plastering the name Al on his truck, and the only ­people that ruse fooled were the ­people who needed to be fooled.

  “Bob says I should talk to you,” he said. “About the skips.”

  “You think it’s a pattern?” I asked.

  The waitress brought him coffee and a platter of breakfast that included bacon, eggs over easy, crisp hash browns, whole wheat toast, coffee, and orange juice. It must have been a standing order that was put in place the moment he turned up because Romero hadn’t been there nearly long enough for even the fastest short-­order cook to deliver a breakfast like that in such a timely fashion.

  Romero nodded. “Five different restaurants that I know about, including this one, but those are only the ones I work with. There are a lot of restaurants out there and a lot of produce guys just like me.”

  “Do you know some of them?” I asked. “Your competition, I mean.”

  Romero shrugged. “Of course I know them,” he said. “We get our stuff from the same suppliers; we’re out on the docks, loading our lettuce and tomatoes at the same time before we head out on our routes.”

  “Would these other drivers know if the same thing was happening at other restaurants?”

  “Sure,” Romero said. “Owners talk. Waitresses talk. They’re all in the same business, and everybody knows what everybody else is doing.”

  “If I showed up on the dock at the same time, would the drivers talk to me?”

  Alfonso thought about that for a moment before he answered. “Maybe,” he said. “But only if I asked ’em.”

  Which is how, the next morning, I found myself on the loading dock of a huge warehouse off Rainer Avenue at O-­dark-­thirty in the morning. Having Bob Murray vouch for me was good enough for Alfonso, and having Alfonso making the introductions was good enough for the other drivers. They all knew that Lulu McCaffey had been murdered, and they were eager to help. By the time I left the dock and headed into the department, I was as excited as a kid on his way to see Santa Claus because I knew I was on to something.

  There was a pattern here, and over and over it was the same thing. Two guys—­customers who have never been there before—­show up in a restaurant, order, eat, don’t pay, and go. According to the drivers, it happened mostly in the evenings, just at rush hour, at restaurants all over the city—­from north to south, east to west, but never the same restaurant twice. I took down the drivers’ names and phone numbers. I asked them to keep checking. Back at the department, I had a decision to make. I knew from the scuttlebutt that Lieutenant Tatum was waiting for Pickles to recover enough to be let out of the hospital, at which point he intended to make an arrest and formally charge him in the death of Lulu McCaffey.

  If I had thought Tatum was a square shooter, I would have gone straight upstairs with what I had found from Alfonso and the other drivers, but he wasn’t, and I didn’t.

  Cops patronize restaurants. We go to restaura
nts at every hour of the day and night, so it wasn’t necessary to launch an official investigation in order to launch an investigation. I just had to get word out to the beat cops and to the guys on patrol and to the detectives riding around in their unmarked cars that the restaurants in Seattle were suffering from an epidemic of check skippers, and that we needed to be good neighbors and help our friends in the restaurant business find these guys.

  That was a cover-­your-­ass subterfuge, of course. I’m guessing most everybody understood that we were working behind the scenes to give Pickles a helping hand, and they came through. As the produce guys ran their routes and as the cops talked to their contacts, a trickle of information started coming in. The details came in on Post-­it notes left on my desk while I was laboring in the Evidence Room; in messages left on my office voice mail; and in some instances, with guys I knew, in phone calls to the house at Lake Tapps.

  I finally stapled an oversized map of Seattle to the wallboard in the garage at Lake Tapps and began inserting little plastic beaded straight pins into the map wherever I had a report about another dine-­and-­dash incident. As the collection of pins grew, it wasn’t hard to see the pattern. They ranged all over town, with a gaping hole in the center of the city, from the north end of Columbia City on the south, to Capitol Hill on the east. The Doghouse was the only restaurant with any proximity to downtown.

  Everybody on the fifth floor knew what was up, but no one breathed a word of it to Tatum. Instead, we gathered in the break room or in cubicles and talked about it. One of the detectives, who was married to a departmental sketch artist, took her to see the witnesses who had been at the Doghouse the day of the McCaffey shooting and to some of the other restaurants that had been victimized by the check-­skipping team. Over time we developed credible composite sketches of the two guys from the Doghouse. Once we had those in hand, we made sure the guys from Patrol had copies with them in their cars; we made sure the beat guys had them, too.