by J. A. Jance
That seemed like an odd idea since Joanna would have to drive right by High Lonesome Road to get back to her office, but for a change she didn’t debate the issue.
“Sure thing,” she said. “See you there.”
Once Butch was off the line, Joanna dialed her direct number, counting on her secretary, Kristin Gregovich, to pick up the phone.
“How are things?” Joanna asked when Kristin answered.
“As far as I can tell, everything’s under control.”
“How about next month’s shift schedule?”
“I helped Chief Deputy Hadlock clean up a couple of items,” Kristin told her. “But it’s posted now. I think it’s fine.”
“Glad to hear it,” Joanna said. Maybe Tom Hadlock was starting to get the hang of things after all. “Anything else I should know about?”
“Not that I can think of,” Kristin said.
“Good. I think I’m going to take the rest of the afternoon off and go to Tucson with Butch.”
“I hope you have a great time,” Kristin said, which seemed like an odd response.
“I doubt it,” Joanna said. “Shopping has never been my long suit.”
When she pulled up into her reserved parking place behind the building, she was surprised to see Butch already waiting there. As she stopped her Crown Victoria, she caught him glancing at his watch. Rather than going into the building, she simply transferred her briefcase and purse into the backseat of his Subaru. Then she let herself into the passenger seat and buckled up.
“What time does Costco close?” she asked.
“Around six,” he said.
“Good, then,” Joanna replied. “We have plenty of time.”
She sat back in the seat and closed her eyes, relishing the idea that Butch would be doing the driving.
“So what have you really been up to all day?” he asked.
Which meant that the understated “Fine” she had given him earlier hadn’t done the trick. “I’ve been at a crime scene,” she told him.
He knew without asking that this meant a homicide crime scene. In the course of the next two hours, as they drove the hundred miles between Bisbee and Tucson, she told him about it. At least she told him what she could. He was interested as her husband, but Butch was also interested in what she had to say because he was a mystery writer. Occasionally what she told him about real cases got run through his mental blender and emerged through his fingers transformed into fiction.
After that, they talked about plans for Frank Montoya’s bachelor party. Since the bride was an ER physician and since most of the attendees would be police officers, the party would be tame by bachelor-party standards-no stripper and no booze-with the Texas Hold’Em proceeds and winnings going to the local Jail Ministry.
“We have enough tables and chairs now?” Joanna asked.
“Plenty,” Butch told her.
“What’s on the menu other than steak?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that,” Butch said with a grin. “Carol and I have that covered.”
Lost in talking, Joanna didn’t pay attention to the exit signs and was surprised when they turned off on Kino. “Isn’t this the long way around to get to Costco?” she asked. By then, if six o’clock really was the deadline, they were coming right up on the witching hour. Butch seemed unperturbed.
“No problem,” he said. “We’re fine.”
When he turned off on Elm rather than Grant, Joanna was really surprised. “If we’re going to go down side streets, we’re never going to make it on time.”
“Yes, we will,” he said, pulling to a stop outside the valet stand at the Arizona Inn. “Our dinner reservation isn’t until seven.”
“Dinner here?” Joanna asked. “In this?” She looked down at a her uniform, which, after spending most of the day at a dusty desert crime scene, was much the worse for wear.
A bellman, pushing a luggage cart, came over to Butch’s side of the car. “Checking in, sir?” he asked through the window.
Butch nodded and punched the button to open the gate to the Subaru’s luggage compartment, then he turned to Joanna and grinned. “Happy anniversary,” he said.
“But wait,” Joanna objected. “Our anniversary is over a week away.”
“I know,” Butch said. “You’re a very tough woman to surprise. I figured jumping the gun was the only way to make it work. If I had told you in advance, you’d have ended up finding a dozen reasons why we couldn’t or shouldn’t do it.”
Right then, Joanna was a whole lot more than merely surprised. She was astonished, and not in the least because she herself had completely forgotten about their upcoming anniversary.
“But I don’t even have a card for you,” she objected. “And what about going to Costco?”
“Shopping is scheduled for tomorrow,” Butch declared firmly.
“But by the time they open, I should be back at work.”
“Didn’t I tell you? Tomorrow you’re taking a vacation day. With all the excitement of Frank’s wedding festivities, I figured our own anniversary would get lost in the shuffle. So tonight it’s just the two of us. We have the whole evening to ourselves-dinner with no kids, no dogs, no chores, and no telephones, either,” he added. “Our cell phones are switched off for the duration as of now. If there’s some problem at home or at the department overnight, they’re going to have to figure it out without us.”
By then the bellman had emptied the back compartment and closed the door. Joanna was relieved to see that there were two suitcases on the cart-one for Butch and one for her. “Just leave the keys,” the bellman said. “I’ll park it over there.” He pointed to a graveled parking lot across the street.
Years earlier, the first time Joanna had stumbled across the Arizona Inn, it hadn’t been as a paying guest. She had fled University Hospital, trying to escape the appalling news from the doctor that Andy was unlikely to survive, that his bullet wounds would most likely prove fatal. She had ended up at the grand old hotel tucked into a seemingly residential neighborhood entirely by accident. She had been surprised by its improbably pink walls and lush, lovingly manicured grounds. She had hidden out there, weeping in one of those Alice-in-Wonderland-looking blue-and-white-striped chairs and trying to grapple with the fact that she was about to become a widow. Now, though, walking into the shadowy lobby of the old hotel and up to the desk with Butch beside her, she felt entirely different. That had been one life; this was another.
When they reached their spacious room-a casita, really-there were two chilled glasses of champagne waiting. Joanna’s suitcase, sitting on the luggage holder in the walk-in closet, was loaded with one dinner-suitable little black dress and with suitable underwear as well. There were panty hose and-even without the lingerie laundry bag-a black bra and matching panties that dated from their honeymoon. Packed in with the clothing was a pair of black sling-back heels and enough toiletries and makeup to make showering a welcome possibility.
“How did you pull this all together?” she asked.
“I had some help,” Butch told her. “Jenny packed your bag, Kristin cleared your calendar, and Tom Hadlock said he’ll hold down the fort.”
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re really thoughtful.”
He grinned. “And you’re lovely,” he returned. “I’m really lucky.”
“We both are.”
“Would you care to go to dinner?”
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”
By the time I made it back to North Bend, it was late afternoon, and the snow had turned to rain-not the usual steady drizzle we’re accustomed to in Seattle but a kind of torrential downpour that can melt snow too fast and send rivers pouring up and over their banks. I went to the address I had jotted down for Ken Leggett, the guy who had found the body.
North Bend has a bucolic sound to it, but it’s a burg that seems more than a little schizophrenic. There’s the “new” North Bend, which is essentially a cluster of outlet stores and fa
st-food joints, and the “old” North Bend, which is…well…old. Ken Leggett lived on a potholed excuse for a street in a neighborhood of mostly down-at-the-heels bungalows that had probably been built in the twenties or thirties-back in the old days when logging was king. Between then and now, no one had done much about routine maintenance.
Leggett’s place was far and away the worst of the lot. It looked as though someone had painted it white with a cheery kind of red trim once, but most of the paint had either peeled or faded away, take your pick. The roof had far more moss showing than shingles. A tiny covered front porch sagged to one side, suggesting that it wouldn’t take much to knock it down. At the end of a rutted drive, an older-model Toyota Tundra sat huddled under the roof of a carport, which, like the porch, didn’t look like it was long for this world.
There were no lights or signs of movement showing from inside the place, but I parked out front and started up the short walkway, getting drenched in the process. As I stepped onto the crumbling front porch, the planking groaned beneath my feet, but it didn’t give way.
As I raised my hand to knock, someone spoke to me. “He’s not home.”
The male voice came from the house next door, one on the far side of Leggett’s driveway. There, under a similarly decrepit carport, stood another equally dilapidated pickup truck-an old Dodge Ram. The hood was open and a guy with a single Trouble Light dangling over his shoulder was actually working on it. Shade-tree mechanics may be a thing of the past in downtown Seattle, but not at the low-priced end of North Bend. Just looking at the scene I understood that the man wasn’t working on his aging truck because he was spiffing it up for some antique car show. The vehicle was what he counted on for wheels, and he was keeping it running with do-it-yourself know-how and probably, given the truck’s age, mostly junkyard parts.
“Any idea where I could find Mr. Leggett?” I asked.
The man straightened up, pushed a pair of reading glasses up onto the top of his head, and stared at me. “It’s early,” the man advised, wiping his hands on a pair of grimy coveralls. “If I was you, I’d try his home away from home.”
“Where would that be?” I asked.
The man jerked his head, gesturing back the way I had come. “Back thataway,” he said. “Two blocks over and two blocks up. The Beaver Bar. You can walk it, but I’d advise driving. These here are what we call ‘long blocks.’”
I took his advice. I went back to the Mercedes and drove. The Beaver Bar didn’t look promising. The neon sign over the door had evidently burned out. In the window was another neon sign that said OPEN, along with a single blue neon cocktail glass complete with a green neon olive.
I had never set foot in the Beaver Bar. Even so, it was entirely familiar. I spent far too much of my life with my butt planted on bar stools in similarly seedy places. The place smelled of too much beer and not enough cleaning. Washington’s bars have been “smoke-free” for years now, but not long enough for the smoke to have leached out of the wallboard and the torn and worn red-and-black faux-leather banquettes that lined the walls.
As I said, I’d never been inside the place, but the bartender made me for a cop the moment I stepped through the door. He gave me a careful once-over and probably decided I was liquor control.
“Evening, Officer,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Kenneth Leggett.”
“Over there,” he said. “In the booth on the far side of the pool table. He’s been eighty-sixed, by the way. He’s had nothing but coffee for the last hour or so. We’re waiting for him to sober up enough that he can get himself home.”
Yes, I thought. The barkeep definitely thinks I’m liquor control.
The guys playing pool kept a close eye on me as I walked around them and stopped next to a booth where a big balding man sat staring down into a mostly empty coffee cup.
“Mr. Leggett?” I said.
He looked up at me, bleary-eyed and belligerent. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name’s Beaumont,” I said. “I’m with the Attorney General’s Special Homicide Investigation Team. Mind if I sit down?”
I expected a fight. I expected an argument. You never can tell with drunks. They can go one way or the other. Instead, Ken Leggett pushed his empty coffee cup aside, buried his head in his hands, and bawled like a baby. I thought maybe I was going to come away with an impromptu confession. And I did, but not the one I was looking for.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” he said.
“You didn’t mean to do what, kill her?” I asked.
He looked up at me with tears still streaming down his face. “I didn’t mean to piss on her head,” he said. “Nobody deserves that.”
I’ve detected plenty of lies over the years, but this wasn’t one of them. Detective Caldwell was right. Ken Leggett wasn’t our killer by any stretch of the imagination.
“Come on, fella,” I said to him. “It’s raining outside. How about I give you a lift home.”
CHAPTER 7
Having spent the better part of the day dealing with murder and mayhem in Ellensburg, it was difficult to remember that I had started the day in, as they like to say in Disneyland, “the happiest place on earth.” I’ve always been under the impression that jet lag happens when you fly east or west across time zones rather than north and south. I also think I read somewhere that men are less likely to be affected by jet lag than women are. It turns out I was wrong-on both counts.
When I got home to Seattle that night, I was bushed, and I chose to blame it on jet lag rather than anything else. I barely managed to finish telling Mel about my adventures east of the mountains when I conked out, sound asleep in my recliner. Sometime after the news and Jay Leno, Mel woke me up long enough to herd me into bed.
When I woke up the next morning and stumbled out of the shower and into the kitchen for coffee, I could tell from the clock that I had overslept and most likely would be late getting into the office. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” I asked.
Mel was up and her usual perky, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed self. To my surprise, however, she wasn’t dressed for work.
“Good morning to you, too, Mr. Grumbly Bear,” she told me, reaching out to hand me a computer printout. “Maybe you should go back into hibernation.”
Of course she said it with a smile. The robe and gown she was wearing made a very fetching concoction-enough to make me wish that I hadn’t gotten dressed quite so fast. When I made a tentative suggestion in that direction, she shook her head and returned her attention to the laptop on her lap. With my coffee cup in one hand and the paper in the other, I squinted at the impossibly vague printing on the page. Finding my arms far too short, I wondered where the hell I’d left my reading glasses.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A missing persons report,” she said. “From November twelfth of last year. I think she’s your victim.”
One of the tasks Ross Connors had handed over to his Special Homicide Investigation Team was keeping track of missing persons investigations from all over the state. Someone reported missing in Vancouver, for example, wasn’t likely to be noticed if he or she turned up in Bellingham either living or dead. By focusing on those cases and compiling all the information from various jurisdictions and agencies together in one spot, including dental records wherever possible, S.H.I.T. had already managed to solve several previously unsolvable cases. Among those were cases from several different people who, for one reason or another, had gone missing deliberately and wanted to stay that way. Mel’s fine eye for detail made her a natural as point man, if you’ll pardon the expression, on the AG’s missing persons effort.
It was useless to stand around grousing about my missing glasses. As a general rule, Mel doesn’t like grousing. Instead, muttering something about jet lag, I stomped back into the bedroom and did a thorough search. I finally found my glasses hidden away in the inside pocket of yesterday’s still slightly damp sport jacket.
Tha
nk you, North Bend, I thought.
I returned to the living room with my glasses perched on my nose and busied myself with reading the report. The missing woman’s name was Marina Aguirre, age twenty-nine. She was reported to be five feet five inches tall and was estimated to weigh 130 pounds. She had been reported missing from the City of SeaTac by her fiance, a truck driver named Mason Waters.
Mel was still on the phone. I sat down next to her on the window seat, which happens to be Mel’s favorite perch in our penthouse condo. The view is downright spectacular. I bought into Belltown Terrace long before I met Mel. The purchase had come during a real estate downturn in Seattle in the early eighties, and I bought it with some of the money I had inherited after my second wife’s death. In recent years, condo living in downtown Seattle had come of age. Now, a space that had once been a real estate white elephant had turned into a real estate gem-at least that’s how it looks when it comes time to pay the tax bill they send out from the King County Assessor’s Office.
In the intervening years, other high-rise buildings had sprung up all over the Denny Regrade area, but none of them were tall enough to impinge on the panoramic view from our window seat. At night and to the south, we saw the myriad lights of downtown Seattle. Occasionally during the day and even farther to the south, we had a view of snow-topped Mount Rainier, but that was only on those rare but beautifully sunny Pacific Northwest days when, as we say around here, “the mountains are out.” Off to the west, rain or shine, daylight or not, we saw the wide expanse of blue or gray or black Elliott Bay and Puget Sound with their busy shipping lanes and motoring ferries. In other words, Mel isn’t the only one who likes the view from the window seat.
Toward the end of the call she turned to me. “Jot down this number,” she said, and reeled off a phone number which she simultaneously typed into her computer. Women can do that-talk on the phone, talk to someone in person, and work on a laptop all at once. But I did as she told me and wrote the number down on the only piece of paper available to me at the time-the one that happened to be in my hand. Strangely enough, that turned out to be a good choice.
