“Sure thing,” I told him. “We need all the help we can get.”
I shuffled through the impressive stack of papers that had collected throughout the day in the much-folded manila envelope Kramer had given me early that morning. The pile now contained not only the autopsy results, but also the duplicated logbook pages, the school district lists from Kendra Meadows, as well as the AFIS report. I separated out the last two sets of papers and handed them past Kramer, placing them directly in Watty's hands.
“Give these to Margie to copy before she leaves, if you could. Detective Kramer here will need his copies, of course, but I'd like to have the originals back. Now, if you two will excuse me, I've got to finish up this report and head out of here. I've got a meeting at five-thirty.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Watty said. He dropped copies of my two earlier reports onto my desk. I'd left them on his as I came past. “Much better, by the way,” he said. He glanced down at what I was doing.
“Is that about the thing on Crockett?” I nodded. “Too bad Kelsey got away,” Watty continued, “but you handled it as well as anyone could under the circumstances. You can't use deadly force in a room full of people.”
With that, Watty took the copying for Margie and left. As far as he was concerned, all was forgiven, at least for the moment, at least until the next time Kramer was able to sucker me. And if I was more careful, maybe that wouldn't happen.
“I won't forget that,” Kramer snarled. “Now, what the hell's all this about Kelsey, and what went on up on Crockett?”
“I didn't think you were interested, but we found a .25 Auto Browning in Marcia Kelsey's underwear drawer.”
“You did what?”
“I tried to tell you earlier, but you weren't listening. Pete Kelsey's mother-in-law found it in her daughter's dresser drawer along with a whole bunch of Marcia Kelsey's brand-new bras and panties.”
I had finally succeeded in getting Kramer's undivided attention. “No shit?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Well, where is it?”
“Still back at Kelsey's house, secured in the bottom of a shoe box, and sitting on the floor in Pete Kelsey's bedroom.”
“Is it the same gun that killed Alvin Chambers?”
“It could be, but I don't know yet, not for sure, because it still hasn't come down here to the crime lab. My guess is that it's the murder weapon, all right, at least one of them.”
“So you found the gun, then what happened?”
“While we were looking for a way to secure it, Kelsey himself showed up. As soon as he saw the gun, he took off like a shot.”
“And you let him get away?”
“You have a wonderful way with words, Kramer. Kelsey got away, but you heard Watty. I didn't let him. You wouldn't have had any better chance of catching him than I did.”
I shoved the first part of my report in his direction. “Since you haven't gotten a look at your copy of the AFIS report yet, maybe you should start by reading this, and for your information, Pete Kelsey's real name isn't Pete Kelsey.”
“It's not? Who is he then?”
“Shut up and read.”
While Kramer dropped heavily into a chair and started reading, I returned to working on the rest of the report. Before he had completed the first page of the one report, Margie came into the cubicle, bringing the others. Kramer read those as well with such absorbed concentration that I had completed the second and final page of my report, cleared the top of my desk, and was standing behind the desk with my coat on before he glanced up.
A deep frown scarred his broad forehead, but for the moment, his quarrel with me was entirely forgotten. I had to give the devil his due. Detective Kramer focused on the case almost to the exclusion of everything else, including his petty feud with me. That meant I had to shape up, too.
“What's this character hiding?” Kramer asked musingly while rubbing the stiff bristles of his five-o'clock shadow. “It must be something serious for him to have been hiding out for more than twenty years. That's a long time. A capital crime, maybe? The statute of limitations would have run out by now on something less than that.”
I nodded. It was a good point, and one I hadn't thought of in precisely the same way.
Kramer referred once more to the first page of my report. “It says here you couldn't find any of John David Madsen's South Dakota relatives when you called looking for them.”
“Not through information. And not by that name. That's not to say they don't exist, however. There may be others, but it'll take someone on the spot to track them down.”
“And as soon as Kelsey saw you were there with the gun, he took off?”
“That's right.”
“He probably figured we were getting too close to the truth. Now that I think about it, what if Marcia knew about whatever it was and was threatening to expose him? Maybe that's why he knocked her off.”
I could see where his line of reasoning was going, and reluctantly, I had to agree it made sense. “Whatever it is, it could also explain why he stuck it out in an otherwise unsatisfactory marriage, but why two guns?” I asked. “And why leave one at the scene and leave the other one hidden in a place where, once found, it would inevitably point suspicion in his direction?”
“That's pretty damn stupid,” Kramer agreed. “Think about it. If we hadn't already stumbled on this AFIS report, we certainly would have once the gun was found, and if he's hidden out under cover for this long, you'd think he'd be smarter than that.”
It was interesting to realize that for the first time during the investigation, Detective Kramer and I seemed to be operating on similar wavelengths. As he was inching away from his conviction that Kelsey had to be the killer, I was moving toward it. With any kind of luck, we'd meet somewhere in the middle.
“So what's going to happen?” Kramer asked. “Do you think he'll try to go back to the house?”
“I doubt it. I've made arrangements for a twenty-four-hour surveillance team, though. As near as I can tell, there are only two ways into the house—the passage up from the garage that leads into the pantry and the front door, both of which are visible from Crockett.”
“It sounds like that daughter of his wouldn't be above helping him out if she got a chance. Aren't you worried that she'll try to deep-six the gun or mess with it in some way?”
“I can't say for sure,” I told him, “but my guess is no. She gave me her word, and I think she'll honor it and let us take the gun when we show up with the warrant. Actually, she's doing us a favor. That way there can be no question later about whether or not that gun was illegally removed from the premises.”
“When is the warrant supposed to be ready?”
“Later this evening, maybe. Otherwise, not until tomorrow morning. Do you have to be in court again tomorrow?”
“Yes. From ten o'clock on.”
“Maybe, before you go there, we could pick up the search warrant and go collect the gun. Then, while you're in court, I'll see about tracking down some of the loose ends. I'll go to work on the Kendra Meadows information and take another crack at seeing Charlotte Chambers.”
I looked up at the clock on the far wall. Five-eighteen. “I'm late for that meeting,” I added. “I've got to get out of here right now.”
I didn't tell Kramer exactly what meeting I was late for, and I knew I was laying myself open for more criticism about not keeping up my end of the investigation, but at fifty-one AA meetings in as many days and counting, I didn't want to have to start over on my ninety meetings in ninety days. Especially not when the only thing holding me back was sitting around chewing the fat with Detective Paul Kramer.
He nodded absently. “Sure,” he said. “That's fine. Go ahead.” He seemed lost in thought, and I don't think he even noticed when I stepped past him and left the room.
Watty and I ended up in the stairwell together. When he noticed me glancing at my watch, he asked if I needed a lift.
Because I live downtown
, most of the people at the department who know me realize I usually don't drive my car to work. Some of them, like Watty, routinely offer me rides. If the weather's good, I say thanks but no thanks. This time the weather was rotten, and I grabbed it.
“You late for something?” Watty asked.
“A meeting,” I said. That's all I said, but it was enough. Watty nodded knowingly.
“Good,” he said. “Glad to hear you're still working on the problem. Now, if you and Kramer can just get this case wrapped up, I'll get the two of you off each other's backs.”
He dropped me at Seventh and Denny and headed for the freeway. I trekked through a snowy and deserted Denny Park, slipping into the meeting a full ten minutes late. It was overly warm in the church hall basement, and it was almost impossible to concentrate on what was being said, because by then all I could hear in my head was the siren call of Amy Fitzgerald-Peters' legendary pot roast.
When the meeting was over, I hurried home, showered, and dressed to go downstairs. I paused in front of the mirror, debating whether or not to leave my pager at home. Eventually, though, I decided to take it along. If somebody came up with Pete Kelsey during the course of the evening, I didn't want to miss out on the action.
Dinner at Ron Peters' downstairs apartment was every bit as wonderful as I'd anticipated. It was delightful to sit in the warm glow of happiness in that newly blended little family. I chowed down on the home-cooked grub and listened to the girls' endless prattle about whether or not there'd be school the next day. They were finally getting sick of their much-extended Christmas vacation.
When the meal was over, Amy directed Heather and Tracie at clearing the table and then took them off to get ready for bed, leaving Peters and me alone to talk.
“I don't like being stonewalled,” Ron said quietly as soon as the girls disappeared down the hallway. “I don't like it at all.”
For a moment I thought that maybe he and Amy were having some kind of difficulty. “Who's stonewalling you?” I asked.
“I'm talking about the bomb threats,” he said. “I don't know who it is exactly, not yet, but I can tell you this. They're real, and they have pull with a capital P.”
“What do you mean?”
“I made a few inquiries today, and that's all it took. Before the afternoon was over, Captain Harden called me into his office and let me know in no uncertain terms that members of the media relations team have absolutely no business helping someone from the homicide squad with one of his investigations.”
“If Harden told you to back off, you must have stepped on some toes.”
Ron Peters smiled thinly. “Presumably so. In fact, now that you mention it, it's the first chance I've had to step on someone's toes since they stuck me in this chair. It felt damn good. What's the next move?”
Peters had caught the scent and was raring to go. “Whoa down a minute. If you're already in hot water with Hardass Harden, there's not going to be any next move for you, buddy-boy. Just forget I ever mentioned it. Forget the whole thing.”
Peters' smile disappeared. “Drop it? Are you kidding? Like hell I will! Tracking that bomb threat information was more fun than I've had in a long, long time. It felt like I was back in the real world again, back making a meaningful contribution for a change instead of writing one of the chief's prepared statements. It was fun, dammit, and I liked doing it.”
Tracie and Heather reappeared at his side, clad in matching long flannel Pj's. Their teeth were freshly brushed and their damp hair still smelled of shampoo and conditioner. After collecting ritual hugs and kisses from their dad, they made an obligatory pass by me on their way back to the bedroom. Peters watched wistfully after them as they walked away.
“I want my life back, Beau,” he said quietly. “My whole life.”
I knew what he meant, and I couldn't blame him. I worried that he might lapse back into one of the black moods that had plagued him in the early months right after his injury and before Amy Fitzgerald had appeared on the scene. The only weapons I had at hand were the kind of meaningless platitudes that come so easily to people who aren't in chairs.
“You're not doing so badly,” I pointed out. “You've got Amy and the girls. What more do you want?”
The look he turned on me was one of barely suppressed fury. “I'll tell you what I want. I want my old desk back, the real one, on the fifth floor. I know everybody at the department thought they were doing me one hell of a favor by finding me a slot in Media Relations, but it's just not good enough. I want to go play with the grown-ups, Beau. I want to be a detective again.”
The idea of Peters getting back on the homicide squad wasn't even a remote possibility to begin with. Going against a direct order from his immediate supervisor would make the possibility that much more remote.
“So drop the damn bomb threats business then,” I told him. “That's an order, and not from me either, from Harden. If you want to be a detective again, pissing off Old Hardass isn't the way to go about it.”
“In other words, you want me to forget all about it? Pretend it never happened, just like that?”
“You bet.”
Amy returned to the dining room just then. Seeing her, Peters bit back another angry retort. Amy paused uncertainly in the doorway, sensing the tension in the room and looking questioningly from one of us to the other.
“You two talking shop?” she asked.
“Were,” I said uncomfortably, standing up and pushing back my chair, “but we're finished now, and I've got to get home. Thanks for dinner. It was delicious.”
“So early?” Amy protested. “You've made yourself a stranger around here.”
“I know, but I still have a few calls to make before I turn in. You tell that husband of yours to keep his nose to the grindstone and not go getting involved where he shouldn't.”
She paused by Peters' chair and stood there, affectionately resting her hands on her husband's broad shoulders and gently kneading the back of his neck.
“I can't,” she replied with a smile.
“Why not?”
“Ron and I made a prenuptial agreement.”
“A prenuptial agreement? What does that have to do with the price of peanuts?”
She smiled again. “He doesn't tell me how to be a physical therapist, and I don't tell him how to be a cop. That's fair enough, isn't it?”
She said it softly enough, and the smile on her full lips didn't change, but I knew she'd landed a blow. Hospitality or not, pot roast or not, Amy Fitzgerald-Peters had put me in my place.
Maybe deservedly so. Probably deservedly so. After all, I was the one who had started it.
CHAPTER
17
Early Wednesday morning, a steep hill combined with a patch of black ice, a lightly loaded Metro bus, and a fully loaded bread truck all conspired together to help us to locate Marcia Louise Kelsey's missing Volvo.
The bus, turning off Denny Way onto Broadway, was shoved sideways by the out-of-control truck. The bus skidded backwards, taking out three parked cars as it slid back down the hill and inflicting a good deal of damage along the way. Fortunately, nobody was hurt.
The investigating officer on the scene realized almost immediately that the middle squashed car belonged to Marcia Kelsey. Due to the murder investigation and Pete Kelsey's subsequent disappearance, that missing Turbo Volvo was right at the top of the Patrol Division's high-priority list.
Nobody lost any time. As soon as the patrol officer radioed in with the information, Dispatch called me. It was only six-fifteen, and the phone call woke me out of a sound sleep.
“Detective Beaumont?”
The voice wasn't one of my usual early morning callers. “Yeah,” I mumbled. “Who is this?”
“Lieutenant Congdon with Dispatch. One of our patrol officers found that Volvo you were looking for, if you still want it, that is.”
That got my juices flowing. “You'd better believe I still want it. Where is it?”
“Just west o
f Broadway, up on Capitol Hill. The tow truck driver's on the horn right now. He's been in touch with the owner, and they want it towed to a repair shop up in the University District, but I told him I thought the vehicle was involved in a homicide investigation and that I'd have to check with you first.”
Patrol doesn't get nearly the credit it deserves. The detective divisions would be lost without them. Routine traffic stops pick up more crooks by accident than detectives do on purpose, but those guys, the ordinary foot soldiers in the war on crime, don't show up in the press unless they screw up and shoot somebody they shouldn't have. Or unless somebody shoots them. The only time patrol officers get to be heroes is when they're dead.
“Good work, Lieutenant. You're absolutely right. Thanks for checking. Tell the officer on the scene to impound that vehicle and have it taken into the garage to be searched. Nobody's to touch it until after the crime lab team goes over it, you got that?”
“Got it,” Congdon replied.
“And thanks,” I told him.
“Sure thing,” the lieutenant replied. “Always glad to help out.”
“How long do you think it'll take to bring it in?”
“About half an hour or so. Not too long.”
“Good,” I told him, glancing at my watch. “I'll be there by then, too.”
I hurried in and out of the shower and was one leg into the process of putting on my pants when the phone rang again. This time it was Ron Peters.
“Your calling me early in the morning like this seems just like old times,” I said, holding the phone pressed to my ear with one shoulder while I used both hands to zip up my pants and fasten my belt. “What's happening?”
“Tell me everything you know about the bomb threats,” he said quietly.
I didn't like the dangerously calm way he spoke, and it wasn't a request so much as it was a direct challenge.
“Look, I thought we went over all that last night. Captain Harden told you to back off. That strikes me like very good advice.”
“I'm not interested in well-meaning advice, Beau, not from Harden and not from you. And I'm not backing off, either. I'm a cop, Beau, a cop who's sworn to uphold the law. Bomb threats to public property aren't something that ought to be swept under the rug, but in this case, not only are we not supposed to investigate it, the public isn't supposed to know about it either. I won't work that way.”
Payment in Kind (9780061749216) Page 16
