by J. A. Jance
“There’s no explaining some people,” I told him.
“This doesn’t sound like a social call,” Ralph said. “Is something wrong?”
My words may have been normal enough, but my voice must have been off. Ralph Ames is better at reading subtext than almost anybody I know.
“I think Ron Peters may be in trouble.” It was a gross understatement, and Ralph picked up on it immediately.
“What kind of trouble?” he asked.
“His former wife died over the weekend,” I told him. “She was murdered. Ron found out about it yesterday. He and Rosemary had been involved in a custody dispute that had turned ugly. He admitted to having said some things that might have been interpreted as threatening.”
“That’s troublesome,” Ralph said. “But those things happen all the time in disputed custody cases.”
“But there’s more,” I added. “And it gets worse. Amy stopped by here just a few minutes ago. This morning she was looking for something in the trunk of Ron’s car and came across what she’s sure is dried blood. Lots of dried blood.”
“Has anybody questioned him about this or taken him into custody?” Ralph asked.
“Not officially. He said the Tacoma PD cops who came to do the next-of-kin notification yesterday afternoon asked him a lot of questions. They’ll be asking more as soon as I tell them about the blood.”
“And you are going to tell them?”
“Of course I’m going to tell them,” I said. “I’ve got to. And it’s going to put me in a hell of a bind. A homicide involving officer-related domestic violence? The case will come straight to Special Homicide. It’s official state law. I wouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t end up being assigned to Squad B.”
“Assigned to Squad B, but not to you personally, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“What do you want me to do?” Ralph asked.
“Call Ron up. Tell him a little birdie suggested you stop by. Or tell him straight out that I asked you to touch bases with him. Tell him I wanted him to have an attorney waiting in the wings in case one was needed. And believe me, one will be needed. I’m guessing someone will show up at his place with a search warrant within the next couple of hours.”
“You’re going to call in the report right now?” Ralph asked.
“As soon as I’m off the phone with you.”
And that’s what I did-called my office. When Harry I. Ball answered the main number, I knew Barbara Galvin hadn’t made it in.
“I suppose you’re calling to tell me you’re snowbound,” Harry observed once he knew who was calling. “That little ‘Porsh’ of yours may be cute as all get-out, but it isn’t worth beans in the snow. If a few more people around here had four-wheel drive, I wouldn’t be here holding down the fort all by myself.”
The truth is, with proper tires, the 928’s weight distribution makes it an excellent vehicle in snow, but Harry wouldn’t have listened. I’m used to him taking jabs at the Porsche, which he consistently calls my “little foreign jobbie” and consistently mispronounces. For a change I didn’t rise to Harry’s bait.
“I am snowbound,” I agreed. “But I’m calling about Ron Peters.”
“I heard about that a few minutes ago,” Harry interjected. “Since he’s second in command of Internal Affairs at Seattle PD, the case is going to be a regular hot potato. I’m assigning Mel Soames and Brad Norton to handle it. You and Peters used to be partners, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s what I thought. So you aren’t to go anywhere near that investigation. Understood?”
“It’s too late,” I said.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Harry roared back at me. I had to hold the phone away from my ear to keep from being deafened.
“Ron and I are still good friends. And I’m friends with his family as well. His wife, Amy, stopped by here a few minutes ago. She told me she was looking for towels in the back of Ron’s vehicle this morning and found what she’s sure is dried blood. She didn’t want to report it. I told her I had to. And I am.”
I’ve never known Harry I. Ball to be caught speechless, but he was right then. He was quiet for so long that I wondered if the line had gone dead. Then he cut loose with a string of colorful and politically incorrect expletives.
“When the hell did that happen?” he demanded.
“Like I said. A few minutes ago. I called as soon as she left.” This wasn’t quite true, but my intervening call to Ralph Ames hadn’t taken very long.
“Where’s the vehicle?” Harry asked.
“At their house. On Queen Anne Hill.” I gave Harry the address.
“Remember, Beau. You’re to keep your ass out of this. You’ll have to be interviewed, but other than that…”
“Harry,” I said. “These people are friends of mine. I can’t just turn my back on them.”
“The hell you can’t! You can and you will. Your friend, as you call him, happens to be a homicide suspect,” Harry returned. “And in case you haven’t noticed, cop-related domestic violence cases are very big right now. You are not, I repeat, N-O-T to be involved in any way. Ross Connors says we can’t have even the slightest appearance of conflict of interest on this case. Do I make myself clear?”
“Got it,” I said.
“What about that other case?” he asked. “The one I assigned you to yesterday?”
I noticed no one, including the attorney general himself, was concerned about a possible conflict of interest when it came to doing a favor for Ross Connors’s old pal from O’Dea High School, but I decided that was something I’d be better off not mentioning.
“I’m working it,” I told him.
“Good,” Harry said. “And you keep right on working it. Following up on a cold case will keep you out of Mel and Brad’s way, which is exactly where I want you. It’s where Ross Connors wants you, too.”
“Okay, Harry,” I told him. “Okay. I can take a hint.”
Bent on following orders and hoping to keep my nose clean, I sat down and tried calling the special twenty-four-hour line at the Department of Motor Vehicles to see if I could locate licensing or vehicle information that would give me an address for either of Sister Mary Katherine’s parents, Sean and Molly Dunleavy. An unusual recorded message at the DMV told me that due to weather concerns the office was currently responding to emergency requests for information only. All others should call back at a later time. So much for state-run bureaucracies.
I sat there, staring out at the unfathomable blue of Elliott Bay and wondering what I should do next. That’s when I spotted the small round globe on top of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer building a few short downhill blocks away. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Newspapers have to put out editions every day, snow or no snow. Some of the answers I was looking for might be available in the morgue at the P.-I. at the bottom of the hill where I had watched cars playing crash-car derby in the snow the night before.
I had no intention of taking the 928 out on the street where it was likely to end up being run over by some SUV-wielding nutcase with too much horsepower and only the dimmest grasp of physics. I was going to have to walk. It took a while to locate my long-unused snow boots. Once I did, I realized I was hungry.
I’ve never been much of a cook. Marshmallows aren’t the only thing I don’t keep around my condo. Basic foodstuffs are also in short supply. I used to hang out at a neighborhood dive called the Doghouse, but that went away years ago. Since then, I’ve tried various other joints, none of which have had quite the same fit as the Doghouse. When I choose restaurants, I ignore menu and atmosphere in favor of proximity. The P.-I. office is located on Elliott. So is the Shanty, which may have been a little out of the way, but food is food. It also gave me an excuse for taking a longer but much flatter route to the newspaper.
As I said, the good news about the Shanty is that it’s close to theP.-I. The bad news about the Shanty is that it’s close to the P.-I. It’s a
lso very small. As I stood in the open doorway knocking snow from my boots, I spotted none other than Maxwell Cole ensconced at the counter. If I could have ducked out without his seeing me, I would have, but it was already too late.
“Well, well, well,” he said in a loud voice that carried throughout the restaurant. “If it isn’t former Detective J. P. Beaumont. I was under the impression you worked mostly on the Eastside these days. Out slumming, I take it?”
Over the years I’ve occasionally had friends who, for one reason or another, dropped out of my life. Enemies tend to hang on forever. That’s certainly the way it is with Maxwell Cole.
Max and I go way back-all the way back to our frat days back at the University of Washington. He was dating a cute girl named Karen Moffitt. I took one look at her, decided she was the one for me, and stole her away from him. Max has been pissed about it ever since.
Unfortunately, Max and I work different sides of the same mean streets. He started out as a cub reporter at the Post-Intelligencer about the same time I went to work for Seattle PD. Since he’s never forgiven me for poaching Karen, he’s never given me anything but journalistic hatchet jobs whenever he’s had the chance. I’m a long way short of perfect. That means I’ve given him lots of opportunity to show me in a bad light. It wasn’t so annoying when he was a simple reporter. Back then he more or less had to stick to the facts. Now that he’s a seasoned, big-deal columnist, he’s allowed to say whatever he damn well pleases. And does.
Everybody in the tiny restaurant sensed the underlying antagonism in his voice. They all fell silent as if waiting for the equivalent of a schoolyard fight to break out right there at the lunch counter.
“Just looking for a little grub,” I said as pleasantly as I could manage.
For years the man has sported a handlebar mustache. It’s an affectation that doesn’t suit him. Think overfed walrus, droopy jowls and all. With a swipe of his arm, he cleared the place next to him at the counter, ceremoniously offering me a place to sit. The tiny restaurant was crowded. The only other available spot was at the far end of the counter. Ignoring Max’s invitation would be an obvious insult, one I’d be delivering on his own turf. Bad idea. And so, even knowing that it might cause trouble later, I took the stool he indicated.
“Thanks, Maxey,” I said. “That’s mighty decent of you.”
Assuming the confrontation was over, the other diners relaxed and resumed their chewing and talking. Max, who doesn’t appreciate being called Maxey, glared at me.
“I hear that old partner of yours is in a lot of trouble,” he said.
“Is that so?” I asked noncommittally. “Which partner would that be? I’ve had several over the years.”
A harried waitress swooped by and took my order for ham and eggs and coffee. Max, finished with his food, was nursing a cup of coffee. The waitress dropped off his check at the same time she took my order. If delivering his bill was a subtle hint for Max to eat, pay, and go, he didn’t take it.
“Peters,” he replied. “Ron Peters. His ex-wife was gunned down over the weekend.”
“Really,” I said.
“Are you telling me you don’t know anything about it?” he demanded.
I shook my head, and Max was only too happy to assume the role of the bearer of bad tidings. “Ron and his ex were involved in some kind of custody dispute. According to what I’ve heard, the wife’s attorney is the one who got the investigation pointed in Ron’s direction. Something about a threat Ron made last week.”
“You don’t say,” I said.
“With Peters being a cop and all, that means the Special Homicide division will be handling the investigation, right?”
Those of us who work there may affectionately refer to our agency as SHIT, but outsiders had best beware. They’re better off not referring to us by that moniker even if they think we are. As far as I was concerned, Maxwell Cole had made a good choice.
“I suppose so,” I said. “In fact, I believe it’s a state law.”
“What do you think?”
“About the law?” I asked, acting dim.
“About Ron Peters.”
“Come on, Max. You know I can’t discuss ongoing investigations.”
“So you’re saying it is an ongoing investigation after all?”
The short-order cook on duty was a regular speed demon. My food came just then. I salted and peppered the hell out of it, not because the food needed the extra seasoning, but because I needed to do something with my hands besides throttling Maxwell Cole’s bulging twenty-two-inch neck.
“Look,” I said finally. “Ron Peters is a good friend of mine. Whatever may or may not be going on in his life, I have two words for you, Max, and they are ‘No comment.’ If you want official information, I suggest you contact my boss, the Squad B commander.”
I grabbed a fresh napkin from the dispenser on the counter. After jotting Harry’s name and office phone number on it, I passed the napkin along to Max. He studied it for a minute before his portly face broke into a grin.
“You’re pulling my leg, right?” he asked.
“About what?”
“You want me to talk to somebody named Harry I. Ball? What kind of joke is that?”
That’s something Harry Ignatius Ball counts on. He likes dealing with people who make the mistake of thinking he’s some kind of joke. He sucks them in by playing dumb when he first meets them. Later on, when the opportunity presents itself, he revels in chewing those same people to pieces. From my point of view, it’s one of Harry’s most endearing qualities.
I could have warned Max to tread warily when it came to dealing with Harry, but I didn’t. Max didn’t deserve to be warned.
“It’s no joke,” I said. “Call him up and talk to him. It should be a laugh a minute.”
“I’ll just bet,” Max returned.
Max’s check was still there on the counter, halfway between my water glass and his empty coffee cup. He may have expected me to pick it up and pay for his breakfast, but I didn’t.
Tiring of my company at last, Max sighed and slapped a meaty paw over the bill, then he got up and waddled over to the cash register. I didn’t say good riddance, not even under my breath, but that’s what I was thinking.
Good riddance, and don’t let the door slam your butt on the way out.
CHAPTER 6
I hadn’t bothered mentioning to Maxwell Cole that I was on my way to visit his digs at the P.-I., and I carefully gave him plenty of lead time. I didn’t want the two of us walking in through the front door and stamping snow off our boots at the same time.
In a post-9/11 world, my SHIT squad ID was enough to get me past the guard at the front door. It took my ID, ten minutes of wheedling, and a call from someone in the attorney general’s office down in Olympia for me to gain access to the newspaper’s holy of holies, the morgue.
Over the years I’ve done my share of griping about newfangled technology. I’ve fought integrated-circuit advances all the way down the line-from cell phones to computers-until I finally admitted defeat or came to my senses, depending on your point of view. If I hadn’t already succumbed to the lure of computers, a day spent dealing with microfiche would have sent me plunging over the edge. Computers may be annoying, but microfiche is hell.
Because of Sister Mary Katherine’s age relative to mine, I knew we were dealing with a time frame that was in or near the early 1950s. Although she wasn’t sure, Mary Katherine seemed to be under the impression that her family had been living somewhere in the Seattle area.
Summer comes late in the Pacific Northwest. The rains last from late September until early July, so if Mary Katherine’s recollection of the blue dress with the yellow flowers was accurate, we were dealing with summer or possibly very late spring.
People act as though the decade of the fifties was a halcyon June-and-Ward-Cleaver age when everyone knew everyone else and no one bothered locking their doors. Maybe that was true in some places. I’m certain that there weren�
�t nearly the number of homicides back then as there are now. Bearing that in mind, I figured a stabbing death that had occurred in someone’s front yard would be page-one news. Even if the murder occurred outside Seattle proper, it would have made headlines in what was then and still is considered to be a statewide newspaper.
A surprisingly helpful clerk who, it turned out, was actually a student intern aided me in locating what I wanted-microfiche copies of newspapers that had been published between April and October, starting in 1949. I wasn’t actually allowed to touch the microfiche-the clerk had to load it into the machine prior to my scanning through it.
Lots of people would be amazed at how blindingly boring detective work can be-especially when you’re scrolling through page after page after page of blue-and-white microfiche print. My hunch had been right. Back then, homicide cases from all over the state had indeed been front-page fodder. One or two of them seemed promising, but once I read through the articles, the facts didn’t seem to coincide with anything Sister Mary Katherine had told us.
By two o’clock, I had finished 1949. I also had a splitting headache, but something good had happened. Headache or no, while I was concentrating on scrolling through those old stories, I most certainly hadn’t been thinking about Ron Peters and his problems. Rather than calling it a day, I asked the clerk for the next set and started in on 1950.
Halfway through May, in a newspaper dated Tuesday, May 16, 1950, I found what I was looking for: a headline that read “Seattle Woman Murdered in Her Bed.” Bed wasn’t quite right, but I continued reading anyway.
Seattle police detectives today released the name of a woman who was stabbed to death in her bed over the weekend while her bedridden mother lay helpless in a nearby room. When Ravenna area resident Madeline Marchbank was murdered, her mother, Abigail Marchbank, was left without food or water for several days. Mrs. Marchbank is hospitalized in fair condition at Columbus Hospital, where she is being treated for severe dehydration.
Madeline wasn’t quite the right name, but wasn’t Mimi a nickname for Madeline? And having the victim stabbed to death in her bed didn’t square with what Mary Katherine had reported either, but I remembered that by the time Bonnie Jeanne had ventured out of her hiding place that day, the body had disappeared. I had assumed it had been loaded into a waiting vehicle and carted off for dumping elsewhere. Was it possible that the killers had simply moved the body into the house and then arranged the room to make it look as if the crime had been committed there?
