LEAVING COLUMBIA CITY THAT AFTERNOON, I REALLY WAS on a roll. There was enough good news out there that I was prepared to go straight back home and share some of it with Alan Dale. I hit northbound traffic just south of the I-90 interchange, and that’s when my phone rang. The notice on my sound system’s screen told me Mel was calling.
“Hey,” I said, pushing the button that allowed me to answer hands-free. “Are you about to head out?”
“I wish,” she said regretfully. “A couple of lamebrains staged an attempted bank robbery in downtown Bellingham this afternoon and then made a run for the Canadian border. In the process they wiped out several parked vehicles, hit a poor woman in a crosswalk—who may or may not make it—and then took out a dozen cars when the state patrol tried to stop them on northbound I-5.”
“So we’re talking multiple incidents with multiple responding agencies.”
“You got it,” she said. “My media-relations officer should be able to handle this, but the mayor wants me on hand in case there’s any blowback. . . .”
“And whatever the mayor wants, he gets.”
“Exactly,” Mel replied.
I think both Mel and I had been surprised to learn how little of Mel’s job as chief had to do with actual police work and how much of it had to do with politics.
“So I’m stuck here for the time being,” she said. “I may be able to come down tomorrow morning, but then again maybe not. I’ll have to let you know. How are things with you?”
She was in a spot where she needed some good news, and so I delivered. “White-man time?” Mel giggled when I finished telling her about my new and very politically incorrect, self-identified “Indian” friend. “Loretta Hawk sounds like a kick. I think I’d like to meet her.”
“I think you two would hit it off, and based on our ability to make contributions I’m pretty sure that can be arranged.”
“As in pay for play?” she asked.
Those precise words made me think of Jasmine Day, and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling.
“It sounds like you’re verging on wrapping this thing up,” Mel said, helpfully changing the subject.
“Knock wood,” I told her. “We’ll have to see what, if anything, Rachel Seymour can deliver.”
“Don’t underestimate her,” Mel advised. “From what I hear, she’s very good at what she does.” I heard a beep on her phone that indicated an incoming call. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “Gotta run.”
By then it was truly stop-and-go on what’s laughably called a “freeway.” In the middle of the afternoon, the trip from I-90 to Belltown Terrace, which used to take ten minutes tops, now took thirty-five. I was out of patience by the time I finally made it into the building and wound my way down to P-4.
My nose had been slightly out of joint over the sincere lack of interest Lucy had exhibited when I was preparing to leave home without her. When I stepped off the elevator, it was gratifying to hear her claws come skittering into the vestibule the moment I put my key in the lock.
“Hey, girl,” I said, leaning down to return her ecstatic greeting. “Are you ready to go for a walk?”
“No need,” Alan called from the other room. “It’s such a sunny day, I wrapped Athena in her sling and we both took Lucy out for a walk just a couple of minutes ago. Any news?”
There was actually a lot of news, and I was delighted to sit in the window seat with the sun on my back while telling him of my day’s adventures, including the information about hopefully obtaining DNA profiles from the samples I’d provided. In my rendition of the day’s news, I neglected to mention that my own cheek swab was among those DNA samples awaiting profiling. And I was less than forthcoming about Rachel Seymour’s hoping to find Naomi at the I-90 encampment and possibly lure her into coming to stay the Pike Street Mission. As the hours went by with no further communications from Rachel, it seemed less and less likely to me that she’d be able to deliver.
“Any news on your end?” I asked Alan once I finished my part of the daily report.
“The pediatrician at Children’s said Athena is gaining weight and seems to be thriving. We talked about her needing to have ongoing monitoring and maybe early intervention to overcome what might be deficits due to being both premature as well as addicted.”
“As in learning disabilities?”
Alan nodded. “Those and maybe some developmental issues as well. The doctor says I need to bring her in to be evaluated by his PA every other week. She’ll need the same kind of attention once we get home to Jasper. He said he’d refer us to someone there. I also spoke to our social worker. She says that if we manage to locate Naomi and if she’s willing to surrender her rights, we can set up an appointment for the social worker to come meet with her, bringing the necessary relinquishment paperwork along. She says that if Naomi signs the documents in front of her, the social worker can take them before the judge at a dependency hearing and that’s it. That way there’d be no need for Naomi or for us to appear before a judge.”
“But if it turns out Petey really is the father, we’ll need to find him and get him to sign off as well?”
“I guess,” Alan agreed, “but once we make all that happen, Athena and I will be good to go. We’ll be out of your hair and headed home.”
Saying it like that made the process sound easy as pie. I wondered if it would be.
Time slowed to a crawl. As the afternoon sun waned, so did my hope for a positive outcome from Rachel Seymour. Around four thirty I took Lucy out for one more walk, and then we went back inside so I could feed her.
On Friday evenings when Mel and I arrive in Seattle later than usual, we often go to El Gaucho over on First Avenue for dinner. We could call it our neighborhood dive, except it’s anything but. It’s a fine-dining establishment, and as far as the neighborhood is concerned, it’s only a little more than a block away if we exit our building through the garage-door entrance. We go to El Gaucho often enough to be on a first-name basis with most of the waitstaff and some of the line cooks as well, but tonight I already knew that Mel wasn’t coming. Once I finished feeding Lucy, I went looking for Alan, who was in the process of removing the platter containing Marge’s leftover lasagna from the fridge.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a good steak?” I asked.
“Years, probably,” he answered.
“You’re in luck, then,” I told him. “Leave that lasagna where it is. There’s a great steakhouse just up the street, and we can be there at five P.M. when the doors open.”
“But what about Athena?” he asked.
Detectives must be observant. In the course of a couple of days, I had learned that once Athena was fed, she generally went straight to sleep and stayed that way for the better part of two hours. As it happened, Athena’s dinnertime had coincided with Lucy’s.
“We’ll wrap her up and bring her along. The restaurant is only a little over a block from here. Since we’ll be unfashionably early, we’ll nestle her into a corner booth and she’ll sleep . . . well, like a baby.”
We both laughed at that, and it’s exactly how things worked out. We walked from the condo to the restaurant, with Alan carrying the infant seat containing a cozily bundled Athena. Roger, the maître d’ at El Gaucho, might have been a bit startled to have two women-free older men turn up with a loaded infant seat, but he recovered nicely and took us straight to the corner booth tucked in behind the kitchen, which happens to be Mel’s and my favorite spot. Alan deferred to me as far as ordering was concerned, and we ended up with tableside Caesars, filet mignons, an order of mashed potatoes, and a side order of roasted corn. My customary O’Doul’s arrived without my having to ask for it. Alan ordered iced tea.
As predicted, Athena slept peacefully throughout the meal without letting out so much as a peep. We had decided against desserts and were in the process of boxing up leftovers when my phone rang—with an unknown 206 number showing in caller ID.
“Mr. Beaumont?” an unfamiliar voice inquired when I answered. “Rachel Seymour here.”
My heartbeat quickened as she continued.
“I’ve located Naomi Dale. Your source was correct, she was at the all-female encampment and agreed to come along to the mission. She’s in the process of settling into her room and having a bite of dinner. I told her that a private detective hired on her father’s behalf came by looking for her. She’s willing to see you, but she’s not interested in seeing him. There’s evidently some bad blood there.”
“Should I stop by tonight?” I asked.
“That’s probably the best idea,” Rachel said. “She’s here, but there’s no guarantee about how long she’ll stay.”
“All right, then,” I said. “I’m just finishing up with dinner. I’ll be there within the next half hour or so.”
The call ended. “Be where?” Alan asked.
“The Pike Street Mission.”
“Did they find her?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Amen,” he said. “So let’s go, then.” Jumping up, he grabbed for the infant seat.
“Wait,” I told him. “It’s not that simple. She’s willing to talk to me, but she doesn’t want to see you.”
Disappointment washed across his face. Alan dropped back into the booth, landing full force, as though someone had just lopped both legs off at the knees. He buried his face in his hands.
“She’ll never forgive me,” he muttered, “and I guess I don’t blame her.”
“Forgive you for what?”
“For what I said to her. The last time I ever spoke to Naomi was over the phone. Jasmine was in the hospital dying. I begged Naomi to come home long enough to go to the hospital and say good-bye. She told me to go to hell. That set me off, and the conversation devolved into a screaming match. I told Naomi she was a selfish brat, but that was the least of it. I called her a lot of other things, too—words I should never have used and will regret to my dying day. When the phone call ended, that’s when I realized I’d lost my last piece of Jasmine.”
It took a moment for me to figure out how to respond to that.
“Look,” I said finally. “You were in a terrible spot. Your wife was dying. God only knows what was going on in Naomi’s life about then. Maybe you both need a do-over. You hired me to find her, Alan. Let me. I’ll do my best to lobby on your behalf and on Athena’s behalf, too. Maybe I can talk some sense into Naomi’s head.”
“Good luck with that,” Alan said with a despairing shake of his head. “I’m not sure talking sense to her is even remotely possible.”