SIMMONS AND DEDDENS OFFERED TO GIVE me a lift back downtown to the Public Safety Building, and I would have been more than happy to accept, but Watty sent a message through Dispatch that I was to return to the Weston house for a debriefing. When I got there, Detective Kramer was sitting on the front porch waiting for me, notebook in hand. He was not a happy camper.
“I was just crawling into bed for a nap when Watty called and told me to come back here and take your statement. I feel like so much dogshit.”
“Well pardon me all to hell for getting shot at,” I returned. “Remind me to schedule the next one at a more convenient time, would you, Kramer? I hate to think that I’m causing you to miss your little nappy.”
“Cut the crap, will you, Beaumont? Just tell me what happened so we can both get out of here.”
So I told him, as briefly as possible, while he took notes. No doubt I’d have to do some paper on the assault, but it seemed fair enough that someone else should have to do so as well. After all, I’m a taxpayer too, I thought, remembering, for the first time since writing it, the sizable check to the IRS that I had left in Ralph Ames’s charge.
“The crux of the question, then, is did someone plan to hit Ben Weston, or were you the target this time?” Kramer asked finally.
“I have to assume the bullet was meant for me. Why kill a dead man?”
“Maybe they didn’t know he was already dead. Who all knew you were here tonight? Anyone at home?”
“No, I have company from out of town, but at the time the call came in and I left the house, Big Al and I had no idea where we were going or when we’d be back.”
“Anybody follow you?”
“Are you kidding? Even if they were, who would notice? Do you watch the rearview mirror when you’re on your way to a crime scene?”
“Hardly ever.”
“I rest my case.”
“Have you been in any kind of a beef with someone here at the department?”
I hesitated for a fraction of a second before I answered, remembering Janice Morraine’s blurted theory that a fellow cop might have killed Ben Weston. But I couldn’t think of anyone at Seattle PD who would be that happy if J. P. Beaumont was no more.
“You mean other than you?” I returned.
Kramer glared at me. “Yeah. Who else other than me? I’d already gone home, remember?”
“I don’t know of anyone.”
“The place was crawling with reporters. I know you don’t like them. Is the feeling mutual?”
“Most likely, but I can’t think of any of them who’d have balls enough to take a shot at someone they didn’t like. Besides, the ones I know are mostly opposed to guns as a matter of principle.”
Kramer made another note. “Who all was still here when this happened?”
“Janice Morraine and the rest of her crew from the Crime Lab. And there were two officers from Patrol who were left on duty guarding the front and back doors. They’re the ones who brought me back here, Officers Simmons and Deddens.”
“And nobody got a good look at the car?”
“No. It was dark—maroon or black maybe, but I can’t be sure. It was too far away to get even a glimpse of the license.”
It was morning now. People leaving their houses on their way to school and work slowed and stared openly at the two men sitting on the steps of Ben Weston’s house—at the two men and also at the grim-looking yellow tape that had been wrapped around the outside of the yard.
Kramer got up stiffly and stretched. “I’m going to go take a look at that hole in the wall. Is the slug still in it?”
“No, Janice Morraine had one of her guys dig it out. They’re gone now, but they said they’d have it whenever anybody needed it.”
I let Kramer go by himself to examine the bullet hole. He certainly didn’t need me holding his hand while he looked at the shattered mirror and the crater in the wallboard. I was waiting for him to come back out on the porch when a beater of a BMW stopped in the street, and a tall black man got out. He started toward the gate. He stopped at the barrier created by a strand of yellow crime scene tape.
“You can’t come in here,” I called. “It’s off limits.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m a police officer.”
“Oh,” he said. “Good. You’re just who I’m looking for.” With that he ignored what I had said, stepped easily over the tape, and came on into the yard anyway.
Knees creaking, heels yelping in pain, I got up and limped forward to head him off. “I tell you, you can’t come in here. Who are you?”
When he stopped next to me, I realized he dwarfed me. He held out his hand. “Johnson,” he said. “Carl Johnson. I’m the principal of McClure Middle School.”
If I hadn’t been two thirds brain-dead, I would have made the connection without him having to draw me a picture, but I was too slow on the uptake.
“Douglas Weston attends my school,” he explained. “One of my parents called me at home and told me something had happened, that police cars had been here during the night. I’m always concerned about anything that affects one of my children, so I came by to see if I could be of any help. What’s going on?”
For a moment, I didn’t know whether to hug the man or what. His appearance was an answer to a prayer. “Do you happen to know how to get hold of Adam Jackson’s mother?”
“Adam? He’s here too?”
I nodded. Carl Johnson frowned. “I don’t know her number right off the bat, but I’m sure I could get it for you from the office. If Adam spent the night here, it probably means she’s on call.”
“On call?”
“Emma Jackson is doing her residency with University Hospital. She told me about it at the beginning of the year. She has trouble getting a sitter for those thirty-six-hour shifts, so Adam often spends the night with the Westons. You still haven’t told me what’s going on.”
I reached in my pocket and pulled out a card. He read it, then met my eyes over the top of the card. “This says Homicide.” I nodded. “Has someone been killed?”
“Several people,” I answered quietly. “Maybe you’d better have a seat here on the porch so I can tell you about what happened.”
Carl Johnson shed real tears when I told him, but he jumped up as soon as I finished. “I’d better get back to school,” he said urgently. “I need to alert the faculty and the counselors. The district has a team of people who come in to help in situations like this, but I’d better hurry. I want to be there when word gets out.”
He started away, then stopped and turned back. “Where will you be?” he asked. “I’ll call you with Emma Jackson’s phone number as soon as I get back to my office.”
I gave him my home number. “I’m going to race home, take a shower, and change clothes. It’ll only take a few minutes. If there’s no answer, leave the number on my machine, but please don’t make any effort to contact Emma until after I do.”
“Of course,” Carl Johnson agreed. “I wouldn’t think of it.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you’d hold off making any kind of official announcement, again at least until after I get in touch with her.”
“You’ll let me know?”
“Yes,” I said. “Go ahead and start gathering up the people you need. Just don’t give out any names until you get an official go-ahead.”
“Right,” he said. “I understand.”
Carl Johnson strode away from me, his broad shoulders straight, his chin set. Again he stepped over the yellow tape. His ancient Beamer sputtered and backfired before he was able to start it on the third try.
Educators like him seem to be rare these days—old-time teachers who put kids first and everything else second. From the looks of the car he drove, making money sure as hell wasn’t Carl Johnson’s first priority. No matter what the salary schedule, we’ll never be able to pay the Carl Johnsons of this world a fraction of what they’re worth.
Janice Morraine came out on the porch just as Carl was driving away, his car coughing and choking. “Who was that?” she asked.
“His name’s Carl Johnson,” I told her, “and he’s a national treasure.”
She leveled a hard stare at me, as though I were some kind of raving maniac. “You don’t seem to have a car here. Would you like a ride back downtown?” Detective Kramer had taken off while I was dealing with Carl Johnson, and only now did it occur to me that I was totally without transportation.
Considering my previous behavior, I was a little surprised Janice Morraine made the offer. Maybe the fact that someone almost killed me had softened her bony little heart. “I’d appreciate it,” I said, meaning every word. “So would my bone spurs.”
“It won’t take much longer,” she said. “I’ve got one more load of gear to take out to the van.”
She turned down my offer of help with the loading. While waiting for her to finish stowing equipment in her state-owned Aerostar, I stood off to one side and thought about Paul Kramer’s questions. It seemed unlikely to me that anyone so apparently inoffensive as Gentle Ben Weston would have two entirely different sets of enemies out to kill him, both on the same night. I suffer from the homicide detective’s natural aversion to coincidences, and two entirely separate murder plots at once was a bit of a stretch. That being the case, then the second scenario was far more likely—a vicious murderer was out to do in any number of Seattle’s finest and their families as well.
Which brought me abruptly to the question of why me? Out of the fifteen hundred or so police officers in the city of Seattle, why had the gunman shot at me? It seemed likely that fate alone had cast me as a potential victim since Simmons, the officer left guarding the front door, would have been far more likely to open it.
I remembered how we had sprinted down the sidewalk after the gunman’s car disappearing in the early-morning darkness. Almost all the law enforcement vehicles in the neighborhood had been gone by then, and the crime scene tape had not yet been strung across the gate. If it had been, Simmons, Deddens, or I would have stumbled over it in our race to the car. With that in mind, it was conceivable, then, that whoever did the shooting still believed that Ben Weston was the only possible person who would open his own door at that ungodly hour of the morning.
Which brought me full circle and right back to Ben being the target of two totally separate murder plots at the same time—unless, as Janice Morraine had suggested, the killer really was a cop who knew full well that Ben Weston was already dead, who understood exactly what was going on, who had an accurate count of who was still inside the house, and who could make a pretty good guess which of those was most likely to open the door.
Around and around I went, my thoughts chasing themselves like so many stupid dogs, endlessly pursuing their own tails.
Janice Morraine climbed into the van and started the engine while I jolted myself out of my reverie and settled into the rider’s seat. “Where to?” she asked. “The department?”
“Sure. That’s fine. I need to pick up a car.”
We drove in silence for a few blocks. “Sorry about tonight,” I said. “I was out of line.”
“We were all tired,” she returned. “When people are running on nerves like that, you can’t expect everyone to be on their very best behavior.”
“You may be right,” I said quietly. “Not about Big Al, but about the murderer being a cop out to kill other cops.”
“Forget it,” she said. “I’ve changed my mind about that, too.”
“You have?”
“We found six Flex-cufs in Ben Weston’s nightstand drawer and two in the kitchen. Maybe he was collecting them. God knows how many others he had stashed here and there around the house, but a cop wouldn’t have made all the mistakes.”
“What mistakes?”
“The footprints, for one thing. If we once find that pair of shoes, believe me, we won’t have any trouble matching them up. And the hair for another.”
“The hair stuck between Shiree Western’s fingers?”
She nodded. “That’s right. Any cop in his right mind would have noticed and had brains enough to get rid of those.”
“What about fingerprints?”
Janice shrugged. “Naturally, we found those all over the house, but until we have a record of all the family members’ prints, there’s no way to tell which ones, if any, are strays.”
By then we were pulling into the garage at the Public Safety Building. “Thanks for the ride,” I said.
“No problem.”
“And no matter what I may have said before, for a criminalist, you’re not bad.”
She grinned back at me, and I knew I’d been forgiven. “You’re not bad either,” she returned lightly, “for a boy.”
Touché.
I went upstairs long enough to pick up my messages and to receive a hug from Margie, my clerk, who seemed delighted that I hadn’t been shot to pieces. Then I hurried back down to the garage, checked out a car, and went home.
It was only eight o’clock. I could smell the coffee and bacon as soon as the elevator door opened on the twenty-fifth floor. Obviously, Ralph Ames was making himself at home. I don’t know what kind of metabolism the man has, but he eats like a horse and never seems to have a problem with his weight. It probably has something to do with swimming daily laps at his pool there in Scottsdale.
“Hey, you’re just in time for breakfast. Want some?”
“No time. I came home to grab a shower and change clothes. Pour me a cup of coffee and let it cool. I’ll be out in a minute.”
By the time I got back out to the dining room, Ralph handed me a message from Carl Johnson. “Rough night?” Ames asked.
I knew from looking in the mirror that I had dark circles under my eyes. “Pretty rough, all right,” I said. “Five people dead and I ended up having someone take a potshot at me before the evening was over.”
“You’re in a tough line of work,” Ames said. “Sure you won’t try some eggs?”
The food smelled wonderful and I was famished. I allowed myself to be persuaded.
“Try some of the salsa on your eggs,” Ames suggested. “It’s the real McCoy, straight from Phoenix. I brought it up special.”
I tried a daub of the green salsa on my eggs and it instantly cleared every sinus cavity in my head. I bolted my food, toast and all, and pushed my chair away from the table.
“Where to this time?” Ames asked.
“I’ve got to do a next-of-kin notification. In feet, I should be on my way right this very minute.”
I was headed out the door when the phone rang. Expecting new marching orders from Watty or Captain Powell, I picked it up. Instead, it was Curtis Bell, a guy I knew vaguely from the department, who, now that he was moonlighting as a life insurance salesman, was renowned throughout Seattle PD as an A-number-one pest. He had been hounding me for an appointment for months.
Without allowing me a word in edgewise, he administered the usual appointment-getting canned speech about when could we get together to talk over some ideas that had proved helpful to other officers like myself. Personally, I liked it better back in the old days when moonlighting cops mostly worked as security guards. Security guards usually don’t try to sell products or services to their friends. And I remembered the prospecting lessons from my old Fuller Brush days—call everyone you know and ask for an appointment. But I also know what it’s like to be a young cop and not make enough money to cover all the bases. I understood what Curtis Bell was trying to do and why he was having to do it.
I tried to be polite. “Look, Curtis, I appreciate your thinking about me, but I’m working a case. I’m real busy right now. In fact, I was just on my way out the door.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “My schedule’s flexible. Are mornings or afternoons better for you, or how about early evening, right after work?”
“Really, none of the above.”
I kept saying no, and he kept not listening. After being up working around the clock, the very last thing I needed would be to spend the evening with some boring life insurance puke. I took one more stab at getting rid of him.
“Curtis,” I told him as nicely as I could manage. “I’m financially set. I’m divorced and my kids are grown. Why the hell do I need life insurance anyway?”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about,” Curtis returned. “Would tomorrow night be better?”
He had worn me down. The customary ten no’s hadn’t worked. Sooner or later, he and I were going to talk insurance. “Tell you what, Curtis, I’ll get back to you on this. Right now, I’ve got to go.”
I put down the phone and turned around only to find Ralph Ames studying me with a puzzled expression on his face. “What was that all about?” he asked.
“One of the guys from the department who’s got a second job selling life insurance. I don’t know why, but he thinks I’m a likely prospect.”
“Maybe you are,” Ames said thoughtfully. “What company is he with?”
“Beats me. How the hell should I know? And anyway, I don’t need any life insurance.”
“Wait a minute,” Ralph said. “You’re thinking about leaving the department, and that means you’ll be walking away from a whole lot of fringe benefits. There may be some things about insurance that we’ll want to consider. My main worry would be about a rating.”
I took a moment to consider what he’d said. Evidently, the idea of my leaving the department was something Ralph Ames had been considering even if I hadn’t. But instead of thinking about giving up my life’s work, I focused in on the last word he’d mentioned.
“Rating? What’s a rating?”
“Remember, you’re fresh out of alcohol treatment,” Ames explained. “Of course, that would have to be disclosed in the medical part of any application. If the underwriters offer you insurance at all, most likely they’re going to charge you an extra premium added on to the regular one. They call it a rating.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“You mean I have to give up MacNaughton’s and pay extra besides?”
“Beau,” Ames responded reasonably enough. “They have to charge you an extra premium to cover the extra risk.”
“Like hell they do. If Curtis Bell calls back, tell him to go piss up a rope. If I can’t have insurance at regular rates, I won’t have any at all.”
With that, and without bothering to thank Ralph Ames for cooking my breakfast, I slammed out of the apartment and went looking for Emma Jackson.
Extra premium my ass!