She turned and walked away. I missed the next elevator fair and square. In fact, I might have stood in the lobby for the rest of the afternoon if Peters hadn’t come through and dragged me back to the fifth floor.
The phone on my desk was ringing. “Hello, J. P.” Maxwell Cole said. “You didn’t return my call.”
“You noticed,” I observed dryly. “You know I can’t talk to you directly. Lay off it.”
“Who is she? The car is owned by a law firm in Phoenix, Arizona, and they won’t tell me anything.”
“I won’t tell you anything either, Max. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Come on, give. You left with her.”
“It was stricly social, I can assure you. Had nothing to do with the case, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“If it was strictly social as you say, tell me who she is.”
“Go piss up a rope, Maxey,” I told him, and I hung up.
The sole advantage of going to lunch at two-fifteen is there’s not a whole hell of a lot of day left when you get back. Maxwell Cole had good sources. The Department of Motor Vehicles gave me the same information he had, the name of a law firm in Phoenix. I called and got a chilly reception from the lady who answered the phone. “Mr. Ames handles Mrs. Corley’s affairs,” she said, “but I have been instructed to give out no information.”
“This is a very serious matter,” I said. “I’m investigating a homicide.”
“Give me your name, then, and Mr. Ames will get back to you.”
“Don’t you want the number?”
“No. If you really work for the Seattle Police Department, we’ll be able to get your number through information.
My phone rang a few minutes later, and a Ralph Ames introduced himself as Anne Corley’s attorney. “You’ll have to forgive my receptionist, Detective Beaumont,” he said. “Yours was the second call on Mrs. Corley we’ve had this afternoon. The first one didn’t check out.”
“Was his name Maxwell Cole?”
“As a matter of fact, it was.”
“And he tried to pass himself off as a cop?”
“Well, as an investigator of some kind.”
“He’s a member of the local press.”
“I figured as much,” Ralph Ames laughed. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“As I told your receptionist, I’m working on a homicide and—”
“Excuse me for interrupting, Detective Beaumont, but let me guess. You’re working on the murder of a young child, and you’re trying to figure out why Anne Corley came to the funeral, right?”
“That’s exactly right, Mr. Ames.”
“She’s working on a book. She’s been working on it for several years. I get calls like this all the time.”
“Yes, she told me about the book,” I said, relieved. “Still, I have to check things out. It’s my job.”
“That’s quite all right, Detective Beaumont. This is my job too. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No. Nothing I can think of. Thanks.”
“Anytime,” he said. He hung up.
I waited while Peters finished taking a call from Hammond, Indiana. Yes, Brodie had been investigated in the bludgeoning death of one of his parishioners two years earlier, but he had never been indicted. The case was still open.
There wasn’t a whole lot more we could do then, so we took off about four-thirty and went by the Warwick to check on Carstogi. He told us he had made plane reservations for the following morning. Peters went down to the lobby for a telephone huddle with Watkins to see what he thought about Carstogi returning to Chicago. While Peters was out of the room, Carstogi told me he planned to go to a movie that night. There are at least six theaters within walking distance of the Warwick, not counting the porno flicks. I didn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t go.
As I opened the door to let Peters back into the room, he signaled everything was okay. “You’ll keep us posted on how to get in touch with you once you get home?” Peters asked.
“Sure thing,” Carstogi said agreeably. He seemed to be in good spirits, all things considered; We left him to his own devices. His close encounter with Michael Brodie’s fist had pretty much taken the wind out of his sails.
Peters drove off in his Datsun. I hurried to my apartment and put on a clean shirt; then I caught the free bus back up to the Four Seasons. I didn’t tell Peters I was going to meet Anne Corley. I was afraid he’d want to tag along.
W
alking into the Four Seasons was like walking into a foreign country. Each marbled floor, gleaming chandelier, polished brass rail, and overstuffed chair belonged to another time and place. It all spelled money. The best Italian marble. The best Irish wool for the carpet. “Anne must be quite at home here,” I said to myself.
I wandered through the spacious lobby into the Garden Court. The tables were occupied either by takers of tea in the English tradition or drinkers of booze in the American tradition. Some tables included both. Late-afternoon sun had breached the cloud cover and sparkled through an expanse of arched windows that formed one entire wall of the massive room. Anne Corley was seated at a tiny table in a far corner, her face framed by a halo of sunlight shining through her hair.
Her eyes met mine as I entered the room. I declined the services of the maître d’ and made my way to the table. So what if she only wanted to pump me for information? I was willing to trade information for the chance to be with Anne Corley. On the table before her sat two glasses, one with white wine and ice and the other with MacNaughton’s and water. Pump away.
“Been here long?” I asked, taking a seat.
She shook her head. The room was crowded. There was a line of people waiting to be seated. “Did you have reservations here too?”
She smiled and nodded. “Reservations make things simpler.” She examined my face. “Have you cooled off?”
“I guess. I’m here.”
She laughed. “You don’t look too happy about it.”
I sipped my drink, disturbingly aware of her eyes studying my face. I had the strange sensation that she was burrowing into my mind and decoding the romantic delusions I had manufactured around her. It was at once both pleasant and uncomfortable.
“You didn’t bring Peters,” she observed.
“No, I decided I could handle the assignment on my own. I’m a big boy now.”
“What does a girl have to do to show you that she’s interested? Hit you over the head? I find you very attractive, Detective J. P. Beaumont. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Look,” I said impatiently. “I told you this afternoon, I don’t play games. I’ll talk to you about the case as long as what I tell you in no way jeopardizes the investigation. You don’t have to pretend I’m some latter-day heart-throb to do it.”
She smiled again. “Actually, you sound like a maiden aunt who has just been invited up to see some nonexistent etchings. Let me assure you, my intentions are entirely honorable.”
I didn’t mean to sound quite so self-righteous. I laughed. “That bad, eh?”
She nodded. The waitress came by with offers of fresh drinks, but Anne waved her away. “I’ve thought about you all day,” she said quietly. “You’re really quite pleasant to be with. I realized that after I dropped you off last night.”
I could feel a flush creeping up the back of my neck. “That was a compliment,” she added. “You’re supposed to say thank you.”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“You’re welcome.” Her eyes sparkled with humor. For a time we sat without speaking, listening to the sound of talk and laughter, to the tinkling of leaded glassware that filled the room. It was a companionable silence. I appreciated the fact that neither of us grilled the other about their past. It was enough to be together right then. Eventually she emptied her glass and stood up. “Let’s go,” she said. “I can only sit around for so long without doing something.”
I reached for my wallet, but Anne shook her head. “I already took care of it.”
She paused in the lobby long enough to remove a pair of battered Nikes from an Adidas carryall. Her navy pumps disappeared into the cavernous bag.
“Where to?” I asked as she stood up.
“Let’s just walk,” she replied, and we did. It’s unusual for someone with a car to get out and walk like that. We covered the whole of downtown, from Freeway Park to the waterfront. She set a brisk pace and maintained it regardless of the steeply pitched inclines. We walked and talked. She asked nothing about Angela Barstogi, nor did we delve into matters personal. The conversation ranged over a world of topics, from politics to religion, from economics to music. Anne Corley was well read and could hold her own on any number of subjects.
Her mood wasn’t as mercurial as it had been the day before. She told wry jokes and laughed at her own punch lines. We wound up at a small Greek restaurant halfway up Queen Anne Hill. We finished dinner about ten-thirty. I bought. My ego needed that hit.
As we left the restaurant, we paused outside to admire a full moon rising behind the Space Needle. She slipped her hand under my arm, her touch both casual and electrifying. “What now?” she asked.
“A nightcap at my place?” I suggested.
“I’d like that,” she replied.
We cut through Seattle Center and walked the seven or eight blocks to my building with her hand still resting on my arm. My mind was doing an inventory of my apartment. How much of a mess was it? Had I picked up the scatter of dirty socks and shirts that often litters the living room? For sure the bed wasn’t made. It never is.
The Royal Crest isn’t quite as luxurious as its name would imply. We entered the lobby. I tried to look at it through the eyes of a lady with a Porsche. Not that bad, I decided, but it could be better. I was grateful none of my lavender-haired cronies were still in the lobby. Some of them watched the closed-circuit channel twenty-four hours a day, however, and they consider it a sacred charge to know who comes and goes. My bringing home a female visitor would keep the gossip mills running for days.
I pushed open the door and let Anne lead the way into 1106. I didn’t turn on the lights. She went straight to the window to look at the downtown skyline. I came to the window and stood beside her. A delicate perfume lingered around her, the same scent that had entranced me the day before at the cemetery. She was as transfixed by the view as I was by her. Her skin reflected back the golden glow of the city lights. The play of light and shadow gave her beauty a haunting quality.
The impulse was more than I could resist. I reached up and ran my finger along her jawline. Her skin was smooth and cool. She made no move away from me. Instead, she turned toward the touch, allowing my finger to retrace its path down her cheek. I felt my throat constrict. “Hello there,” I said huskily.
“Hello yourself,” she replied. I took her in my arms and kissed her, feeling her mouth moist and welcoming on mine. I crushed her to me, awed by her response, her willingness.
Self-imposed celibacy is fine as far as it goes, but once you break training, months of deprivation take over. Every sensation is heightened. We were frantic for release. Each kiss was more demanding than the one before. Anne didn’t shrink before my onslaught. She matched me move for move, her need as deep and overwhelming as my own.
My hands were trembling with urgency as I fumbled with the top button on her blouse. The ruffled material fell away, revealing the deep hollow of her throat. I kissed her there and felt her response in a sharp intake of breath. Two more buttons revealed her breasts, firm and tense with excitement beneath a lacy bra. She pushed my hands away. “Let me do that,” she whispered. With swift, deft movements she undid the remaining buttons and slipped off the jacket, blouse, skirt, and bra. She returned to my arms clothed only in the glow from the downtown skyline.
I had removed my tie and jacket, but not the regulation .38 I carry in a shoulder holster under my left arm. She nestled against my chest. Most women, encountering the pistol for the first time, express something-surprise mostly, dismay sometimes, sometimes repulsion. Anne showed none of these. Her fingers strayed easily across the metal handle, then settled on the small of my back. This time her lips sought mine, sought them, found them, made them her own.
I put my hand on her chin and pushed her away from me. “I thought you said your intentions were honorable.”
“I thought you said not to play games,” she replied matter-of-factly.
I wasn’t prepared to argue the point. I kissed her again, letting my tongue explore at will, learning each corner of her, each curve and crevice. I could probably get away with saying I took her there in the living room on the floor, but it wouldn’t be the truth. She took me every bit as much as I took her, maybe more. Her body arched to meet mine, her fingers in my back spurred me, goaded me. My need and her need melded into one, and when the climax came, I heard an aching sob escape her lips. I kissed her cheek. It was wet with tears.
I moved away from her and lay on my side, watching her, “I didn’t mean to make you cry,” I said.
She snuggled against me, nestling her back into the curve of my body, placing my hand so it rested on the sloping fullness of her breast. “I didn’t expect it to be that good. It hasn’t been that good in a long time.”
We lay like that together, letting the aftermath of our lovemaking slowly dissolve around us. She lay so still, I thought she had dozed off. My arm went to sleep. When I tried to move her to one side, she rolled away from me and stood up. “Do you have a robe I could wear?” she asked.
I dragged two of them out of the closet, one for her and one for me. Considering we had just made love, it was silly to be self-conscious, but we both were. The one I gave her was huge when she tied it around her slender frame. She rolled the sleeves up a turn or two so her hands showed. “I offered you a drink,” I said. “You want one now?”
All trace of tears was gone. She smiled mischievously. “No thanks, I already have what I came for.”
I grabbed her arm and swung her toward me. “Why, you little vixen,” I said. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I’m not,” she said. She gave me a glancing kiss, slipping away from me at the same time. I poured a drink for myself and turned on the lights. I watched with some amusement as she padded barefoot around the room, examining my decorator-dictated knickknacks as well as the pictures of Kelly and Scott on the wall in the entryway.
“Your kids?” she asked.
I nodded. “They’re both in high school now. They live in California with their mother.”
“How long have you been divorced?” she asked.
“Long time. Five years.”
“Girlfriends?”
“I’d like to think I’ve got one now,” I said. “What about you?”
She settled cross-legged on the couch, pulling the robe demurely around her. “I’m a widow. My husband died ten years ago.” She regarded me seriously. “I’ve had too much money to be able to tell who my friends are, to say nothing of lovers.”
“You’re a little young to be a widow.”
“I was a lot younger ten years ago.” She didn’t offer to divulge her age and I didn’t ask, although she couldn’t have been more than thirty, thirty-two at the outside. She sat there looking off into space. She had a way of mentally going off by herself that I found disconcerting. When she came back to the present she was looking directly into my eyes. “Are you going to ask me to spend the night, or do I have to get dressed and go home?”
I almost choked on a very small sip of MacNaughton’s. “Would you like to spend the night?”
“Yes,” she replied. She waited for me to finish my drink; then I led her into the bedroom. I squirmed that the bed wasn’t made, but she wasn’t paying attention to the furniture. She loosened the tie of the robe, letting it fall open. She pulled my hands inside it, wrapping them around her until I could feel the smooth swell of her breasts against my chest.
“Please,” she whispered.
We did.