Name Withheld : A J.p. Beaumont Mystery (9780061760907) (10 page)

Back in my Fuller Brush days when I was working my way through school, I learned the value of third-party referrals. It was always easier to sell brushes to someone if a neighbor up the street called ahead to say I was coming. Naturally, I called Farwest first.

“Hey, J.P.,” said Wally, one of Farwest's old-hand dispatchers. “Long time no see, especially now that you don't need your butt hauled out of bars on a regular basis. How long you been off the sauce?”

“Two years and a little bit.”

“Good for you. I just passed five. Still going to meetings?”

“Some,” I said, although the correct answer probably should have been “hardly any.”

“What can I do you for?” Wally asked.

“I need some help with a Yellow.”

“Either you need your vision checked or you're screwing up the alphabet. Farwest is in the
F's
, not the
Y's
,” Wally told me. “And our cabs are green, not yellow.”

After I explained the situation, there was a pause during which Wally sent out several cabs. “You know, J.P.,” he said a little testily, “there are ways to get at those customer logs through official channels.”

“I'm aware of that,” I returned, “but all those channels take time. And mountains of paperwork.”

“You can say that again,” Wally sighed. “So all right. I'll see what I can do, but I'm not making
any promises. Some of those Yellow guys are jerks. How can I get back in touch with you?”

I gave him my numbers. Then, smiling to myself, I replaced the receiver in its cradle and put a check mark beside number three. I was definitely making progress. For number four, I called upstairs. Ron Peters answered his own phone.

“Are you still here?”

“No,” he answered. “I've mastered the art of being in two places at once. What do you want?”

“To talk to you. Are you on your way out the door right this minute?”

“I should be, but I'm not. Come on up. I need to talk to you, too.”

One would think that in the natural order of police hierarchy, the chief's office would be the undisputed departmental sanctum sanctorum. But at Seattle P.D., the chief's office has an open door compared to the Internal Investigations Section. I.I.S., on the eleventh floor, is ruled by the iron hand and unwavering Eagle Scout mentality of one Captain Anthony Freeman. In the world of I.I.S., security is paramount. Even after hours, just to drop by and visit with Ron Peters for a couple of minutes, I had to sign in and out at the reception desk.

Somehow, despite perennial budget tightening, Captain Freeman manages to keep I.I.S. looking more like reasonably well appointed corporate offices than the jumbled mishmash of aging office furnishings that exists in every other department of Seattle P.D. Ron Peters' office didn't measure
up in grandeur or view to Captain Freeman's, but it was a damn sight better than my crowded cubicle on the fifth floor.

“What's up?” Ron asked, wheeling back to his desk after letting me into the room.

“Tell me where you got your Chair Topper,” I said.

Ron grinned at me. “What's the matter,” he quipped. “Are your heel spurs acting up so much that you're headed for a chair? Amy tells me surgery can do wonders for those these days.”

“It's not for me,” I said. “It's the case I'm working on—two related cases, as a matter of fact. Each one comes complete with a mysterious wheelchair-bound female witness who drives around in an elderly Crown Victoria with a Chair Topper on it that looks a whole lot like yours.”

“Cool,” Ron said. “No telling what people in chairs are up to these days. If the lady in question bought her Chair Topper locally, you can pretty well figure it came from Rich's Northwest Mobility. It's up in Snohomish County, on Maltby Road.”

To people who live in the Denny Regrade, words like
Snohomish
or
Maltby Road
are enough to give you heartburn. Those hard-to-place place names denote exurbs, not suburbs. Foolhardy city dwellers who venture out in search of them would be wise to arm themselves with a current copy of
The Thomas Guide
.

“I assume Rich is the owner, then?” I asked, making a quick notation in my notebook.

Ron shook his head. “Rich is long gone. He started the place as a customizing joint for hot rods. A young couple named Eddie and Amanda bought Rich out years ago. After a while, they ended up going straight, as they put it. They're out of hot rods completely. They still do customizing, all right, but now it's strictly to create handicapped-accessible vehicles.”

“Would they talk to me?” I asked.

“Who, Eddie and Amanda? Of course they would. I'll call ahead and let them know you'll be stopping by. When?”

“Tomorrow sometime,” I said. “I'm sure as hell not going to fight my way over there now in the middle of rush-hour traffic.”

“Wise decision,” Ron agreed. “I'll call them first thing in the morning. Anything else?”

“Not right now.” I stood up to leave, but Ron motioned me back into my chair. His face grew suddenly somber.

“Have you heard from Roz yet…from Sister Constance, I mean?” he asked.

“Sister Constance!” I said. “Why would I be hearing from your ex-wife?”

“You probably won't hear from her directly,” Ron said, “but you'll be hearing from someone. She's coming after us demanding full custody. She's charging Amy and me with willful child neglect.”

“Child neglect!” I exclaimed. “You and Amy? You've got to be kidding.”

Ron shook his head sadly. “I'm not kidding, Beau. I only wish I were.”

H
alf an hour later, I skulked back down to my fifth-floor cubicle. I had been feeling pretty cocky when I checked off
Find Latty
. I wasn't nearly as chipper when I put the little check mark next to number four,
Find Wheelchair Lady
. Somehow, the possibility that Ron and Amy Peters might lose permanent custody of Heather and Tracy had taken the blush right off my little investigatory rose.

I studied the remaining items on my list. There wasn't anything on it that I couldn't do at home. The big-screened TV—useful for reviewing the tapes and also for watching the news if I managed to make it all the way to ten o'clock—was right there in my den. And as for working on reports, including the almost completed ones the computer had eaten, that could be done on my laptop—assuming I could get the damned thing
running again—while sitting in my very own recliner.

Gathering things into a wad, I was about to switch off the overhead light when Detective Kramer stuck his head in the doorway. “There you are,” he said, “I thought you were still here.”

Caught
, I thought.

“With any luck, I wouldn't have been,” I told him cheerfully. “What's up? If you're going to brief me on what you and Arnold found out this afternoon, couldn't it wait until morning? I'm beat.”

“One of your star witnesses just stopped by to pay a visit,” Kramer said. “I told her to wait in my office while I tried to track you down.”

Kramer's cat-eating-shit grin as he spoke warned me that something wasn't quite right. “What star witness?” I asked.

“Her name's Johnny,” he said. “Johnny Bickford. And she particularly asked for Detective Beaumont. She wasn't the least bit interested in talking to anyone else, even though I tried to assure her that we were working the same case.”

Groaning inwardly and wondering how long Johnny Bickford had been traipsing around the fifth floor, I followed Kramer down the hall to his cubicle, which happens to be two doors away from Captain Powell's fishbowl. Parked next to Kramer's desk sat Johnny Bickford in 100-percent full-dress drag, complete with frosted wig, impossibly high heels, dark-colored panty hose, and a tightly belted trench coat which emphasized
that Johnny's Wonder-Bra was still performing its figure-producing magic. A massive leather purse sat on the floor next to his feet, which were demurely crossed—at the ankle.

Looking at him made me think of that old 1950s classic
Some Like It Hot
with Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis, and Jack Lemmon. I remember seeing the movie back then and being pretty much mystified by all those men running around in women's clothing. And although I'm supposedly older and wiser than I was in Ballard back in 1959, I have to admit that I
still
don't understand it. Nor, would I venture to say, do most of my Homicide colleagues on the fifth floor of the Public Safety Building.

“Hello, Johnny,” I said without enthusiasm. “You wanted to see me?”

Chirping with glee, Johnny leaped to his/her feet the moment I appeared in the doorway. “Why, there you are, Detective Beaumont. I was about to give up hope that this nice Detective Kramer would ever be able to find you. He's been
so
helpful.”

“I'll just bet he has,” I said. “Come on, we'll go down to my office to talk.”

“You're more than welcome to talk here if you like,” Detective Kramer offered genially.

“No,” I said, giving Kramer a black look. “I don't think so.”

“Detective Beaumont is right,” Johnny added. “I've already taken too much of your time, but I do appreciate your visiting with me. Detective
Kramer and I were just sitting here chatting. You police officers do lead such interesting lives.”

“Yes,” I agreed grimly. “We certainly do.”

While Johnny groped for his purse, Kramer planted himself in the doorway, blocking our exit. “Johnny here seems to have a very high opinion of your skill as an investigator,” Paul Kramer said with a deceptively bland smile. “She dropped by the department to ask you to sign an autograph for her mother back in Wichita.”

“Another one?” I asked.

“Another one?” Kramer repeated. “You mean you've signed autographs before? Sounds more like a major-league baseball player than a cop. You don't charge for it, do you?”

“No,” I said. “No charge.”

Kramer shook his head. “I don't understand it,” he said. “Nobody's ever asked me for my autograph.”

Now it was my turn to smile. “I'm sure Johnny here could remedy that. As far as your mother is concerned, one detective's signature should do just as well as any other's, shouldn't it?”

“I suppose,” Johnny agreed dubiously, “but the truth is—no offense, Detective Kramer—I really did have my heart set on Detective Beaumont's. You don't mind, do you?”

“Oh, no,” Kramer said. “Not at all!”

That's what he
said
, but it wasn't what he
meant
. On the face of it, the whole idea of someone wanting a detective's autograph was more than slightly ridiculous. Still, I knew
enough about Kramer to understand that he was feeling slighted. And jealous. I could see that for myself in the involuntary twitch that was tweaking the corners of his thin mouth. The twitch, combined with the humorless glower in Kramer's eyes, warned me that both Johnny Bickford's request for an autograph, along with his outrageous appearance, would be a hot topic around Homicide for months to come. Detective Kramer would see to it.

“Let's go, Johnny,” I repeated. “I'm sure Detective Kramer has work to do.”

Hoping we wouldn't meet too many of my fellow detectives along the way, I herded Johnny down the hall and into my cubicle. Once seated at the chair next to my disaster of a desk, my visitor began fumbling in the purse. What he finally excavated was an envelope containing a carefully folded newspaper article.

“A reporter called me this morning from
The Seattle Times
,” Johnny said. “She interviewed me about finding the body. The article came out in this afternoon's edition. Since my name actually appears in this one, I thought I'd rather send it home to Mother instead of the first one where I'm only the nameless jogger.”

JOGGING INTO HEALTH AND HOMICIDE

Johnny handed me the article, and I scanned the first several lines:

I looked up at Johnny Bickford, who was watching me with rapt attention. “Where do you want me to sign this thing?” I asked.

“Right under the headline, I suppose,” Johnny said. Shaking my head, I started to comply. “You didn't tell me he died of a gunshot wound,” Johnny continued reproachfully.

“It wasn't something you needed to know,” I returned. “As a matter of fact, the newspapers weren't supposed to know it, either.”

Johnny Bickford mulled that last statement while I finished signing the article and passed it
back to him. “I suppose you think it's morbid, my wanting you to sign the articles,” he said.

“It's none of my business one way or the other,” I answered.

“You see,” Johnny went on, “I've always secretly wondered what it would be like to be involved in a murder investigation, and now I am.”

“Excuse me,” I returned. “You discovered a body, but that doesn't mean you're involved.”

“But couldn't Seattle P.D. use someone like me?” Johnny asked. “As an informant or something? Believe me, I could get into places a regular cop could never dream of going.”

“I'm sure that's true, but I don't think the department is in the market for that particular kind of information.”

“But Detective Kramer said…” Bickford stopped.

“What exactly did Detective Kramer say?”

“That each detective develops his own network of informants. I thought maybe I could work for you. On a voluntary basis, of course. I wouldn't expect to be paid anything. I just think it would be utterly fascinating.”

The phone rang at my elbow. In order to answer it, I had to unearth it from beneath a mound of loose paperwork. “Detective Beaumont, here.”

A brisk female voice came on the line. “This is Sally Redding, with Yellow Cab. I understand you were looking for some information?”

“Just a sec,” I said into the phone. Then I
turned to Johnny. “This is private,” I told him. “You'll have to go.”

Nodding, Johnny picked up the purse and started toward the door. “But, if you change your mind…”

“If I do,” I said, “I'll be in touch.” Johnny left my cubicle, and I turned my attention back to the phone. “Sorry,” I said, “someone was here in my office, and yes, I did need some information.”

“The owner of the company has authorized me to tell you what you need to know,” Sally Redding said. “The car you were asking about is number eleven forty-eight. On that particular night, the twenty-eighth, it was driven by Norm Otis. He picked up a fare from thirty-three hundred Western at approximately twelve-twenty
A.M
. and drove her to a building on Main Street in Bellevue. The number there is one zero two eight five Main.”

“Is that a house or an apartment?” I asked, jotting the information in my notebook.

“I can't tell that from the record,” Sally Redding answered. “We have building information for pickups, but not for dropoffs.”

“When can I talk to Norm Otis?”

“He came on duty at six tonight, but he's off on a call right now. Do you want me to have him get back to you when he's available?”

“Please,” I said. “The sooner the better.” I gave her my collection of possible phone numbers.

“I'll see what I can do,” Sally returned, but she didn't sound exactly overjoyed at the prospect.

“I appreciate your help, Ms. Redding” I said. “I really do.”

“Right,” she said, sounding unconvinced.

“And be sure to have him try the home number first. I'm leaving the office as soon as I finish gathering things up. I should be there in just a matter of minutes.”

I parked the 928 on the P-4 level of the Belltown Terrace garage and took the elevator as far as the lobby, where I stopped off to pick up my mail. As I headed back toward the elevator, the lobby door opened and in came Gail Richardson and her Afghan hound, Charlie.

A renter of one of the larger upper units, Gail is some kind of bigwig on a Seattle-based sitcom that had just been renewed for a second season. She's a tall, good-looking woman in her late forties. Her hair is snow white, without, as she tells it, the benefit of any chemical enhancements. She is one of the few people I know who can manage the difficult feat of appearing totally dignified while holding a leashed dog in one hand and a plastic bag of still-warm dog crap in the other.

When I stepped aside to allow her and the dog aboard the elevator first, however, she looked decidedly harried. And knowing that some of her holiday company had been staying with her for the better part of three weeks, I guessed at the problem.

“When do you finally get your life back?” I asked.

She flashed me a woebegone smile. “Maybe
never. I'm sure you heard all about it.”

“All about what?”

“My mother took Charlie for a walk today and forgot how to get back to the building. Luckily, one of the Denny Regrade security officers spotted them and knew where they belonged. I hate to think what would have happened if he hadn't come to the rescue.”

I had been introduced to Gail's mother, Nina Hopper, at a Belltown Terrace pre-Christmas party. Nina, a birdlike woman in her mid-to-late eighties, had seemed bright enough when I talked with her, but we had spoken for only a matter of minutes.

“She forgot where the building was?” I asked.

Gail nodded. “My sister had mentioned her growing forgetfulness and that it was becoming more and more worrisome. She had talked about getting one of those bracelets for her, so other people could help her find her way home if need be. Here in a strange city, her getting lost like that could have been disastrous. And then after that mess with the hot tub…”

“What mess with the hot tub?” I asked.

“Don't tell me you didn't hear about that. It even made the news. Mother thought she would help me out by cleaning the bathroom. She must have put half a bottle of liquid soap in the tub. Then she turned on the water and the jets and shut the bathroom door. By the time I realized what was happening, the bathroom was floor-to-ceiling bubbles. I guess it made a terrible mess in
the party room.” The door opened and Gail and Charlie stepped off.

“You mean your
mother
did that?” I asked, holding the door open.

“Yes.”

“Did you know that Dick and Francine blamed Heather and Tracy?”

Gail nodded. “It's an understandable mistake, I suppose. I didn't have a chance to tell them about it until late last night, after I finished cleaning up the mess in my own apartment.”

I tried not to let my face betray the smug relief I felt now that the girls had been totally exonerated. “I'm sorry things are so bad with your mother, Gail,” I said sympathetically. “Is there anything I can do?”