More Perfect Union (9780061760228) (23 page)

I
jerked my head in Kramer's direction. “Tell him I've gone home to change clothes. I'll meet you guys back down at the department and we'll finish sorting this out.”

Manny at least made the effort to stop me. “Don't you want a ride, Beau? Our car's right over there, just behind the Coliseum.”

I shook my head. “No thanks. I need to walk. It'll clear my head.”

I limped back to Belltown Terrace. My heel was killing me, sending shooting pains across the top of my foot as I hobbled along. People steered clear of me. It wasn't until I saw myself reflected in the window glass of Belltown Terrace that I realized why. I was still wearing the soaking wet blanket. With two black eyes, my broken nose, and my freshly bloodied face, I'm sure I was mistaken for one of Seattle's more actively unfortunate street people. At least this
set of torn and dripping clothing could go on a line-of-duty replacement voucher.

Annie, the concierge, was still on duty. “My God!” she exclaimed when I came into the lobby. “You're a mess, Detective Beaumont. What happened? I thought you were going to Bumbershoot.” She must have been at lunch when I brought the girls home.

“I did,” I told her. “It's really crowded.”

Leaving a puddle of water on the marbled lobby floor, I stepped into the elevator and went upstairs. Within minutes I had stripped off my clothes and was lying in my Jacuzzi.

Good sense said I should have iced my foot, but the steaming water felt good on my chilled body and aching muscles. I should have felt victorious, triumphant. I didn't. I felt broken. Stiff. Old. And filled with a vague sense of discontent.

I guess it was professional pride. I had caught Kaplan, sure. And somebody else had nailed Martinson. But there were seven numbers besides theirs in that leather-bound ledger. That meant seven others still on the loose. Maybe we'd find out who they were if the private eye was right and Martinson was ready to talk, but he had been out of town when the murders started, when Logan Tyree's boat blew up and when Angie Dixon fell off Masters Plaza.

Murder is my bailiwick. Let somebody else deal with the union racketeering. It was the killer I wanted.

With a sudden sense of purpose, I scrambled
out of the Jacuzzi, showered, and toweled off. I hurried to the bedroom phone, dialed Manny's number, and got Kramer instead.

“When are you going to question Kaplan?” I asked. “I can be there in ten minutes.”

“We're not,” Kramer answered shortly.

“What do you mean, you're not?”

“He's in surgery. Ruptured spleen. The doctors are taking it out. They don't know when we'll be able to talk to him.”

“Damn. What about Martinson then?”

“Manny's working on it, but right this minute, Green is refusing to press charges.”

“So do you want me to come back down or not?”

“I wouldn't bother if I were you. Stay home and take it easy. And keep this under wraps. We're not releasing any names until we see what information Green drags out of Wayne Martinson.”

I wasn't dumb enough to believe I was talking to a transformed Paul Kramer, to somebody genuinely concerned about J. P. Beaumont's health and well-being. He was down at the department playing hero, letting the brass know how great he was and how he'd come up with all the answers, and he didn't want me down there gumming up the works.

Let him, I thought savagely as I slammed down the phone.

Pulling on a comfortable pair of sweats, I went on into the living room, poured myself a
drink, and settled down in the recliner. Since I wasn't going back to the department, the situation called for a MacNaughton's or two. For medicinal purposes.

I tried to make my mind go blank, to blot the case and everything connected with it out of my head, but it wouldn't stay blotted. I kept coming back to those numbers, those seven people. And Martin Green.

For as long as I'd known him, I had thought of Green as a problem, first in the building and then later, after I'd talked to Linda Decker, in the case. He was supposed to have been the villain of the piece, but now for the first time I began to think seriously about him as an ally, as someone who had come to Seattle to put a stop to the skullduggery in the union that had caused the deaths of Logan Tyree and the others.

What was it he had told us? Something to the effect that after months of work he was finally beginning to scratch the surface. Obviously Don Kaplan had blindsided him. Green hadn't expected Kaplan to be part of the conspiracy, but I wondered if maybe he had identified some of the other scumbags and was playing his cards close to his chest while he waited to bag Martinson and force a private deal.

I had picked up the phone to call him when I remembered that Martin Green had an unlisted phone number. Instead, I dialed the doorman in the lobby.

“I've lost Martin Green's number. Do you happen to have it?”

Pete Duvall sounded a little wary. “I do, but I'm not supposed to give it out. It's probably all right to give it to you, though. Oh, and by the way. When Mr. Ames went out earlier, he said to tell you not to bother to cook. He'll be home around eight, and he's bringing food back with him.”

As if I would have cooked anyway. Ames must have been choking with laughter when he left that message. He knows I don't cook. His sense of humor and his self-sufficiency are two things that make Ralph Ames an enjoyable houseguest. He was being so goddamned self-sufficient that in my preoccupation with the case I had completely forgotten he was still in town.

When I got off the phone with Pete, I tried calling Martin Green. There was no answer. I found myself fuming that the man didn't have an answering machine on his phone. I've come a long way from the time when I didn't have one and wouldn't use one on a bet. I have Ralph Ames to thank for that, among other things.

He showed up right on schedule, bringing with him a selection of delectable carry-out Chinese food which he served with suitable ceremony. “So how did your day go?” he asked.

“Medium,” I said, filling him in on the details as we worked our way through sweet-and-sour prawns, ginger beef, and pork-fried rice.

“And how's Jimmy Rising doing?” he asked, when I finished.

“I don't know,” I said, “but it won't take long to find out.” I went over to the phone and dialed Harborview's number from memory. When the switchboard answered, I asked to be connected to the burn unit.

“This is Detective Beaumont,” I said. “I'm calling about Jimmy Rising.”

“Are you a member of the family?” the woman asked.

“No,” I replied. “I'm a detective. I'm working on the case.”

“Hold the line. I'll see if I can put his sister on.”

“This is Detective Beaumont. How's it going?” I asked Linda Decker a few moments later when she came on the line.

When she answered, her voice was strained and weary. “No change,” she said. “He's no better and no worse.”

“How are you doing?”

“I'm plugging,” she answered, but it sounded like she was hanging by a thread.

I wanted to tell her about Don Kaplan. I knew how much she needed to hear some news, how much of a boost it would give her to know something was going on, but I kept my mouth shut. Kramer was right. We couldn't afford to let word leak out to any of the other conspirators before we were ready with our fistful of arrest warrants.

“I'll stop by and check on you tomorrow morning,” I said.

She hung up. Long after I heard the dial tone I continued to stand there, holding the receiver in my hand, staring at it.

“What's the matter?” Ames called from the kitchen, where he was putting away leftovers.

Slowly I put down the phone. “I didn't tell her about Martinson, Kaplan, any of it.”

“Of course not,” Ames said. “Especially when you're operating under strict orders to act like a team player.”

“But what if the team's screwing up?”

“That's not your problem,” Ames said.

“The hell it isn't!”

Slamming my half-finished drink onto the table, I slipped on my holster and headed for the door to retrieve my shoes.

“What do you think you're doing now, Beau?” Ames demanded.

I stopped long enough to try dialing Martin Green's number. There was still no answer. “I'm going to Renton,” I said.

“Renton,” he echoed. “Why Renton?”

“Because there's somebody down there who may know something about all this and I'm going to ask him.”

“You shouldn't be driving,” Ames said. “You've had too much to drink.”

“You drive me then, because I'm going, and I'm going now!”

During the twenty-minute drive to Renton we
spoke only when it was absolutely necessary. I gave Ames terse directions, telling him to turn here or turn there. I was steamed, but I knew Ames was right that night, the same as he had been the night before. I was in no condition to drive and was surprised by how quickly the booze had snuck up on me. My mind was fuzzy as we started out, but it cleared as we drove, as I concentrated all my physical and mental energies on what had to happen.

When we pulled into the yard of Katherine Tyree's house, the television set was going in the living room. Ames got out of the Porsche and followed me into the yard.

Fred McKinney answered the door and recognized me as soon as he opened it. He didn't seem startled to see me. “We heard,” he said.

“Heard what?” I was almost afraid of his answer, afraid someone had leaked the Don Kaplan story to the press.

“About Linda's mother,” he answered. “It's a crying shame.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “And did you hear about her brother?” I asked. “He's in the hospital. Probably won't make it.”

Fred nodded bleakly. “Will it ever stop?”

“That depends,” I said.

“On what?”

“On whether or not someone finally has balls enough to come forward and say what's really going on.”

“Who is it?” Katherine Tyree called from in front of the television set.

“It's one of those detectives,” Fred answered. He looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “What do you want with us?”

“Do you have balls enough, Fred?”

“What do you mean?”

“You told me you came up here as a boomer. I want you to answer just one question. How did you manage to get to work on Columbia Center?”

McKinney dropped his gaze. As soon as I saw it, I knew I had him. “I bought my way on,” he said quietly.

“How?”

“Five grand. Cash. I took out a second mortgage on my boat. I paid the second off when Logan bought
Boomer
from me.”

“So you bribed your way onto that job?”

McKinney nodded.

“Who to?” I asked.

“You mean who'd I give the money to?”

“That's right.”

“The guy who used to be in charge of book transfers.”

“Who's that?”

“His name is Harry Campbell.”

“Harry Campbell. Harry Campbell. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it right off. “You say he used to be in charge?”

McKinney shrugged. “That's right. When Green came in he kicked him back in the gang.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“The last I knew, he was working in the raising gang down on Masters Plaza.”

And suddenly I realized why Harry Campbell's name was so familiar. I
had
seen it before. In the newspaper. He was Angie Dixon's partner. The one who had sent her after the welding lead.

Leaving a puzzled Fred McKinney standing in the doorway, I wheeled and charged back toward the car with Ames right behind me.

“Where to now?” Ames asked.

“Back home.”

As soon as we were back in my apartment, I dialed Martin Green's number for the last time. His mother answered. “I think he's down on the jogging track,” she told me. “He said he couldn't sleep and that he was going for a walk.”

I found Martin Green smoking a cigarette on a bench at the far end of the building. It was almost eleven. The rain had stopped. The gardens next to the jogging track smelled fresh and moist. Green was sitting with his back to me, looking at the same cityscape Don Kaplan had been looking at when I first met him at Martin Green's party.

When he heard footsteps approaching, he turned and glanced at me over his shoulder. “Did you get him?” he asked.

“He's in the hospital. They're removing his spleen.”

“I never thought about Kaplan being involved,” Green said. “It irks me that he suckered me that badly.” Then he was quiet, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

“When do you go to Victoria?” I asked.

“Chrysler Air was all booked up. I go first thing tomorrow morning.”

There was another brief silence between us. “Aren't you going to hassle me about not pressing charges?” Green asked after a pause. “Your friends were ripped about it.”

“I don't give a damn what you do with Martinson,” I said.

“You don't?” Green sounded surprised.

“I'm a homicide detective,” I told him.

“So?”

“So Kaplan and Martinson are only two of the nine. One or more of those other seven is a killer. That's who I want. Have you identified any of the others?”

“Only one. I caught him red-handed and fired his ass.”

“Who was that? Harry Campbell?”

Martin Green looked at me, startled. “How'd you find that out?”

“How doesn't much matter. Think back to when you were up on the building with Angie Dixon,” I continued. “Is there a chance that someone up there could have overheard her agree to give you the tapes?”

For a moment Green said nothing, then as the realization dawned on him, he nodded, his
mouth hardening into a grim line. “He was her partner, wasn't he?”