More Perfect Union (9780061760228) (24 page)

I nodded.

“Right off-hand, I'd say the chances are one hundred percent that he must have been listening.”

“And is that crew working overtime again tomorrow?” I asked.

He nodded. “They start at six-thirty. If you want me to, I'll be only too happy to go along and point him out.”

I
didn't want to give Watty any ammunition about my not being a team player. Martin Green and I walked over to the Labor Temple and picked up Harry Campbell's address. When we got back to my apartment, I called Manny Davis at home, told him what was up, and gave him Harry's address in Edmonds just north of Seattle proper. He said to hold tight, that either he or Kramer would get back to me.

As soon as Ralph Ames caught wind of what was going on, he went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. He brought the pot and three cups on a tray into the living room.

“Looks like it could be a long night,” he said, handing me a cup.

I accepted it gratefully, but I was watching the phone, waiting for it to ring. Willing it to ring.

It did. Finally. Two cups of coffee later. But it wasn't Manny or Kramer. “Sergeant Watkins here, Beau. How's it going?”

“How the hell should I know how it's going? I've been sitting here for forty-five minutes, cooling my heels, and waiting for someone to get back to me.”

“There wasn't time.”

“What do you mean, there wasn't time?”

“We had to get a warrant and negotiate a peace treaty with the Edmonds Police.”

“Wait one fucking minute here! Do you mean to tell me Kramer and Davis have gone up to Edmonds to pick him up?”

“Kramer was still here working. He took off as soon as we had the warrant. Said he'd pick Manny up on his way north.”

“What about me?”

“I already told you, Beau. There wasn't time. We were afraid Campbell might get wind of what had happened to Kaplan and take off. Besides, the doc says Kaplan should be coming out of sedation about now. I thought I'd send you up to Virginia Mason to talk to him.”

“Talk to Kaplan!” I sputtered. “You mean…”

“Look,” Watty interrupted. “I'm giving this one to Manny and Kramer. And if you know what's good for you, you will too. I had a chat with Kramer while we were waiting. You let them take credit for this and he won't file a grievance on the other.”

“In other words, blackmail.”

“Let's just say tit for tat,” Watty responded. “Kaplan's up in Virginia Mason. Go see him,
Beau. And let this be a lesson to you.”

I flung down the phone. Ralph Ames and Martin Green had been chatting quietly on the window seat. They both looked up. “What's the matter?” Ames asked.

“I've just been screwed, blued, and tattooed. Without a kiss.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I'm on my way to Virginia Mason.”

“Want me to drive?” he asked.

“No thanks. Believe me. I'm stone-cold sober!”

It was almost two o'clock in the morning when I walked up to the door of Don Kaplan's room in Virginia Mason Hospital. A police guard was standing by outside.

“He's awake,” he told me. “One of the nurses was just in talking to him.”

I pushed open the door. Don Kaplan lay in the bed, his eyes fixed on a flickering screen of a television set on the wall at his feet. He glanced over at me, and then turned back to the old movie.

“I want to see my lawyer,” he said.

“You'll need one, you son of a bitch. By the time we finish talking to the prosecutor, we're going to nail you for murder every bit as hard as if you'd pulled the trigger yourself.”

Kaplan turned and looked at me. “I want my lawyer.”

Turning on my heel, I stalked out of the room.
The threat had sounded good, but I wondered if we'd be able to make it stick.

There was an ambulance coming up Boren and I waited for it to pass. It was headed for Harborview. After a moment's hesitation, I followed it. There was no longer any reason not to tell Linda Decker what was happening.

The nurses' station was empty when I got to the ninth floor. I could see a flurry of activity down the hallway a door or two. The folding chair in the hallway outside Jimmy Rising's room was empty. With an eerie sense of foreboding, I stepped to the door and pushed it open.

The room was dimly lit. The thermos and the lunch pail sat on a table near Jimmy Rising's head. He seemed to be asleep. I started toward the waiting room, thinking Linda might be there, when I ran into the guard. He was coming out of a rest room, zipping his fly.

“Where's Linda Decker?” I asked.

“Who are you?”

“Beaumont. Detective Beaumont from homicide.”

“She left just a few minutes ago.”

“Where'd she go?”

“The chaplain came and got her. I guess they were going to his office.”

A nurse came bustling down the hall. She had to walk around us. “Excuse me,” I said, “but where's the chaplain's office?”

“On the first floor. Why do you need to know?”

“I'm looking for Linda Decker. According to the guard here, she just left with the chaplain. They went down to his office.”

“His?” the nurse asked, frowning.

“His,” I repeated. Maybe she wasn't awake. “The chaplain's office.”

“But the night duty chaplain is a woman,” she said.

A hard knot of fear lumped in my gut. I turned on the guard. “What did this guy look like?”

The guard shrugged. “Fairly tall. Well-built for a minister, I thought.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Something about her kids. I don't know exactly.”

The nurse had gone on into the nurses' station and was studying a chart. “Can you call the chaplain's office?” I asked.

She looked annoyed, but she picked up the phone, dialed a number, and handed the receiver to me. A woman answered. “Lucille Kenmore. How may I help you?”

“You're the chaplain?” I asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“Did you just send someone up for Linda Decker on the ninth floor?”

“No, I certainly didn't. I'm involved in a conference right now. If you could just leave your number…”

I handed the phone back to the nurse. My mind was racing. If the person who came for Linda Decker wasn't from the chaplain's office, then it was someone who had lied to the guard to gain access.

I turned to the guard. “How long ago did they leave?”

“Not that long ago. A few minutes maybe. I'm surprised you didn't run into them in the elevator.”

The nurse was looking at me. “Is there a problem?”

“Do you have a phone number for Jimmy Rising's sister?”

“Yes, but…”

“No buts. Get it for me and get it fast. She may have been taken out of here against her will.”

The guard shook his head, looking skeptical. “I doubt that. She knew the guy. She called him by name.”

“What name?”

“Harry.”

Harry Campbell. Shit! A wave of gooseflesh washed down my legs. My guess was that somehow Campbell had stumbled onto the fact that we were after him and he had decided to buy himself a little insurance. If one hostage was good, three would be better.

I wheeled on the nurse, who still hadn't moved. “Get me that number and get it
now
!” I barked.

“This is highly irregular.”

“Look, lady, don't you understand? Lives are at stake!”

That finally jarred her loose. She took a metal-covered chart from its place on the counter and ran her finger down the first page. “Here it is,” she said. “Would you like me to dial it for you?”

When she handed me the receiver I could hear a phone ringing at the other end. It was on its sixth ring when someone finally answered, a woman's voice still thick and groggy with sleep.

“Is Linda there?” I asked.

“No. Oh, wait. Maybe she came in and I didn't hear her.”

“But this is where she's staying?”

“Yes, but she's been at the hospital most of the time.”

“Are her kids there?”

“Yes, but…”

“Listen to me, and listen very carefully. My name's Beaumont, Detective J. P. Beaumont with the Seattle Police.”

“Oh, I remember you, Detective Beaumont. I'm Sandy. Remember? From micrographics.”

That was almost more than I could have hoped for—someone I knew. I wouldn't have to start the explanations from scratch. “Sandy,” I said, “you've got to get those kids out of there.”

“But they're asleep.”

“Listen. I only have time to say this once. Wake them up. Get them out of the house. Where do you live?”

“On the back side of Queen Anne Hill just a few blocks from Northwest Center,” she answered. “I usually walk to work.”

“Load those kids into your car. You do have a car, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Take them somewhere, anywhere. My place. Do you know where Belltown Terrace is at Second and Broad?”

“I've driven past it.”

“Take the kids there. Now. Call my apartment. A man named Ames will answer. Tell him I told you to come there and wait, understand?”

“But what's the rush?”

“I can't explain now, Sandy, but hurry. Please. Give me your address.”

Sandy Carson's street address was on 13th. I took it down and then dropped both the phone and the note into the mystified guard's hand. “Call 911,” I ordered. “Have them send a squad car to this address. No lights and no sirens, got that? Tell them to wait for me there.” I headed for the elevator.

“Yes, but…”

“And get hold of Sergeant Watkins. Give him a message for me. Tell him that if Kramer and Davis are still in Edmonds, they're barking up the wrong goddamned tree. That's where they need to be. The address in your hand.”

The elevator door slid shut behind me. The ride was surprisingly quick. It went all the way from the ninth floor to the bottom without stop
ping for anyone else. I couldn't believe my luck. As soon as I got on the street, though, I realized I'd screwed up. I had no idea what kind of car Harry Campbell might be driving, and I had no way of finding out. Once more I wished I had taken Ames' advice and installed a cellular phone in the 928.

The engine of the Porsche roared to life when I turned the key. Pulling a fast U-turn on Jefferson, I headed back toward Boren. The lights ahead of me turned green as I started down the hill. Fortunately, there weren't any stray pedestrians. And no traffic cops, either. I was doing sixty when I had to slow down for the Y at Stewart.

There was a car ahead of me, and I just made the yellow arrow onto Denny Way. The lights had been with me from the top of the hill. I knew I was making incredibly good time, but all the speed in the world would be meaningless unless Harry Campbell was going where I thought he was going.

On Denny Way my luck with the traffic came to an end. There was a car, an older-model Datsun, poking along in the left-hand lane ahead of me, and a Chevron gasoline tanker tooling along at my side. I flashed my high beams at the Datsun. Instead of moving to the right out of the way, it slowed, swerved toward the left, and straddled the yellow traffic divider in the middle of the roadway without leaving enough room between it and the tanker for me to pass.

Just then the driver's door flew open and a body fell out of the front seat of the Datsun, rolling over and over into the oncoming lane. My steel-belted radials smoked to a stop as I stood on the brakes, and the driver of the tanker blared his horn. Suddenly the body on the street rose to its feet and came scrambling toward me, arms waving frantically. I recognized Linda Decker's face as she grabbed desperately for my door.

“Please help me,” she gasped, wrenching my door open. “Help me. He's got a gun.”

“Get in, quick,” I told her. “He won't get away.”

She stopped and stared at me. “It's you!” she exclaimed. “How did you find me?”

“Never mind. Get in the car, goddamnit.”

The truck driver had stopped half a block away and now he too came dashing up to the Porsche. “Lady, are you all right? Is something the matter?”

By then Linda was finally moving toward the rider's door. I leaned out the window and called to the truck driver. “Do you have a CB in that rig?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

“Notify Seattle P.D. There's a fugitive in that Datsun up there. His name's Harry Campbell. He's armed and dangerous. What's your license number, Linda?”

She was crying, but she managed to choke out an answer. I started to relay it to the driver, but
he waved me on. “Got it,” he said and started back for his truck while I rammed the gas pedal to the floor and we shot forward. Ahead of us, the taillights from the Datsun bounced back over the median and into traffic. Campbell was still heading west on Denny.

“He said he had my kids, that they were down in the car. That's why I went with him. He wanted me to drive him to Canada, using us as cover. He took me down the stairs,” she added. “He was afraid we might meet somebody in the elevator.”

“He was right,” I said grimly. “You would have.”

“I thought he'd done something to the kids, but when I found out they weren't in the car, that he wanted me to drive him to the house, I decided I'd try to get away from him before we got there.”

“You did great,” I told her. “And the kids are fine. I told Sandy Carson to take them to my place.”

“Thank you,” Linda murmured.

“Glad to be of service.”

The Datsun was a few blocks ahead of us, but I didn't try to close the gap. Instead, I concentrated on maintaining visual contact. That was enough. No heroics. Not with Linda Decker in the car. Patrol cars were on their way. I'd let some Joe Blow patrol officer bring the guy to ground. At least it wouldn't be Detective Paul
Kramer. Let him put that in his pipe and smoke it.

“But how did you know what was happening?” Linda Decker asked. “How did you know where he'd go?”

“I got lucky for a change,” I told her. “For once in my life, I flat got lucky.”