More Perfect Union (9780061760228) (25 page)

A
rookie fresh out of the academy actually made the arrest. That was fine with me. As long as it wasn't Paul Kramer putting the cuffs on Harry Campbell's wrists, I didn't much care who did.

Ralph Ames had been far more right than he knew when he said it was going to be a long night. The sun was already up by the time Linda Decker and I left the department to go back to Belltown Terrace. And it was after five when she and Sandy Carson packed the two sleeping kids down to Sandy's car for the short ride home.

I was sound asleep at six when the phone rang. It was Linda Decker. The hospital had just called her. Jimmy Rising was dead.

He had been so badly burned, and the road back would have been so tough, that I couldn't help thinking he was better off, but I felt sick just the same. If there was anyone Upstairs
keeping score, the good guys had lost big in this particular skirmish.

The next time I saw Linda Decker, it was the afternoon of Jimmy Rising's funeral at a cemetery somewhere in the wilds of Bellevue. She came over and stood beside me as they lowered Jimmy's simple casket into the ground.

“They're in there with him, you know,” she said softly.

“Pardon me?”

“The thermos and the lunch pail you gave him. If heaven's perfect, Jimmy will have a job to go to every day. He'll need them.”

Linda Decker walked away from me then. Her kids wanted her for something, and I was glad she left. I wouldn't have been able to talk for the lump in my throat.

As I started back toward where the cars were parked, Martin Green fell into step beside me. I had seen him in the funeral chapel, but we hadn't spoken.

“She's a gutsy little thing,” he said, nodding toward Linda's retreating figure. “Did you know she's coming back to work at the hall?”

“No. I hadn't heard.”

“It took some selling. I finally talked her into it. The union needs women like her,” Green continued. “The good ones. The ones with some backbone.”

“She's long on backbone all right,” I said, remembering how Linda Decker had looked in Pe Ell when she'd been staring down at me over
the barrel of a gun. “I wouldn't cross her if I were you.”

Martin Green chuckled. “Don't worry,” he said. “I already figured that out.”

So maybe ironworkers Local 165 will turn out to be a more perfect union after all. Good for Martin Green. Good for Linda Decker. I'm sure she'll do a fine job of raising those kids no matter what kind of work she does, but it'll be easier to do it by herself on the kind of money she'll make working construction than it would be on what she'd earn tending bar in some backwater like Pe Ell.

About that time I caught sight of Linda's two kids standing together next to the funeral parlor's limousine, waiting for their mother. Jason was holding his little sister's hand protectively. As I got closer to the children, I could hear they were arguing.

“Is too,” Jason insisted.

“Is not,” Allison responded. When I walked across the parking lot to get in the Porsche, they followed at a respectful distance.

“See there?” Jason announced archly as soon as I opened the door to the 928. “It is too him. I told you.”

When I turned on the ignition, the cellular phone let me know I'd had a call. The readout didn't tell me who had called, but I knew. Ralph Ames was the only person so far who had the number. I called him back and told him to meet me at the Doghouse for lunch.

There wasn't much traffic on the bridge, and Lake Washington was as still and blue as the sky above it. I drove along and thought about Harry Campbell. He had turned out to be a wormy shit. As soon as he saw the writing on the wall, he spilled his guts, thinking that by naming names first and by agreeing to turn state's evidence, he might be able to work himself some kind of deal. That remains to be seen. It's up to the prosecutor's office. Once we turn creeps over to them, it's out of our hands.

According to both Campbell and Martinson, Don Kaplan had been the brains of the outfit, all the while seeming to be working the problem right along with Martin Green. Which just goes to show what a hell of a good judge of character I am. Martin Green wasn't the only one snowed by Don Kaplan. So was J. P. Beaumont.

It was Kaplan who had discovered the leak and sicced Harry Campbell on Logan Tyree and Angie Dixon in a futile attempt at damage control to cover up disclosure of those worthless tapes. In the state of Washington, conspiracy to commit murder is as good as doing the job yourself. In a year or so, maybe Don Kaplan and Harry Campbell will be occupying neighboring cells on Death Row in Walla Walla.

Ames was waiting when I got to the Doghouse. He had already ordered—for both of us. Wanda brought me my bacon and eggs, accompanied by a knowing smile. “I saw your friend's picture in the paper this morning,” she said.

“What friend is that?” I asked.

“You know. The movie star.”

“What about him?”

“He got married in Las Vegas yesterday to some woman he met while he was here in Seattle.”

“Derrick Parker got married?” I asked incredulously, not quite trusting my ears. “You've got to be kidding!”

Wanda shook her head. “Hold on, I think I can find the picture.”

Sure enough, when she brought it, there was Derrick Parker, grinning from ear to ear. Next to him stood a radiant Merrilee Jackson.

I didn't say a word. Who the hell am I to criticize whirlwind courtships?

When we got up to leave, there was a man waiting for a table. Somewhat oversized, he was wearing a black-and-white T-shirt.
I'M FAT BUT YOU'RE UGLY
, the shirt proclaimed.
I CAN GO ON A DIET
.

I'm sure Ralph Ames thought I was crazy when I burst out laughing.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

I nodded toward the shirt. “It reminds me of Detective Kramer and J. P. Beaumont.”

“How's that?”

“Kramer's probably still down at the department sopping up every bit of glory he can muster.”

“So?”

“So maybe I am a playboy cop, and maybe
Kramer will turn out to be Chief some day when he grows up, but I'm like that fat man who can go on a diet. I can always quit. Anytime I want to.”

Ralph Ames looked at me speculatively. “Anytime,” he agreed, nodding. “It's up to you.”

New York Times
bestselling author
J.A. JANCE
was born in South Dakota, brought up in Bisbee, Arizona, and now lives with her husband in Seattle, Washington, and Tucson, Arizona. Readers can visit her online at
www.jajance.com
.

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