Trial by Fury (9780061754715) (12 page)

M
y alarm went off at seven, and the phone went off exactly one minute later. It was Ames, chipper and cheerful Ames, calling me from Arizona and wondering whether or not I would pick him up at the airport at one that afternoon. I blundered my way halfway through the conversation before I remembered the real estate closing for Belltown Terrace was scheduled for three-thirty.

“Shit! I never wrote it down in my calendar.”

“Wrote what down? What's the matter, Beau?”

“The closing. It's scheduled for the same time as Darwin Ridley's funeral.”

“Do you have to go?”

“I ought to, but maybe I could ask Peters. He shouldn't mind.”

“Good. After the closing, we need to go see the decorator, too. He's been calling me here in Phoenix. Says he can never catch you.”

“Look, Ralph, I don't spend my time sitting around waiting for the phone to ring.”

“You should get a machine, an answering machine with remote capability.”

“Will you lay off that answering machine stuff? I'm not buying one, and that's final.”

“Okay, okay. See you at one.”

Even riding the bus from Kirkland, Peters beat me to the office. His unvarying promptness bugged the hell out of me at times, particularly since, no matter what, I was always running behind schedule. He was seated at his desk with his nose buried in a file folder. He was obviously scanning through the material, looking for one particular item.

“What are you up to?” I asked, walking past him to get to my desk.

“Here it is,” he said. He dropped the file folder, grabbed his pen, and copied some bit of information from the folder into his pocket notebook.

“Here's what?” I asked. I confess I was less interested in what he was looking for than I was with whether or not there was coffee in the pot on the table behind Margie's desk. There was—a full, freshly made pot.

“Rimbaugh. That's his name.”

“Whose name? Peters, for godsake, will you
tell me what you're talking about?”

“Remember Monday afternoon? We talked to all those old duffers who are part-time security guards down at Seattle Center? Dave Rimbaugh is one of them. He was assigned to the locker rooms.”

“So?”

“So I've got this next-door neighbor who works for Channel Thirteen. In the advertising department. I called him last night after I got home and asked him if he could locate a picture of Wheeler-Dealer Barker for us. He called just a few minutes ago. Said he'd found one and when did we want to come by to pick it up.”

“Why go to the trouble? What's the point? We already know Barker was there. He told us so.”

“Sure he did. He said he was there at halftime, but what if he was there later, too? Maybe he came back or, better yet, maybe he never left”

Picking up my empty coffee cup, I sauntered over to the coffee table mulling Peters' hypothesis. It was possible, I supposed, but it didn't seem plausible. I came back with coffee and set my cup down on the desk.

“Well?” Peters asked.

I shook my head. “I don't think so. Barker isn't our man.”

“Why not?”

“Gut instinct.”

Just that quick, Peters got his back up. “Right. Sure it is. You know, Beau, sometimes I get tired of working with the Grand Old Man of Homicide. You're not always on the money. I think Barker's it, and I'm willing to invest some shoe leather in proving it. You coming or not?”

He didn't leave a whole lot of room for discussion. We got a car from the garage, a tired Chevette without as much zing to it as the Dodge we'd driven the day before—no zip and a hell of a lot less legroom. I wonder sometimes if the ratings would be the same if the guys on “Miami Vice” drove Chevettes.

We stopped by Channel 13's downtown office. The receptionist cheerfully handed over a manila envelope with Peters' name scrawled on the front. Inside was an eight-by-ten glossy of Tex Barker himself, without the cowboy hat and grinning from ear to ear. There were several other pictures as well, eight-by-tens of people I didn't recognize.

Peters shuffled through them, looked at me, and grinned. “See there? What we've got here is an instant montage.”

One of the realities of police work these days is that you never get to show witnesses just the person you want them to see. You always have to show a group of pictures and hope they pick out the right one. Going by the
book can be a royal pain in the ass. I gave Peters credit for taking care of it in advance.

Dave Rimbaugh's address was off in the wilds of Lake City, about a twenty-minute drive from downtown Seattle. Peters drove. As we made our way up the freeway, Peters glanced in my direction. “Tell me again about the stuff you found in the back of Joanna Ridley's car. You said it was her flour container?”

“That's right. Out of the storeroom at the end of her carport.”

“They're dusting it for prints?”

“The container and the trunk for certain. They said yesterday they're going to try to work out a deal with the county to run the contents past the county's YAG to see if they can raise anything there.”

“YAG? What the hell's a YAG?”

“Their new laser printfinder. Janice Morraine was telling me about it. They use it to raise prints on all kinds of unlikely surfaces—cement, rumpled tinfoil.”

“Off rope and clothing, too?”

“Not too likely, but possible. She said there's a remote chance. I've also called for a tech to go over Joanna Ridley's house for prints.”

“Any idea when the container was placed in the car or any sign of forced entry?”

I shook my head. “The killer had Darwin's
keys, remember? House keys and car keys, both.”

“I had forgotten,” Peters said thoughtfully.

“She's going to have all her locks changed today, just in case.”

Peters nodded. “That's probably wise.”

We were both quiet for a moment. It was as good a time as any to bring up my scheduling conflict between the real estate closing and Darwin Ridley's funeral.

“By the way,” I said casually, “Ralph Ames is flying in this afternoon. I pick him up at the airport at one. We're supposed to close on Belltown Terrace at three-thirty this afternoon. Do you think you could handle Ridley's funeral by yourself?”

I more than half-expected an objection, for Peters to say that he needed to be home with his kids. It's an excuse that packs a whole lot of weight with me. Had he used it, I probably would have knuckled under, given Ames my power of attorney, and had him stand in for me at the closing.

Instead, Peters surprised me. “Sure, no problem. What about the memorial service after the funeral? Want me to handle that, too?”

“That would be great.”

Dave Rimbaugh's house was a snug nineteen-thirties bungalow dwarfed by the evergreen trees that had grown up around it. The woman who came to the door was almost as
wide as the door itself. Her pug nose and the rolling jowls of her face made her look like a bulldog. A nearsighted bulldog wearing thick glasses.

“Davey,” she called over her shoulder. “Hon, there's somebody here to see you.”

“Davey” wasn't a day under seventy. He was a spry old man, as lean as his wife was fat. They were a living rendition of the old Jack Sprat routine. His face lit up all over when Peters showed his ID and told him who we were and what we wanted.

“See there, Francie. I told you I talked to a real detective on the phone, and you thought I was pulling your leg.” He led us into the living room. Every available flat surface in the room was full of glass and ceramic elephants of every size and description. Dave Rimbaugh noticed me looking at them.

“We've been collecting them for fifty-six years now,” he said proudly. “There's more in the dining room. Would you like to see those?”

“No, thanks,” I told him quickly, stopping him before he could hurry into the next room. “I can see you've got an outstanding collection, but we'd better get to work. Business before pleasure, you know.”

“Good.” Rimbaugh nodded appreciatively. “Don't like to waste the taxpayer's money, right?”

“Right,” I said, sitting down on the wing-backed chair he offered me, while Peters sank into the old-fashioned, flower-patterned couch.

Rimbaugh rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Now then, what can I do for you boys?”

Peters grimaced visibly at the term “boys.” It was clear “Davey” Rimbaugh regarded us as a couple of young whippersnappers. Doing his best to conceal his annoyance, Peters reached into a file folder and pulled out the fanfold of photographs. He offered them to our host.

“Take a look at these, Mr. Rimbaugh. See if there's anyone here you recognize, anyone you may have seen at the Coliseum last Friday night.”

Dave Rimbaugh only had to glance through the pictures once before he pounced on Wheeler-Dealer's smiling countenance. “Him,” he said decisively. “That's him. He was there.”

Unable to contain her curiosity, Francie Rimbaugh got up from the couch and came over to her husband's chair. She stood behind him like she'd been planted there, leaning over his shoulder so she, too, could look at the picture in his hand.

“Why, forevermore!” she exclaimed. “I know him. Isn't that the man on the television,
the one on the late movies? I think he sells cars. Or maybe furniture.”

Dave Rimbaugh held the picture up to the light. “Why, Francie, I do believe you're right. He looked familiar at the time, but I just couldn't place him.”

He patted his wife's rump affectionately and pulled her close to him. “Francie here, now she's the one with the memory for faces,” he said. “Faces and names both.”

“Do you remember when you saw this man?” Peters asked. “It's important that we know exactly when he was there.”

Dave Rimbaugh leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, frowning with the effort of concentration. “All I remember is, I was drinking a cup of coffee at the time. Almost spilled it all over me when he rushed past. Said there was an emergency of some kind. Didn't ask him what, just let him go through.”

“So what time was it?” Peters prodded. “Halftime? Later than that?”

“I don't know if it was halftime or not. They play a whole bunch of games each day during the tournament. Let's see. Wait a minute, I had only two cups of coffee that night. That was all that was left in the pot when I filled the thermos. When he almost knocked me down, I remember thinking it's a good thing it's almost time to go home, 'cause there isn't any coffee left.”

I could see Peters was losing patience with trying to pull usable information out of the old man's ramblings. “What time did you get off work?” I asked.

“Nine o'clock,” he said. “Isn't that right, Francie? I was home by ten, wasn't I?”

She nodded. “That's right. We watched the early late movie together before we went to bed. The old one with Gary Cooper in it.”

“And how close was that second cup of coffee to the time you came home?”

“It was just before. Sure, that's right. Must have been right around eight.” Rimbaugh looked at us triumphantly.

“You're sure you didn't see him after that?” Peters asked.

“Nope. Not that I remember.”

Peters sighed and rose. I followed.

“Does that help?” Rimbaugh asked.

“I hope so,” Peters replied. “We'll be back in touch.”

Once outside, we held a quick conference. “What do you think?” Peters asked.

I shrugged. “Eight o'clock sounds like halftime to me.”

“But he could have come back later, without Rimbaugh seeing him.”

That, too, was a distinct possibility. As distinct a possibility as anything I'd come up with. There was no way to tell for sure.

So much for being the Grand Old Man of Homicide.

P
eters went back to the Public Safety Building. During my lunch hour, I took the Porsche and drove down to Sea-Tac to pick up Ralph Ames.

Ralph was a dapper-looking guy, an attorney's attorney. He had a low-key look about him that said he knew what he was doing. I probably never would have gotten to know him if I hadn't inherited him from Anne Corley. It took a while to get to know the man under his air of quiet reserve, but once I did, he turned out to be one hell of a nice guy.

At the airport that day, when I went to pick him up, he had an uncharacteristic shit-eating grin on his face that worried me some, but not enough for me to do anything about it.

There was just time to grab him from the arriving-passenger level, hightail it back to
town, and have him drop me at the department. He took my Porsche back to my place while Peters and I drove to Mercer Island High School, where we planned to have a chat with Molly Blackburn.

Ned Browning was most reluctant to call Molly out of class so we could talk to her. I have to admit that knowing the principal's name appeared not once but twice in the trophy list in the girls' locker room gave me a whole new perspective on his outward show of high principles and middle-class morality.

“Detective Beaumont, I'm not at all sure I should let you talk to one of my students without her parents' express knowledge and permission.”

I wasn't feeling particularly tolerant toward that officious little worm. In fact, I became downright belligerent. “We don't have time to screw around, Mr. Browning. We need to see that girl today. Now.”

“Certainly, you don't think one of my students had something to do with the murder!” There was just the right tone of shocked consternation in Ned Browning's voice. He should have been an actor instead of a high school principal. He gave an award-winning performance.

“Your students know a hell of a lot about a lot of things they shouldn't.”

I let it go at that. There was no outward,
visible sign that he understood the ramifications of what I said, yet I knew my seemingly casual remark had hit home. Finally, he reached for his phone and called for a student page to bring Molly Blackburn to his office.

Molly waltzed into the room like she owned the place. I recognized her as the blonde who had been pitching such a fit, literally bawling her eyes out, the day Peters and I had interviewed all those kids. Talk about acting!

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Browning?” she asked brightly.

“These gentlemen do,” he replied. “You remember them, don't you, Molly?”

Molly looked at Peters and me. When she recognized us, she stepped back a full step. “Y-yes,” she stammered uncertainly.

“Good. They've asked to speak to you. Mr. Howell is out today, so you may use his office. I have scheduled a parent conference in just a few minutes. Unfortunately, I won't be able to join you. This way, please.”

Unfortunately? Hell! It was a good thing he had another meeting. No way would I have let that son of a bitch join us for Molly Blackburn's interview.

He led us to an adjoining office. Molly's entrance into that room was far different from the one she had made into the principal's office. She lagged behind us like an errant puppy who's just crapped all over the new rug
and who knows he's going to get it.

We knew, and she knew we knew. As soon as the door closed behind Ned Browning, I whirled on her and let Molly Blackburn have it with both barrels.

“What's the matter? Did Bambi call to warn you?”

Her eyes widened. She was still standing in the doorway. She groped blindly for a chair and eased her way into it. “Yes,” she whispered.

“So you know why we're here?”

She shook her head. “No, not really.” Her face was white. She was scared to death, and I wanted her to stay that way.

“Are you the one who was trying to blackmail the Ridley's and the Barkers?”

“Wh-what?” she stammered. Under pressure, she seemed to be having a great deal of trouble making her voice and mouth work in unison.

“You're the one with the fancy camera, aren't you? The one who took the “proof” shot of your friend Bambi and Darwin Ridley?”

She licked her lip nervously, swallowed, and nodded. Barely. Almost imperceptibly.

“So where's the negative?”

“I don't know,” she whispered.

“Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know?”

“It's gone. Someone took it.”

“When?” I demanded. “Where was it?”

“I had it with me. I had all the negatives from that roll of film in my book bag. I didn't dare leave them at home. Sometimes my parents go through my things.”

“So you carried them around with you. When did you notice they were gone?”

“Friday afternoon. After Mr. Barker came to school to get Bambi. I looked for them then, but they weren't there.”

“And how long had the negatives been in your purse?”

“Not my purse. My book bag. I brought the picture to school on Monday. That was the day…” She broke off.

“Let me guess. That's the day you scratched Darwin Ridley's name in the locker.”

“How did you know that?”

“It doesn't take a Philadelphia lawyer to figure it out,” I told her. “So sometime between Monday and Friday, the negatives disappeared,” I continued. “What happened to the original picture? Where is it?”

“It's gone, too. We burned it when we wrote down the name.”

“Too bad you didn't burn the negative as well.”

“Why? I don't understand.”

I wanted her to understand. I wanted her to feel the responsibility for Darwin Ridley's death right down to the soles of her feet. “Be
cause,” I growled, “it found its way into the wrong hands. That's why Darwin Ridley was murdered.”

Molly's eyes flooded with tears. “No! It's not true. It can't be!” She glanced in Peters' direction as if seeking help, reassurance. None was forthcoming. Peters had remained absolutely silent throughout the proceedings.

Now he folded his arms uncompromisingly across his chest. “It's true,” he said quietly.

Molly doubled over, sobbing hysterically into her lap. Neither Peters nor I offered her the smallest bit of comfort. I felt nothing but profound disgust. Finally, she quit crying on her own.

“What's going to happen to me?” she asked, looking up red-eyed and frightened.

“That depends on you, doesn't it. Are you going to help us or not?”

She nodded. “I'll help.”

“All right. Try to think back to when the negatives could have disappeared. Can you remember any times when the bag was left un-attended?”

“No. I always have it with me.” She motioned toward a shiny green bag on the floor. “See?”

“Did anyone else know the negatives were there? Did you tell any of your friends?”

“No. Not even Bambi. Nobody knew.”

“And what were the negatives in? One of
those envelopes from a fast photo-developing place?”

“No. A plain white envelope. I developed them myself. At home.”

“It must be nice to be so talented,” I commented sarcastically. “Do your parents have any idea what you've been doing?”

“Don't tell them. Please. They'd kill me.”

I had been sitting behind the assistant principal's desk. I got up then and walked to the window. “They probably wouldn't,” I said. “But I don't think I'd blame them if they did.” I turned to Peters. “Do you have any other questions?”

He shook his head. “Not right now. You've pretty well covered it.”

I looked back at Molly. She was staring at me, eyes wide and frightened. “Get out of here,” I ordered. “You make me sick.” She scurried out of the room as fast as she could go.

“You were pretty tough on her,” Peters remarked after the door closed.

“Not nearly as tough as I should have been.”

Glancing down at my watch, I realized it was after two, and I didn't have the location for my closing. “I'd better call Ames and find out where I'm supposed to be and when. If we're going to be stuck in traffic, it might be
nice if we were at least going in the right direction.”

I picked up the assistant principal's phone and dialed my own number. It rang twice. When a woman's voice answered, I hung up, convinced I had dialed a wrong number. I tried again. That time my line was busy.

Peters stood up. “While you're playing with the phone, I need to go check on something.” He walked out of the office, and I tried dialing one more time. This time, when the woman's voice answered, I stayed on the line to listen. The recorded voice was soft and sultry.

“Hello, my name is Susan. Beau is unable to come to the phone right now, but he doesn't want to miss your call. Please leave your name, number, time of day, and a brief message at the sound of the tone, and Beau will call you back just as soon as he can. Thanks for calling. Bye-bye.” Then there was a beep.

“What the fuck!”

I held the receiver away from my mouth and ear and looked at it like it was some strange apparition I'd never seen before. I felt like somebody had just clunked me over the head with a baseball bat. What the hell was an answering machine doing on my phone?

Just then, I heard Ames' voice, shouting at me from the receiver. “Hey, Beau. Is that you? Are you there? What do you think? Do you like it?”

“Ralph Ames, you son of a bitch. No, I don't like it. I told you before, I don't want an answering machine.”

“Come on, Beau. It's great. In three days you'll love it. It's a present, an early housewarming present.”

“You jerk! When I get home, I'll tear it out of the wall and wrap it around your neck!” I slammed down the phone just as Peters came back into the room. He was grinning, but he wiped the look off his face the minute he saw me.

“Hey, Beau. What's up?”

“That damn Ames went and installed a stupid answering machine in my house while my back was turned, without even asking me.”

“So? It's probably a good idea. You're not the easiest person in the world to catch. Where's the closing? Did you find out?”

I had been so disturbed by the answering machine that I had forgotten the reason I had called. Chagrined, I picked up the phone and redialed. The answering machine clicked on after the second ring. “Hello. My name is Susan…”

“Damn it, Ames!” I shouted into the phone. “I know you're there. If you can hear me, turn this goddamned thing off and talk to me.”

The woman's voice was stifled. Ames' voice came on the line.

“Here I am, Beau. What do you need?”

“The closing. I know when it is, but I don't know where.”

“Downtown in Columbia Center. Up on the seventieth floor. Ellis and Wheeler. It's getting pretty late. Want to meet me there? I can bring your car.”

“Fine,” I answered curtly. “See you there.” I hung up again.

“You don't have to be such a hard-ass about it,” Peters chided me as I stood up to leave. “I'm sure Ames thought he was helping you out. There are times I'd like to have one of those gadgets myself.”

“Great,” I grumbled. “I've got a terrific idea. We'll unplug it from my house and plug it back in in yours.”

Peters smiled. “When are you going to give up and accept the inevitable? Automation and microchips are here to stay.”

“Not in my house they aren't,” I replied, then stalked from the room with Peters right behind me.

I'm one of those people they'll have to pull kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, if I live to be that old.

I have no intention of going quietly.