Trial by Fury (9780061754715) (13 page)

O
n Friday afternoon, traffic in Seattle is a nightmare. We made it back across the bridge with barely enough time for Peters to make it to Darwin Ridley's funeral at the Mount Baker Baptist Church. Peters dropped me off at a bus stop on Rainier Avenue South. I grabbed a Metro bus jammed with rowdy schoolkids for a snail's-pace ride downtown. If I were into jogging and physical fitness, I probably could have beaten the bus on foot.

Once downtown however, Columbia Center isn't hard to find. It's the tallest building west of the Mississippi, to say nothing of being the tallest building in Seattle. The lobby is a maze, however, and it took a while to locate the proper bank of elevators for an ear-popping ride to the seventieth floor.

Stepping out of the elevator, the carpet be
neath my feet was so new and thick that it caught the soles of my shoes and sent me flying. I came within inches of tumbling into the lap of a startled, brunette receptionist, who managed to scramble out of the way.

There's nothing like making a suave and elegant grand entrance.

“J. P. Beaumont,” I said archly, once I was upright again, hoping somehow to regain my shattered dignity. “I'm supposed to meet Ralph Ames here.”

It didn't work. Dignity was irretrievable. The receptionist had to stifle a giggle before she answered me. “Mr. Ames is already inside,” she said. “This way, please.”

Rising, she turned and led me down a short, book-lined hallway. As she looked away, the corners of her mouth continued to crinkle in a vain attempt to keep a straight face.

At the end of the hallway we came to another desk. There, the receptionist handed me off to another sweet young thing, a blonde with incredibly long eyelashes and matching legs. It was clear the personnel manager in that office had an eye for beauty. I wondered if these ladies had any office skills, or if good looks constituted their sole qualification for employment.

“Mr. Rogers told me to show you right in,” the blonde said. She opened a door into a spacious office with a spectacular view of Seattle's
humming waterfront on Elliot Bay. In one corner of the room sat Ralph Ames and another man hunched over a conference table piled high with a formidable stack of legal documents.

“So there you are,” Ames said, glancing up as I entered the room. “It's about time you got here. I'd like to introduce Dale Rogers. He's representing the syndicate. This whole transaction is complicated by the fact that you're both buyer and seller.”

Ames has a penchant for understatment. The process of buying my new condominium was actually far more than complicated. It was downright mystifying.

Months before, acting on Ames' suggestion that I'd best do some investing with my recent inheritance, I had joined with a group of other investors to syndicate the purchase of a new, luxury condominium high-rise in downtown Seattle. Now, operating as an individual, I was purchasing an individual condominium unit from the syndicate.

Ames and the other attorney busily passed papers back and forth, both of them telling me where and when to sign. Between times, when my signature was not required, I sat and examined the contrast between the panoramic view of water and mountains through the window and the impossibly ugly but obviously original oil painting on the opposite
wall. I couldn't help but speculate about how much this exercise in penmanship was costing me on a per-minute basis, and how many square inches of that painting I personally had paid for.

In less time and for more money than I had thought possible, I was signed, sealed, and delivered as the legal owner of my new home at Second and Broad. Ralph Ames literally beamed as I scrawled one final signature on the dotted line.

“Good for you, Beau. It's a great move.”

Dale Rogers nodded in agreement. “That's right, Mr. Beaumont. As soon as the weather turns good, you'll have to have us all over for a barbecue. I understand there's a terrific barbecue on the recreation floor. My wife is dying to see the inside of that building.”

“Sure thing,” I said. My enthusiasm hardly matched theirs, however. I didn't feel much like a proud new home owner. I felt a lot more like a frustrated detective battling a case that was going nowhere fast, fighting the war of too much work and not enough sleep.

It was ten after five when we walked out of Columbia Center onto Fourth Avenue with a crush of nine-to-fivers eagerly abandoning work.

“Where's the car?” I asked.

“In the Four Seasons' parking garage,” Ames answered. “But we've got one more ap
pointment before we can pick it up.”

I sighed and shook my head. I wanted to go home, have a drink, and put my feet up. “Who with now?”

“Michael Browder, the interior designer, remember? I told you about it on the phone. He's meeting us in the bar of the Four Seasons at five-thirty. Now that you've closed on the deal, he needs a go-ahead for the work. He told me the other day that you still haven't even looked at his preliminary drawings.”

Bull's-eye! I had to admit Ames had me dead to rights. I had been actively avoiding Michael Browder, but I didn't care to confide in Ames that the main reason was that Michael Browder was gay. Ames had dropped that bit of information in passing one day. It didn't seem to make any difference to Ames, but it did to me.

I'm not homophobic, exactly, but I confess to being prejudiced. I don't like gays. I had never met one I liked. Or at least hadn't
knowingly
met one I liked.

Ames and I found a small corner table and ordered drinks. I sat back in my chair to watch the traffic, convinced I'd be able to pick out a wimp like Michael Browder the instant he sashayed into the room.

Wrong.

The man who, a few minutes later, stopped in front of our table and held out his hand was
almost as tall as I am. Broad shoulders filled out a well-cut, immaculate, three-piece gray suit. He had neatly trimmed short brown hair. The solid handshake he offered me was accompanied by a ready smile.

“Mr. Beaumont?” he said to me with a polite nod in Ralph Ames' direction. “Michael Browder. Glad to meet you, finally.”

No limp wrist. No lisp. No earrings.

Old prejudices die hard.

Settling comfortably back into a chair, Browder ordered a glass of Perrier. “Mr. Ames has been a big help,” he continued. “He's given me as much information about you as he could, but it's very difficult to design a home for someone I don't know personally, Mr. Beaumont. I've been told, for instance, that you're sentimentally attached to an old recliner, but that's secondhand information. I told Mr. Ames that unless I talked to you, in person, I was leaving the project.”

That didn't sound to me like much of a threat. I didn't care much one way or the other, and Michael Browder's speech didn't particularly endear him to me. In fact, I was downright insulted. On the one hand, he accused me of sentimentality. On the other, I was offended by what I viewed as his personal attack on my old recliner.

What he had said was true, as far as it went. I had indeed sent word through Ames that my
recliner was going with me no matter what, and that it was moving to the new place as active-duty furniture, not as a relic destined for the storage unit in the basement.

“So do you have drawings along to show me or not?” I demanded impatiently.

Browder leaned down and opened a large leather portfolio he had placed beside his feet. By the time he had finished showing me the sketch of the living room, he had my undivided attention. By the second drawing, he had me in the palm of his hand. My previous experience with an interior designer had achieved somewhat mixed results. Michael Browder, however, without our ever having met in person, seemed to know me like a book.

The furnishings, the swatches of material, the colors, were all straightforward and attractive, functional and practical. They were the kinds of things I would have picked for myself, if I'd had either the brains or the time to do it. Throughout his presentation, Browder kept asking me pointed questions and making brief notes about color preferences, wood grains, and stains. His enthusiasm was contagious. By the time he was finished, I was pretty excited myself.

“So when do you start?” I asked.

“As soon as you say so,” Browder replied.

“So start,” I told him. “ASAP.”

“And when can I pick up the recliner to have it recovered?”

I had been happy to see that he had included my recliner in his drawings for the den, but Browder had negotiated my consent to have the old warhorse reupholstered. It was a small concession on my part.

“You can pick it up whenever you want,” I answered.

He nodded. “Good. What about now? I have my van along. We might as well get started.”

Which is how we ended up caravanning over to the Royal Crest, all three of us. We went up to my apartment and straight into the living room, picked up the recliner, and hauled it downstairs in the elevator.

By then my opinion of Michael Browder had come a long way from my preconceived notion of what he'd be like, but once the recliner was loaded, he declined an invitation to come back up to the apartment for a drink.

“I've got to get home,” he said.

It was a good thing. I was out of booze. Ames and I had to walk over to the liquor store at Sixth and Lenora for provisions before we could make drinks.

When I went into the kitchen to serve as bartender, I discovered the answering machine in a place of honor, sitting in state on the kitchen counter. In the intervening hours of paper
signing and apartment designing, I had forgotten about the answering machine and how I had fully intended to wrap the electrical cord around Ralph Ames' neck.

Next to it on the counter sat not one, but two boxes of Girl Scout cookies. Mints.

Ames, from the doorway, saw me encounter the cookies and the machine. My dismay he read as a combination of pleasure and surprise. “I figured living in a secured high-rise there's no way you'd have a chance to buy any Girl Scout cookies on your own,” Ames said proudly. “I bought some at the airport and brought them along on the plane.”

I didn't have the heart to tell him I had already single-handedly bought and given away a whole mountain of Girl Scout cookies. As far as the answering machine was concerned, it was easier to accept it with good grace than to be a pinhead about it.

Ames eagerly explained all the little bells and whistles on the machine, including the blinking light that both signaled and counted waiting messages and the battery-operated remote device that would allow me to retrieve my messages from all over the world. Great! I gritted my teeth into a semblance of a smile and kept my mouth shut.

We had one drink in my apartment, then walked over to Mama's Mexican Kitchen on Second and Bell for dinner. Despite the fact
that he lives in Phoenix, Ames claims Mama's taquitos are the best he can get anywhere.

Myself, I'm partial to margaritas.

Mama's has those, too.

I
don't know why I bother having a clock in my bedroom. It isn't necessary. The phone usually wakes me up, even when I don't need to be up.

That's what happened that Saturday morning, a Saturday when I had planned to sleep late, stay home, and do nothing but work a week's worth of crossword puzzles. The best laid plans, someone once said. The phone rang at five after seven.

“Detective Beaumont?”

“Yes,” I responded, fighting the surplus of tequila cobwebs in my brain and trying to place the woman's voice. No luck.

“This is Maxine. Maxine Edwards.”

Maxine? I could have sworn I didn't know a single Maxine in the world. I still didn't have the foggiest idea who owned the insistent
voice on the phone demanding that I wake up.

“Have you heard from Ron?”

I started to ask “Ron who?” when my brain finally kicked into gear. Maxine Edwards, the older woman Ames had hired to be Ron Peters' live-in housekeeper/babysitter.

“Not since yesterday. Why? Isn't he home?”

“No, he's not. He never came home at all.

Heather and Tracie are upset.” From her tone of voice, it was clear Peters' girls weren't the only ones who were upset. So was Maxine Edwards. “He called yesterday afternoon,” she continued. “He said he was going to a funeral, that he'd be home late. That's the last I've heard from him.”

I sat up in bed. The headache started pounding the moment I lifted my head off the pillow. “That doesn't sound like him.”

“I know. That's what's got me worried.”

“Where are the girls?”

“They're in watching cartoons. I didn't want them to know I was calling you. I told them you two were probably busy working and just didn't have time to call.”

“We're not working,” I said.

“I can't imagine him not calling,” Mrs. Edwards continued. “For as long as I've been here, he's never done anything like this.”

I had to agree it didn't sound like something Peters would pull, but then eating spaghetti didn't sound like him, either. My first thought
was that Candace Wynn had something to do with Peters being AWOL, but I didn't mention that to Mrs. Edwards.

“Did he say if he was going anywhere after the funeral?” I asked.

“He said something about a memorial service afterward.”

“That would be at the school. Don't worry. Let me do some checking. I'll call you with whatever I find out.”

Bringing the bottle of aspirin from the bathroom with me, I ventured out into the living room. Ames was still on the Hide-A-Bed. He wasn't in any better shape than I was. “Who was that calling so early?” he groaned.

I went on into the kitchen to make coffee. “Mrs. Edwards,” I told him. “Peters' babysitter. She's looking for him.”

“He didn't come home?”

“No.”

“Stayed out all night? That doesn't sound like him.”

“That's what I told her.”

When I went back into the living room, Ames was sitting on the side of the bed with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, holding his head with both hands. I tossed him the aspirin bottle.

“Hung over?” I asked.

“A little,” he admitted. He opened the bottle, shook out a couple of white pills, and
popped them into his mouth. “What do you think happened?”

I shrugged. “Got lucky,” I said. “He's probably screwing his brains out and is too busy to call Mrs. Edwards and ask for permission.”

Ames chuckled at that. “I didn't know Ron had a girlfriend,” he said.

“I wouldn't call her a girlfriend exactly. It's someone he just met this week. A teacher.”

“What'd he do, start hanging out in singles' bars?”

“When would he have time for singles' bars? He met her at work.”

“Really?”

“Where else? You don't find single women hanging out at Brownie meetings or in the grocery store.”

“I heard otherwise,” Ames commented. “Someone told me the best place for meeting singles is in the deli sections of supermarkets.”

“I wouldn't know. I haven't tried it. Do you want coffee or not?”

“Please,” Ames said.

Despite what I had told Mrs. Edwards, I didn't try calling anybody. Ames and I each drank a cup of coffee. I expected the phone to ring any minute. I figured Peters had ended up spending the night with Andi Wynn and had planned to sneak back into the house early before anyone woke up. He had probably reckoned without the Saturday morning
cartoons, however, which start the minute “The Star-Spangled Banner” ends. Even kids who have to be dragged out of bed by the heels during the week manage to rise and shine in time for their Saturday morning favorites.

Two cups of coffee later I dialed Ron Peters' number again. Maxine Edwards answered. “Oh, it's you,” she said, sounding disappointed when she recognized my voice. In the background, I heard a whining child.

“No, Heather, it's not your daddy,” Mrs. Edwards scolded. “Now go away and let me talk to Detective Beaumont.”

At that Heather pitched such a fit that eventually Mrs. Edwards gave in and put the girl on the line.

“Unca Beau,” Heather said in her breathless, toothless six-year-old lisp. “Do you know where my daddy is?”

“No, Heather, I don't. But I can probably find him. Have you eaten breakfast?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, you go eat. I'll make some phone calls.”

“Do you think he's okay?”

“Of course he's okay. You just go eat your breakfast and do what Mrs. Edwards tells you, all right?”

“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. It was clear Maxine Edwards had her hands full.

“Put Mrs. Edwards back on the phone,” I ordered. In a moment the baby-sitter's voice came on the line. “I still haven't found out anything,” I told her. “But I'll let you know as soon as I do.”

When I hung up, I dialed the department. The motor pool told me Peters had turned his vehicle back in at nine the previous evening. That didn't help much.

I headed for the shower. “What are you going to do?” Ames asked me on my way past.

“Go and see if his car is still in the parking garage down on James.”

“Wait for me. I'll go along.”

It turned out the Datsun was there. It sat, waiting patiently, in a tiny parking place up on the second floor of the parking garage. So much for that. Wherever Peters was, he wasn't driving his own car.

I walked back down the ramp of the garage to where Ames waited in the Porsche.

“It's here,” I told him.

“What does that mean?”

“I don't know.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Check in with the department and see if he stopped by his desk when he dropped off the car.”

He hadn't. Or, if he had, he had left nothing showing on his desk that gave me a clue about his next destination. I paused long enough to
try checking with a couple of night-shift detectives to see if they had seen Peters.

To begin with, you don't call guys who work night shift at ten o'clock in the morning unless you have a pretty damn good reason. I got my butt reamed out good by the first two detectives who told me in no uncertain terms that they hadn't seen anything and wouldn't tell me if they had and why the hell was I calling them at this ungodly hour of the morning.

The third one, a black guy named Andy Taylor, is one of the most easygoing people I've ever met. Nothing rattles him, not even being awakened out of a sound sleep.

“Ron Peters?” he asked once he was really awake. “Sure, I saw him last night. He came in around nine, maybe a little later.”

“Was he alone?” I asked.

Andy laughed. “Are you kiddin'? He most certainly was not.”

“He wasn't?”

“Hell no. Had some little ol' gal in tow. Looked like the two of them were havin' a great time.”

“Auburn hair? Short?” I asked.

“You got it.”

“And did Peters say if they were going anywhere in particular?”

Again Andy laughed. “He didn't say, but I
sort of figured it out, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” I said. “I guess I do.”

“How come you're checkin' on him, Beau? You afraid he's gettin' some and you're not?”

“Up yours, Taylor,” I said, then hung up.

While I was using the phone at Peters' desk, Ames had been sitting at mine, listening with some interest to my side of the conversation. “So where's our little lost sheep?” he asked when I put the phone down.

“Being led around by his balls,” I replied.

“Is that what you're going to tell Maxine Edwards?” I looked at Ames. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“No, God damn it. That's not what I'm going to tell Mrs. Edwards.”

“What then?”

“That he's working and he'll call as soon as he can.”

I did just that, punching Peters' telephone number into the receiver like I was killing bugs. Mrs. Edwards answered after only one ring. She must have been sitting on top of the phone. “Hello.”

“Hi, Mrs. Edwards. Beau here. I haven't located Peters yet, but I understand he's working. He'll call home as soon as he can.”

“And I should just stay here with the kids?”

“Why not take them to a movie. It'll get their minds off their father.”

“That's a good idea. Maybe I'll do just that.”

As I stood up to leave, Ames handed me a yellow message sheet that he had plucked off my desk. “Did you see this?” he asked.

The message was from Don Yamamoto in the crime lab, asking me to call. I did. Naturally, on Saturday morning, Don himself wasn't in. The State Patrol answered and tried to give me the runaround. When I insisted, they agreed to have Don Yamamoto call me back.

“It's about the flour container,” he said when we finally made the connection.

“What about it?”

“We got a good set of prints off Ridley's belt and also off the inside of the flour container. We're sending them to D.C. to see if we can get any kind of match.”

“Great,” I told him. “That's good news.”

When I hung up the phone the second time, I told Ames what the crime lab had said as we marched out of the office.

Despite the good news from Yamamoto, I was still mad enough to chew nails. It was one thing if Peters wanted to get his rocks off with someone he had just met. I didn't have any quarrel with that. Peters' sex life was none of my concern, one way or the other. What burned me was that he had been so irresponsible about it. If not irresponsible, then certainly inconsiderate. Mrs. Edwards was upset.
His kids were upset. So was I for that matter.

The least he could have done was call home, give some lame excuse or another, and
then
go screw his brains out. That way I wouldn't have been dragged out of a sound sleep and neither would Andy Taylor.

“So where are we going,” Ames asked me once he caught up with me on the street. “Back to your place?”

“Not on your life. I'm not going to spend all day sitting there fielding phone calls for some wandering Romeo. And I'm not going to try calling his girlfriend's house, either.”

“Why not?” Ames asked.

“Because I don't feel like it. Want to go whack a few golf balls around a golf course?”

Ames stopped in his tracks. “You really are pissed, aren't you? I've never once heard you threaten to play golf before.”

“Nobody said anything about playing golf,” I muttered. “I want to hit something. Hitting golf balls happens to be socially acceptable.”

“As opposed to hitting someone over the head?” Ames asked. “Ron Peters in particular?”

“That's right.”

“Golf it is,” said Ames. “Lead the way.”