Trial by Fury (9780061754715) (4 page)

A sheet-draped figure lay on a gurney in the far corner of the room. “This way, please,” the tech said.

Joanna Ridley didn't move. She seemed frozen to the spot. I stepped to her side and took hold of an arm, just above the elbow. Gently, I led her forward.

The tech moved to the head of the gurney and held up a corner of the sheet far enough
to expose the still face beneath it. In the quiet room, Joanna gave a sudden, sharp intake of breath and turned away.

“I need to lie down,” she said.

I
led Joanna Ridley into a small, private waiting room and helped her lie down on a dilapidated couch. The tech brought a glass of water. “Is she going to be all right?” he asked nervously. “I can call somebody down from Emergency.”

Glancing back at her, I saw tears streaming down her face. She didn't need a doctor or a whole roomful of people. “No,” I told him. “She'll be okay. I'll let you know if she needs help.”

The tech backed out of the room. I set the water down on a table without offering any to her. She didn't need plain water, either.

For several long minutes, I waited for her sobs to become quiet. Eventually, they did, a little. “Mrs. Ridley,” I asked gently, “is there
anything I can do to help? Someone I can call?”

Her sobs intensified into an anguished wail. “How could this happen when the baby…”

She broke off suddenly, and my adrenaline started pumping. “The baby! Is it coming now? Should I call a doctor?”

Joanna shook her head. “My baby's not even born yet, and his father's…” She stopped again, unable to continue.

My own relief was so great, I walked to the table and helped myself to her glass of water, all of it, before I spoke, offering what comfort I could. “It'll be all right. You'll see. Really, isn't there someone I can call?”

Her sobbing ceased abruptly. Raising herself up on one elbow, she glared at me angrily. In her eyes I was something less than an unfeeling clod. “You don't understand. My baby's father is dead.”

Unfortunately, I did understand, all too well. I knew far better than she did what was ahead for both her and her baby. From personal experience. Except my mother hadn't had so much as a marriage certificate to back her up when I was born. Society was a hell of a lot less permissive back in the forties.

“My mother did it,” I said quietly. “You can, too.”

She looked at me silently for a long moment, assimilating what I had said. Then, before she could respond, the technician burst into the
room. “Dr. Baker's on the phone. He wants to talk to you, Detective Beaumont.” The tech bounded back out of the room with me right behind him. “He wants to know who it was,” he said over his shoulder.

“How the hell did he find out?”

“He told me to call if we came up with something.”

“What do you mean
we
?” I fumed.

He led me into another office, picked up a telephone receiver, and held it toward me. I snatched it from his hand.

“Beaumont,” I growled into the phone.

“Understand you've got a positive ID. Good work, Beau. That was quick. What have you got?”

“Who the fuck do you think you are, calling me to the phone like this? I just barely found out myself. All I know so far is a name and address.”

“Well, get on with it for chrissakes.”

“Look, Baker. That poor woman just learned her husband's dead. I'll start asking questions when I'm damn good and ready.”

“Don't be a prima donna, Beau. Give me what you have.”

“Like hell!”

I flung the receiver at the startled tech, who stared at me dumbfounded. I hurried back down the hall to the room where Joanna Ridley waited. The phone rang again, but I didn't
pause long enough to hear what the tech said to his irate boss. Besides, I was sure Baker's next phone call would be to either Captain Powell or Sergeant Watkins.

Hustling back into the waiting room, I startled Joanna Ridley, who was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. There was no time to waste in idle explanations. “Come on,” I said, helping her up. “Let's get out of here.”

“Where are we going?”

“I'll take you home. We've got to go now, before we're overrun with cops and reporters.”

The tech had followed me. We ran into him head-on in the doorway. He was carrying a metal clipboard and had a pen poised to take down information. “Detective Beaumont, you can't leave.”

“Oh, yeah? Watch me!”

“But I need some information…”

“You'll have it when I'm damn good and ready.”

“What's going on?” Joanna managed as I hurried her, half-resisting, out the door and down the hallway.

“This place is going to be crawling with officers and reporters in about two minutes flat.”

The technician trailed behind us, whimpering like a scolded puppy. “But Dr. Baker says…”

“Piss on Doc Baker. You had no business calling him! Now get out of here.”

I helped Joanna into the car and slammed the door behind her for emphasis. The technician was still standing with his mouth open and clipboard in hand when I fishtailed the Porsche out of the parking lot and onto the street.

Dodging through a series of side streets, I paused at a stop sign on Boren, signaling for a right-hand turn, planning to drive Joanna Ridley back down to her home in Rainier Valley to talk to her there.

“I don't want to go home,” she said.

Surprised, I glanced in her direction. She seemed under control. “Are you sure? I'm going to have to ask you some questions. It might be easier.”

A marked patrol car, red lights flashing, raced past us on Boren. Obviously, Baker had sounded the alarm and troops were out in force to pull J. P. Beaumont back into line. I waited until the car turned off toward Harborview before I eased the Porsche out into the intersection and turned left.

“I understand what you did back there,” Joanna said quietly. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

I wondered where to take her. Obviously, we couldn't go to the department, and my own apartment was a bad idea as well. I settled
on the only logical answer, the Dog House.

The Dog House is actually a Seattle institution. It's a twenty-four-hour restaurant three blocks from my apartment that's been in business for more than fifty years. I've needed. almost daily help from both McDonald's and the Dog House kitchen to survive my reluctant return to bachelorhood.

You'll notice I said the kitchen. The bar at the Dog House is a different story.

Steering clear of the scene of my previous night's solo performance, I took Joanna Ridley through the main part of the restaurant and into the back dining room. It was closed, but I knew Wanda would let us sit there undisturbed.

She brought two cups of coffee at the same time she brought menus. Joanna accepted coffee without comment, but she refused my offer of food. Groping for a way to start the conversation, I asked what I hoped was an innocuous question. “When's the baby due?”

It wasn't nearly innocuous enough. Just that quickly tears appeared in the corners of her eyes. “Two weeks,” she managed. She wiped the tears away and then sat looking at me, her luminous dark eyes searching my face. “Is it true what you said, that your mother raised you alone?”

I nodded. “My father died before I was born. My parents weren't married.”

She lowered her gaze and bit her lip. Her voice was almost a whisper. “Are you saying that'll make it easier, that we were married?”

“It'll be better for the baby,” I returned. “Believe me, I know what I'm talking about.”

Wanda poked her head in the doorway to see if we were going to order anything besides coffee. I waved her away. I decided I'd offer Joanna Ridley food again later, if either of us had the stomach for it, but now was the time to ask questions, to begin assembling the pieces of the puzzle.

“Mrs. Ridley,” I began.

“Joanna,” she corrected.

“Joanna, this will probably be painful, but I have to start somewhere. Do you know if your husband was in any kind of difficulty?”

“Difficulty? What do you mean?”

“Gambling, maybe?” Even high school teams and coaches get dragged into gambling scams on occasion.

Joanna shook her head, and I continued. “Drugs? One way or another, most crimes in this country are connected to the drug trade.”

“No,” she replied tersely, her face stony.

“Was he under any kind of medical treatment?”

“No. He was perfectly healthy.”

“You're sure he wasn't taking any medication?”

Again she shook her head. “Darwin never
used drugs of any kind. He was opposed to them.”

“The medical examiner found morphine in his bloodstream. You've no idea where it could have come from?”

“I told you. He didn't use drugs, not even aspirin. Is that what killed him, the morphine?”

It was my turn to shake my head while I considered how to tell her. “He died of a broken neck,” I said softly. “Somebody tied a rope around his neck and hung him.”

Joanna's eyes widened. “Dear God!” She pushed her chair back so hard it clattered against the wall. Dodging her way through empty chairs and tables, she stopped only when she reached the far corner of the room. She leaned against the two walls, sobbing incoherently.

I followed, standing helplessly behind her, not knowing if I should leave her alone or reach out to comfort her. Finally, I placed one hand on her shoulder. She shuddered as if my hand had burned her and shrugged it away.

She turned on me then like a wounded animal, eyes blazing. “It'll always be like that, won't it! We're accepted as long as we're smart enough to know our place, but cross that line, and niggers are only good for hanging!”

“Joanna, I…”

She pushed her way past me, returned to our table, and grabbed up her shawl. Just as suddenly as the outburst had come, it subsided. Her face went slack. “Take me home,” she said wearily. “There are people I need to call.”

I dropped money on the table for the coffee and trailed her outside. When I caught up, Joanna was standing by the Porsche, fingering the door handle. “Since when do cops drive Porsches,” she asked when I walked up to open her car door.

“When they inherit them,” I replied. I helped her into the car and closed the door behind her.

Sliding into the driver's seat, I glanced in her direction before I started the engine. She sat with her head resting against the carseat, her long, slender neck stretched taut, eyes closed, her face impassive. That unconscious pose elicited once more the striking similarity between Joanna Ridley and that ancient Egyptian queen, but this was no time to tell her how beautiful she was. Joanna Ridley was in no condition to hear it.

“I didn't finish asking all my questions,” I said, starting the car and putting it in gear.

“Ask them tomorrow. I'm worn out.”

“Somebody will come stay with you? You shouldn't be alone.”

She nodded. “I'll call someone.”

We drove through the city. It was early, not more than eight o'clock or so, but it seemed much later. I felt incredibly tired. Joanna Ridley wasn't the only one who was worn out. She just had a hell of a lot better reason.

I drove back to her place and pulled up in front of her house. “Would you like me to come in with you?” I asked. “I could stay until someone comes over.”

“Don't bother,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

I started to get out to open the door for her, but she opened it herself, struggled out of the low-slung seat, and was inside the house before I knew what had hit me. I sat there like a jerk and watched her go.

It wasn't until I turned the car around that I noticed the light in the carport was out. I couldn't remember her switching it off when we left the house, but she must have. As a precaution, I waited in the car with my hand on the door handle long enough to see her pick up a phone, dial, and begin talking.

She'll be all right, I said to myself as I put the car in gear and drove up the street. What Joanna Ridley needed right then was family and friends, people who cared about her and would give her the strength and courage to pick up the pieces and go on with her life. What she didn't need was an aging police
watchdog with a penchant for finding bogeymen under every light switch.

Right that minute Joanna Ridley needed J. P. Beaumont like she needed a hole in her head.

O
ne of the drawbacks of living in the royal Crest is the lack of soundproofing. I can hear my phone ringing the moment the elevator door opens. It's always a horse race to see if I can unlock the door and grab the phone before whoever's calling gives up. My attorney keeps suggesting I get an answering machine, but I'm too old-fashioned. And too stubborn.

Detective Peters was still on the phone when I picked it up. He was hot.

“God damn it, Beau. What the hell are you up to now? I've had calls from Watty and Captain Powell, both. They're ready to tear you apart. Me, too. They demanded I tell them what
we
had. Remember me? I'm your partner.”

“Hold up, Peters. It's not my fault.”

“Not your fault! I heard you told Doc Baker to piss up a rope.”

“Not in those exact words.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Beau. What's going on?”

“It's Ridley, all right.”

That stopped Peters cold. “No shit! The basketball coach? I remembered where I'd heard the name while I was stuck on the bridge, but there was no way to get hold of you. Who identified him?”

“His wife. He'd been missing since Friday, but she didn't report it. Thought he was sulking over losing the game. She figured he'd come home eventually.”

Peters gave his customary, long, low whistle. “Have you sealed the car?”

“Not yet. I just dropped Joanna Ridley back at her house.”

“Should I come on in? That Buick shouldn't sit outside any longer than it already has.”

I glanced at my watch. It was nine o'clock and I was tired, but there was a lot of merit in what Peters said. Every effort has to be made to preserve evidence. “What about your girls?”

“Mrs. Edwards is here. The kids are asleep, and Mrs. Edwards is watching television.” Mrs. Edwards was Peters' live-in housekeeper/babysitter. “I'll meet you at Lincoln Towing in twenty minutes.”

As an old Fuller Brush salesman, I recognize
an assumed close trap when I see one. Not do you want to meet me, but when will you meet me.

I needed to hit my second wind pretty damn soon. I was going to need it. Peters is a hell of a lot younger than I am, and he's disgustingly immune to vices of any kind. Including booze. I avoided my recliner. I didn't dare sit down and get comfortable for fear I wouldn't get back up. Instead, I made a cursory pass at the refrigerator in a vain search for food before driving to Lincoln Towing's Fairview lot.

I waited outside the lot itself, watching the eager beaver fleet of tow trucks come and go. Peters must have flown low across the bridge. He was there in far less than twenty minutes. His first question nailed me good. “Did you have her sign a voluntary search form?”

“You can't expect me to remember everything,” I told him. He glared at me in reply, and we went inside together.

The night clerk wasn't thrilled at the added paperwork involved in our securing Ridley's Buick. She did it, though. Once the car had been towed to the secured processing room at Fifth and Cherry, I was ready to call it a day.

“No way,” Peters said, opening the passenger door on my Porsche and climbing inside. “I'm not letting you out of my sight until we've mended some fences along the way, starting with the medical examiner's office.”

We found the same night tech sound asleep in the employee's lounge. The bell over the front door didn't faze him. He awoke with a start when I gave his shoulder a rough shake. “I thought you wanted information,” I told him.

He stumbled sleepily to his feet and went in search of his clipboard. I couldn't help wondering if Doc Baker knew his baby tech took a little evening nap on company time. Eventually, the tech returned relatively awake and prepared to take down my information.

I filled in as many blanks on his form as I could, based on what information I had gleaned from Joanna Ridley. It consisted of the usual—name, address, phone number, next of kin—enough to clear the medical examiner's office of one of its prime responsibilities: Identification of the victim.

As Peters and I left the office, I paused in the doorway. “By the way, you might want to call Doc Baker with that now. He's probably waiting to hear from you.” The tech didn't look eager to pick up the phone to call Doc Baker's home number.

“You ever hear of winning friends and influencing people, Beau?” Peters asked as we walked outside.

“I don't like people who sleep on the job. Where to next?”

If I had any delusions of going home right
then, Peters put a stop to them with what he said next. “We'd better check in with the department and let them know what's up. Officially.”

We were ready to climb into the car. I looked at him across the roof of the Porsche. “What the hell happened to you, Peters? You used to be a lot more flexible, remember? You didn't always do things by the book.”

He grinned at me. “Two and a half years of hanging around with J. P. Beaumont. That's what happened. Somebody in this outfit has to go by the book, or we'll both get our asses fired.”

Back on the fifth floor of the Public Safety Building we sorted through our individual fanfolds of messages.

“Call,” Peters said. “Five bucks says I take it.”

“You're on.”

“Full house.” Triumphantly, Peters turned his messages faceup on the desk. Three from Sergeant Watkins, two from Captain Powell. “See there?”

“Read 'em and weep,” I told him, turning over my own—four of a kind, all from Captain Lawrence Powell. With a grimace of disgust, Peters slapped a five-dollar bill on the desk in front of me.

One of the other detectives sauntered over to our cubicle. “I don't know what you two
have been up to, but people are gunning for you. I'd lay low if I were you.”

We never had a fighting chance of lying low. We were right in the middle of writing our reports when Sergeant Watkins showed up in a stained sweat suit and worn running shoes. He hadn't bothered to dress for the occasion. He ignored Peters and came straight after me.

“You interested in the Officer Friendly program in Seattle Public Schools?” he demanded. “By the time Doc Baker finishes with you, that may be the only job in the department you're qualified for.”

“Doc Baker was out of line,” I returned. “So was his tech. They had no business demanding information before I had a chance to question the individual.”

“
Doctor
Baker,” Watty corrected, enunciating every syllable clearly to be sure I understood his meaning. “Doctor Baker happens to be the King County medical examiner, and don't you forget it.”

He glanced down at the forms we were working on. He sighed and headed for his desk, still growling at us over his shoulder. “When you finish those reports, you could just as well bring them by so I can see what you've got.”

It was eleven by the time we were perched
on the front of Watty's desk, waiting while he scanned our reports.

“A high school basketball coach. Holy shit! I'd better get Arlo Hamilton on this right away. Can you two be here for a press briefing at eight tomorrow morning?”

We both nodded. Unlike crooks, cops don't get time off for good behavior. By the time I drove Peters back to his Datsun at Lincoln Towing, I could barely hold my head up.

“You satisfied?” I asked. “Is everything by the book now?”

“As much as it's going to be,” Peters replied mildly. “What do you want to do tomorrow? Go to Ridley's house or stop by the school?”

“The house first,” I answered. “We'd better get that voluntary search form before this gets any deeper.”

Peters rolled his eyes and grinned. “Wonders will never cease.”

I drove back to Third and Lenora and put the Porsche to bed in its assigned place in the parking garage. I walked onto the elevator only because it would have been too much trouble to get down on my knees and crawl. A phone was ringing when the elevator door opened. It's always my phone.

“Hello,” I snarled into it.

“Don't sound so happy to hear from me.” It was Ralph Ames, my attorney, calling from Phoenix. Ralph Ames' law firm, and more im
portantly, Ralph's personal attention, had been a gift to me from the same lady who left me the Porsche. I'm not one of his more dependable clients.

“I understand you didn't make your closing interview this afternoon.”

“Damn it, Ralph. I got busy here and completely forgot about it. Can we reset it?”

“No sweat,” Ralph told me cheerfully. “Only you'll have to swear on a stack of Bibles that you'll show up this time.”

“I swear. Just let me know when it is.”

When I got off the phone I was careful to steer clear of any hair of the dog. I figured I'd need to be on my toes early and long the next day. A clear head was essential. I fell into bed, but by then I was too wound up to sleep.

My mind slipped into overdrive and busily tried to sift through all the information it had received that day. So far the only person firmly fixed in my memory bank was Joanna Ridley. What was it she had said when she blew up at me there in the waiting room? Something about crossing a line. What line had Darwin Ridley crossed? And why had it been fatal? That was one of the tough questions I'd have to ask his widow the next day.

It was late when I finally drifted off. I was still awake when the last of the serious drinkers left Palmer's Tavern across the street. It seemed like only minutes later when I sur
faced in a dream with Anne Corley.

She never changes in my dreams. She's always young and beautiful and vibrant, and she's always wearing that same, tantalizing red dress.

In the dream, I'm always so glad to see her it's pathetic. She smiles and reaches out to take my hand. Over the months I've learned to force myself awake then, to propel myself out of the dream before it has a chance to turn ugly.

I awoke shaking and dripping with sweat. I know better than to try to sleep again after one of those dreams. I always return to that same instant like some crazy broken record.

Instead, I stumbled out of bed, took a long hot shower, shaved, and dressed. I was at the Dog House ordering breakfast by five-thirty, along with a generous slice of Seattle's colorful cast of late-night/early-morning characters.

I appropriated the discarded remains of a newspaper from the table next to me. I ignored the news as I always do. Daily doses of news are bad for me. Instead, I worked
The New York Times
crossword puzzle over coffee, bacon, and eggs.

It's one way to take your mind off your troubles.