Trial by Fury (9780061754715) (6 page)

I
've never faced a tougher audience. Browning was right. Those kids were hurting and needed answers. As a group they had taken a closer look at death than most kids their age. Adolescents aren't accustomed to encountering human mortality on a regular basis. Two times in as many years is pretty damn regular.

They needed to know when Darwin Ridley had died, and how. Evidently, some helpful soul had spread the word that Ridley was despondent over the loss of the game and had committed suicide on account of it. The asshole who laid that ugly trip on those poor kids should have been strangled.

I answered their questions as best I could, fudging a little when necessary. I knew what would happen as soon as they stepped out of Ned Browning's artificial cocoon and the me
dia started chewing them to bits. The principal stayed long enough to hear my introductory remarks, then left when Peters and I started our routine questioning process.

It took all afternoon to work our way through the group, one at a time. It was a case of patient prodding. The kids were understandably hesitant to talk to us. Candace Wynn, the guidance counselor, hovered anxiously on the sidelines.

Peters was a lot more understanding about that than I was. I had no patience with what I viewed as a direct impediment to our conducting a thorough investigation. As a consequence, we split the room by sex. I talked to the boys, the team members, and Peters dealt with the girls, the cheerleaders—helpless chicks to Mrs. Wynn's clucking mother hen. At least it kept her out of my hair.

Surprisingly, in spite of all that, we did get a few answers fairly early on. One of the first team members I interviewed was a gangly kid named Bob Payson, captain of the basketball team. I asked him if he had noticed anything unusual about Darwin Ridley's behavior the night of the game.

Payson didn't hesitate for a moment. “It was like he was real worried or upset or something.”

“He was preoccupied?” I asked.

Payson nodded.

“Before the game? After it? During?”

“The whole time,” Payson answered. “He was waiting at the gate when the team bus got there.”

“The gate?”

“To Seattle Center. The team buses all stop at that gate there on Republican.”

“Across from Bailey's Foods?”

Payson nodded. “That's right.”

“He didn't ride on the bus with the team?”

“That was weird, too. Always before he rode the bus, but not this time.”

My ears pricked up at that. Something out of the ordinary. Something different in the victim's way of doing things the night of the murder. Most human beings are creatures of habit. They don't like change, they actively resist it wherever possible. A change in Darwin Ridley's behavior the night he died might well be connected to his murder.

“So he didn't ride the bus, and he seemed worried when you saw him?”

“Yeah. He was looking up and down the street like he was waiting for someone. He told us to go on in and suit up, that he'd be inside in a minute.”

“Was he?”

“No. He didn't come in for a long time. In fact, he got to the dressing room just before we had to go out and warm up. He didn't even have time to give us our pep talk.”

“That was unusual?”

“You'd better believe it.”

“He was a good coach?”

“The best.”

“So what happened during the game?”

“We were leading by two points at halftime. He talked to us then, told us we were doing great.” Payson paused.

“And then?” I prompted.

He frowned. “Just before time to go back on court, someone came to the door and talked to him.”

“Did you see who it was?”

“No. They knocked. He opened the door and talked through the crack to whoever it was. After they left, he went over and sat down on one of the benches. He told us to go on, that he'd be out in a minute. He looked real upset.”

“There wasn't anyone in the hallway when you went out?”

“No. At least I didn't see anybody.”

“And did he come right out?”

“I don't know exactly when, but it was after the half started.”

“That was unusual?”

“I told you. Coach Ridley was a good coach. He never missed part of a game before that, as far as I know.”

“What about after the game?”

“We were pissed.”

“Why?”

“The ref made a bad call in the last two seconds. They won by two points. On free throws.”

Payson was suddenly quiet. He sat there fingering the intertwined
M
and
I
emblazoned in white felt on his maroon letterman's jacket. He seemed close to tears.

“What is it?” I asked.

“He just walked off. I couldn't believe it. He never said anything to us. Not good game. Not nice try. Nothing. Not even a word about the bad call. It was like he couldn't wait for the game to be over so he could be rid of us.”

Payson was quiet again. There was more to his silence than just grief over the death of someone close to him. It wasn't an end of innocence, because I'm not so sure innocence exists anymore. But it was the end of something else—of youthful hero-worship, maybe—and the beginning of a realization of betrayal. It's hell growing up.

“He didn't even leave us the damn cookies,” Payson managed.

“Cookies?” I almost choked on the word. “Did you say cookies?”

Payson grinned sheepishly and swiped at his eyes. “Girl Scout cookies. Pretty stupid, huh? But it was a tradition. Every member of the team got his own personal box of cookies
after the first game in the tournament—win or lose, it didn't matter.”

I hadn't expected an answer to the Girl Scout cookie question this early in the investigation. “Why Girl Scout cookies?” I asked.

“Coach Altman, our first coach. His wife was a Girl Scout leader, and he always brought cookies. Coach Ridley said he was going to do the same thing. And he did, last year. I guess this time he just forgot.”

“He didn't forget,” I said.

Bob Payson's eyes lit up. “He didn't?”

“The trunk of his car was full of Girl Scout cookies. Something kept him from giving them to you, but he didn't forget.” It was small enough comfort, but Payson seemed to appreciate it.

Embarrassed, he mopped a tear from his face. “Knowing that makes me feel better and worse, both. How come?”

I shook my head. “Beats me,” I said. “Can you think of anything else, Bob?”

“No. Can I go now?”

“Sure,” I said, “you've been a big help. Thanks.”

As Payson got up, I glanced across the room to where Peters was talking to one of the cheerleaders. She had broken down completely. She had buried her face in her arms and was sobbing uncontrollably. Candace
Wynn patted her shoulder and gently straightened the girl's hair.

All other eyes in the room turned warily toward the weeping girl. Raw emotion can be pretty tough to take, especially when everyone is feeling much the same thing, but only one or two have nerve enough to express those feelings.

The counselor leaned down and spoke into the girl's ear. She quieted some, and I went on to the next boy on the team. Peters finished with the cheerleading squad long before I had worked my way through the team. In the course of the interviews it became apparent to me why Bob Payson was captain. None of the other boys was either as observant or as articulate as Bob had been. They told me more or less the same things he had, but without some of the telling details.

By three o'clock, parents began arriving to take their kids home. I could see Ned Browning's handiwork in that as well. One way or another, he was going to make sure the likes of Maxwell Cole didn't lay hands on any of his “young people” as long as they were in the school's care and keeping.

Unfortunately, I knew the news media a little more intimately than Ned Browning did. I guessed, and rightly so, that reporters would make arrangements to snag the students at home if they couldn't reach them at school.
Had Ned and I discussed the matter, I could have told him so.

By the time the last of the students had left, Peters and I were wiped slick. As usual, we had worked straight through lunch and then some. Candace Wynn looked like she'd been pulled through a wringer, too. We invited her to join us for coffee at Denny's, a suggestion she accepted readily. It wasn't totally gentlemanly behavior on our part, though. We still hadn't interviewed her.

I waited politely until she had swallowed a sip or two of coffee before I tackled her. “Mrs. Wynn,” I began.

“Call me Andi,” she said. “I hate my name.”

“Andi, then. Were you at the game?”

She nodded and smiled. “Where the cheerleaders go, there go I.”

“Can you tell us anything about that night, anything odd or unusual that you might have noticed about Mr. Ridley.”

Her eyes clouded. “You'll have to bear with me,” she said. “We were good friends. It's hard to…”

“We understand that,” Peters interjected. “Your point of view might be just that much different from the kids', though, you could give us some additional insight.”

She sighed. “I knew him a long time. I never saw him as upset as he was that night.”

“Any idea why?”

“No. I tried to talk to him about it during halftime, but he just cut me off.”

“Are you the one who came to the dressing room door?”

Andi gave me an appraising look, as though surprised that I knew about that. She nodded. “He said he couldn't talk, that he was busy with the team. He shut me out completely.”

“What about after the team left the dressing room? Did you see him talking with anyone in the hallway? Something or someone made him late for the second half.”

“I knew he was late, but I didn't see anyone with him.”

“Could he have been sick? Did he say anything to you?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to him after the game at all?”

“I left during the third quarter. My mother's sick. I had to go see her. I was late getting back.”

“So you never talked to him again, after those few words at the dressing room door.”

“No.” She choked on the word. “Something was wrong. He looked terrible. If only I…” She stopped.

“If only you what?”

“If only I could have helped him.” She pushed her coffee cup away and got up
quickly. “I'm going,” she said. “Before I embarrass myself.”

“We appreciate your help, Andi,” Peters said.

“It's the least I can do.”

We watched her drive out of the parking lot in a little red Chevy Luv with a bumper sticker that said she'd rather be sailing. As she pulled onto the access road, Peters said, apropos of nothing, “How many women do you know who drive pickups?”

I shrugged. “Not many, but it figures. She's a guidance counselor. My high school counselor at Ballard wore GI boots and drove a Sherman tank.”

Peters laughed. “Come on now, Beau. Mrs. Wynn isn't that bad. I think she's cute. And she really seems to care about those kids.”

On our way back to the Public Safety Building, Peters and I compared notes from our respective interviews. The cheerleading squad had been able to tell Peters very little that the team hadn't already told me, except they said Darwin Ridley had been five minutes late coming into the game after halftime.

The cheerleaders had taken a short break at the beginning of the third quarter, and they had followed Darwin Ridley onto the court. None of them were able to tell who or what had delayed him between the dressing room and the basketball court.

It wasn't much of a lead, but it was something. It gave us another little sliver of the picture. It didn't tell us what exactly had gone awry in Darwin Ridley's life that last day of his existence, but it was further testimony that something had been sadly amiss.

All we had to do was find out what it was. Piece of cake, right?

Sure. We do it all the time.

I
could probably get away with saying that I went to Bailey's after work that day because I'm a dedicated cop who doesn't leave a single stone unturned. I could claim that once I'm on a case, I work it one hundred percent of the time. I could say it, but it wouldn't be true.

The visit to the store was necessary because I was out of coffee. And MacNaughton's. And the state liquor store is right across the street from Bailey's parking lot.

So much for dedication.

To my credit, I did have my mind on the case. In fact, I was mentally going back over Bob Payson's interview, word for word, trying to see if there were any additional bits and pieces that could be pulled from what he had told me. I was so lost in thought, that I almost ran over the poor kid.

“Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?”

The girl standing in front of two cartons of cookies was around eleven or twelve years old. She had a mop of bright red curls that could have come straight from Little Orphan Annie. She also had an award-winning smile. I'm a sucker for a smile. I stopped and reached for my wallet.

“How much are they?”

“Two fifty a box.”

“And what kinds do you have?”

She gave me the complete rundown. I took two boxes of Mints and handed her a twenty. She rummaged in a ragged manila envelope for change.

“Do you sell here often?” I asked.

“I'm here every day after school. My mom brings me over. I earn my way to camp by selling cookies.”

I felt my heartbeat quicken. Adrenaline does that. It's got nothing to do with heart disease. “Were you here last week?”

Handing me my change, she nodded. “All last week and all this week. It's a good place.”

“You're serious about this, aren't you?”

“I've signed up to sell one thousand boxes. That way my mom doesn't have to pay to send me to camp.”

She finished speaking and turned away from me to ask someone else. I had already
bought. She couldn't afford to waste time with me at the expense of other potential paying customers. She homed in on a little old lady coming out of the store, carrying a cloth shopping bag filled with groceries.

“Did you save me some?” the woman asked, handing over the correct change.

“Right here,” the girl replied, picking up an orange box and tucking it inside the woman's shopping bag. With the transaction complete, she turned back to me.

I took a wild stab in the dark. “What's the most you've ever sold at one time?”

She never batted an eyelash. “Fifteen boxes.”

My heart did another little flip. I don't believe in coincidences. It's an occupational hazard. “No kidding. When?”

“Last week. A man and a woman bought fifteen boxes. They wrote a check.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman emerge from a parked car and walk in our direction. Her total focus was on me, but she spoke to the girl. “Do you need anything, Jenny?” she asked.

“More Mints and some Carmel Delights,” the girl answered. “And would you take this twenty?” Jenny handed over the twenty I had just given her and the woman returned to her car.

“Is that your mother?” I asked.

Jenny nodded. “She stays with me every day while I sell cookies.”

The mother returned with four boxes of cookies cradled in her arms. She eyed me warily as she put them in the cartons at Jenny's feet.

“What are you, the hidden supply line?”

The woman gave me a half smile and nodded. “It works better if people don't realize we have a full carload of cookies right here. That way they think they're buying the last Mint.”

“This is quite a little entrepreneur you have here,” I said.

“Jenny's a good kid, and she has a lot of spunk. I don't mind helping her. She's willing to help herself.”

Jenny was no lightweight salesperson. She had just finished nailing a woman with a baby in her grocery cart for four packages of cookies. She gave her mother the ten.

There was a quiet space, with no customers coming or going. The sun had dipped behind the roof of the Coliseum, and it was suddenly chill. Jenny gave a shiver.

“How many boxes in a carton?” I asked.

“Twelve,” Jenny answered.

“How would you like to sell two cartons all at once?”

“Really? You mean it? Plus the ones you already bought?”

“Sure. But it'll cost you. I'll need you to tell
me everything you can remember about the man and woman who bought those fifteen boxes.”

Jenny's mother stiffened. “Wait just a minute…”

I reached into my pocket and extracted my ID. “It's okay,” I said. “I'm a cop, working a case. I really will buy the cookies, though, if you're willing to help me.”

Jenny looked from me to her mother and back again. “Is it okay, Mom?”

Her mother shrugged. “I guess so. It's about time we left here anyway. It's starting to get cold.”

Jenny packed up her supplies. I wrote the Girl Scouts a check for sixty bucks, and we transferred twenty-four assorted boxes of cookies from their trunk to the backseat of the Porsche. I made arrangements to meet them at Dick's for a milkshake and hamburger. My treat.

While Jenny mowed through her hamburger and fries, I chatted with her mother, Sue Griffith. Sue and Jenny's father were divorced. Sue had custody, and she and Jenny were living in a small apartment on Lower Queen Anne while Sue finished up her last year of law school. There was no question in my mind where Jenny got her gumption.

Showing great restraint, I waited until Jenny had slurped up the very last of a strawberry
shake from the bottom of her cup before I turned on the questions. “Tell me about the man who bought the cookies,” I said.

“It wasn't just a man. It was a man and a woman.”

“Tell me about them.”

She paused. “He was tall and black. He had a sort of purple shirt on. And high-topped shoes.”

“And the woman?”

“She was black, too. Very pretty. She's the one who wrote the check.”

“What was she wearing, did you notice?”

“One of those big funny sweatshirts. You know, the long kind.”

“Funny? What do you mean, funny?”

“It had an arrow on it that pointed. It said
Baby
.”

I had seen a sweatshirt just like that recently. At Darwin Ridley's house, on the back of his widow, who never went to his games, not even statewide tournaments.

“What color was her shirt?” I asked.

“Pink,” Jenny told me decisively. “Bright pink.”

It was all I could do to sit still. “What time was it, do you remember?”

“Sure. It was just before we left. Mom brings me over as soon as I get home from school and have a snack. We're at the store by about four-thirty or five, and we stay for a couple of
hours. That way I catch people on their way home from work.”

“So what time would you say, six-thirty, seven?”

She nodded. “About that.”

“Jenny,” I said. “If I showed you a picture of those people, would you recognize them?”

Jenny nodded. “They were nice. The nice ones are easy to remember.”

Across the table from me, Sue was looking more and more apprehensive. “What's all this about?” she asked. “This isn't that case that was on the news today, I hope.”

“I'm afraid so.”

“I don't think I want Jenny mixed up in this.”

“Jenny's already mixed up in it,” I said quietly. “Aside from his basketball team, your daughter may have been one of the last people to see Darwin Ridley alive.”

Jenny had watched the exchange between her mother and me like someone watching a Ping-Pong game. “Who's Darwin Ridley?” she asked.

“I believe he's the man you sold all those cookies to,” I told her.

“And now he's dead?” Her question was totally matter-of-fact.

“Somebody killed him. Late Friday night or Saturday morning.”

Kids have an uncanny way of going for the
jugular. “Was it the woman in the pink shirt? Did she kill him?”

I've suspected for years that kids watch too much television. That question corked it for me, convinced me I was right. The problem was, it was closer to the truth than I was willing to let on. I already knew Joanna Ridley was a liar. I wondered if she was something worse.

“It's not likely it was his wife,” I said, waffling for Jenny's benefit. “At this point it could be almost anybody. We don't know.”

“I hope she didn't do it,” Jenny said thoughtfully. “I felt sorry for her.”

“What do you mean?”

“The man was in a hurry. He seemed angry. He kept looking at his watch and saying he had to go. She said he should go, that she'd pay for the cookies and leave them in his trunk.”

“Did she?”

Jenny nodded, big-eyed. “I helped her carry them to the car. She started crying.”

“Crying? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure.” Jenny sounded offended that her veracity had been called into question.

“What happened then?”

“After she put the cookies in one car, she got in another one.”

“What kind?”

“Brown-and-white car, I think.”

“And did she leave right away?”

“No. She sat there for a long time, leaning on the steering wheel, crying. She finally drove away.”

I turned to Jenny's mother. “Did you see any of this?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I must have been in the car, studying. When Jenny needs something, she whistles.”

“What about the check?” I asked.

Sue answered that question. “I turned it in to the cookie mother yesterday. She said she had to make a deposit this morning.”

I made a note of the cookie mother's name and number. For good measure, I had Jenny go over the story one more time while I took detailed notes. “Is this going to help?” Jenny asked when we finished and I had closed my notebook.

“I certainly hope so,” I said.

“And can I tell the kids at school that I'm helping solve a murder?” she asked.

“Don't tell them yet,” I told her. “I'll let you know when it's okay to say something.”

Jenny looked at me seriously. “Can girls be detectives when they grow up?”

“You bet they can,” I told her. “You'll grow up to be anything you want to be. I'd put money on it.”

Sue Griffith got up. Jenny did, too. “We'd better be going,” Sue said.

“Thanks for buying all those cookies,” Jenny said. “But if you run out, I'll still be selling next week. The sale lasts for three weeks.”

Jenny Griffith was evidently born with selling in her blood. I had a Porsche full of Girl Scout cookies to prove it.

I never did remember to buy the coffee. The coffee or the MacNaughton's, either.

I called Peters as soon as I got home. “Guess what?” I said.

“I give up.”

“Joanna Ridley was at the Coliseum on Friday.”

“I thought she didn't like basketball.”

“We've got a Girl Scout who says someone who looked like Joanna Ridley paid for the cookies we found in his trunk. By check.”

“She wrote a check?”

“That's right.”

“So what do we do now, Coach?” Peters asked.

“I'd say we take a real serious look at the Widow Ridley and find out what makes her tick.”

“Starting with United Airlines?”

“That's as good a place to start as any.”

“How about the neighbors?”

“Them, too.”

Peters hesitated. “What would she have to gain, insurance maybe?”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” I replied.

“I've never dealt with a pregnant murder suspect before. The very idea runs against the grain.”

“Murder's against the grain,” I reminded him. “Pregnancy's no more a legal defense for murder than Twinkies are.”

Peters hung up then, but I could tell it still bothered him. To tell the truth, it bothered me. Joanna Ridley bothered me. I recalled her house, the way she had looked when she answered the door, her reactions when she finally learned what I was there for. I would have sworn she wasn't playacting, but as I get older, the things I'm sure of become fewer.

I kept coming back to the bottom line. Joanna Ridley had lied to us, more than once. In the world of murder and mayhem, liars are losers. And they're usually guilty.

Just thinking about the next day made me weary. I stripped off my clothes and crawled into bed. I wasn't quite asleep when the phone rang.

“How's it going, J. P.?”

“Maxwell Cole, you son of a bitch! It's late. Leave me alone. I've got a job to do. I don't need you on my ass.”

“Look, J. P., here I am calling you up to lend a little assistance, and you give me the brush-off.”

“What kind of assistance?”

“You ever heard of
FURY
?”

“What is this, a joke?”

“No joke. Have you ever heard of it?”

“Well, I've heard of Plymouth Furies and ‘hell hath no fury.' Which is it?”

“It's an acronym,
F-U-R-Y
. The initials stand for Faithful United to Rescue You.”

“To rescue me? From what?”

“J. P., I'm telling you, this is no joke. These people are serious. They're having their first convention in town this week. They're up at the Tower Inn on Aurora.”

“So what are they rescuing? Get to the point, Max.”

“They're white supremacists. I interviewed their president today. No kidding. They want blacks to go back where they came from.”

“Jesus Christ, Max. What does all this have to do with me? I need my beauty sleep.”

“They said it's possible one of their members knocked off Darwin Ridley.”

“Send me his name and number. I'll track him down in the morning.”