I held out my hand. “J. P. Beaumont,” I told him. I signed for him and handed him a visitor’s pass. “I hope you’re in a visitor’s parking spot. Otherwise they tow within twenty minutes.”
“I am,” he said.
We stepped into the elevator. “Jonas Piedmont Beaumont,” he said quietly, filling in the unwritten names indicated by my visible initials.
That one stopped me. Not many people know my full name. It’s not something I announce in polite or impolite company. Surprise must have registered on my face.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he went on.
“No,” I said apologetically. “Sorry, I don’t believe I do.”
The elevator stopped and we stepped into the corridor.
“That’s all right,” he said. “I’ve changed quite a bit since you saw me last. We went to school together-Ballard High School. I worked for the school paper and the yearbook. When you were on the basketball court, I was on the sidelines with a camera taking pictures for The Talisman and The Shingle.”
And then it hit me. “My God!” I exclaimed. “Freddy Mac! I never would have recognized you in a million years. How the hell are you and what have you been up to?”
And it was true. The Frederick MacKinzie I had known in high school was a pudgy, pasty-faced kid, with thick glasses and a mop of unruly red hair. Now the hair was combed down and neatly styled. It was a far more muted red than I remembered, so it was possible that the new Fred was actually dipping in the dye. Freddy of old had been smart but anything but cool. This one had cool down pat.
I ushered him down the hall and offered him a seat in my tiny office.
“I haven’t been up to much,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a business card and handed it over. “Frederick W. MacKinzie,” it said. “Hypnotherapist.”
“Got married in college, got divorced three years later,” he explained, answering my unasked question. “Then I went back to our tenth class reunion and ran into Debby Drysdale. Remember her?”
Debby I remembered. If Ballard High School had had an “It” girl, Debby Drysdale would have been a contender. She was cute and smart. Head of the cheerleading squad. Homecoming queen our sophomore year and prom queen when we were seniors. I couldn’t imagine Debby Drysdale giving nerdy Freddy Mac the time of day. Once again, Fred must have read my mind.
“She was a bit out of my league in high school,” he admitted ruefully. “In fact, I don’t think we ever exchanged a single word.”
“I thought she married Tom…What’s his name again? I seem to remember he was a real jock.”
“Gustavson,” Fred supplied with a nod. “And yes, Tom was a jock-an all-state jock and a big-time jerk. Went off to college, got involved in drugs, and burned out his brain on LSD. Committed suicide the night of their eighth wedding anniversary.”
“Nice guy,” I said.
Fred nodded. “As I said, Deb and I met up again at our tenth class reunion. We were both single. She was looking for someone steady in her life, and I turned out to be the lucky guy. We’ve been married going on thirty years now. How about you?”
“Divorced once and widowed once,” I told him. “Other than that I’m doing fine.”
“Kids?” he asked.
“Two. Both married. One grandchild and another on the way.”
“Deb and I never had any kids,” Fred said with a shrug. “For a long time my whole life was my job-property development. Then, about eight years ago, I had a wake-up-call heart attack. The doc told me to change my life. Lose weight and lose my job or lose my life. So I went to see a hypnotherapist. He helped me so much that now I am one.”
As Fred spoke, he opened his briefcase and pulled out a frayed copy of the Ballard High School yearbook, The Shingle. Please don’t ask me why it’s called that. I have no idea.
He opened the book to a page marked with a slip of paper. He passed the yearbook over to me, tapping one picture in particular with his finger. “Remember her?” he asked.
I looked down and saw the picture of a girl-a girl with downcast eyes hidden behind thick glasses, no smile, and a sorrowful expression on her face.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I said.
Fred closed the yearbook, returned it to the briefcase, and closed the lid. “I’m not surprised. Bonnie Jean Dunleavy was two years behind us when we were in school, but she’s a friend of mine-a friend and a patient. She’s also the reason I’m here.”
Glancing first at the open door, Fred looked back at me. “Do you mind?” he asked. With that he reached over and pushed the door shut. “It’s about a murder,” he said. “One we believe happened many years ago. I’m hoping you can tell me whether or not it really happened. This is a new experience for me-uncovering a crime like this from someone’s past-and I need to be really sure it’s the truth and not some little kid’s horrific fantasy.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m not a regular homicide detective anymore. I work for the Washington State Attorney General’s office. I only work cases I’m told to work, and I doubt Ross Connors would look kindly on my going out and chasing after some cold-case homicide that may or may not have happened.”
“It’s all right,” Fred assured me easily. “Somebody’s already squared it with Ross Connors. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
It sure as hell wasn’t fine with me. Ross Connors, the Washington State attorney general, happens to be my boss. He’s also a very political animal. The last thing I needed was to go messing around in a murder investigation that was connected to one of Ross’s cronies or to some big-time political contributor. Either one had almost limitless potential for career suicide.
“Bonnie Jean was in town for a conference over the weekend,” Fred continued. “She stayed over last night on the slim chance that I might be able to set up a meeting with you today. This morning, in fact,” he added. “Whenever you can get away.”
Talk about more nerve than a bad tooth! I was floored. Right about then I would have been happy for the return of the old pudgy Freddy Mac rather than his grown-up pushy and very cool counterpart.
“Hang on,” I said. “I’ll have to check with my boss.”
I left Fred sitting there beside my desk and went in search of Harry I. Ball. I more than half hoped he was still stuck in traffic. No such luck. He was talking on the phone when I popped my head into his office. “What is it?” he demanded, covering the mouthpiece.
“I’ve got this guy in my office…”
“I know, I know,” he grumbled. “The hypnotist guy. Word came down from on high about that. It’s your case, now get the hell out and do whatever needs to be done.” With that he waved me away.
I returned to my office with my worst-case-scenario suspicions fully confirmed. Whoever was pulling Ross Connors’s string had influence out the kazoo.
CHAPTER 2
When I returned to my office, Fred let me know that my surprise luncheon meeting-a surprise to me anyway-was scheduled at Equus, the upscale restaurant in downtown Bellevue’s Hyatt Hotel. To get there from my Eastgate office, I had two choices. Get on I-90 and I-405 or stay on surface streets. With the cross-lake freeway mayhem still fresh in mind, I opted for the surface streets and that decision turned out to be on the money. I later learned that a garbage truck had jackknifed at Southeast Eighth, blocking all northbound lanes on 405.
I may not have known about the garbage truck at the time, but I did notice that traffic on Bellevue Way was bumper-to-bumper and slow as mud. It gave me plenty of time to anticipate my upcoming meeting with Bonnie Jean Dunleavy. I had no doubt she would have changed over the years every bit as much as Freddy Mac. I expected that LASIK surgery would have corrected her vision problems and so she would have ditched the glasses. And if she had hooked up with one of the movers and shakers in state government, she’d probably be wearing a size 3 dress and dripping in diamonds. I have a natural aversion to women like that.