“I’m looking for a witness named Heather Peters,” he said. “I understand she left Harborview Hospital with you last night.”
“She’s here,” I said. “But she’s busy at the moment. Mel Soames is in the process of interviewing her.”
Kramer practically levitated off the floor. “I told that bitch last night. This is the city of Seattle. She’s got no jurisdiction here, and neither do you. What happened last night was clearly inside the city limits. I demand that you turn her over to me immediately.”
Calling Mel Soames a bitch didn’t go over well with me, but I managed to keep my voice steady and my temper under control.
“You can demand until the cows come home, Kramer, but it’s not going to do any good. What happened on Queen Anne Hill last night is tied in with the Rosemary Peters homicide in Tacoma last week. Because of the possibility that it was an officer-involved domestic-violence case, state law makes SHIT the lead investigative agency. I’m sure Mel Soames will be happy to share a transcript of the Heather Peters interview with you once it’s available. She’ll share any other information she’s gathered as well, but in the meantime I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”
“I don’t want a transcript,” Kramer growled. “And I don’t want to wait. We want to talk to the girl now. As a friend of the family, you should know better than to have any involvement in the interview process. It’s a clear conflict of interest.”
“I’m not involved,” I returned. “In fact, I haven’t said a word. You’ll be able to tell that as soon as you see the transcript.”
Kramer’s complexion had gone from red to purple. “You’re interfering with my investigation, Beaumont, and I won’t stand for it.”
“And you’re interfering with ours,” I returned.
“I intend to lodge a formal complaint.”
“Be my guest,” I said. “I’m sure Ross Connors will be more than happy to discuss the situation with you on Monday once he gets to his office, but until then I’d say you’re out of luck.”
With that, I closed the door in Kramer’s face. Slammed it is more likely. Had he ever had the good fortune to support himself by selling goods door-to-door, Captain Kramer might have had the foresight to stick his toe in the door. But he didn’t. When I turned back into the room, Mel Soames was standing behind me in the hallway, grinning. Heather, on the other hand, was wide-eyed and ashen.
Mel went back over to her. “How are you?” she asked, trying to take Heather’s focus off Kramer.
“Tired,” Heather admitted.
“Hungry?”
“That, too, I guess.”
“Well,” Mel said, “that makes two of us, and since Beau here just had the time of his life tormenting poor Captain Kramer, I’m guessing he’ll be more than happy to take us to breakfast. Right?”
She was right, of course. I had tormented Kramer for no other reason than the fact that I could. And I had enjoyed the hell out of it. “As soon as I know for sure they’re gone,” I said.
I called downstairs a few minutes later to be sure Kramer and the two detectives had taken themselves away. Heather had forgotten her coat-my old jacket-when she bolted out of the hospital waiting room. Once again, she left my apartment wearing another of my jackets, one that came almost to her knees.
The three of us had breakfast at the Five-Spot. I was grateful we didn’t run into Marty Woodman. The old man had been kind enough to put me in touch with Wink Winkler. I didn’t want to have to try to explain to him how that connection had resulted in Wink’s death. As we finished breakfast, Amy came by to pick up Heather.
The girl looked up warily as the door swung open. Amy hurried into the room, scanning the restaurant before she caught sight of where we were sitting. She stopped next to her stepdaughter.
“Oh, Heather,” Amy said. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Heather leaped up and threw herself into Amy’s arms. “Me, too,” she said.
And it really didn’t matter what they were sorry about-whether it was Dillon or Molly or Rosemary or all of the above. What mattered most was that they were together holding and comforting each other. The night before, Heather hadn’t been ready to accept comfort from anyone, most especially from her family. But this morning, whatever stresses had been eating away at the fabric of Ron and Amy’s family had melted into the background and were no longer strong enough to keep the family estranged. I could only hope that I had played some small part in making that happen.
“What now?” Mel asked me a few minutes later, after Amy and Heather had taken their leave. “Did you ever talk to Wink Winkler’s son?”
The way she asked the question made me feel defensive. After all, I hadn’t exactly been lying around on the job. I was also smart enough to realize that general crankiness is a natural outgrowth of being too tired.
“Ran out of time,” I said.
“If you want to track him down this morning, I’d be glad to go along.”
I really wanted to go back to Belltown Terrace and put in a few hours in the sack instead of the recliner, but manly pride wouldn’t allow me to admit such a thing, not with Mel Soames, bright as a new penny, sitting there smiling at me.
“I don’t have his address info,” I said, more than half hoping that would dissuade her, but it didn’t. Within seconds she pulled her phone out of her purse and was jotting down Bill Winkler’s home address over on Magnolia as well as the corporate address for Emerald City Security on the far side of Boeing Field.
We drove to the address on Magnolia and found ourselves in front of a neat brick bungalow. A more than middle-aged woman answered the door. “Bill’s not here,” Mrs. William Winkler III told us in answer to our inquiry. “He doesn’t usually go in to work on Saturdays, but today something came up.”
“That would be at the Columbia City address?” Mel asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Winkler said. “It’s an old warehouse. Not much to look at, but when it comes to rent, the price is right.”
“Have you set a time for Wink’s services?” I asked.
“There won’t be any. Once the body is released, we’ll have it cremated and then Bill will scatter the ashes. It’s Bill’s father, after all,” she added after a pause, “so it’s his decision.”
We left the Winklers’ house and returned to Mel’s Beemer. I would have been happier being driven around in leather-interior luxury had it not been for Mel’s unfortunate tendency to drive like a bat out of hell. No wonder she could make it from Bellevue to Belltown Terrace in nothing flat, but I know better than to backseat drive. I just held on for dear life and kept my mouth shut.
“She sounded a little defensive about the ‘no services’ bit,” Mel said once we were inside the 740.
“We know Wink and his son have been estranged for years,” I replied. “If you’re pissed as hell at the guy, I don’t suppose you’re interested in forking over big bucks for a major send-off to plant him.”
“No,” Mel agreed, “I suppose not.”
We wheeled across the Magnolia Bridge and through downtown Seattle at a speed that should have required flashing lights and sirens. Fortunately it was still early enough on Saturday morning that there wasn’t a lot of traffic. I was glad when we turned off onto South Myrtle, a short street nestled between Boeing Field and the Duwamish Waterway.
Surrounded by a chain-link fence, Emerald City Security sat at the far end of the dead-end street. The gate was wide open. Two vehicles sat next to the run-down, grubby-looking building. One was a white van with the Emerald City logo prominently displayed on either side. The second one was an unmarked Crown Vic that screamed Seattle PD.
“Damn!” I muttered.
“What?”
“I’d be willing to bet money that Kramer’s here,” I said.
“Great,” Mel replied. “The more the merrier.”
She parked on the far side of the van. The back gates of the van were open. As we walked past the back bumper, we saw that the vehicle was loaded almost window-high with stacks of wood.