"The way this morning started off, I didn't think anything good could possibly come of it," she said breathlessly. "But I'm very happy to meet you in person. Thank you so much for what you've done for the Rep. That Bentley of yours was a wonderful contribution. And it looks like it'll be an auction item again this year." Her face darkened. "The Guy Lewis trust, you know. The trustees decided to donate the Bentley for a second time. Of course, what happened to Guy and Daphne was a real tragedy…"
I nodded, hoping to cut her off and steer the conversation into somewhat less volatile territory.
Years earlier, the Belltown Terrace Real Estate syndicate, of which I am a member, had bought a pre-owned Bentley. A chauffeur-driven Bentley on call to ferry residents around town was envisioned as a one-of-a-kind building amenity-something unusual with some real snob appeal. Unfortunately, that selfsame wonderful-sounding upscale amenity had turned into a mechanical nightmare. No amount of high-priced tinkering from a series of inept mechanics could get the damned thing running right. It broke down time and again, stranding residents in any number of inconvenient places.
In the end, and with me acting as point man, the syndicate had unloaded the British-made, decrepit albatross by donating it to a local charity auction. Months after the auction, both the unlucky purchaser and his wife had been murdered, but that's another story.
"Coffee anybody?" Ron Elgin asked cheerfully, joining us in the living room. He was carrying a beautifully inlaid wooden tray. On it was a vacuum carafe coffeepot, mugs, cream, and sugar. He set the tray down on a rosewood coffee table. "Detective Danielson?"
She nodded. He poured a cup and passed it to her. "Detective Beaumont?"
"Yes, please."
"Are you and Alexis Downey still an item?" he asked with a wink as he passed me my cup.
"Not really," I said.
"Too bad," he said. "She's a nice lady."
Pouring a third cup, Ron Elgin handed that one to his wife. "Are you going to be all right now?" he asked, regarding her solicitously.
Bonnie Elgin nodded and smiled gratefully as she took the cup from him. "Sure," she said. "I'm fine now, Ron. You go on to work. It was silly of me to let it throw me like that." She reached over and gave him a light peck on the cheek, which he returned with a husbandly hug.
"Well, you're getting good service," he replied. "With all the gang warfare and drive-by shootings in town, I never expected the police department to send out two whole detectives to investigate a harmless little fender bender."
Bonnie Elgin's smile disappeared. "It wasn't all that harmless," she said seriously. "That man could have been badly hurt. For all we know, maybe he is."
"Do you want me to stay around for the interview?" Ron asked. "I will if you'd like me to."
Bonnie took a deep breath. "No, that's all right. You're already late for your first meeting, and I'm not nearly as upset as I was when it first happened. You go on."
"But you'll call if you need me?"
"Yes," she agreed. "I will."
"And don't forget to show them the wrench."
"No. I won't."
Ron turned back to Sue and me. "I do have to go," he said. "But I really appreciate your coming over right away like this. I didn't know Seattle's police department was this responsive."
Neither did I. Ron Elgin left his wife standing in the middle of the room, hurried to the double entryway doors, picked up a waiting briefcase, and disappeared outside.
"So you were the driver in this morning's hit-and-run?" Sue asked.
I was surprised by the kindness in her voice. Sue was right. I had been distracted during the drive from Fishermen's Terminal, and I hadn't paid that much attention. But hit-and-run drivers aren't usually accorded all that much courtesy, not even when they finally come to their senses and report what happened.
Bonnie Elgin nodded somberly. She settled into a huge but elegantly upholstered easy chair, balancing her coffee mug on one knee.
"I was afraid I'd killed him," she said with a slight shudder. "I'll never forget the thump when I hit him. It was awful."
"Suppose you tell us about it," Sue suggested. "From the beginning."
"It was early," Bonnie said. "I left the house right at six-thirty. I was supposed to be in Kirkland at seven to meet with the contractor and the landscape architect. November's the best time to plant trees, you see, and seven was the only time we could all three get together. So I was heading over to the freeway. At that hour of the day, Emerson to Nickerson to Westlake is the quickest way to get there.
"I turned left onto Gilman and started toward Emerson. It was foggy. I don't think I was going very fast, but all of a sudden this guy ran out in front of me. I mean right in front. He didn't even look. I slammed on the brakes and swung the car to the left as hard as I could. But I hit him anyway, and he went flying into the air. The next thing I knew, the car was skidding, and I slammed into a signpost."
She stopped and shuddered.
"What happened then?" Sue asked.
"Naturally, I was scared to death. I thought sure I'd run over the guy and killed him, but actually I must have booted him out of the way. He landed up in a rockery along the street, in some kind of bushes. I got out of the car and went looking for him. When I finally found him, he was lying facedown and not moving. I was afraid he was either dead or else badly hurt.
"I ran back to my car and called nine-one-one on my cellular phone. I told them I'd hit someone and that maybe he was dead. And then, while I was still talking on the telephone, he got up all of a sudden and started to limp away. I put down the phone and went after him. He was bleeding. There was a cut on his face and another on his leg. His pant leg was torn to shreds. ‘You're hurt,' I said to him. ‘I've called the police and an ambulance. They'll be here in a minute.'
"He said, ‘No! No ambulance! No police! I'm okay, I'm okay. Leave me alone.' And he kept right on walking. I couldn't stop him. He crossed the street, climbed down over the edge of the embankment, and disappeared in that greenbelt that runs along the railroad track."
"Then what happened?"
"I don't remember exactly. By then another car had stopped. The driver got out. He came over to where I was and asked me if I was all right. It didn't take all that long for a patrol car to show up-only a minute or two. And the aid car came right after that, but by then the guy was long gone. The cop who was taking the report acted like it was all a big joke."
"A joke?" I asked.
Bonnie Elgin nodded. "They all seemed to get a big kick out of it. One of them said it was the damnedest hit-and-run he had ever seen. I hit the guy, and then he ran. I told them I didn't think it was funny. After that, they more or less straightened up and tended to business.
"Since the fellow I hit was long gone, the medics insisted on checking me out, making sure I was okay. I told them they didn't need to bother. I was fine, except now I think maybe I bruised my knee when I banged it against the dashboard. Anyway, pretty soon the aid car left. The cops were about to start measuring the skid marks, but they never got around to it."
"Why not?"
"Because all of a sudden all hell broke loose. There were sirens and ambulances and fire trucks coming from every direction. None of them came past where we were on Gilman, because they all turned off on Emerson to get over to the terminal. A minute or so later, somebody radioed the guys who were there with me. They told me they had been called to the fire along with everybody else. They gave me a case number and told me someone would finish taking the report later, and then they left. I have the case number right here, in case you want it."
She reached into a pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it to me. I jotted down the case number. "What did you do then?"