“Things have gotten pretty hectic around here today,” I said lamely. “Will you be in your office tomorrow?”
“I don’t see any reason why I wouldn’t,” she countered.
If Kendra Meadows had a sense of humor, none of it leaked into her telephone presence. “I come to work every day, Detective Beaumont, rain or shine.”
“Good,” I said. “Either Detective Kramer or myself will be in to see you tomorrow then.”
Over my desk I keep a ribald poster featuring a bare-assed kid sitting forlornly on a pot. The caption says, “The job’s not finished until the paperwork’s done.” The same can be said of police work. I was reaching in one of my drawers for a blank report form when Detective Kramer’s bulky frame appeared in the door of my cubicle.
“Boy, do I have a deal for you,” he said.
“What’s that?” I turned to look at him. He was holding up his own fanfold of messages.
“How about if I push the papers around here and you go back up to the district office and pick up their bomb threat file? Doris Walker called three different times to say it was ready and were we going to pick it up today.”
I found it interesting that although I had been the one who had actually talked to Doris Walker, somehow all three of her messages had been shuffled to Kramer. None had come to me. I had heard rumors from one or two of the other detectives who had been stuck working with Paul Kramer that he had developed a system for hogging important messages and that he loved doing reports. All of them. Believe me, for homicide cops, this is not normal behavior.
Both items had raised eyebrows, although to my knowledge, no one had filed an official grievance on the issue. The report-writing incidents in particular had provoked numerous derogatory comments, the general consensus being that Kramer volunteered to do the paperwork so he could write things his way and make Detective Paul Kramer look good. Officially. That didn’t scare me in the least. No matter what he wrote, it wouldn’t be any skin off my nose. I sure as hell wasn’t lobbying for a promotion, and I hate paperwork.
“You bet,” I told him. “Sold.”
I took long enough to put in a “Locate Car” call to 911 on Marcia Kelsey’s vehicle in the hopes that somebody might stumble across it. The dispatcher took my “Homicide Hold” request seriously, but he didn’t offer much hope of success.
“You want us to locate a misplaced car in this weather? Go ahead and give me the info, Beaumont, but don’t hold your breath. With the streets the way they are, I’d say the chances of our finding it are slim to nonexistent.”
Two minutes later, I was on my way. The streets were still relatively deserted, and the people who were out seemed to be in a jovial holiday mood. I grabbed one of the Queen Anne-bound buses on Third Avenue rather than go through the hassle of checking out a departmental car. That way, once I had Doris Walker’s file in hand, I could go directly home, settle into my user-friendly recliner for a while, and maybe get a little perspective on the day.
It was something to look forward to, a bright spot on the horizon.
Doris Walker was waiting for me at her upstairs desk. The file folder in question had been placed in a large, unmarked manila envelope, which she handed over to me with a relieved sigh.
“Did you ever talk to that poor woman?” she asked.
“You mean Mrs. Chambers?” Doris nodded.
“Yes,” I said. “We told her. Right after we left here this morning.”
Doris seemed immensely relieved. “Good. And is she all right?”
It was a somewhat naive question. I’m afraid my response was more curt than Doris Walker deserved. “As right as she’s going to be, for someone whose husband just died.”
“I’m sure,” Mrs. Walker said with an embarrassed duck of her chin. “It must be terrible for her. I can’t imagine how I’d deal with it if something like that ever happened to my Donald.”
“With a little luck,” I told her, “You’ll never have to.”
Taking the envelope she gave me, I left the office and headed for home. I could have gone to see Kendra Meadows, but I still didn’t know what to ask her. Rather than wait for yet another bus, I wrapped the ugly glow-in-the-dark scarf around my neck, shoved gloved hands deep in my pockets, and set off down the hill, cutting through a winter-wonderland Seattle Center. Except for the muffled shouts of a few children having a snowball fight near the frozen International Fountain, the place was almost totally deserted.
As I walked, my fondest hope was that Belltown Terrace’s recalcitrant heat pumps were once more working properly. I came to the corner of Second and Broad and paused, waiting for the light to change. Suddenly, behind me, somebody yelled, “Look out!”
Luckily for me, my reflexes still work fine. I dodged out of the way just in time to avoid being creamed by a tightly packed snowball that had been lobbed off the sixth-floor running track of Belltown Terrace. I looked up and saw Heather Peters grinning down at me and getting ready to take another potshot.
“Heather,” I yelled, “knock that off before someone gets hurt.”
The happy grin disappeared from Heather’s face. “See there?” I heard Tracie’s high-pitched reproving voice. “I told you we shouldn’t. Now we’re in for it!”
“Meet me at the elevator, you two,” I ordered, fully prepared to march upstairs and chew ass.
“Don’t be too hard on them,” a woman’s voice said. The voice that had called out the timely warning belonged to an elderly lady who, leaning heavily on a cane, was making her way slowly along the snowy sidewalk.
“They’re only young once, you know,” she added with an understanding smile. “Remember, it doesn’t snow here all that often.”
Mollified a little by her wise counsel, I toned down the rhetoric enough so that once I found them, all the girls got was a good talking to about the dangers of throwing anything at all off high-rise buildings. The bawling out was followed, in short order, by steaming mugs of hot chocolate all around.
Disciplinary lines tend to get a little fuzzy when the miscreants don’t happen to be your own flesh and blood, or maybe I’m just turning into a middle-aged softy.
After drinking their cocoa, the girls left my apartment to return to their own, and I retreated to the comforting confines of my ancient recliner, reveling in my living room’s toasty seventy-degree temperature. I was sitting there lapping up creature comforts when the phone rang.
“Hey, Beau. You going tonight?”
At once I recognized the thin voice as that of Lars Jenssen, a retired halibut fisherman who serves as my sponsor in the Regrade Regulars, an AA group that meets each Monday night in a restaurant just up Second Avenue from where I live.
My doctor-ordered stay at the Ironwood Ranch dryout farm in Arizona may have been cut short through circumstances beyond my control, but I had decided that I owed it to myself and to my ailing liver to straighten up and fly right. For the time being, anyhow. Working on my own and with Lars Jenssen’s continuing help, I was halfway through the prescribed ninety meetings in ninety days that are supposed to get boozy lives back on track again.
Lars lived another block up Second in a fourth-floor brick walk-up apartment that was a long way from my penthouse luxury, but he never complained.
“I’ll stop by for you around six-thirty,” he said, not waiting for me to say yes or no.
I thought of my shiny little 928 securely parked in the garage downstairs. It was safe and sound, and considering road conditions, I wanted to keep it that way. Nevertheless, I felt a moral obligation to offer Lars a ride in the frigid weather.
“Look, Lars, I don’t much want to drive. Someone will end up creaming my car if I do, but we could always take a taxi. How about if I grab a cab and stop by to pick you up?”