He stumbled sleepily to his feet and went in search of his clipboard. I couldn’t help wondering if Doc Baker knew his baby tech took a little evening nap on company time. Eventually, the tech returned relatively awake and prepared to take down my information.
I filled in as many blanks on his form as I could, based on what information I had gleaned from Joanna Ridley. It consisted of the usual-name, address, phone number, next of kin-enough to clear the medical examiner’s office of one of its prime responsibilities: Identification of the victim.
As Peters and I left the office, I paused in the doorway. "By the way, you might want to call Doc Baker with that now. He’s probably waiting to hear from you." The tech didn’t look eager to pick up the phone to call Doc Baker’s home number.
"You ever hear of winning friends and influencing people, Beau?" Peters asked as we walked outside.
"I don’t like people who sleep on the job. Where to next?"
If I had any delusions of going home right then, Peters put a stop to them with what he said next. "We’d better check in with the department and let them know what’s up. Officially."
We were ready to climb into the car. I looked at him across the roof of the Porsche. "What the hell happened to you, Peters? You used to be a lot more flexible, remember? You didn’t always do things by the book."
He grinned at me. "Two and a half years of hanging around with J. P. Beaumont. That’s what happened. Somebody in this outfit has to go by the book, or we’ll both get our asses fired."
Back on the fifth floor of the Public Safety Building we sorted through our individual fanfolds of messages.
"Call," Peters said. "Five bucks says I take it."
"You’re on."
"Full house." Triumphantly, Peters turned his messages faceup on the desk. Three from Sergeant Watkins, two from Captain Powell. "See there?"
"Read ’em and weep," I told him, turning over my own-four of a kind, all from Captain Lawrence Powell. With a grimace of disgust, Peters slapped a five-dollar bill on the desk in front of me.
One of the other detectives sauntered over to our cubicle. "I don’t know what you two have been up to, but people are gunning for you. I’d lay low if I were you."
We never had a fighting chance of lying low. We were right in the middle of writing our reports when Sergeant Watkins showed up in a stained sweat suit and worn running shoes. He hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion. He ignored Peters and came straight after me.
"You interested in the Officer Friendly program in Seattle Public Schools?" he demanded. "By the time Doc Baker finishes with you, that may be the only job in the department you’re qualified for."
"Doc Baker was out of line," I returned. "So was his tech. They had no business demanding information before I had a chance to question the individual."
"Doctor Baker," Watty corrected, enunciating every syllable clearly to be sure I understood his meaning. "Doctor Baker happens to be the King County medical examiner, and don’t you forget it."
He glanced down at the forms we were working on. He sighed and headed for his desk, still growling at us over his shoulder. "When you finish those reports, you could just as well bring them by so I can see what you’ve got."
It was eleven by the time we were perched on the front of Watty’s desk, waiting while he scanned our reports.
"A high school basketball coach. Holy shit! I’d better get Arlo Hamilton on this right away. Can you two be here for a press briefing at eight tomorrow morning?"
We both nodded. Unlike crooks, cops don’t get time off for good behavior. By the time I drove Peters back to his Datsun at Lincoln Towing, I could barely hold my head up.
"You satisfied?" I asked. "Is everything by the book now?"
"As much as it’s going to be," Peters replied mildly. "What do you want to do tomorrow? Go to Ridley’s house or stop by the school?"
"The house first," I answered. "We’d better get that voluntary search form before this gets any deeper."
Peters rolled his eyes and grinned. "Wonders will never cease."
I drove back to Third and Lenora and put the Porsche to bed in its assigned place in the parking garage. I walked onto the elevator only because it would have been too much trouble to get down on my knees and crawl. A phone was ringing when the elevator door opened. It’s always my phone.
"Hello," I snarled into it.
"Don’t sound so happy to hear from me." It was Ralph Ames, my attorney, calling from Phoenix. Ralph Ames’ law firm, and more importantly, Ralph’s personal attention, had been a gift to me from the same lady who left me the Porsche. I’m not one of his more dependable clients.
"I understand you didn’t make your closing interview this afternoon."
"Damn it, Ralph. I got busy here and completely forgot about it. Can we reset it?"
"No sweat," Ralph told me cheerfully. "Only you’ll have to swear on a stack of Bibles that you’ll show up this time."
"I swear. Just let me know when it is."
When I got off the phone I was careful to steer clear of any hair of the dog. I figured I’d need to be on my toes early and long the next day. A clear head was essential. I fell into bed, but by then I was too wound up to sleep.
My mind slipped into overdrive and busily tried to sift through all the information it had received that day. So far the only person firmly fixed in my memory bank was Joanna Ridley. What was it she had said when she blew up at me there in the waiting room? Something about crossing a line. What line had Darwin Ridley crossed? And why had it been fatal? That was one of the tough questions I’d have to ask his widow the next day.
It was late when I finally drifted off. I was still awake when the last of the serious drinkers left Palmer’s Tavern across the street. It seemed like only minutes later when I surfaced in a dream with Anne Corley.
She never changes in my dreams. She’s always young and beautiful and vibrant, and she’s always wearing that same, tantalizing red dress.
In the dream, I’m always so glad to see her it’s pathetic. She smiles and reaches out to take my hand. Over the months I’ve learned to force myself awake then, to propel myself out of the dream before it has a chance to turn ugly.
I awoke shaking and dripping with sweat. I know better than to try to sleep again after one of those dreams. I always return to that same instant like some crazy broken record.
Instead, I stumbled out of bed, took a long hot shower, shaved, and dressed. I was at the Dog House ordering breakfast by five-thirty, along with a generous slice of Seattle’s colorful cast of late-night/early-morning characters.
I appropriated the discarded remains of a newspaper from the table next to me. I ignored the news as I always do. Daily doses of news are bad for me. Instead, I worked The New York Times crossword puzzle over coffee, bacon, and eggs.
It’s one way to take your mind off your troubles.
CHAPTER 6
The murder of a prominent man is always news. The murder of a winning high school coach is news with a capital N. The department’s conference room was jammed to the gills for the promised briefing, with the attendees nothing short of a Who’s Who in Seattle media, from television reporters to print pukes. Including Maxwell Cole, my all-time least favorite newspaper columnist.
Max is part of a long-running rivalry that dates back to college days. His position as crime columnist for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer has kept us at odds for as long as I’ve been with Seattle P.D. He has a way of getting under my skin. And staying there.
Arlo Hamilton, Seattle P.D.’s public information officer, is a reasonable sort, but I could see he was losing patience as Max asked questions that were nothing less than an illdisguised tirade-the media busily manufacturing news to suit themselves.
"One of my sources stated that Mr. Ridley was…" He paused for dramatic effect and consulted a small notebook. "I believe the word he used was lynched. Doesn’t that sort of take you back to the Old South? Is it possible this homicide was racially motivated?"