When we turned off Columbian Way onto Fifteenth and again onto Dakota, we were thrown into what was almost an instant replay of two nights earlier. Law enforcement vehicles and flashing lights abounded. Traffic was being rerouted. No one on the force expected Chief Rankin to show up at all, to say nothing of having him appear as a passenger in a Porsche 928. It seemed as though every few feet another traffic cop waved us over and tried to divert us in a different direction.
It took time to work our way through the crush to a parking place in front of the Walterses’ house, but we made it eventually, stopping only a few feet away from the Medic One van. I had yet to bring the Porsche to a complete stop when Chief Rankin hopped out and began pushing his way through the crowd surrounding the truck. I got out myself and walked up to where a grim-faced Major Phil Dunn, the night commander of Patrol, was conferring with an equally somber Captain Powell.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
Captain Powell shook his head. “Not good,” he said. “Not good at all.”
“Was anyone else hurt?” Only during the last few minutes of the drive had I finally had brains enough to worry about Junior Western. I asked the question with a good deal of dread.
“No. Big Al evidently surprised someone trying to climb in a basement window.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“He got away?”
Powell nodded. “So for, but we’re working on it. We’ve brought in two of the K-nine units, but they haven’t found anything yet.”
“What I want to know,” Major Dunn was saying, “is what the hell Big Al was doing here in the first place. I thought you pulled him off this case, Larry, but that’s Junior Weston over there in that car or I’ll eat my hat.”
“Junior Weston?” I asked, my heart flooding with gratitude. “Where is he? Is he all right?”
“He’s fine,” Major Dunn answered. “He’s over there in one of my patrol cars with a two-person guard.”
Under most circumstances, that would have been good news, but Major Dunn didn’t know we were looking for a crooked cop whose identity we had yet to uncover. Our bad guy could just as easily be from Patrol as from anywhere else.
“Let’s go check on him,” I said. “I’ll feel better once I see him.”
Major Dunn shrugged as if to say who can understand these crazy Homicide dicks anyway, but he set off at a rapid pace while I tagged along behind. We found Junior Weston huddled in the far corner of a Seattle PD patrol car once more clutching his precious teddy bear. The two cops with him were doing what they could to reassure him, but they were understandably outraged by everything that had happened to the poor little kid, and they were frustrated by their inability to offer him any real comfort.
I turned back to Major Dunn. “I know the boy,” I said. “Tell your guys they can go.”
“But-” Major Dunn began.
“Please,” I interrupted. “Let me talk to him alone.”
“All right,” Dunn said, giving in. He turned to his men. “You can go now. We’ll take care of the boy from here on out. Go on over to the command van and get reassigned. I’m sure there’s plenty to do.”
The two patrolmen climbed out of the car, and I got into the driver’s seat, closing the door behind me, shutting out the night and the rest of the officers, including Major Dunn.
“Remember me?” I asked.
Junior looked up, nodded, and immediately buried his face in his teddy bear.
“Are you okay, Junior?” I asked. He nodded but this time he didn’t raise his head.
“Are you worried about Big Al?”
Another nod. “Is he going to be all right? Is Adam’s mom going to be able to fix him up?”
“Adam’s mom? Was she here?”
“Yes.”
That was news to me. If Dr. Emma Jackson was there, I hadn’t seen her. “I don’t know if she’ll be able to or not. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her or the Medic One guys either. They’re working on him right now.”
“It was the bad man, looking for me again, wasn’t it? How come? Why can’t you stop him?”
The simultaneous accusation and cry for help cut to the quick. “We’re trying,” I said. “We’re doing our best.”
“It’s all my fault,” Junior Weston whimpered. “It’s because of me Mr. Lindstrom got hurt.”
“It isn’t your fault, Junior. None of it is.”
“But what does the bad man want? Why’s he still looking for me then?”
“Because he knows you saw his face,” I answered quietly. “He’s afraid you can identify him.”
Junior Weston raised his head then and looked at me, his small chin set in staunch defiance. “And I can, too,” he said determinedly. “I will.”
“But until you do,” I cautioned, “we’ve got to make sure you’re safe. I thought you’d be safe here, at this house with the Walterses, but the bad man found you anyway. What would you think of coming home with me for a day or two, Junior? I live in a downtown high rise with a swimming pool and a hot tub and a rooftop garden.”
“A garden on the roof? Are you kidding? Gardens don’t go on roofs. The dirt would all fall off.”
“The dirt doesn’t fell off this one because it’s flat. And there’s a duck that lives there, too. Her name is Gertrude and she has five little ducklings. We even put out a wading pool for her so she could teach them how to swim.”
“Are there any other kids?”
“Some. Two anyway. Their names are Heather and Tracie. I’m sure they’d be happy to play with you.”
Junior grew quiet and seemed to be considering my offer. “What would Reverend Walters think?”
“More than anything, Reverend Walters wants you to be safe,” I answered. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
Junior frowned. “It sounds okay, but I really want to go home. To my home.”
“You can’t go there, Junior. Nobody can. And you wouldn’t want to, either, not right now. It’s a crime scene.”
Tears welled up in Junior’s eyes. “But what about all my stuff?” he demanded. “What happens to my toys-my dad’s matchbox cars and the old transformers Dougie gave me and the baseball I won signed by Ken Griffey and his dad? What about those?”
“I’ll tell you what, Junior. In fact, I’ll make you a promise. When it’s time to go back to your house, I’ll go with you and so will Big Al, if he’s well enough. We’ll help you get all your stuff gathered up and other things as well, things you should have from the rest of your family, mementos. They may not mean that much to you right now, while you’re young, but they will later, when you’re older.”
“So I won’t forget?” Junior asked.
I felt a catch in my throat and tears blurred my own eyes. “You won’t forget, Junior. Don’t worry about that. No matter what, you’ll never forget. Will you come stay with me?”
“Okay.”
With a warning squawk of siren, the Medic One van eased down off the curb and began nudging its way through the crowd. While everyone busily focused on that, I smuggled Junior back to my car and belted him into the passenger seat. As I did so, I caught sight of Knuckles Russell’s briefcase still sitting in back where I’d left it.
Captain Powell came up behind me. “What’s going on, Detective Beaumont?”
“I’m taking Junior here home with me for the time being. Go let the Walterses know, would you? They can tell old Mr. Weston if they want, but under the circumstances, the fewer who hear about this the better.”
“What’s Child Protective Services going to say?” Powell asked.
“Screw Child Protective Services!” I growled. “If Big Al couldn’t handle it, what the hell do you think CPS would do?”
“Not much,” Powell agreed. “Go ahead, Beau. I’ll back you up on this one.”
I paused long enough to drag Knuckles Russell’s briefcase out of the car and handed it over to Captain Powell. “Here’s this,” I said.