J. Jance - Until Proven Guilty

My phone rang a few minutes later, and a Ralph Ames introduced himself as Anne Corley’s attorney. “You’ll have to forgive my receptionist, Detective Beaumont,” he said. “Yours was the second call on Mrs. Corley we’ve had this afternoon. The first one didn’t check out.”

“Was his name Maxwell Cole?”

“As a matter of fact, it was.”

“And he tried to pass himself off as a cop?”

“Well, as an investigator of some kind.”

“He’s a member of the local press.”

“I figured as much,” Ralph Ames laughed. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“As I told your receptionist, I’m working on a homicide and—”

“Excuse me for interrupting, Detective Beaumont, but let me guess. You’re working on the murder of a young child, and you’re trying to figure out why Anne Corley came to the funeral, right?”

“That’s exactly right, Mr. Ames.”

“She’s working on a book. She’s been working on it for several years. I get calls like this all the time.”

“Yes, she told me about the book,” I said, relieved. “Still, I have to check things out. It’s my job.”

“That’s quite all right, Detective Beaumont. This is my job too. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No. Nothing I can think of. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he said. He hung up.

I waited while Peters finished taking a call from Hammond, Indiana. Yes, Brodie had been investigated in the bludgeoning death of one of his parishioners two years earlier, but he had never been indicted. The case was still open.

There wasn’t a whole lot more we could do then, so we took off about four-thirty and went by the Warwick to check on Carstogi. He told us he had made plane reservations for the following morning. Peters went down to the lobby for a telephone huddle with Watkins to see what he thought about Carstogi returning to Chicago. While Peters was out of the room, Carstogi told me he planned to go to a movie that night. There are at least six theaters within walking distance of the Warwick, not counting the porno flicks. I didn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t go.

As I opened the door to let Peters back into the room, he signaled everything was okay. “You’ll keep us posted on how to get in touch with you once you get home?” Peters asked.

“Sure thing,” Carstogi said agreeably. He seemed to be in good spirits, all things considered; We left him to his own devices. His close encounter with Michael Brodie’s fist had pretty much taken the wind out of his sails.

Peters drove off in his Datsun. I hurried to my apartment and put on a clean shirt; then I caught the free bus back up to the Four Seasons. I didn’t tell Peters I was going to meet Anne Corley. I was afraid he’d want to tag along.

Walking into the Four Seasons was like walking into a foreign country. Each marbled floor, gleaming chandelier, polished brass rail, and overstuffed chair belonged to another time and place. It all spelled money. The best Italian marble. The best Irish wool for the carpet. “Anne must be quite at home here,” I said to myself.

I wandered through the spacious lobby into the Garden Court. The tables were occupied either by takers of tea in the English tradition or drinkers of booze in the American tradition. Some tables included both. Late-afternoon sun had breached the cloud cover and sparkled through an expanse of arched windows that formed one entire wall of the massive room. Anne Corley was seated at a tiny table in a far corner, her face framed by a halo of sunlight shining through her hair.

Her eyes met mine as I entered the room. I declined the services of the maître d‘ and made my way to the table. So what if she only wanted to pump me for information? I was willing to trade information for the chance to be with Anne Corley. On the table before her sat two glasses, one with white wine and ice and the other with MacNaughton’s and water. Pump away.

“Been here long?” I asked, taking a seat.

She shook her head. The room was crowded. There was a line of people waiting to be seated. “Did you have reservations here too?”

She smiled and nodded. “Reservations make things simpler.” She examined my face. “Have you cooled off?”

“I guess. I’m here.”

She laughed. “You don’t look too happy about it.”

I sipped my drink, disturbingly aware of her eyes studying my face. I had the strange sensation that she was burrowing into my mind and decoding the romantic delusions I had manufactured around her. It was at once both pleasant and uncomfortable.

“You didn’t bring Peters,” she observed.

“No, I decided I could handle the assignment on my own. I’m a big boy now.”

“What does a girl have to do to show you that she’s interested? Hit you over the head? I find you very attractive, Detective J. P. Beaumont. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Look,” I said impatiently. “I told you this afternoon, I don’t play games. I’ll talk to you about the case as long as what I tell you in no way jeopardizes the investigation. You don’t have to pretend I’m some latter-day heart-throb to do it.”

She smiled again. “Actually, you sound like a maiden aunt who has just been invited up to see some nonexistent etchings. Let me assure you, my intentions are entirely honorable.”

I didn’t mean to sound quite so self-righteous. I laughed. “That bad, eh?”

She nodded. The waitress came by with offers of fresh drinks, but Anne waved her away. “I’ve thought about you all day,” she said quietly. “You’re really quite pleasant to be with. I realized that after I dropped you off last night.”

I could feel a flush creeping up the back of my neck. “That was a compliment,” she added. “You’re supposed to say thank you.”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“You’re welcome.” Her eyes sparkled with humor. For a time we sat without speaking, listening to the sound of talk and laughter, to the tinkling of leaded glassware that filled the room. It was a companionable silence. I appreciated the fact that neither of us grilled the other about their past. It was enough to be together right then. Eventually she emptied her glass and stood up. “Let’s go,” she said. “I can only sit around for so long without doing something.”

I reached for my wallet, but Anne shook her head. “I already took care of it.”

She paused in the lobby long enough to remove a pair of battered Nikes from an Adidas carryall. Her navy pumps disappeared into the cavernous bag.

“Where to?” I asked as she stood up.

“Let’s just walk,” she replied, and we did. It’s unusual for someone with a car to get out and walk like that. We covered the whole of downtown, from Freeway Park to the waterfront. She set a brisk pace and maintained it regardless of the steeply pitched inclines. We walked and talked. She asked nothing about Angela Barstogi, nor did we delve into matters personal. The conversation ranged over a world of topics, from politics to religion, from economics to music. Anne Corley was well read and could hold her own on any number of subjects.

Her mood wasn’t as mercurial as it had been the day before. She told wry jokes and laughed at her own punch lines. We wound up at a small Greek restaurant halfway up Queen Anne Hill. We finished dinner about ten-thirty. I bought. My ego needed that hit.

As we left the restaurant, we paused outside to admire a full moon rising behind the Space Needle. She slipped her hand under my arm, her touch both casual and electrifying. “What now?” she asked.

“A nightcap at my place?” I suggested.

“I’d like that,” she replied.

We cut through Seattle Center and walked the seven or eight blocks to my building with her hand still resting on my arm. My mind was doing an inventory of my apartment. How much of a mess was it? Had I picked up the scatter of dirty socks and shirts that often litters the living room? For sure the bed wasn’t made. It never is.