J. Jance - Until Proven Guilty

“”Because you, my faithful readers, are the eyes and ears of Seattle, I would appreciate knowing about this lady and why Seattle’s finest are keeping her under wraps.“” Peters handed me the paper. Next to the column was a picture of Anne Corley as she had appeared at the funeral, tears streaming unchecked down her face.

“Who is she?” Carstogi asked. “What does she have to do with all this?”

“Nothing,” I said. “We’ve checked her out. She’s collecting data for a book on violent crimes with young victims.”

“But he says you’ve been seen together.”

“We happened to hit it off, just like you and that girl did the other night, except she’s not a professional. Understand?”

Carstogi looked chagrined. “Yeah, I understand.”

I was furious at Maxwell Cole. It was one thing to keep my professional life under the bright light of public scrutiny. It was another to expose my personal life, to make my relationship with Anne a topic of casual breakfast conversation.

“I think you’d better hurry up and remember anything you can about that date you had the other night,” Peters was saying to Carstogi. “We’re looking for a needle in a haystack, but with what you’ve given us, we don’t know what kind of needle or which county the haystack’s in.” He shook the folded newspaper in Carstogi’s direction for emphasis. “Detective Beaumont may not think you’re the one who killed Brodie and Suzanne, but he’s going to have one hell of a time convincing us.”

“I already told you. Her name was Gloria. That’s all I know,” Carstogi said, caving in under Peters’ implied threat.

“Try to remember where you went.” Peters pressed his advantage, finally getting through Carstogi’s reluctance to a bedrock of fear beneath.

“I was kind of drunk. I think we drove over a long bridge.”

“In a cab, a car?”

“A cab. I think I came back in the same one the next morning.”

“Pickup-and-delivery prostitution,” Peters muttered. “Where did you go?” he continued. “A motel? A house?”

“It was a house, I guess. I didn’t pay much attention. A man came out to the cab and took my money, then Gloria and I went inside, into a bedroom.”

“What about the cab?” I asked. “Do you remember anything about it?”

“No. It was blue or maybe gray. The guy chewed gum. He was a big guy, dark hair, kinda oily. That’s all I remember.”

“Nothing other than that?”

“No.” Carstogi shook his head.

I looked at Peters. “What say we take him for a spin and see if he can lead us back to the little love nest?”

“You do that,” Peters said. “Drop me at the department. I’ll see if vice has been able to dig anything up.”

Carstogi came with us reluctantly. There had been some photographers outside the hotel when we went in, and we attempted to avoid them by leaving through the garage. We weren’t entirely successful. Maxwell Cole’s sidekick from the funeral caught us as Carstogi climbed into the backseat.

Once in the car Carstogi seemed more dazed than anything. “Why does everyone think I did it?” he asked.

“For one thing, your alibi isn’t worth a shit,” Peters told him. “And the place where the bike was found is well within walking distance of the Warwick. But most important, you’re the guy with the motive. Our finding your friend Gloria is probably your one chance to avoid a murder indictment. You’d better hope to God we can find her.”

“Oh,” Carstogi said. From the look on his face, Carstogi was beginning to grasp the seriousness of his situation.

After dropping Peters off, Carstogi and I headed north on Highway 99. Aurora Avenue, as it is called in the city, has its share of flop-houses and late-night recreational facilities. Carstogi recognized the Aurora Bridge, but that was all. He had no idea where they had turned off. He and Gloria had apparently played kissyface in the backseat. He said he dozed on the way back, that he didn’t remember any landmarks. We wound through the narrow streets around Phinney Ridge and Fre-mont, to no avail.

“If I could just remember something about that cab,” Carstogi said, more to himself than to me.

“I wouldn’t count too heavily on that,” I countered.

“Why not?”

“Prostitution is illegal in this state. If they say you were with them, they’ll blow their little business wide open. I’d guess, from the sound of it, that they’re probably a group of free-lancers, independents. If we don’t get them, the Mafia will.”

“You mean they’d lie and say I wasn’t with them?”

I looked at Andrew Carstogi with some sympathy. The young man seemed ill-equipped to deal with the real world.

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Carstogi hunched miserably in the front seat. “But I didn’t do it. I would have taken her back. I wanted to kill Brodie, but never Suzanne. I still loved her.”

I shook my head at my own stubbornness. “Alibi or no, I believe you.”

“Thanks,” Carstogi said, his voice crackling over the word.

“It’s cold comfort,” I acknowledged. “That and fifty cents will get you a cup of coffee.”

“Not at the Warwick.”

I laughed at his small joke, and he did too. I think he felt a little better when I dropped him off, but I didn’t. I figured it wouldn’t be long before the room at the Warwick would be traded for somewhat plainer accommodations in the city jail.

Istopped by the Doghouse and had a cup of coffee after I dropped Carstogi at the hotel. I talked with the waitresses, the cashier, the bartender. I asked them all the same thing. Did they know of a gum-chewing cabbie who might be involved in a prostitution ring? No one mentioned anybody right off, but then I didn’t expect them to. I had at least gotten the word out. That was worth something.

The apartment was close by. I went up just in case Anne was there. She wasn’t, although the subtle fragrance of her perfume lingered in the room. I lingered too, drinking it in. Anne Corley secondhand was better than no Anne Corley at all.

I went back to the department. There was a message on my desk saying that Peters, Watkins, and Powell were having a meeting in Powell’s office. I was expected to join them as soon as I returned. I looked at my watch. It was four-forty on Wednesday afternoon. It didn’t take a Philadelphia lawyer to figure out what the topic of discussion might be. If we arrested Carstogi right then, he wouldn’t stand a chance of getting out before Monday. By the time his seventy-two hours were up, it would be right in the middle of the weekend.

“Where’ve you been?” Powell growled as I came into the room.

“With Carstogi. We were looking for the place he went night before last.”

“I’ve checked with vice, Beau,” Peters said. “Gloria seems to be a popular professional name these days. At least ten have been booked for soliciting in the past three months. How about bringing Carstogi in to look at our pinup collection? Of course, all of them will just jump at the chance to have the book thrown at them one more time.”

“I’ll bet they will,” I said.

“Look,” Watkins interjected. “This Gloria story won’t hold water and you know it. Why’re you so dead set against Carstogi being our suspect?”

“He didn’t do it,” I insisted.

“Oh, for Chrissakes!” Powell was exasperated. “Whose side are you on, Beaumont? He’s got motive, no alibi, physical proximity. What more do you want? I say book him. We’ll never get a confession out of him while he’s down at the Warwick living in the fucking lap of luxury. What if he blows town while we’re standing around arguing about it? Let’s get him in here and ask him some bare bones questions.”