J. Jance - Name Witheld

"No," I said, giving Kramer a black look. "I don't think so."

"Detective Beaumont is right," Johnny added. "I've already taken too much of your time, but I do appreciate your visiting with me. Detective Kramer and I were just sitting here chatting. You police officers do lead such interesting lives."

"Yes," I agreed grimly. "We certainly do."

While Johnny groped for his purse, Kramer planted himself in the doorway, blocking our exit. "Johnny here seems to have a very high opinion of your skill as an investigator," Paul Kramer said with a deceptively bland smile. "She dropped by the department to ask you to sign an autograph for her mother back in Wichita."

"Another one?" I asked.

"Another one?" Kramer repeated. "You mean you've signed autographs before? Sounds more like a major-league baseball player than a cop. You don't charge for it, do you?"

"No," I said. "No charge."

Kramer shook his head. "I don't understand it," he said. "Nobody's ever asked me for my autograph."

Now it was my turn to smile. "I'm sure Johnny here could remedy that. As far as your mother is concerned, one detective's signature should do just as well as any other's, shouldn't it?"

"I suppose," Johnny agreed dubiously, "but the truth is-no offense, Detective Kramer-I really did have my heart set on Detective Beaumont's. You don't mind, do you?"

"Oh, no," Kramer said. "Not at all!"

That's what he said, but it wasn't what he meant. On the face of it, the whole idea of someone wanting a detective's autograph was more than slightly ridiculous. Still, I knew enough about Kramer to understand that he was feeling slighted. And jealous. I could see that for myself in the involuntary twitch that was tweaking the corners of his thin mouth. The twitch, combined with the humorless glower in Kramer's eyes, warned me that both Johnny Bickford's request for an autograph, along with his outrageous appearance, would be a hot topic around Homicide for months to come. Detective Kramer would see to it.

"Let's go, Johnny," I repeated. "I'm sure Detective Kramer has work to do."

Hoping we wouldn't meet too many of my fellow detectives along the way, I herded Johnny down the hall and into my cubicle. Once seated at the chair next to my disaster of a desk, my visitor began fumbling in the purse. What he finally excavated was an envelope containing a carefully folded newspaper article.

"A reporter called me this morning from The Seattle Times," Johnny said. "She interviewed me about finding the body. The article came out in this afternoon's edition. Since my name actually appears in this one, I thought I'd rather send it home to Mother instead of the first one where I'm only the nameless jogger."

JOGGING INTO HEALTH AND HOMICIDE

Johnny handed me the article, and I scanned the first several lines:

When Johnny Bickford went jogging down along Alaskan Way on New Year's morning, she was only keeping a New Year's resolution to take better care of herself. Trying to get into better shape has now embroiled the lower Queen Anne resident in a homicide investigation. She has spoken to police detectives in regard to one of the two violent deaths and several assaults that marred Seattle's New Year's celebration.

As Ms. Bickford rested on Pier 70, catching her breath, she spotted a body floating facedown in the waters of Elliot Bay. Seattle police investigators have since stated that the victim, a white male in his late thirties, died as a result of a gunshot wound. The victim has been tentatively identified, but his name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin.

I looked up at Johnny Bickford, who was watching me with rapt attention. "Where do you want me to sign this thing?" I asked.

"Right under the headline, I suppose," Johnny said. Shaking my head, I started to comply. "You didn't tell me he died of a gunshot wound," Johnny continued reproachfully.

"It wasn't something you needed to know," I returned. "As a matter of fact, the newspapers weren't supposed to know it, either."

Johnny Bickford mulled that last statement while I finished signing the article and passed it back to him. "I suppose you think it's morbid, my wanting you to sign the articles," he said.

"It's none of my business one way or the other," I answered.

"You see," Johnny went on, "I've always secretly wondered what it would be like to be involved in a murder investigation, and now I am."

"Excuse me," I returned. "You discovered a body, but that doesn't mean you're involved."

"But couldn't Seattle P.D. use someone like me?" Johnny asked. "As an informant or something? Believe me, I could get into places a regular cop could never dream of going."

"I'm sure that's true, but I don't think the department is in the market for that particular kind of information."

"But Detective Kramer said…" Bickford stopped.

"What exactly did Detective Kramer say?"

"That each detective develops his own network of informants. I thought maybe I could work for you. On a voluntary basis, of course. I wouldn't expect to be paid anything. I just think it would be utterly fascinating."

The phone rang at my elbow. In order to answer it, I had to unearth it from beneath a mound of loose paperwork. "Detective Beaumont, here."

A brisk female voice came on the line. "This is Sally Redding, with Yellow Cab. I understand you were looking for some information?"

"Just a sec," I said into the phone. Then I turned to Johnny. "This is private," I told him. "You'll have to go."

Nodding, Johnny picked up the purse and started toward the door. "But, if you change your mind…"

"If I do," I said, "I'll be in touch." Johnny left my cubicle, and I turned my attention back to the phone. "Sorry," I said, "someone was here in my office, and yes, I did need some information."

"The owner of the company has authorized me to tell you what you need to know," Sally Redding said. "The car you were asking about is number eleven forty-eight. On that particular night, the twenty-eighth, it was driven by Norm Otis. He picked up a fare from thirty-three hundred Western at approximately twelve-twenty A.M. and drove her to a building on Main Street in Bellevue. The number there is one zero two eight five Main."

"Is that a house or an apartment?" I asked, jotting the information in my notebook.

"I can't tell that from the record," Sally Redding answered. "We have building information for pickups, but not for dropoffs."

"When can I talk to Norm Otis?"

"He came on duty at six tonight, but he's off on a call right now. Do you want me to have him get back to you when he's available?"

"Please," I said. "The sooner the better." I gave her my collection of possible phone numbers.

"I'll see what I can do," Sally returned, but she didn't sound exactly overjoyed at the prospect.

"I appreciate your help, Ms. Redding" I said. "I really do."

"Right," she said, sounding unconvinced.

"And be sure to have him try the home number first. I'm leaving the office as soon as I finish gathering things up. I should be there in just a matter of minutes."

I parked the 928 on the P-4 level of the Belltown Terrace garage and took the elevator as far as the lobby, where I stopped off to pick up my mail. As I headed back toward the elevator, the lobby door opened and in came Gail Richardson and her Afghan hound, Charlie.

A renter of one of the larger upper units, Gail is some kind of bigwig on a Seattle-based sitcom that had just been renewed for a second season. She's a tall, good-looking woman in her late forties. Her hair is snow white, without, as she tells it, the benefit of any chemical enhancements. She is one of the few people I know who can manage the difficult feat of appearing totally dignified while holding a leashed dog in one hand and a plastic bag of still-warm dog crap in the other.