J. Jance - Name Witheld

LINE OR OUT OF PAPER it said. PLEASE CHECK YOUR PRINTER AND TRY AGAIN.

"Damn!" I exclaimed, heading down the hallway toward Captain Powell's office. "If Henry Ford's Model T's had been this undependable, we'd still be using the horse and buggy."

"Aren't you going to try to fix it?" Watty asked after me.

"No," I told him. "That's not my job. I'm a detective, not a nerd."

Captain Powell was waiting in his fishbowl office. A brass plaque on his desk gave his name and rank. On the front of it, someone had attached a Post-it that announced, "This is a computer-free zone." My sentiments, exactly, I thought, as I dropped into a chair in front of the cluttered desk.

"Any reports for me this morning, Detective Beaumont?" Captain Powell asked. "Or are you too busy handing out autographs these days to bother doing mundane things like actually writing reports?"

Even though I had figured Kramer would try to make the most of Johnny Bickford's visit, I guess it still surprised me to have the first derogatory comment come back to me from Captain Larry Powell. Gritting my teeth, and trying not to let on how much that bugged me, I went into my lame 1990s version of "My dog ate my homework. Twice."

Powell listened impassively to my sad story. Because he doesn't actually use computers, I think he considers himself above the fray. "I want those reports," he said, when I finished. "I want them on my desk ASAP. You realize, of course, that this is turning into a very sensitive case."

Double homicides are always sensitive, I thought, but I didn't say it aloud. Powell's glower as he sailed a piece of paper toward me was enough of a warning that this was no time for one of my typically smart-mouthed comments.

I caught the paper in midair. On it was a list of four names-names and nothing else: Carrol Walsh, Crystal Barron, Martin Rutherford, and DeVar Lester.

I read through the list. None of the names belonged to people I knew personally, but they were nonetheless names I recognized. These were all high-profile people. You couldn't live in Seattle without knowing something about them.

Carrol Walsh was a newly made software multimillionaire who had created a media splash by donating a mountain of money to Fred Hutch cancer research. Crystal Barron, an heiress from back East, had taken up life on a Lake Union houseboat after divorcing her fourth hubby, an aging Hollywood star. Martin Rutherford was a corporate free spirit who had been cut loose in an acrimonious buyout by one of Seattle's premier family-owned and — operated coffee roasting companies. DeVar Lester was an ex-football player who had made a bundle on an outrageously overpriced rookie contract with the Seahawks only to end up blowing his knee in a preseason workout without ever playing a single pro game.

I dropped the paper back on Captain Powell's desk. "What about them?" I asked.

"Those are the people Detectives Kramer and Arnold are off to interview this morning."

I picked up the list and studied it again. "Interview them?" I asked. "How come?"

Powell leaned forward in his chair. "Because these people are recent major investors in D.G.I., or did you already know that?"

"No," I admitted. "I had no idea."

"And you probably also have no idea that Martin Rutherford, the ex-coffee-bean guy, is dating the mayor."

Seattle's mayor, Natalie Farraday, is a divorced single mother who, since her election, has gone through several boyfriends at the rate of about one a year.

"I guess I had heard that," I said, now understanding the implications and how this had suddenly become such a sensitive case. "I'd heard it, but I think maybe I'd forgotten."

"So what exactly are you doing to solve it?" Powell asked.

Hurriedly, I gave Captain Powell a shorthand version of what I had learned so far. He seemed even less impressed with that then he had been with my tale of computer woes. When I finished, Powell sat looking at me, drumming on the surface of his desk with a pencil eraser.

"I spoke to Detective Kramer at some length before he and Detective Arnold hit the bricks," Powell said thoughtfully. "Based on this new information," he said as he gave the list of names a meaningful tap, "I was going to assign another pair of detectives to the case, but Kramer asked me not to. He said that pulling in more people at this point would probably do more harm than good. He says he thinks the three of you will be able to pull it out of the fire. What do you think?"

The public seems to like the "task force" approach to major crimes. Unfortunately, from my point of view, when it comes to effective investigations, less is usually more.

"Kramer's probably right, Captain Powell. I think we're making progress."

"And you don't think you need any more troops?"

"Not at this time."

Captain Powell glanced at his watch. "All right, then," he said. "I'm giving the three of you twenty-four hours to bring this case to some kind of order. If I don't have really solid progress by tomorrow morning at this time, the head count goes up. Understood?"

Nodding, I rose to my feet. "Is that all?" I asked.

"Not quite," Powell answered. "There's one more thing."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Let me remind you, Detective Beaumont, complacency can be a dangerous thing." While he spoke, the captain's steady gaze held mine. "When cops lose their edge-when they stop being hungry-that's about the time they get careless. The next thing you know, somebody gets hurt."

I paused in the doorway. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do yourself a favor," Captain Powell returned. "You're a cop, not a professional ball player, Beau. Until further notice, no more autographs. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly!" I said.

I stormed back to my office, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the great outdoors. "Hey, Beau," Watty said as I charged past his desk. "Where are you going? You forgot to sign out."

Initially, I headed for the motor pool. I think if I had run into Paul Kramer along the way, I would have punched his lights out. Halfway to the motor pool, I changed my mind-not about cleaning Kramer's clock but about taking a company car.

"Hell with it," I muttered under my breath, startling a sweet young thing clerk headed downstairs with a cartload of file folders. Kramer could be pissed off about where and how I lived, and Captain Powell could order me to not sign autographs, but if I wanted to drive my Guards Red Porsche on my trip to Bellevue, then I would, and nobody-including Captain Lawrence Powell-was going to stop me.

The 928 didn't exactly observe the speed limits as I crossed Lake Washington on the I-90 bridge. Fortunately, the state patrol didn't spot me or pull me over. That would have been tough to explain. By the time I turned off on Bellevue Way, I had cooled down a little.

For someone who has lived downtown for years and who often walks from home to work, the problem of going from Seattle to Bellevue isn't so much a matter of geography as it is one of mind-set. Seattle has a city feel and smell and look to it. Office workers and tourists, drunks and bums mingle on sidewalks on multilane one-way streets filled with traffic.

Bellevue, on the other hand, a city one quarter the size of Seattle proper, is an alien kind of place where, although high-rise buildings dot the skyline, Main Street is still a narrow, two-lane cow path. For some strange reason, North East Eighth, the real main drag, is several blocks to the north.

Downtown Seattle seems intent on banking and commerce while downtown Bellevue is more inclined toward serious shopping. It's a place where Mercedes-wielding, Nordstrom-bound matrons have been known to run down any fellow shoppers who have nerve enough to try to reserve a parking place without benefit of a four-wheeled vehicle. Seattle's largely liberal, pro-Democrat citizenry see Bellevue as a suburban hotbed of rich, recalcitrant Republicans-a questionable place to visit and one where you certainly wouldn't want to live.