J. Jance - Name Witheld

I arrived on Main Street in what is quaintly called Old Bellevue, with all my Denny Regrade, dyed-in-the-wool Seattleite prejudices still firmly intact.

It turned out to be easy to find the address I'd obtained from Yellow Cab. Dorene's Fine China and Gifts-complete with a woman's name-was right where Norm Otis had said. Finding the place was simple. Getting in wasn't. Dorene's was closed. A sign on the door said they supposedly opened at nine-thirty. My watch read nine-fifteen.

Like Seattle, Bellevue seems to have an espresso cart stationed on every corner. The one outside Dorene's was no exception. I figured the price of a latte and biscotti would give me the right to ask the cart's long-haired proprietor what, if anything, he knew about Dorene and company.

He shrugged his grunge-clad shoulders and shook his purple-tinged locks. "I think Latty goes to school in the morning. She usually doesn't come to the shop until after noon," he said. "The old lady usually opens up, but she more or less gets here when she gets here, earlier or later, depending."

It was an answer, although not a very definite one. I hung around for a few more fruitless minutes. Finally, it made sense for me to try seeing Eddie at Northwest Mobility first and come back to Bellevue about the time Latty herself was due to show up for work.

I headed off toward Snohomish, threading my way through the maze of suburbs with the help of my faithful companion, The Thomas Guide. Since Ron had told me that Eddie and his wife had started out as hot-rodders, I headed for Rich's Northwest Mobility with a whole headful of preconceptions. I expected a run-down garage with derelict vehicles scattered behind it, maybe an aging, marooned motor home of an office, and a motley collection of worker-bees whose grease-covered clothing went far too many overhauls between washings.

Turning left off Maltby Road onto a narrow paved track that ran through a thicket of towering trees, I was sure my worst suspicions would be confirmed, especially when I saw the ominous sign that warned, in no uncertain terms: STAY ON PAVED ROAD. That generally means if you wander off, you'll be caught in mud up to your hubcaps before you can say Triple-A Towing.

My first inkling that I was mistaken came when I saw the second Rich's sign, the one sitting in the middle of an ornate bricked entryway. I rounded a corner and found myself looking at a collection of several neat, low-built buildings, all painted an inviting pale yellow, nestled at the base of a grass-covered hill. I counted three separate garages on either side of a central paved area. At the far end of that central courtyard was a well-maintained house and yard. Taken together, the garages and house formed a U-shaped outline, the interior of which was parked full of wheelchair-accessible vans. Some of them looked brand new. Others were obviously older and waiting for service at one of the stalls in the various garages, all of which seemed to be fully occupied at the moment.

I parked my 928 out of the way as best I could. At the near end of the U was a sign that must have been a holdover from the old hot-rod days: STREET ROD ALLEY. Unnoticed, I walked toward a group of people gathered around one of the shiny new vans where a heavyset man in a wheelchair was laughingly rolling himself up a gentle ramp into the vehicle. Once inside, he turned around and gave his audience a triumphant thumbs-up. While they responded with a rousing burst of applause, the man headed, chair and all, toward the driver's side of the car, where he seemed to clamp his chair in place.

Looking down at the ground clearance of the Aerostar van, I noticed that it was no more than three or four inches off the ground. That might be fine for getting the wheelchair in and out, I thought to myself, but how the hell is he going to get over the major speed bump between here and Maltby Road?

As if in answer to my question, the man switched on the engine. Without the slightest hitch, the ramp retracted and the outside door closed. Then, with a pneumatic sigh, the van's fender began to rise. When it quit moving, the van sat on ordinary tires, with the floor level and frame the exact same level as any other minivan. Meanwhile, the guy in the chair put the van in gear and began backing out of the lot. I stepped out of the way to let him pass. When he drove by me, he was grinning from ear to ear and waving in every direction, like the marshal of a Fourth of July parade.

"Sorta gets to you, doesn't it?" a tall, green-eyed man said, stepping over to where I was standing. "Watching 'em drive off the lot on their own that first time always puts a lump in my throat."

He paused for a moment, watching the van disappear from view. Then he turned to me, holding out his hand. "By the way, I'm Eddie Riveira," he added. "Is there something I can do to help you?"

"Yes," I answered, pulling out a card and handing it over. "My name's Detective J. P. Beaumont with the Seattle Police Department. I'm looking for some information."

Eddie smiled. "Most people are," he said.

"A friend of mine owns one of your units, one of those Braun Chair Toppers."

"Really, who's your friend?" Eddie asked.

"Ron Peters."

"Oh, that's right. The young cop from Seattle P.D., the one who wiped himself out by going off one of those unfinished freeway interchanges that used to be down by the Kingdome?"

"That's the one," I said.

"I had a message from him a little while ago, but I haven't had time enough to return the call. How's he doing?"

"Fine," I answered. "He and his wife are expecting a baby. In April sometime."

"He already has kids, doesn't he?"

"Two," I told him.

Obviously, Eddie Riveira took a very personal interest in the people who were his clients, because he clearly remembered Ron Peters. "Last time I saw him he had wrecked his car. We moved that old Topper of his from one vehicle to another-to a Buick, I think-and modified the brakes and accelerator. With two kids already and a baby on the way, he's going to have to break down and get himself one of my vans. He'll love it. Is that what you came to talk to me about?"

"Actually, it isn't. I'm working a case that may involve somebody with a Chair Topper a lot like Ron's. Only this one is on a 1988 lavender Crown Victoria."

Eddie frowned. "Lavender?" he said. "I only know of one eighty-eight Crown Victoria, but that one's powder blue."

I shrugged. "I saw it at night. I could be mistaken about the color."

"Virginia, then," Eddie said. "It belongs to Virginia Marks."

"Do you know where she lives or how I could get in touch with her?" I asked.

"Sure. If you'll come into the office for a minute, I can probably give you her number."

We started toward the office-a real one, not a makeshift motor home. Along the way, where once converted hot rods must have sat, now at least a dozen spanking new vans were parked, side by side, showroom style. Eddie Riveira must have been reading my mind.

"It's the same technology we used to utilize raising and lowering hot rods. We just put it to a little higher use, that's all."

Once in the office, Eddie called up Virginia Marks' name on a computer screen. "Here it is," he said. "This may be an old address. She used to live in a little complex over in Kirkland. I don't know if she's still there or not. At one time, she had talked about moving to downtown Bellevue. From what I can tell, she probably spends more time working out of that car of hers than she does at home."

"You say she works out of her car? What does she do, run a vending machine route? Work as a sales rep?"

"She's a detective," Eddie Riveira told me. "Same as you."

Except Virginia Marks wasn't just like me. I'm a cop. Virginia was a freelancer, a private eye. Eddie fumbled through a plastic holder and ended up showing me Virginia Marks' business card. AIM RESEARCH, it said. Those few words and two phone numbers were the only things printed on the card.