J. Jance - Name Witheld

My first thought was that maybe this was Grace Highsmith's niece. Whoever this woman was, no doubt she, too, had friends with one-word names. In fact, maybe she had a one-word name. "You're waiting for me?" I asked.

"If you're Mr. J. P. Beaumont," she said.

Rising from the couch and hefting the briefcase off the floor, she reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a business card. She handed it over to me and waited, unsmiling, while I looked at it.

The name was definitely one with two words: Hilda Chisholm, the card read, Investigator, Child Protective Services.

"I left a message on your phone at work," she said.

"I know," I replied. "I was just down at my office and took your message, but I thought it was too late to call tonight."

"That's all right. I was here doing some interviews and I decided to do my paperwork here just in case you came home before I left. I would have called ahead, you see," she added, "but your telephone number is unlisted."

The accusatory way in which she said that single sentence made my hackles rise. She made it sound as though my having an unlisted telephone number was both suspect and antisocial, something I had done deliberately and for no other reason but to inconvenience her.

"I'm a homicide detective," I said, making an effort to speak in a civil fashion, more for Kevin's benefit than for hers. "I think, if you checked with some of my peers down at Seattle P.D., you'd find that most homicide cops have unlisted numbers. We all do the same thing, and for obvious reasons. What can I do for you?"

"I'm here to talk with you about Heather and Tracy Peters," she answered.

"Child Protective Services isn't wasting any time on this, are they?"

"Mr. Beaumont, as you are no doubt aware, my agency has been vilified far too often in the past for letting things go on and on without taking timely corrective measures. Where the safety and welfare of children are concerned, time is of the essence, don't you agree?"

"Oh, absolutely," I said.

There was no escape. I could see that even with my appointment with Virginia Marks looming at nine o'clock, I was going to be trapped into a conversation with Hilda Chisholm. My intention was to keep it short and sweet.

"I'll be happy to talk with you, Ms. Chisholm," I said, glancing pointedly at my watch. "You're welcome to come up to my apartment, but I do have a nine o'clock appointment."

"I don't expect this will take very long," she said with a chilly smile. "As a matter of fact, it shouldn't take long at all."

I pushed a button to open the elevator door and then waited-in the gentlemanly fashion my mother always insisted upon-for Hilda Chisholm to step aboard first. I stepped in after her and punched the button marked PH for penthouse. The doors swished shut quietly.

"You're right," I said. "It shouldn't take long at all, because what I have to say on the subject can be said in one minute or less: Amy and Ron Peters are excellent parents. It's ridiculous for anyone to imply otherwise."

"What makes you think I'm here to discuss Ron and Amy Peters?" Hilda Chisholm asked, eyeing me coldly.

That surprised me. "Aren't you?" I asked.

"Actually," she replied, "no, I am not."

"I see," I said, although that was a lie. I didn't see at all.

When we reached Belltown Terrace's top floor, once again the elevator doors swished open. "This way," I said, pointing her to the door of my apartment. Using my key, I unlocked the door, then held it open to allow Hilda Chisholm to enter.

My high-tech security system was on, which meant that as we entered the foyer, both lights and music came on automatically. I motioned Hilda into the living room. Again, alerted and directed by a sensor I carry on my key chain, both lights and music followed.

Hilda Chisholm stopped in the middle of the room and glanced around. "Very nice," she said.

"Thank you," I replied, although I didn't realize until much later that she never intended her comment as a compliment.

"Won't you sit down?" I invited.

Most people coming into my apartment for the first time are irresistibly drawn to the spectacular view to be seen from the window seat that lines the entire western exposure of the living room. Seated on the cushions under a long expanse of glass, my guests look out over the shipping lanes both in and out of Elliott Bay as well as farther out on Puget Sound. With the help of a mirrored corner column, nighttime visitors can also peer around the corner of the building to view the panorama of downtown city lights. In daylight, when the weather is clear and the Cascades aren't shrouded in clouds, that same mirror sometimes reflects back glimpses of a snowcapped Mount Rainier rising up above and beyond the downtown high-rises.

Hilda Chisholm made for the window seat, all right, but obviously, she was no connoisseur of views. Without even bothering to glance outside, she sat down with her back to the window, with her briefcase balanced on her lap, with her sock-clad legs clapped firmly and primly together and with her sour expression permanently etched on her face. Everything about her manner announced clearly that this wasn't a social visit. That being the case, I saw no reason to play host. Settling into my leather lounger, I pushed it back into a fully reclining position.

I was tired. I'd had one hell of a day. Still, I suppose dropping into the recliner that way showed a certain contempt for someone who, as an investigator for Child Protective Services, ought to have been a cosupporter of truth, justice, and the American way. In view of what was coming, however, a little healthy disrespect for my fellow public servant was definitely the order of the day.

"If you didn't come to talk to me about Ron and Amy's parenting skills, what are you doing here?" I asked.

"I came to talk about you," she said.

"Me?" I asked in surprise. "Why me?"

"Because you are a prime consideration in my investigation." Once again, she smiled her chilly smile, one that lowered the temperature in my living room by a full ten degrees. "What I'm most interested in knowing, Mr. Beaumont," she continued, "is why a man like you-a man with all the money in the world and with known transsexual contacts-would take such an unhealthy interest in those two little girls."

"Transsexual contacts?" I echoed.

"One of your fellow detectives mentioned to me that Johnny Bickford, one of Seattle's most infamous cross-dressers, is a special friend of yours."

"Special friend!" I choked. "Are you kidding? I barely know the man, but obviously, you've been chatting with Detective Kramer behind my back. That creep…"

"Naturally, I spoke with several of your coworkers," Hilda returned, unperturbed. "I'm conducting an investigation, you see."

Gradually, an understanding of the scope of her accusations was beginning to seep into my consciousness. "An investigation, or a kangaroo court?" I demanded, while my temper rose several degrees.

The room was quiet for several moments while Hilda Chisholm eyed my reaction with a disquieting, coolly speculative gaze.

"The girls' mother, Constance Peters, is very much concerned about that, especially now that she's learned-through a local television news broadcast, no less-that the girls are sometimes left alone in your care and under your control."

"Give me a break! Are we back to those stupid soapsuds again?" I sat up abruptly, letting the recliner's footrest slam down to the thickly carpeted floor with a resounding thump. "If so, you need to talk to Gail Richardson down on nineteen. Her mother's been visiting. It turns out she's the one whose attempt at cleaning turned into a mountain of suds."

"This has nothing whatever to do with soapsuds," Hilda interrupted, "although that incident is part of what brought this unfortunate situation to our attention. If the girls had been properly supervised at the time-"