J. Jance - Name Witheld

"What unfortunate situation?" I interrupted.

"Your inappropriate involvement with the Peters girls."

"Inappropriate!" I exclaimed while the social worker's cold, unwavering stare sent a chill clear through me.

"Wait just a damn minute here! What exactly do you mean by inappropriate?"

She smiled. "You tell me."

"Are you suggesting that I'm some kind of dirty old man and that I'm interested in the girls for some kind of immoral purpose?"

Hilda Chisholm raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you?" she returned.

Calmly, she removed a notebook from her briefcase and thumbed it open. "For starters," she said, "let me ask you this, Mr. Beaumont. Did you or did you not pay money-your own personal money-to fund a good deal of the mission that sent Constance Peters to Central America three and a half years ago?"

"She was Roslyn Peters then," I told her. "And that was a contribution. A charitable contribution."

"I'm sure it was," Hilda smiled again. "Arranged by a man named Ralph Ames, I believe. Who exactly is he?"

"Ralph? He's my attorney."

"Your personal attorney?"

"Yes."

"And you keep him on retainer?"

"Yes."

"And why would an ordinary homicide detective need to have a personal attorney on retainer?"

"My reasons for having an attorney on retainer are none of your business, Ms. Chisholm. Although they could be. I'm sure Ralph would be more than happy to help me take you to court. Defamation of character is no joke, and I'm not going to take it lying down. And based on that, I think you'd better leave."

It took every bit of self-restraint I could muster to keep from leaping out of the recliner and simply throttling the woman on the spot.

Hilda Chisholm, however, made no move to leave. "But, Mr. Beaumont," she said, "I was sure you'd want to give me your side of the story."

"No," I returned, "I don't think so. I'm not going to dignify this ridiculous process by according it the benefit of two sides. In addition, as long as I have an attorney available to protect my interests, I don't intend to say another word to you until he is present."

"Your insisting on the presence of an attorney indicates a certain reluctance on your part, Mr. Beaumont. An unwillingness to cooperate. It makes it sound as though you have something to hide."

"I'm a police officer," I reminded her. "You're accusing me of a serious crime-a felony. Not having my attorney present at the time of questioning is a violation of my constitutional rights."

"This is simply an informal inquiry," she said.

"Like hell it is," I retorted. "Now get out of here."

"Very well, Mr. Beaumont," she said, carefully returning her notebook to the briefcase and closing the lock with a sharp snap. "But I will have to say in my report that you were uncooperative and abusive. Cursing is considered abusive, you know."

"You can put any damned thing you want to in your report, but only if you're out of my apartment within the next thirty seconds. Otherwise, you'll be writing that report with two broken arms."

"And I'll have to report that as a threat," she responded.

"No, Madame Chisholm," I said, "that was no threat. It's a goddamned promise!"

She retreated as far as the doorway before she paused long enough to deliver her parting shot. "I suppose you know Captain Freeman?"

"Tony Freeman, of Internal Investigations?"

"Yes, that's the one. I have an appointment to discuss this matter with him tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. I expect he'll be taking some action pending the outcome of my investigation, of course."

Thankfully, she left then. And it's a good thing, too. If she had stayed one second longer, there's a good possibility I might have done something I would have regretted for the rest of my life.

I brooded over Hilda Chisholm's visit all the way to Bellevue. Once there, I found my way to the Grove on Twelfth. Following Virginia Marks' directions, I parked beneath the building in a spot designated VISITOR. Then I locked the door to the Porsche and walked over to the elevator. There, almost on top of the elevator, sat the powder-blue Crown Victoria complete with its Braun Chair Topper. At least she's here, I thought.

After consulting the listing next to the door, I punched the proper number into the security phone and waited for her phone to ring. It did. Several times. On about the sixth ring, the same old voice mail recording I had heard before came on once again, inviting me to leave a message at the sound of the tone.

I didn't want to leave a message. I wanted to talk to this woman in person. And for good reason. Virginia Marks, a detective who certainly should have known better, had nonetheless conspired with Grace Highsmith to conceal evidence in a homicide investigation. To my way of thinking, not only did I have a reason to talk to Virginia Marks; I also had a scheduled appointment, so she, by God, owed me the common courtesy of answering her goddamned door. A glance at my watch told me I was five minutes early. Still, my old door-to-door-salesman instincts were already sending me the message that I was about to be stood up.

For a few minutes, I stayed where I was, standing next to the security phone and the elevator door. Three residents came by and let themselves into the locked elevator with keys. The last one, an elderly gentleman, gave me a particularly questioning look. "Can I help you with something?" he asked.

"It's all right," I said vaguely. "I'm just waiting for someone."

Rather than continue standing there looking like an idiot, I retreated to the Porsche. Five minutes passed; fifteen; then twenty. Every five minutes or so, I would climb out of the car, walk over to the phone, and dial her up again. Each time when there was no answer in Virginia Marks' apartment, I let it get to me that much more.

I say it, but I'm not talking about just one it. That it was all-encompassing-including everything and nothing. It was Virginia Marks for messing with the evidence and then standing me up when I knew damned good and well she was up in her apartment and simply not answering her phone. It was Karen Beaumont Livingston for having the bad manners to up and die on me. It was a pushy bureaucrat named Hilda Chisholm for accusing me of being a goddamned child molester. It was Grace Highsmith for being a dotty little old lady who carried a gun in her purse that turned out to be a damned murder weapon. And for Paul Kramer for being a gossipy, loose-mouthed son of a bitch.

All of those things taken together added up to quite a load.

Half an hour went by; thirty-five minutes; forty. I was still getting in and out of the car every five minutes to check on my appointment, and every five minutes, there still wasn't any answer. Finally, all those its became too much. Too damned much!

There were tools I could have used if I had wanted to avail myself of them. My cellular phone was right there in the car. My AA sponsor, Lars Jenssen, was literally only a phone call away. But I didn't care, and I didn't call.

Around ten or so, cold and disgusted, I decided to go somewhere and buy myself a cup of coffee, because by then, I had made up my mind that no matter how long it took, I was going to wait out Virginia Marks. I was far too stubborn to give up and go home. I had an appointment, by God, and I wasn't leaving before Virginia Marks shaped up and answered her phone. And since I was right there practically in the middle of downtown Bellevue, I decided to walk to wherever I was going to get that cup of coffee.

Bad decision.

There was a bank on the corner of Twelfth and Bellevue Way, and a strip shopping mall of some kind beyond that. But the very next place on the left-hand side of the street was a restaurant-one of those barbecued-rib joints. Drawn by the warm aroma of meat cooked over an open flame, I stepped inside.