J. Jance - Name Witheld

"Detective Beaumont?" he asked. I nodded. "I'm Sergeant Orting. We're investigating a possible homicide. Officer Ryland here tells me you think our case may have something to do with one of yours?"

Orting hadn't stopped until he was almost on top of me. When he did, he was close enough that he evidently got a good whiff of my breath, which must have still smelled like the dregs in the bottom of a whiskey barrel. Frowning, he stepped back out of harm's way while the expression on his face gave a whole new meaning to the words Give a guy some breathing room.

I stepped back, too. "Two cases actually," I said, "but it depends on who's dead."

Orting crossed his arms and looked even less affable than he had before. "Supposing you tell me."

"Virginia Marks?" I asked.

"How is it you'd just happen to know that?"

"Lucky guess?" I returned.

Orting shook his head. "Try again."

"I had an appointment to see Virginia Marks last night, but she never showed."

"What time?"

"Nine o'clock. I waited around until almost ten. When she still hadn't buzzed me in, I finally gave it up as a lost cause."

As we talked, Orting and I had started walking toward the elevator. We were almost there when the door opened and three men came out. Plainclothes or not, two of them had the unmistakable look of homicide detectives on the job. The third was the elderly gentleman who had questioned my presence in the garage the night before. Talking animatedly and waving his hands for emphasis, he was right in the middle of a sentence when he saw me and stopped short.

"That's him," he said, pointing directly at me. "That's the guy I was telling you about, the one who was hanging around down here in the garage right around nine o'clock."

"This is Detective Beaumont," Orting said, short-circuiting the necessity of an instant replay of his own set of questions. "He's with Seattle P.D. He claims he had an appointment with Virginia Marks last night regarding some cases he's working on, but that she stood him up. This is Detective Tim Blaine and Detective Dave Dawson."

While Orting answered the question, I pulled out a pair of business cards and gave one to each of the Bellevue detectives.

"But I'm telling you, this was the guy," the man was insisting, practically jumping up and down. "I knew from the way he was skulking around that he was trouble."

The guy was like a broken record, and he kept right on, hammering away in that same vein. Meanwhile, one of the cops, after examining my card, reached out and shook my hand. "I'm Detective Blaine," he said. "What is it you're working on?"

"A double homicide," I said. "A man and a woman tentatively identified as his wife. Virginia Marks was a private investigator. She was working for the aunt of a woman who may very well end up being a prime suspect in one or both of those cases. I think we'll need to talk."

Tim Blaine, a bull-necked, weight-lifting type who looked far too young to be a homicide detective, nodded gravely. "I see," he said.

"You're certain the victim is Virginia Marks?"

"We've got a positive I.D.," Tim Blaine said. "From her bookkeeper-the woman who found the body."

"Cause of death?"

"This isn't official, of course," he said. "The M.E. isn't here yet, but I'm calling it a single bullet wound to the head."

"To the back of the head?" I asked.

Blaine's eyes bored into mine as he nodded. "You're right," he said. "We will need to talk. We have several interviews lined up to do in the next little while. If you have to go somewhere, leave a trail so I can find you later."

As he turned back to help his partner deal with the still-agitated resident, I used my keyless entry to unlock the 928 from across the garage. The taillights flashed once. As I walked away from the group by the elevator and headed for the car, I left behind a period of stunned silence and a not-so-subtle exchange of questioning glances. I've learned over time that homicide cops who drive brand-new Porsche 928s aren't exactly a dime a dozen. Nor are they always particularly welcome.

Once inside the Porsche, I reclined the seat, then lay back, and closed my eyes. My head was pounding. I had the shakes. My eyes hurt. Even so, I knew I had to call in and give Sergeant Watkins his shot at me.

"Why, Detective Beaumont," Watty said when he heard my voice on the phone, "how good of you to call. Did you finally decide to rise and shine?"

"I'm working," I said. "I'm over here in Bellevue, and I'm working. They've got a body over here that's most likely connected to the Wolf cases. I don't have any idea what time I'll be in."

"Maybe you'd like to pass that information on to Captain Powell and your fellow investigators? Detectives Kramer and Arnold are just now briefing the captain. I'll put you through to his office."

As soon as Captain Powell's tin-can voice came through the receiver, I knew he had switched on the speaker phone. "Nice of you to join us, Detective Beaumont," he said. "We were just talking about you. What's this about a murder over in Bellevue?"

"The woman who's dead is Virginia Marks. She was a private investigator who was working for Grace Highsmith on investigating Don Wolf."

"Grace Highsmith again," Powell said. "We were talking about her just now, too, and about her possible connection to the alleged murder weapon. Where did she say it came from?"

"I believe she said a gentleman friend of hers. Those may not be the exact words, but they're close. She refused to give me his name. She said she didn't want to drag him into all this."

"Oh, he's in all right," Captain Powell replied. "He's in regardless. Detective Arnold, maybe you'd like to tell Detective Beaumont here what you just found out about that little Seecamp auto."

"I called the factory," Sam Arnold said. Over the speaker phone he sounded tinny and distant, and more than a little nervous. "I gave them the serial number, and they gave me the name of the person who purchased it." He stopped dead and didn't continue.

"And…" I urged.

"His name's Foster. Darrell Foster," Arnold said.

Another astoundingly familiar name. My pounding headache was suddenly that much worse. "Not Red Foster?"

"The very one," Captain Larry Powell muttered. "However did you guess!"

Darrell Foster-Red Foster-was one of the good old boys who retired as the head of the Washington State Patrol years ago, sometime back in the mid-fifties, while I was still in grade school. Now in his eighties, he sometimes shows up at Police Guild events. For the last two years, he had tossed the coin for the Bacon Bowl, an annual fund-raising football game played by rival teams made up of police officers from Tacoma-and Seattle-area agencies.

"How did Red Foster get mixed up in all this?" I asked.

"Good question," Powell said. "Maybe you boys could get going and try to find out the answer, especially now that there's a possible connection to yet a third case. Where are you again?"

"In the garage of a place called the Grove on Twelfth at the corner of Northeast Twelfth and Bellevue Way in downtown Bellevue."

"Before we do anything else, we'd better get to the bottom of this gun stuff. What kind of transportation do you have?" Powell asked.

"My own," I said. "The nine twenty-eight."

"Detective Kramer, how about if you check out a car and go pick up Detective Beaumont. You and he can go pay a call on Grace Highsmith over there in Kirkland while Detective Arnold here tracks down Red Foster. I think he lives downtown here in one of the retirement homes."

"Ask him about the tapes," I heard Kramer say from the background.

"Oh, that's right. I understand from Detective Kramer that you've been given access to a security videotape that could show a clear motive for Don Wolf's murder on the part of Grace Highsmith's niece. Is that true?"