J. Jance - Name Witheld

I might have done it, too, but just inside the meeting room door, I caught sight of Lars Jenssen. Since he had gone to the trouble of coming all that way and of spending at least an hour on buses to do so, and since he also had managed to save me a chair, I could hardly not show up.

As AA meetings go, that noontime get-together certainly wasn't one of the best, but it wasn't the worst, either. And eating a hot roast beef sandwich washed down by several stiff cups of coffee made me start feeling almost human.

When it came time to talk, one guy mentioned that this was his twenty-fifth birthday of being sober. Everybody applauded and toasted him with coffee cups. "Hear, hear!" they cheered while I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair.

Twenty-five years! Damn. There's nothing like having someone bring you face-to-face with your own inadequacies. Later on in the meeting, when it was my turn to talk, I somewhat guiltily allowed as how I had something less than twelve hours of sobriety under my belt. The guy with the twenty-five years was the one who grinned at me and gave me some sympathetic encouragement.

"At least you're twelve hours to the good," he said. "Sometimes, a day at a time is asking too damned much. You have to go minute by minute and be thankful for that."

When the meeting was over, Lars hurried around the room, busily grabbing up extra rolls from the various bread baskets and greedily stuffing them into his pockets before the waitress had a chance to clear the leftovers off the tables. Meanwhile, I picked up both our lunch bills and headed for the cash register.

"Hey, wait a minute," Lars sputtered, limping out of the room after me. "You ain't gonna pay for my lunch now, are you?"

"Yes, I am," I told him. "You came all the way over here by bus. Not only am I buying your lunch, I'm also giving you a ride back home."

By then, the cashier-a good-looking, dark-haired woman with a bright smile, amazingly long fingernails, and a pair of bright green golf-tee dangling earrings-had already punched the totals of our two tickets into the cash register. I shoved a twenty across the counter.

"Keep the change," I told her.

Her smile broadened. "You keep coming back," she said.

"Sure thing," I said.

Once we were out in the parking lot, Lars nudged me in the rib and gave me a semitooth-less grin. "You think that little lady back there is in the program, too?" he demanded.

"Could be," I answered, but I had a sneaking suspicion that the cashier's invitation for me to return was based less on the principles of Alcoholics Anonymous than it was on the generous size of my tip.

I had told Detective Blaine to call me, but it would have been rude to take my cellular phone into the meeting. As soon as we got in the car, I punched the recall button. Sure enough, someone had tried to call in my absence. As far as I knew, there was only one person in the world who would have been trying to reach me right then-Detective Tim Blaine. Heading out Highway 520 toward the Evergreen Point Bridge, I tried calling him back with no success.

When I put down the phone and glanced over at Lars, my passenger was sitting in the rider's seat with his arms crossed and a glum frown pasted on his face.

"Telephones got no place in automobiles," he grumbled. "Don't see how people can drive and talk or dial at the same time."

"Sometimes, neither do I," I told him.

Three or four times on the way across Lake Washington I started to spill the beans to Lars about what was really going on with me-about Karen and Hilda Chisholm and the rest, but each time, I lost my nerve and kept quiet.

When Lars got out of the car, he turned and poked his head back in the window. "Think you'll need another meeting tonight?"

"I don't know," I answered. "Maybe. If I do, I'll call."

He walked away, shaking his head and muttering to himself. Maybe wasn't a good enough answer for Lars, which is part of what makes him a good sponsor.

Lars Jenssen's building is only a few blocks from my own. Looking down at yesterday's rumpled clothes, I decided a quick shower and change of clothing were both in order. I swung by Belltown Terrace, parked on P-1, and tossed the keys to Harold, a guy who owns and operates an auto detail shop on the first level of the Belltown Terrace parking garage.

"Do you want it washed today, Mr. Beaumont?" Harold asked.

"No, just hang on to the keys for a few minutes," I told him. "I'll be right back."

When I turned my key in the lock upstairs, I was surprised to hear classical music wafting through my apartment. What day is this? I wondered. At first, I thought maybe it was my cleaning lady, but she plays soft rock, never classical.

"Beau?" Ralph Ames called from the den. "Is that you?"

"Ralph!" I exclaimed. "When did you get here?"

He appeared in the doorway of the den looking tanned and fit, wearing a totally out-of-character tropical print shirt, and carrying a fanfold of papers. "One o'clock," he said.

I began stripping off my jacket and shoulder holster. "Just a few minutes ago?" I said.

"One o'clock this morning," he answered with an amused grin. "Our plane got in at midnight. You were supposed to come get us, remember?"

My heart sank. Ralph lives in Phoenix, but he had taken his Seattle-based girlfriend, Mary Greengo, to the Caribbean for an early winter cruise. I had taken Ralph Ames and Mary Greengo to the airport a week earlier when they had left on the cruise and had agreed to come get them when they returned.

"Damn! I completely forgot."

"No kidding. By the time our luggage came off the plane, we'd pretty well figured that out, so we caught a cab. Don't worry. It's no big deal. I was talking to Mary on the phone a few minutes ago. Since it looked like you stayed out overnight, she's betting that maybe you've found a new girlfriend and maybe even got lucky."

A fog of guilt settled over me. Not only had I let my family down by not calling back Dave Livingston, I had completely blown a commitment to my best friend.

"I can't believe I forgot," I said. "I had it written down on the calendar, but the last couple days have been so hectic I haven't even looked…"

Ralph followed me down the hall. When he's in Seattle, he usually uses my den and guest bedroom as his center of operations. "Where are you headed right now?" he asked.

"I want to grab a quick shower, then I'm on my way back to Bellevue for an interview. I don't have any idea how long it'll take."

"Your answering machine is on the fritz," he said. "It started cutting people off in midmessage. The one I heard was somebody named Harry. He never finished what he started to say, and he didn't leave a number. I've been answering the phone ever since, and it's been ringing off the hook. You have a whole stack of messages. Anna Dorn called three different times, looking for you. She says she's in town and staying at the Red Lion out by the airport. The last time she called, she said she'd try again after she goes to the medical examiner's office."

I turned on the water in the shower, giving it a chance to heat up. "She's connected to a case I'm working on," I explained. "Earlier this week, somebody murdered her daughter. At least we think the dead woman is Anna Dorn's daughter. We need a positive identification. She probably came to town for that."

Back in the bedroom, I sat down on the bed to take off my shoes, while Ralph continued sifting through a stack of messages. "Another woman called at twelve-thirty. She sounded upset. She said she needed to speak with you urgently, but she wouldn't leave a name or number. And then there's Captain Freeman."

"Tony Freeman called here?"

"That's right. Isn't he Ron Peters' boss, the guy who heads Internal Investigations? You don't suppose Ron is in some kind of hot water, do you?"