J. Jance - Name Witheld

I went back in the bathroom and turned off the water. The hot roast beef sandwich that had tasted so good half an hour earlier suddenly solidified into a brick-size lump in my gut. If Anthony Freeman was calling looking for me, no doubt that meant Hilda Chisholm had made good on her threat to visit him. The head of I.I.S. was probably making a courtesy call to let me know I was under investigation.

"Ron isn't in any trouble," I said at last. "At least not directly. I am."

"You?" Ralph replied. "What have you done this time?"

All morning long, I had tried to keep my personal problems on a back burner, focusing instead on getting the cases I was working on cleared up ASAP. Even during the meeting-when I should have been dealing with what was really bothering me-I had held at arm's length both my missing phone call to Dave and my messy dealings with Hilda Chisholm over Heather and Tracy Peters. Now, though, with Ralph Ames standing there in the bedroom asking probing questions, all those suppressed personal issues rose up like a giant breaker and smashed over me.

"Mostly sins of omission," I said, attempting to joke about it. But my voice cracked on the last word.

"Such as?" he asked.

"I left Heather and Tracy alone for a while the other day. Now some hard-nosed bitch from Child Protective Services is investigating me as a possible child molester. She told me last night that she was going to notify Internal Investigations."

"You a child molester?" Ralph demanded. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Who the hell came up with that kind of fruitcake accusation?"

"It came from Ron's ex-wife."

"Roslyn Peters?" Ralph said derisively. "That figures. She is a fruitcake. When did she get back from Nicaragua?"

"Sometime recently, but long enough ago to make trouble. She's suing for full custody of the girls. She told the C.P.S. investigator that I'm a dirty old man and that I only funded the mission she went on to gain easy access to the girls."

At that, Ralph looked grave. "Roslyn Peters shouldn't have custody of a cocker spaniel. Who would be dumb enough to believe a word she says?"

"An aging hippie social worker, for one," I replied gloomily.

For a moment or two, there was dead silence between us. Finally, Ralph said, "Why didn't you call me about this?"

"It only came up last night," I answered. "Not the custody thing, but my part in it. I guess I was too upset to call. When Ron first told me about what was going on, it didn't seem that serious. Besides, you were on a cruise, Ralph. On vacation. It wouldn't have been fair to interrupt-"

"Not fair! Are you kidding? What the hell do you think friends are for, Mr. Jonas Piedmont Beaumont? Now what can I do to help?"

Everything seemed to be landing on me at once. Ralph's unconditional offer of help was just the last straw. "I don't know," I said, shaking my head. "I have no idea." Something in my voice must have given me away.

"What else is going on?" Ralph demanded.

When Ames puts on his no-nonsense, full-business mode, there's no point in trying to dodge the issue. I could maybe get away with it with Lars. I could maybe bullshit my way around a roomful of strangers in an AA meeting, but I couldn't skate out of harm's way with Ralph. He wasn't buying.

"It's Karen," I said finally, not trusting my voice any further than that. I couldn't breathe. It felt like I was suffocating. Or drowning.

"What about Karen?" he asked.

I took a deep breath before I answered. "Dave called me last night. She's back in the hospital and not doing very well."

"You mean she's not going to make it?"

"Yes, I guess that's what I mean," I managed. "Dave wants me to come down."

"When?"

"Right away. As soon as I can."

"So why aren't you on a plane right now?" Ralph asked. "What in God's name are you doing heading back to Bellevue?"

"It's this case," I began weakly. "I wanted to get it cleared up before-"

"Before you left town?" Ralph finished. "You mean you're messing around trying to finish a case when Karen is in a hospital dying?"

Ralph Ames is usually the most diplomatic person I know. When he let me have it full blast, I winced.

"Yes," I said. "It sounds stupid, but I guess I am."

There was another period of silence after that. Ralph was the one who broke it. "Stupid? It's completely asinine. Did anyone ever tell you, Beau, that at times you're a total jerk?"

"Yes," I said again, feeling enormously put-upon by the force of Ralph's righteous indignation. "I tell myself that all the time."

If I was looking for sympathy, I had come to the wrong place. Ralph Ames didn't cut me any slack.

"Well for God's sake," he said impatiently. "Get your butt in the shower and let me see what I can do."

While standing in the shower, a sudden mist of tears blurred my vision. One thing was certain. If Ralph Ames was going to see what he could do, it meant that I wasn't in the fight alone.

That realization made me feel infinitely worse.

And better.

By the time I made it back to Old Bellevue, I had pretty well gotten a grip on things. Ralph was right, of course. If Karen was dying down in California, who was I to hang around Seattle finishing up a case? How much arrogance does it take to decide you're indispensable? Seattle P.D. wasn't that short of homicide detectives. Besides, it wasn't as though I owned the Don and Lizbeth Wolf cases. Captain Powell had already assigned both Paul Kramer and Sam Arnold to help out, and my opinion of their respective capabilities was much less telling in the scheme of things than the captain's was.

In case you haven't noticed, I lectured myself silently as I jockeyed the Guards Red Porsche into a particularly small parallel parking place directly across the street from Dorene's Fine China and Gifts, the S.P.D. homicide squad was there long before you showed up, and it'll still be there long after you're gone.

Glancing around the immediate neighborhood, I searched for a glimpse of Detective Kramer's ugly Caprice-to no avail. Tim Blaine's unmarked and empty Ford Taurus was parked across the street directly in front of the shop, but the Seattle P.D. Chevy was nowhere in sight.

By that time, it was ten to two. I settled back in my seat to wait. As the seconds and minutes ticked away, I found myself growing irritated. If I was the one who was such a lousy team player, if I was the one so damn uninterested in solving the case, why the hell was I present and accounted for when Paul Kramer wasn't? Where did he get off throwing stones?

A few minutes later, right at two, an enormous white Cadillac-one that suspiciously resembled the '61 I had seen overhanging the end of Grace Highsmith's garage-slowly nosed its way down Main Street. As the car drove past me, all I could see of the driver was a fringe of silver hair visible over the sill of the Caddy's left-hand window. I marveled that whoever was driving could see over the steering wheel, to say nothing of down that vast expanse of hood.

Maneuvering more by sound than sight, the Caddy's driver eventually wedged the car into a parking space, but only after a long sequence of backing and filling and after bumping both cars on either end of her chosen spot. As soon as the Cadillac came to rest, Suzanne Crenshaw appeared out of nowhere. She rushed up, opened the car door, and helped Grace Highsmith out onto the sidewalk. So much for my telling her not to show up for our interview with Latty.

Shaking my head at the old lady's stubbornness, I picked up the phone and dialed Watty. "Where's Detective Kramer?" I asked. "It's two o'clock. We're supposed to be interviewing a suspect over here in Bellevue right about now, and he's nowhere to be found."

"We had a call from Anna Dorn up at the medical examiner's office," Watty said. "She wanted to talk to you before she went back to her hotel out by the airport, but since Kramer is assigned to the case every bit as much as you are, and since he was here and you weren't, I decided to send him instead."