J. Jance - Name Witheld

"What about Sam Arnold?" I asked.

"He's busy with Johnny Bickford," Watty replied. "I believe he left here to take her back home. She showed up on the fifth floor about an hour ago in a state of absolute panic."

"Not Johnny Bickford again. What does he want?"

"He?" Watty repeated dubiously. "I thought it was a she. According to Nell out front, she was pitching a fit all over the reception area."

"What about?"

"That dead woman over in Bellevue. The homicide Bellevue P.D. is currently investigating."

"Virginia Marks?"

"That's right," Watty answered. "That's the one. Johnny Bickford saw a story about her on the noon news and recognized the picture. She says-"

"He," I corrected. "Johnny Bickford is a he."

"All right, all right. He, then," Watty agreed. "He said the woman on the news was the same woman he saw down on Pier Seventy about the same time he discovered Don Wolf's body and reported it. The woman was in a wheelchair. Bickford is convinced that since somebody went to the trouble of killing the Marks woman, that they'll come after him next. He's demanding police protection. He really wanted to talk to you, but I suggested-"

"When it comes to dealing with Johnny Bickford, better Sam Arnold than me," I said. "And if Kramer calls in anytime soon, tell him the interview in Bellevue is going on without him."

I got out of the Porsche and walked across the street. When the door to the shop opened, the bell overhead tinkled merrily just as it had the day before. The cheerful ringing of the bell was followed immediately by a series of raised voices.

"No, Aunt Grace. Absolutely not!"

"But, Latty, dear, you must listen to reason…"

"No!" Sybil Latona Gibson repeated furiously, her voice rising in pitch. "I will not do it. I don't care what you say, I simply won't."

The door fell shut behind me and I found myself on the sidelines of a fierce family scrimmage. An uncomfortable Tim Blaine stood in front of the cash register holding a small, gift-wrapped package as gingerly as if it were a live grenade. Behind the cash wrap stood a highly incensed young woman-Latty Gibson, the Marilyn Monroe look-alike I had seen on Bill Whitten's security tape. Except the video recording hadn't done her justice. Even with her face flushed with anger and her blue eyes flashing outrage, she was lovely.

"How dare you bring people here in front of my customers to…to…"

She stopped, unable to continue, and glared at her aunt. Looking down at the two comparatively pint-size combatants, Tim Blaine shifted his massive weight uneasily from foot to foot. He looked as though he would have gladly been anywhere else on earth right about then.

Next to Detective Blaine, and with the crown of her head a full six inches short of his shoulder, stood Grace Highsmith. Backed by the solid presence of Suzanne Crenshaw, the old woman refused to give way to her niece's anger.

"Now, Latty," Grace crooned soothingly. "You really must understand. I couldn't possibly allow you to speak to any police investigators without your being properly represented by an attorney."

Latty Gibson spun around and turned the full force of her fury on me. "I suppose you're the detective?" she demanded.

Nodding, I eased myself one more step into the room. "One of them," I said. "My name is Detective Beaumont. J. P. Beaumont. I'm with the Seattle Police Department."

Latty reached down and plucked something out of a drawer under the counter, then she came around the cash wrap carrying a purse. "You'll have to watch the store for a while, Aunt Grace," she said. "I'll talk to him upstairs. In my apartment."

"That's fine," Aunt Grace said. "I'll be happy to look after things for a while. Suzanne, you go along with them, would you?"

"No!" Latty said again. "I don't want anyone with me, not anyone at all. I'll talk to the detective alone."

"But Latty…" Suzanne Crenshaw began, but she gave up when Latty stormed past her without a backward glance.

Clearing his throat, Tim Blaine sprang to the door and held it open. "Detectives, actually," he said apologetically. "I'm one, too, Miss Gibson. Detective Tim Blaine with the Bellevue Police Department."

"You!" Latty exclaimed. "I thought you told me you came in to buy your mother a birthday present."

Now it was Detective Blaine's turn to flush with embarrassment. "I was early," he mumbled. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"You came into my store and talked to me under false pretenses."

"I'm sorry…" Blaine began, but Latty Gibson didn't stay around to listen. Tossing her head, she stalked out of the store with Detective Blaine and me trailing along behind.

"Detective Beaumont," Grace called behind me, catching the door before it had time to close. "Wait a minute. You can't do this. You know very well that Latty shouldn't talk to you alone like this, without Suzanne or someone else being present to advise her."

"It appears to me your niece has made up her own mind about that," I said. "I don't think she's likely to change it."

"But-"

"I'm sorry, Miss Highsmith. Latty has the right to make her own decisions."

"Even bad ones?"

"We all make bad decisions sometimes," I said.

Outside and around the side of the building, I found Detective Blaine waiting for me, holding an unmarked door that opened on a steep wooden stairway. "She went up there," he said.

By the time Tim Blaine and I made our way up the steep, creaking stairway, Latty Gibson had already disappeared through a doorway on the upper landing. After the gloomy darkness of the stairway, I was surprised when we stepped inside an airy but sparsely furnished apartment. Bright sunlight splashed into the room through sheer white curtains and from an overhead skylight. The living room was totally lined with fully laden bookshelves, but actual furniture in that room consisted of only a single couch, coffee table, and lamp. The dining room-with its small plastic patio table and four matching chairs-wasn't much better.

Several paperback books lay scattered on the table-all of them of the bodice-ripper school of literature. With a baleful glare in our direction, Latty swept the books into a pile and banished them from sight on one of the already overfull bookshelves.

"Miss Gibson," Tim Blaine was saying. "I didn't mean to mislead you, I-"

"I hope your mother enjoys her napkin rings," Latty said coldly. "You have excellent taste-for a cop." She looked over at me. "I suppose the only place we'll all be able to sit is at the dining room table."

Tim Blaine hurriedly subsided into one of the four chairs. I followed his lead. Latty Gibson didn't sit. Instead, she walked over to a window, pulled the dainty curtains aside, and looked out.

I cleared my throat. "As you are no doubt aware by now, Miss Gibson, there has been a series of homicides in the Seattle/Bellevue area in the last few days."

Still peering out the window, Latty nodded. "I know," she said. "Aunt Grace told me."

"A number of different circumstances have led us to the conclusion that you might possibly be a suspect in one or more of them."

At that point, she turned to face me. "Why?" she asked. "I haven't done anything."

"But we still need to talk to you," I said. "And before we start, I'm required to read you your rights."

"Go ahead," she said. "I want to get this over with as soon as possible."

While I Mirandized her, Tim Blaine kept his mouth shut, and when it was time to start the questioning, he still didn't seem willing to say much. "I understand you knew Don Wolf?" I said for openers.

Latty took a deep breath. "Yes," she answered, almost in a whisper. "We had been going out, but we had broken up."

"Why was that?" I asked. I was reasonably sure I knew the answer to that question, but Tim Blaine didn't, and he needed to hear it.