J. Jance - Lying in vait

"We won't ever know that now, will we, Else, so you could just as well forget it," he returned darkly. "Drink your drink."

The comment seemed blunt and unkind, and it was barked out more as a command than an invitation. Else's fingers inched uncertainly toward the glass. When her fingertips finally touched it, she looked up at him. "I'm sorry it happened," she said, "but thank you."

The words she spoke seemed strangely out of whack with what I thought was going on. It was as though she was talking about something else entirely-something that had nothing to do with either her husband's death or with the brimming shot glass sitting on the table in front of her.

It took a moment for me to put the pieces together. Embarrassed, I wondered if I hadn't inadvertently stumbled in on a private moment of loss and reconciliation that had been some thirty years in the making. It sounded as though Else was apologizing for marrying Gunter Gebhardt years before instead of Alan Torvoldsen.

Caught in that unexpected crossfire of intimacy in the cramped, smoke-filled galley, I felt suddenly isolated and invisible. It seemed as though the other two people had completely forgotten my presence. I was about to clear my throat to remind them when, as if on cue, the water in the coffeepot came to a sudden noisy boil. The rattling pot provided a much-needed diversion, shattering the moment and disrupting whatever it was that had passed between them.

When Alan turned to tend to the pot, Else picked up the glass and drained the generous shot in a single gulp. Her throat worked convulsively to swallow the burning liquid. Moments after she did so, her unnaturally pale face was suffused in a warm pink glow as the powerful alcohol blasted its way into her system.

"I should warn you," Else said. "I don't hold my liquor very well. It might set me off."

"That's all right," Alan said. "Crying's good for you."

He had taken two chipped but still usable coffee mugs down from the cupboard. He filled them with boiling water, spooned instant coffee into them, stirred thoughtfully, then handed one across the tiny table to me before picking up his own, proving once and for all that he hadn't forgotten my presence.

But his eyes settled on Else. "Especially at a time like this," he added. "When something terrible happens, everybody needs to cry."

One Day at a Time listed suddenly to one side. A quick tattoo of footsteps pounded across the deck. "Detective Beaumont," Officer Tamaguchi called from outside. "Are you in there?"

"Yo," I answered. "What's up?"

"We've got some kind of hit-and-run," he announced, when I opened the door, letting a burst of November chill into the stove-warmed galley. "It evidently happened earlier this morning-before the fire was reported. Sergeant Watkins seems to think the accident may be related to the fire. He wants you and Detective Danielson to get on it right away and check it out."

Alan was already sipping his coffee. The man's lips must have been made of asbestos. The liquid in my cup was still far too hot to drink. Reluctantly, I put my untouched steaming mug down on the table.

"I'll have to take a rain check," I said to Alan. "I've gotta go."

"That's fine," Alan said, waving at me with his cigarette.

I looked at Else. As far as I was concerned, Gunter Gebhardt's widow was no longer Mrs. Gebhardt. She was, instead, Else Didriksen-a schoolmate of mine, a former cheerleader who had once urged a long-legged, awkward kid called BoBo Beaumont on to basketball-court glory. That was back at a time when we had all thought our futures would be very different from the way they actually turned out to be.

"Else," I said. "I'll need to get in touch with you later. How can I reach you?"

Putting one hand deep into the pocket of her long wool coat, she pulled out a set of car keys and a wrinkled business card. She laid the keys on the table next to her empty glass, then handed me the card. On it was written the words, "Else Gebhardt, Consultant." That and a phone number was all.

"What kind of consultant?" I asked, as I pocketed the card.

"Seafood," she answered with a self-deprecating shrug. "What else would it be?"

What else indeed? "Look, Else," I said. "When you're ready to go home, one of the officers will be happy to give you a lift."

"I'm fine," Else said. "I can drive myself home."

"No, you can't," Alan replied.

"Why not?" Else argued with a sudden stubborn jut of her chin.

With a deft movement, Alan reached across the table in front of her, snatched up the keys, and stuffed them in his shirt pocket.

"Because I said so," he answered. "Because you've been drinking." He turned to me. "When she's ready to go, I'll see to it that she gets home."

His manner of saying it made it clear that he meant every word. And considering the effect I remembered from drinking aquavit, not driving anywhere under its influence was probably a damned good idea. I gave that point to Champagne Al. One missing ducktail wasn't all that had changed about him.

When I started back out on deck, Else stayed where she was while Alan walked with me as far as the rail. "She'll be all right," he said.

I don't know which one of us he was trying to convince, me or himself.

"Where will you be?" I asked. "Give me your address in case I need to get back to you as well."

"This is the only address I have," he answered.

"You're living here on the boat? In the dead of winter?"

"It beats the hell out of where I was living before," he said.

I looked around at the ragtag wreck of a boat. I'm sure my skepticism showed.

Alan Torvoldsen grinned and flipped his cigarette butt over the side into the water. "If you think this is bad," he said, "you ought to try living on the streets." And with that, Alan hurried back inside the galley, closing the door behind him.

When I made it back out to the Mustang, Detective Danielson was already sitting in the driver's seat of the idling car, but I didn't see her at first. With one hand on the wheel, she was leaning across the car seat far enough to rummage in the glove compartment. When I opened the door, she slammed the glove box door shut in obvious disgust and sat up.

"I thought every car on the force was supposed to come equipped with a damned street map," she complained. "Somebody must have lifted it."

"Why do we need a map? What's up?"

"According to Watty, we're supposed to go see someone named Bonnie Elgin. I have her address right here. She lives on Perkins Lane, but where the hell is Perkins Lane? And how do we get there from here? Dispatch tells me it's right off Emerson, but I don't think Emerson goes all the way through."

That is an understatement if ever there was one. Sue Danielson was absolutely right. Emerson doesn't go "through" to anywhere, at least not anywhere useful and not directly.

Fishermen's Terminal is off Emerson on one side of Magnolia Bluff. Perkins Lane-one of Seattle's high-rent waterview property areas-is off Emerson on the other side of that selfsame bluff. It sounds easy enough, but between those two not-so-very-distant points, Emerson hopscotches around as though it were laid out by the proverbial drunken sailor. From what little I know about some of Seattle's early surveyors, it probably was.

I knew more about Magnolia than Sue Danielson did, and she settled down when I convinced her I could take us where we needed to go. Following my directions, she angled northwest on Gilman and Fort and then cut back down on Thirty-fourth Avenue West until it intersects with the westernmost section of West Emerson. No problem. In fact, it was totally straightforward.

Except for one small, unforseen complication. I got lost along the way-not physically but mentally. The route I outlined took us almost all the way to Gay Street. And to Discovery Park. And to the scene of a long-ago murder-the one that had brought an unforgettable woman named Anne Corley across my path. Wearing a bright red dress and tossing her hair, she had sauntered purposefully into my life and changed everything about it.