J. Jance - Without Due Process

“Were Ben and Shiree having money troubles?”

“You mean recently? No. No way. Not them. Shiree Garvey Weston knew how to budget and how to squeeze the very last pinch out of each and every penny. Ben never had another moment’s worth of money worries from the time Shiree started handling the bills. Why are you asking about money?”

I wanted Emma Jackson’s help, but I didn’t want to tell her everything I knew. “Sometimes that’s one of the reasons marriages go bad,” I said evasively.

“Not this one,” Emma declared with yet another flare of anger. “Ben and Shiree Weston’s marriage went bad because Ben was too damn stupid to recognize a good thing when he had it.”

On my way back to the department I slipped into a noontime brown-bag AA meeting in a downtown Methodist church. It’s not a meeting I attend often, so I could come and go without being trapped into a long-drawn-out post-meeting conversation as sometimes happens. When I got back to the fifth floor, Curtis Bell was comfortably ensconced at my desk chatting earnestly with Big Al Lindstrom. Curt looked cheerful, Big Al thunderous.

Curt scrambled out of my chair as soon as I appeared in the doorway. “Didn’t mean to take over your desk,” he apologized, “but I’ve been playing phone tag with that attorney of yours. I wanted to check with you and see if we’d be able to get together some time over the weekend. The attorney sounded like he wanted to be in on the appointment.”

“Watch out for this guy,” Big Al warned. “If you ask me, he’s nothing but a goddamned ambulance chaser. He even tried to get an appointment with me.”

Curtis shrugged off Detective Lindstrom’s comment as though it was nothing more than a good-humored dig, but from the sour expression on Big Al’s face I guessed he wasn’t really kidding.

“Whatever it takes to get people to listen to reason,” Curtis said with an easy grin. “After all, there’s nothing like a couple of bullets whizzing past a guy’s ears to give him a sense of his own mortality, right, Beaumont?”

“No doubt about it,” I said, and meant it.

“So what’s this guy’s name? Your attorney?”

“Ralph Ames.”

“Yeah, him. He said we’d either have to do it sometime over this weekend, or we’d have to wait a whole month.”

“That’s right. He’s only here until Monday or Tuesday this trip. I forget which.”

“I don’t understand why he has to be included in the first place. What’s the big deal? I mean, can’t the two of us just get together and talk?”

“Believe me, if it’s got something to do with me and money, Ralph Ames is in on it from the very beginning, or it doesn’t happen. That’s what I pay him for.”

“Well okay then,” Curtis agreed reluctantly. “When?”

“Hold on,” I told him. “I’ll call Ralph and ask.”

Picking up the phone, I dialed my home number. It was shortly after one, and I wondered if Ralph might once more be entertaining his noontime lady friend. The phone rang, but instead of reaching either Ralph or my answering machine, my eardrum was pierced by a high-pitched, raucous screech. Thinking I must have dialed wrong, I tried again only to have the same thing happen.

“What’s the matter?” Big Al asked. “Nobody home?”

“My phone must be out of order.”

I dialed the operator and told her about the difficulty on my line. “Before I report the trouble to Repair, sir, let me try it for you,” the operator said.

This time, I had brains enough to hold the phone away from my head before another ear-splitting squawk came zinging through the receiver.

“You must have left your fax machine hooked up,” the operator told me.

“Fax machine?” I echoed. “I don’t even own a fax machine, so how could it be hooked up? There must be some mistake.”

The operator’s tone grew a bit testy. “Sir,” she said, “there is no mistake. If the number you gave me is correct, then, whether or not you own a machine, there is definitely one attached to your telephone outlet at the present time.”

Good old “Gadget Ralph” was obviously up to his old tricks again. “No doubt you’re right,” I told the operator. “It is hooked up, and I probably do own it. I just didn’t know I owned it.”

“That’s quite all right, sir,” she returned, sounding slightly mollified. “Glad to be of service.”

“Well?” Curtis asked when I put down the phone.

“You’ll have to wait for me to get back to you, after I get hold of Ralph and check his schedule. Until then, I can’t make any promises. And as far as I’m concerned, if this case heats up over the weekend, my own schedule may go out the window. I could end up working the whole time.”

Curtis nodded. “I understand Ben Weston’s funeral is tomorrow. It sounds like the brass are treating his death like a line of duty, so I guess the force will be out in force regardless of…” Catching sight of the expression on Big Al’s face, Curtis Bell backed away from the pun and allowed his voice to dwindle uneasily away.

“Regardless of what?” Allen Lindstrom demanded.

“You know. Everyone’s talking about it-about Ben and whatever it was he was up to.”

“Get your butt out of here,” Big Al ordered. “Who the hell are you to say it wasn’t line of duty?”

Curtis Bell looked at the other man appraisingly. “Come on, Al. Lighten up. I didn’t mean anything by it. People are talking, that’s all. Everybody down in CCI is hoping you guys will find something that will exonerate him. Ben Weston was one hell of a guy. Nobody wants to see his name dragged through the mud.”

But Big Al was in no mood to be placated. “Like hell they don’t. Get the fuck out of here, Curtis, and quit gossiping. We’ve got work to do. Besides, aren’t there rules against conducting private business on company time?”

“Hey, I’m off duty this morning,” Curtis Bell returned, but he edged toward the door all the same. “Call me, Beau. About the appointment, I mean. After you hear from Ralph Banes.”

Ralph Banes indeed!

As Curtis took off down the hallway, we heard the sounds of a slight scuffle followed by a mumbled apology. Moments later, Ron Peters and his wheelchair appeared in the doorway. He waved at Big Al and nodded to me. “What on earth did you two say to that guy?” Ron asked. “He almost ran me down.”

“I told him to get out of my face,” Big Al said morosely. “And he did.”

Ron studied Big Al for a long moment. “I probably would, too,” he said. “How are you doing, Al?”

Detective Lindstrom dropped his gaze and stared at the floor. “All right, I guess,” he said.

“They told me upstairs that you were handing out the tape. I could have gotten it from somebody up there, but I’m a fifth floor kind of guy, Al, and I wanted to wear fifth floor tape. I also wanted to tell you how sorry I was.”

Big Al nodded his thanks and reached into his pocket, where he retrieved his somewhat depleted roll of tape. He tore off a hunk and passed it to Ron, who dutifully stuck it to his own badge.

“And as for you,” Peters said, turning to me, “I’m real happy that bullet didn’t come any closer. If it had, we’d all be wearing two pieces of tape instead of just one.”

“That’s an old joke, Ron. I’ve already heard it once this morning from Captain Powell. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?”

Ron Peters looked from Big Al to me and back again. “Well, it’s certainly not sweetness and light around here, is it. I take it you two are up to your eyeballs in this Weston case?” he asked.

“Actually, we’re not,” I told him. “You’re looking at the Weston Family Task Force second string. I’m about to write a report on my interview with the mother of the one unrelated victim. That’s my part of the case, and I’m expected to stick to it. And, as you’ve already heard, Al’s assignment today is to hand out black tape. He’s locked out of the investigation because he was friends with several of the victims, and I’m sidetracked because Paul Kramer hates my guts.”