J. Jance - Without Due Process

“This is pretty impressive,” I said. “It’s like the complete Encyclopaedia Britannica analysis of Seattle’s street gangs. Where’d he get all his information? Did he do all this on his own before he went to work for the gang unit?”

Ron nodded. “That’s right. It’s a hell of a lot of work. My guess is that the other two names will show up in the computer along with whatever else he’s done since then.”

“We’ve got to get a look at that file,” I said.

Ron Peters grinned. “My sentiments exactly. I tried, but it didn’t work. Ben’s stuff is stored in one of the department’s secured PCs. You can’t call it up without proper authorization-which I can’t get because I’m in Media Relations-and/or Ben’s personal identification number-which, of course, we don’t have either.”

“If it’s a number,” Big Al chimed in, “we can get it. That’s easy.”

“Easy? How come?”

“Ben Weston was a smart man, but he couldn’t remember numbers worth a shit. Most people can remember the numbers they use most often off the tops of their heads, but Ben had to have them all written down-his PIN from the bank, his telephone credit card number, even Shiree’s work phone number. He kept them all in that little directory in his Day-Timer. If he had to have an ID number to get in and out of the computer, we’ll find that one there, too, along with all the others. I’d bet money on it.”

“Great,” Ron Peters said. “So where’s the Day-Timer?”

There’s an old saying about how you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink. With Homicide detectives, it’s just the opposite. You can kick them off the fifth floor, but you can’t necessarily get them out of the habit of being detectives. Ron may have been booted upstairs into Media Relations, but his mind and instincts were still those of a working homicide cop.

“Ask Janice Morraine,” I said. “The last I saw, there was a Day-Timer with Ben Weston’s initials on it lying on the floor of his bedroom.”

“I can’t ask Janice Morraine for the time of day,” Ron Peters replied. “I’m not a detective, remember? How about if one of you ask her?”

“No can do, either,” Big Al grumbled morosely. “I’m aced out of it completely-Captain Powell’s orders.” He glanced at me. “You’re not much better off yourself. You’re supposed to be doing Adam Jackson. Maybe you’d better pass it along to Kramer.”

“Like hell!” I said. The three of us stared at one another. In our own way, we were all benched second stringers. We had a perfectly good piece of information, but no above-board way of acting on it.

My telephone rang just then, and the caller was none other than Sue Danielson. “Hi, Beau. I wanted to get back to you. I talked to that kid, the one down at Garfield. He really is a witness, at least to your part of the incident, and I thought you’d like to know about it.”

“Any information at all is welcome,” I said. “Want me to come to you or do you want to come to me?”

“Neither. Not here on the floor, anyway. Detective Kramer would have a fit if he saw us together. I missed lunch today. How about if you meet me at that little Mexican joint on Marion, Mexico Lindo, I think it’s called.”

After my Little Cheerful threshing-crew-type breakfast, I wasn’t quite up to dos tocos or even uno for that matter, but the offer of information was irresistible.

“See you there in ten minutes,” I told her, hanging up and standing up, all in the same motion.

“So where are you going?”

“That was Sue Danielson on the phone. She wants to meet so she can tell me what some kid told her about the guy who took the shot at me.” As I said the words, the glimmer of an idea came into my head. “Who knows? Maybe we can arrange some kind of trade on this computer thing.”

Big Al looked surprised. “Are you sure? She’s Paul Kramer’s partner.”

“It’s not a social disease,” I countered. “You were stuck with him once for a case or two, and so was I. Remember how it felt?”

Allen Lindstrom nodded. “Coulda killed him myself.”

“I rest my case,” I returned. “I’m off to meet the lady for lunch. Wish me luck. The rest of us may be benched, but she’s not, at least not yet.”

It was drizzling lightly as I set out up a crowded Third Avenue sidewalk on my way to Marion and the quaint, upstairs Mexican restaurant frequented by downtown-type Mexican food freaks.

As I walked, I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. Sue had called out of courtesy offering to volunteer information she was under no obligation to share with me. In return, here I was planning to use her for my own underhanded ends. That didn’t seem quite fair, but I wanted to be part of learning whatever could be learned from Ben Weston’s computer file. Given a choice, Paul Kramer sure as hell wouldn’t clue me in. Because she’s a straightforward woman, Sue Danielson was the weak link in Kramer’s chain of command. By the time I reached the restaurant I had more or less convinced myself that in this case, the ends really did justify the means.

I made good time, but Sue was already there, seated in the smoking section of the restaurant and puffing away like a chimney long before I arrived. A hostess with an authentically thick Mexican accent led me to the table and tried to tempt me with a margarita. Fortunately, I was wearing my margarita repellent.

“So are we having a secret rendezvous?” I asked Sue teasingly, with what I hoped passed for a mischievous grin. “Do you think Detective Kramer had either one of us tailed?”

She didn’t laugh. In fact, she never even cracked a smile. “This is no joke, Beau. What’s with you two guys, anyway? When I mentioned to him that I intended to tell you what I’d learned from the paperboy, Kramer pitched a fit all over that brand-new private office of his.”

“It’s just a little personality conflict,” I assured her. “Nothing serious, but the animosity cuts both ways, if that’s any consolation. I don’t like him any better than he likes me.”

“Great!” she said, shaking her head in disgust. “Some men never grow up, do they. Is this another one of those locker room mine’s-bigger-than-yours situations?”

It pains me to admit that she was probably fairly close to the mark, but I refrained from dignifying her comment with a reply, and she left it at that.

“By the way, I hope you like Mexican food,” she added.

“You go right ahead,” I told her. “I’ll just have coffee. What’s up?”

The waitress came by. Sue ordered a combination plate and a Coke. Although close to my limit, I ordered more black coffee. “Tell me about the paperboy,” I said. “I want to hear all about him.”

“Have you ever had a paper route?” she asked.

It was a typically female way of starting a conversation from way out in left field without directly tackling the issue at hand. Over the years, however, I’ve managed to develop considerable patience, and I played right along.

“Not me. I worked in a movie theater as a kid-hawking tickets and popcorn and jujubes. I’ve been a night owl all my life. I never could have roused myself at some ungodly hour to go deliver morning papers, and an evening route would have screwed up my extracurricular activities. How about you?”

“I had one,” she replied, “back in Cincinnati. A city’s funny at that hour of the morning. It’s so still and peaceful when you’re the only person out and around. You wander up and down streets and through neighborhoods while cars are still parked wherever people happen to leave them overnight. You know who gets up first, who will already be up and waiting for a paper by the time you drop it on the porch. You see all kinds of things, including some things you shouldn’t. Just before the sun comes up, I used to pretend I was invisible.”