J. Jance - Without Due Process

My reputation for having that particular home away from home has long been cause for departmental teasing. The Doghouse is a downtown Seattle twenty-four-hour hangout with a reputation for deep-fried everything and a flock of old-fashioned waitresses who would most likely deck anyone who had balls enough to try calling one of them a waitperson.

In the middle of the night the Doghouse attracts late-night carousers of all varieties, as well as a fair selection of the city’s good guys and bad guys who tend to congregate there. Inside those four walls, everybody knows who’s who, and, believe me, they all mind their manners. The Doghouse is neutral territory, and the rules are simple. Inside, good guys don’t bother bad guys and vice versa, and nobody but nobody hassles the waitresses.

“What about it?”

“Don’t they have a funny little back room down there? A relatively private room?”

“Yes. The back room, where ham radio operators meet occasionally and every once in a while a group of cartoonists.”

“Good. I want you to set up the summit meeting there for Chief Rankin and the official emissaries from each of the gangs. I want to know what those creeps have to say, and I want to know tonight.”

“Tonight? How the hell…”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to manage it. As soon as you get it set up, let the chief here know what time. He’ll be up in his office, waiting for your call.”

Captain Freeman peered around the room. “Everybody have a handle on their task assignments?”

“I’ve got a question,” Chief Rankin put in. “I’ve got police departments from all over the state calling to say they’re sending official representatives to the funeral on Saturday. What do I do about them?”

“Nothing. Let them come,” Freeman replied.

“What if Weston was one of the bad apples-”

“Then we find it out after the funeral and not before,” Freeman interrupted. “Because if Ben Weston gets anything other than a hero’s burial, we’ve blown our own cover. Any other questions?”

There were none. With general nods of agreement, people took the hint. Rankin and Powell left together, followed by Sue and myself. Before I made it through the doorway, though, Freeman called me back.

“You were raised in Ballard, weren’t you, Detective Beaumont?”

“Yes.”

“Not too many Jewish people in Ballard, would you say?”

“Hardly any.”

Tony Freeman got up and came around his desk. He stopped only a step or two away from me. “How much do you know about Jews?” he asked.

“Not much. I’ve met a few over the years, but…”

“Detective Beaumont, the Jewish religion passes from mother to child. I may not look Jewish to you, but I am because my mother is. Do you have any idea what the word ”schmuck‘ means?“

“No-good jerk, I guess. Why?” I couldn’t figure out what he was driving at.

“Not in Yiddish,” Captain Freeman said without a trace of a smile. “In Yiddish it means something else entirely, ”penis’ to be exact. My mother is a gentle woman, Detective Beaumont. I only remember her hitting me once, and that was when, as a smart-mouthed twelve-year-old, I used the word “schmuck‘ at the dinner table. I would appreciate it if you didn’t use that word in my presence. I find it offensive. Thanks.”

With that, he ushered me out the door and closed it behind me. Sue Danielson was waiting for me by the elevator. I was blushing beet red and hoping she wouldn’t notice.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I could be wrong,” I said, “but I think I’ve just had my ass chewed.”

When I got back down to the fifth floor, I picked up my phone and heard the stuttering dial tone that meant I had voice-mail messages. Two of the three calls were from Ralph Ames. As he was my houseguest, it seemed to me I owed him some kind of explanation, at least enough to let him know that duty called and that work had overtaken my responsibilities as host. I figured he was a big boy, fully capable of rustling up some suitable evening’s pastime including some suitable evening’s companionship as well. As far as I could tell, he was doing fine on the companionship score without any help from me.

I dialed home, wondering if the phone would work this time or not. Ralph answered after the second ring.

“Don’t wait up for me,” I told him. “Things are heating up around here. It looks like it’s going to be another long one again tonight.”

“Too bad. Curtis Bell is here right now. We finally managed to touch bases late this afternoon. I told him to come on over, that you’d be home eventually. He was hoping to see you. In the meantime he’s been giving me some preliminary figures. I’m finding them quite interesting.”

Captain Freeman’s painful vocabulary lesson was still ringing in my ears, so I didn’t call Curtis Bell what I might have called him a mere half hour earlier.

“Look,” I said, “I’m up to my eyeteeth in a case right now. How come he has so much free time when nobody else does? Anyway, I don’t have time to see that pushy bastard, and I wish he’d lay off.”

Ralph Ames laughed. “Give him a break, Beau. He’s a salesman, working on commission. What do you expect?”

“Maybe if he’d bust his butt down at the department more, he wouldn’t need to moonlight. Not only that, I more than halfway expected him to make the appointment at a time when we could both see him.”

I probably sounded almost as disagreeable as I felt, but as the alleged owner of the money that was about to get spent, it didn’t seem like asking too much that I be consulted right along with Ralph Ames. And since I was already in a complaining mode, I moved right along to the telephone situation.

“By the way, Ralph, what’s all this about a fax machine on my phone? I tried calling home earlier today and couldn’t get through. The operator said I must have left my fax hooked up to the phone. Have I missed something, or do I own a fax machine?”

Ralph laughed. “Actually, you do,” he said, “I bought it for you the other day as a surprise, a sort of bread-and-butter gift, and had the woman who sold it to me come and install it yesterday at noon. I was afraid you’d show up and catch us in the act. I’ll bet you still haven’t had time to go into the study to see it, have you? It’s a real beaut, Beau.”

“But why do I need a fax, Ralph?” I countered.

“Once you get used to having it, you won’t know how you got along without it. I used it today to get some background information on Curtis Bell’s company. He seemed to be quite impressed.”

A fax installer? That’s who Ralph had escorted into the apartment when I thought he was bringing home a noontime something else? If so, when had he had time to pick up the lady who loved Bentleys, and how did she fit into the picture?

“You never fail to surprise me, Ralph, and that’s the truth. Get what you need from Curtis. We’ll talk insurance later. And by the way, thanks for the fax. I think.”

He was still laughing when I hung up. The other call was from my favorite criminalist, Janice Morraine. She had left two numbers, both in the Crime Lab and one at home as well. The Crime Lab said she had gone home for the day, so I tried reaching her there.

“Beaumont here, Janice,” I said when she answered. “What’s up?”

“I wondered if you’d had a chance to see my analysis of the hair you found. I gave it to Detective Kramer late this afternoon. Since you and Big Al were the ones who discovered the hair in the first place, I thought you might be interested in seeing the results.”

“I haven’t seen them yet,” I told her. “I’ve been tied up in meetings until just a few minutes ago. If Detective Kramer’s been trying to find me to hand over a report, he hasn’t had any luck.”