J. Jance - Payment in kind

“You’re sure you didn’t recognize the voice?”

“No. At first I thought it was Erin. I was afraid she was having car trouble and was calling for help, but it turned out not to be her at all.”

“So who was it?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say. Wouldn’t say, but what was scary was how much she knew, or seemed to know. She said Marcia wasn’t working at all, that she was at Andrea’s. She even told me where Andrea lived. In all the years, I’ve never known that, never wanted to. That’s not all, either. She said that Marcia was going to break her word to me, her promise, and go live with Andrea.”

Pete had said the words in a rush, and now he was silent.

“Did she tell you anything else?”

“No. She couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t? Why not?”

“Because she was laughing, Detective Beaumont, laughing hysterically! I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“What did you do after the phone call?”

“What do you think? I went to find them.”

“Why?”

“To try to get her to change her mind, but she wasn’t there. I tried the office first, then Andrea’s apartment, and later I tried the school district office again. So then I went by the school district. Nobody answered my ring the first time, and when I went back the second time, her car was gone. Actually, it’s probably a good thing I didn’t find her.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t trust myself, Detective Beaumont. Because I might have killed her. I was right at the end of my rope. Later on, after I cooled off, I got to thinking that if the person who called was wrong about them being together at the apartment, maybe she was wrong about the rest of it too. Maybe Marcia wasn’t going to leave me after all.”

Kramer was shaking his head in obvious disgust, but I didn’t give him a chance to say anything.

“Why didn’t you tell us any of this before?”

“I was hoping no one would find out, that what went on between Marcia and Andrea Stovall would be a secret that Marcia would take to her grave so no one else would have to be hurt by it. But that didn’t work either. It was all over the paper this morning. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it.”

“So how did the murder weapon get in your bedroom, Mr. Madsen?” Detective Kramer asked.

“I don’t know,” Pete replied.

“And what about Alvin Chambers’ trousers and his shoes?”

“What about them?”

“We found those in your house as well, out in your garage.”

“I don’t know,” Pete began. “I can’t imagine, unless somebody’s trying to frame me.”

“Who would do that? Who would be interested in framing you for the murder of your own wife?”

“I told you, I don’t know. It’s a nightmare.”

“Tell me why you stuck it out with your wife for so long, Mr. Madsen or Kelsey or whatever you call yourself,” Kramer continued. “I sure as hell wouldn’t, not under those circumstances.”

Pete Kelsey’s eyes hardened. “We made a bargain, Detective Kramer,” he said. “I’m a man who keeps bargains.”

“Sounds like a hell of a bargain to me,” Kramer returned derisively. “What did you get out of it?”

Had I been Pete Kelsey, I think I would have tried to belt that smart-mouthed son of a bitch. Either that or I would have clammed up. Pete Kelsey did neither.

“It was good enough for me,” he answered softly. “I got what I wanted.”

“And what was that?”

Pete Kelsey held Kramer’s eyes when he answered. “I got a family,” he said. “A family and a country.”

“Wait a minute. We already know you’re John David Madsen, you already had both a family and a country, so cut the bullshit.”

“That’s not true,” Pete replied. “When I met Marcia Riggs, I was a man without a country, a man who had cut all ties with the past and with my family. Marrying Marcia gave me both. I owed her for that, no matter what. It’s a debt I can never repay.”

“You paid, all right, bud,” Kramer said under his breath. “You paid through the nose, and when you got tired of paying, you got rid of her.”

“I didn’t,” Kelsey said, half rising in his chair. “I did not!”

Suddenly there was an urgent pounding on the door to the interview room, Kramer turned and opened it. Uncertain of his welcome, the evening desk sergeant stood warily outside the door. “Excuse me, Detective Kramer, but…”

“I demand to see my client,” said a confidently assertive voice. With that, Caleb Winthrop Drachman the Third stepped past the desk sergeant and Kramer and marched into the interrogation room as if he owned the place.

Cal Drachman, with his polka-dot bow-tied image is a young (thirty-five-year-old) rising star in Seattle’s criminal defense circles. At least among those defendants who for some reason or other don’t qualify for a public defender. Cal Drachman III is far too busy with his burgeoning practice and making a name for himself to ever consider working for free. You could rest assured that if Cal Drachman appeared in a case, someone was footing a considerable bill.

Cal stopped in front of Pete Kelsey and smiled down at him, holding out his hand.

“Cal’s the name,” he said pleasantly. His off-hand demeanor made it seem as though interrogation-room introductions are entirely ordinary. In his kind of work, maybe they are.

“One of my partners is an old friend of your father-in-law’s. He and Belle wanted me to come see how you’re doing.”

“Fine,” Pete said, “but…”

“Are they treating you all right?”

“Yes, but…”

“Good. Glad to hear it. Glad to hear it.”

While he had been speaking to Pete Kelsey, he had been smiling warmly, but now, as Drachman turned back to us, the smile disappeared.

“I’ve only just now been called in on this case. Naturally, there’ll be no more questions until I’ve been allowed to consult with my client. What are the charges?”

Drachman knew as well as we did what the charges were, but he wanted to hear it from our own lips. He wasn’t going to stand for our skipping any of the required steps or empty gestures.

“Desertion from the United States Army,” I said.

“And when did this alleged desertion take place?”

“March of 1969.”

“My goodness, that’s some time ago,” Drachman said, shaking his head. “Over twenty years. Surely the Army isn’t still interested in pursuing this after all these years.”

“We’ve alerted the CID down at Fort Lewis,” I told him. “Someone from there will be in touch to let us know what to do next.”

Caleb Drachman smiled. “So that’s all then? I mean those are the only charges against my client at the moment?”

“So far.”

“Very good. What’s your name?” Drachman asked, looking at me through stylishly thin-framed horn-rimmed glasses.

“Beaumont,” I responded. “Detective J.P. Beaumont.”

“Very well, Detective Beaumont.” He frowned and scratched his head. “You’re in Homicide, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But my client isn’t charged with any homicide, isn’t that also correct?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Bearing that in mind, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that since there’s nothing more serious against my client than this twenty-year-old desertion beef with the Army, then it’s perfectly feasible for Mr. Kelsey here to attend his wife’s funeral tomorrow afternoon. I’ve been given to understand that those are his wishes.”

“I don’t agree with anything of the kind,” I began, but Cal Drachman cut me off before I could go any further.

“Excuse me, Detective Beaumont. He has not been charged with anything more serious than this. It’s water under the bridge. I believe there’s a good chance that the Army will decide to drop the charges altogether. If that happens, it wouldn’t look very good if you had decided to keep him from attending his own wife’s funeral, now would it? Now, I think that would seem downright criminal.”