J. Jance - A more perfect union

"A security guard at her condominium complex. They keep track of all cars coming and going."

"Great. Have the sheriff talk to the guard as well. In the meantime, I'll catch the next plane out of Sky Harbor and be in Seattle sometime tonight. You take the cake, Beau. If it isn't one thing, it's three others. Try to get word to Peters if you still need me to come down to Chehalis. Otherwise, I'll meet you at your apartment."

"Do you think you need to come up?"

"Of course I'm coming up. If I leave right now I can catch the six-fifty. It's a direct flight."

There may be take-two-aspirin-get-plenty-of-rest type attorneys in this world, but Ralph Ames isn't one of them.

"How come they picked you up, anyway?" he asked. "Didn't you tell them you're a cop?"

"I told them," I said, "but this woman was so totally convinced I was there to kill her, that she made the Lewis County Sheriff's Department believe it too."

"If she could convince them of that, she ought to be in sales," Ames suggested dryly. "Timeshare rowboats maybe, right here in Phoenix." With that, he hung up.

For several minutes, I sat alone in the office thinking about Linda Decker. I had been thinking about her all the while I was locked in the back of Reed Harding's patrol car with my hands cuffed firmly behind me. There hadn't been anything else to do but think.

I was sure now that I wasn't alone in thinking Logan Tyree's death was no accident. Linda Decker thought so too. Not only that, she was so sure she was the next target that she had barricaded her home and gone to some fairly dangerous lengths to entrap whoever might come looking for her.

Linda Decker was gutsy, I had to give her that, but she was also stupid. Her plan had worked, but only because I had come alone. If there had been anyone with me…

My old pal Jamie peered through the glass in the door and saw that I was off the phone. He entered without knocking. "Get going," he ordered curtly.

"I want to talk to Harding," I said.

"You already had your chance with Harding. You blew it."

"Look, you little jerk, my lawyer told me to confess, and I'm ready. Go get Harding and let's get this over with."

As soon as I saw the look on his face, I knew I had him by the short hairs. Jamie wanted to be a hero every bit as much as I had wanted my pants on earlier. He swallowed the bait whole. "I'll be right back," he said.

He took off at a dead run and was back in three minutes with Sheriff W. Reed Harding rumbling along behind him.

"Jamie here tells me you're ready to confess," Harding said to me. "Is that true?"

I grinned at Jamie. "I told him I wanted to talk to you, but he's blowing smoke about the rest of it. I don't know where he got the idea that I wanted to confess." My mother taught me not to lie. It's taken me a lifetime to overcome that training, but I'm learning.

Jamie flushed. I had gotten a little of my own back. Not enough, but it was a start. Harding bristled and turned away. "In that case, I'm going home to dinner. Lock this creep up."

Jamie started forward, but my next words caught Harding just as his hand closed on the doorknob. "Does the name Marilyn Sykes mean anything to you?"

Harding stopped and so did Jamie. The sheriff swung back around to face me. "I know Marilyn," he replied deliberately. "She's vice president of our state association. She's good people. Why? What about her?"

"Call her," I said. "Ask her what she was doing last night between midnight and one o'clock."

The sheriff's eyes narrowed. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"Believe me, it's no joke. I'm only following my attorney's orders."

"It's too late to call her," he objected. "She wouldn't still be at the office, and I doubt she'd have a listed number."

"I have the number," I said. "It's in my wallet. You've got that, don't you?"

Harding stood for a moment, looking at me, pondering, then he nodded to Jamie. "Go out and get me the envelope with his stuff in it. And don't open it." Once Jamie was outside, Harding closed the door, walked slowly back to the desk, and eased his heavy frame down into the chair behind it. "What's this all about, Beaumont? What are you up to?"

"Just call Marilyn and ask her what she was doing last night between midnight and one o'clock," I said again.

Jamie returned and handed over the envelope. While Harding fumbled with the flap, I was aware of Jamie's cold eyes drilling into me. Talking to Ames had buoyed my confidence. Now, for the first time, I wondered what would happen if Marilyn Sykes weren't home, or if for some reason she couldn't or wouldn't corroborate my alibi. After this latest set-to with Jamie, if Harding left me alone again with that squirrelly little shit, I was in big, big trouble.

Marilyn, Marilyn, answer the phone.

Harding was still searching for the number. "It's on the back of one of her cards," I said helpfully. "Behind the money."

Harding located the card, turned it over, picked up the phone, and dialed. She must have answered on the first or second ring. I felt myself breathe a huge sigh of relief.

"Howdy there, Marilyn," he drawled. "This is Reed Harding, down in Chehalis. Oh sure, I'm fine. How's it going with you?"

I wondered if Reed Harding had always talked that way, or if he had affected the backwoods, good-old-boy style as a vote-getting technique. The accent wouldn't have played worth a damn in Tacoma or Seattle either one, but it sounded perfectly at home in Chehalis.

There was a short exchange of pleasantries, while Jamie and I stared at each other. I was gloating. There wasn't a goddamned thing he could do to me now, but suddenly I wanted him out of that room in the very worst way. Whatever Marilyn Sykes told Reed Harding was fine, but I'll be damned if I wanted Jamie to be privy to it.

"Well," Harding was explaining to Marilyn, "it's like this. We've got ourselves a sticky little situation down here. I hate to put you on the spot, Marilyn, but I need to know exactly what you were doing last night around midnight or so."

Jamie was bright enough to know that the tables had somehow turned, but he still hadn't figured out what to do about it. I stood up and stretched. Harding was so deeply embroiled in his conversation with Marilyn that he didn't pay the least bit of attention to me. With an armed deputy in the room and another stationed just outside the door, he didn't really need to worry.

I ambled over to the door where Jamie was still standing. "You'd better get out of here, you cocksucking little son of a bitch," I whispered, "before I crush your balls with a nutcracker and use 'em for chicken feed."

Jamie stiffened, paled, and left without a word. No guts. I turned back to Harding. He was still on the phone and shaking his head.

"So there was no way he could have gotten away between say midnight and one o'clock this morning without your noticing." There was a pause, and Harding chuckled. "No, I suppose not."

Chivalry be damned, Marilyn Sykes was coming through like a champ.

"And you say the security guard there keeps track of all vehicles after ten P.M.? Could you give me that number?" He jotted something on a sheet of paper. "Well thanks, Marilyn. You've been a big help. You want to talk to him? Sure. Hang on."

Shaking his head, he looked over at me and held out the phone. "She wants to speak to you," he said.

I can't say that I wanted to speak to her right then, but I took the phone anyway.

"I thought you told me you weren't the type to kiss and tell," Marilyn Sykes said accusingly.

"Marilyn, I'm sorry. It's just that…"

She laughed. "Don't apologize and don't give me any excuses, Beau. From what Reed tells me, it's a damn good thing we were at my place instead of yours. Your doorman goes off duty at midnight. You need to live in a class-act place, Detective Beaumont, one with twenty-four-hour security."