J. Jance - A more perfect union

I had kicked off my shoes and was shrugging out of my jacket when Ames came into the dining room and put the bowl of fettucini on the table. He gave me an appraising look.

"Other than a pair of shiners and a hole in your knee, how are you, Beau?"

I knew about the hole in my knee, but shiners? "You're shitting me."

Ames shook his head. "Go look for yourself," he said.

I did, he was right. I looked like hell.

"What did you do, walk into a door?"

"An eight-by-ten timber," I answered.

"Same difference. Are you hungry?"

"You bet." It had been some time since that long-ago breakfast Marilyn Sykes had fed me. I may not be the type to cook fettucini, but I certainly don't object to eating it. I dished up a mountain of salad and started on that while Ames poured two glasses of wine.

"By the way," he said. "Marilyn Sykes called here looking for you a couple of times. I told her you'd give her a call as soon as we finished eating. Hope you don't mind, but I filled her in on some of the details."

"Things would be a hell of a lot different if I had been home alone in my own little beddy-bye," I said. "Marilyn's alibi was what did the trick."

One of the things I appreciate most about Ames is that he's not above saying he told me so, but he doesn't usually rub my nose in it. He simply nodded. "I figured as much," he said.

"There are a few other messages as well," he added. "Two calls from Sergeant Watkins, and one from someone named Kramer. He sounded real upset. What's this all about?"

And so, during the course of our late-night dinner, I explained to Ralph Ames what I could about what was going on. I told him about finding Logan Tyree's body and about what I regarded as the erroneous determination of accidental death. I told him about Logan Tyree's womenfolk, his moderately grief-stricken widow and his grieving ex-fiancee. I told him about my meeting with Jimmy Rising and the subsequent fire. Sometime later, over wine, I even remembered to tell him about Angie Dixon and the news photo that had captured her fatal plunge from Masters Plaza.

Ralph Ames listened to it all, nodding from time to time, asking questions periodically. "There does seem to be a pattern," he observed when I finished. "Certainly with Logan Tyree the killer or killers went to some length to make his death look like an accident. And the woman falling off the building sounds like an accident, too. Is there any connection between them?"

"Between Logan and Angie Dixon?" I shook my head. "Other than the fact that they were in the same union, there's no connection that I know of. Logan Tyree taught a certified welding class for apprentices. Presumably Angie Dixon was in Logan's class."

"The same one, you think?"

I shrugged. "Maybe, or maybe a later one."

"But you think they all knew each other?"

"Probably."

"What are you going to do about it?" Ames asked.

"Nothing. Not a goddamned thing. From now on, it's hands off as far as I'm concerned."

Ames smiled. "I'm glad you're being sensible for a change, Beau. From what he said on the phone, I'm afraid Sergeant Watkins will insist on it."

That turned out to be something of an understatement.

I didn't go to the department the next day. I didn't have to. The mountain came to Mohammed. Sergeant Watkins turned up on the security phone downstairs at ten after eight. Once Watty was inside my apartment, Ralph Ames stayed around only long enough to say a polite hello and then made himself scarce while the sergeant and I retreated into the den.

"Coffee?" I asked.

Watty shook his head. "It's not a social visit. Just what the hell do you think you're pulling, Beau? Since when do homicide detectives go out and investigate any damn case they please? Since when did I stop making the assignments?"

"I didn't do it on purpose. It just happened. You know how that Tyree case started. He floated up right under my nose while I was working on the movie set. I know I wasn't assigned, but I was involved. I couldn't help it."

"That's bullshit, Beau, and you know it. ‘I couldn't help it' is an excuse a little kid uses on his mother after he wets his pants. You didn't try to help it. You got a wild hair up your ass that Kramer and Manny had it all wrong, and you set out hell-bent for leather to prove it."

"Maybe," I said.

"Maybe nothing! What's going on between you and Kramer anyway? He's been in my office twice this week complaining that you were messing around in his case. Bird-dogging him. I told him he was full of it, that you were working on the movie and later that you were on vacation. Obviously I was wrong. The shit is really going to hit the fan when he finds out about what happened yesterday."

"I think he already has. He called here last night before I got home."

"But you didn't talk to him?"

I shook my head. "Not yet."

"If I were you, Beau, I'd do some pretty serious thinking before I called him. He's pissed as hell, and he has every right to be. So's Manny. The homicide squad's based on teamwork, remember? We're supposed to work together, all of us. I don't need some loose cannon rolling around on deck screwing up the works for everybody."

There wasn't a damn thing I could say, because I knew Watty was right, and he was only warming up.

"We've worked together for a long time, Beau, been through the wars together, but you left me with my ass hanging out on this one. I spent all day yesterday dodging bullets in every direction. Calls from upstairs, calls from the press, and yes, goddamnit, calls from some of my own squad. All of 'em asking the same thing. All of 'em wanting to know what the hell was going on and how the hell you ended up in that woman's basement without any clothes on."

"Shorts," I put in lamely. "I still had my shorts on."

"Big fucking deal. Tell me about it. What happened?"

I took a deep breath. "I was convinced that Logan Tyree's death wasn't an accident."

"That's no answer," Watty interrupted. "Harbor Patrol disagrees with you. So does the Coast Guard. And the same goes for Manny Davis and Paul Kramer. Logan Tyree's their baby, and don't you forget it."

"But you asked me how it happened and I'm telling you. I was interested, so I talked to people-his friends, his ex-wife, people he worked with. They all said the same thing, that Tyree was careful, exceptionally careful, that he wouldn't have been out in a boat without the fume sensors and the blower working properly."

"That's it?" Watty demanded. "That's all you had?"

"Then there was the fight with his girlfriend. One of the neighbors said they had a serious quarrel and that they broke up a week or so before it happened."

"Breaking up with his girlfriend days before he died doesn't tell me Logan Tyree was murdered."

"There was something else as well. Tyree told his neighbor that he had to take some kind of action. I forget the words exactly, but something about a man doing what a man has to do."

"And this neighbor…"

"His name's Corbett, Red Corbett."

"What else did he tell you?"

"He gave me Linda Decker's name. Told me how to get in touch with her."

"How come, Beau? Why'd this Red Corbett character spill his guts to you and not to Manny and Paul? I've got their reports. I remember seeing Corbett's name. He told them some of this, but not all."

"Can I help it if Paul Kramer's an asshole?"

"Leave personalities out of this, Beau."

I went on. "Corbett offered to give Manny and Kramer Linda's name, but they said they didn't need it. That since the death was an accident, the ex-wife's name was enough."

Watty was shaking his head before I finished. "So they made a mistake. Kramer's new to homicide. He's entitled to some mistakes, but by the time they decided they did need to talk to her, Linda Decker was already gone. Not even her mother knew where she was. How'd you manage to find her when they couldn't?"