J. Jance - A more perfect union

But those kinds of bribes only worked if the applicant had plenty of money available. For women, especially poor ones like Angie Dixon and Linda Decker, maybe the rats running the scam had been willing to take it out in trade, in services rendered, services that never made it onto Wayne Martinson's accounting tapes. Like being dessert at Martin Green's party for instance.

And what about Martinson's books, the journals themselves? Where were they? Despite what Angie and Linda had believed, the tapes themselves weren't that damning, not without the journal entries to go with them. But who had them? Had Martinson taken them with him on his ill-fated fishing trip, or were they still in his office somewhere? Or-and this was far more likely-had they been removed by person or persons unknown shortly after his disappearance?

I went back once more to what Linda had said about the union. Something was bothering me-something I couldn't quite put a finger on kept nagging at me, scratching at the door to my subconscious, demanding admittance. The union books, the apprenticeship program, and something else, a third item. At last it came to me. Boomers. That was it.

Boomers from out of town paying to get put on the A-list, that top work list of members who got called out first. Every union on earth has those kinds of lists, and every union comes equipped with a whole catalog of by-laws to say what you have to do to get on that list.

Well, I just happened to know a boomer-Fred McKinney, Katherine Tyree's fiance. He had dropped into the Seattle union hall and landed on the ironworker's A-list close enough to the top that he had worked on Columbia Center, Seattle's newest showcase high rise. Reason told me that work on that particular building would have been the private preserve of local hands no matter what trade union was involved.

Maybe, if Fred had paid bribe money, and maybe if he knew the same people had been involved in Logan Tyree's death, he would be willing to come forward and name names. Often, just knowing that we're nosing around in the right direction is enough to spook crooks into doing something stupid.

And there was Don Kaplan, the guy on the balcony at Martin Green's party. Unless I missed my guess, Angie Dixon's death had gotten him where he lived. He had seemed nice enough. If I tracked him down, it might be that he could shed some light on the subject.

About that time a busload of camera-carrying tourists came wandering through the Arboretum and interrupted my reverie. I turned toward the water, keeping my face and black eyes averted from the clicking cameras. I heard some whispered gritching to the effect that I should have sense enough to move on so people could get a better shot of the pool. I refused to take the hint.

By the time they left, I found myself thinking about Angie Dixon. Linda Decker's comments were the first real link between Logan Tyree and Angie Dixon. I had theorized that there might be a connection, but now I knew for sure it existed. Logan and Angie had indeed known each other. Enough to make Linda jealous. Enough that Angie had confided in Logan about the tapes. Why did she find it necessary?

And if Linda was right, if Angie had been pushed, who had pushed her? Suddenly, the haunting picture from the paper came back to me as clearly as if I were holding it in my hand. In my mind's eye, I once more saw Angie Dixon plunging to her death. A comic-book light bulb clicked on over my head as I realized the picture might hold the key to the puzzle.

Adrenaline coursed through my body-adrenaline and questions. How many pictures were on that roll? How often were the pictures taken? And was there a chance, even a remote one, that another shot, taken earlier or later, might provide a clue as to what had gone on in the minutes before and after Angie's fatal plunge?

Getting a look at that film, prying it loose from whoever owned it was something only officialdom could accomplish, and officialdom would go to work on it only if I filled Manny Davis and Paul Kramer in on what was happening. It was time to straighten up and fly right, no matter how much I didn't want to do it.

I left the Arboretum and drove back downtown, conscious as I drove that it was after lunch and I had eaten nothing since Ralph Ames' midnight fettucini. The 928 headed for the Doghouse on automatic pilot.

The Doghouse is disreputable enough that no one raised an eyebrow at my purple bruises. It's the kind of place that says "Breakfast Anytime" and means it. That's what I had-bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee. Plenty of coffee. I didn't try calling the department until after I had finished eating. I believe it's called avoidance behavior. When I finally couldn't think of another plausible excuse to put it off any longer. I used the pay phone near the pinball machines.

I asked for Manny Davis. He wasn't in. I asked for Paul Kramer. He was. Too bad.

"Detective Kramer speaking."

"Hello, Paul. This is Beaumont."

Behind me some guy was racking up a huge score on the Doghouse's primo pinball machine. A group of enthusiastic buddies was cheering him on.

"Who?" Kramer demanded. "I can't hear you. There's too much noise in the background."

"Beaumont," I repeated, raising the volume. "I need to talk to you."

He paused. A long pause. "So talk. I'm listening."

At least he didn't hang up on me. I took a deep breath. "Not on the phone. I want to talk in person. To both you and Manny."

"Manny's busy. He's in court this afternoon."

"Well, to you then."

Behind me the pinball crowd cheered again.

"What's that? I can't hear you."

"To you then. Can you meet me?"

"Where?"

"Do you know where the Doghouse is at Seventh and Bell?"

"I know it," he answered. "What are you doing, out slumming, Beaumont?"

So that's how it was. He hadn't hung up on me, but we hadn't exactly kissed and made up, either. I didn't say anything.

"When?" Kramer demanded.

"As soon as you can get here."

He hung up and I went back to my table. My plate and dirty silverware had been cleared away. Left were a freshly poured cup of coffee and a newspaper with the unworked crossword puzzle folded out. The waitresses at the Doghouse take good care of me. That's one of the reasons I go there. It's got nothing to do with gourmet cuisine.

The crossword puzzle contained only three unfinished words by the time Detective Paul Kramer strode up to the table twenty minutes later.

"You wanted to see me?" he asked, easing his sizable frame into the booth across from me.

I set the nearly finished puzzle aside. "Wanting is probably overstating the case," I said. Kramer made as if to rise. "Sit," I ordered. He sat.

Jenny, the waitress, came to the table just then and offered him coffee which he accepted with a grudging nod. We sat without speaking until she finished pouring it and walked away, leaving us alone.

"What do you want? This ain't no pleasure trip for me, Beaumont, and I'm damned if I'm going to sit here while you dish out insults."

For some strange reason, the situation reminded me of the time years before when, at Karen's insistence, I had taken Scott to a local diner to administer the obligatory birds and bees talk. My son had been full of teenage resentment, angry and embarrassed both. In the end, the talk could in no way be called an unqualified success. We both went home frustrated and neither of us mentioned it again.

Now, with Detective Paul Kramer sitting across the table from me, I felt the air charged with the same kind of irritation and arrogance, the same counterproductive determination to miscommunicate. But that was where the similarity ended. With Scott and the birds and the bees, adult complacency had been on my side. I had known I was right and that time would bear me out. With Kramer I had no such delusions. He was right and I was wrong, and he didn't waste any time beating around the bush before he let me know it.