J. Jance - A more perfect union

I dashed across Second on a flashing DON'T WALK signal and ran all the way to the construction gate and elevator at the opposite end of Masters Plaza. I managed to squeeze on the elevator just as the door went shut, but the operator pointed at me and shook his head. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm with Mr. Gibson's party," I said. "I had to stop and take a leak."

The operator grinned. "Happens to the best of us, but you'll have to go back out to the tool shack and get a hard hat. I'll pick you up on the next trip."

I did as I was told, knowing that if the operator ran into Gibson on the way, the jig was up, but he didn't. He came back for me.

"I dropped Mr. Gibson off on the thirty-seventh floor a few minutes ago," the operator told me. "They said they'd work their way down from there. How about if I drop you at thirty-six?"

"That'll be fine," I said.

As soon as I stepped off the elevator, the wind rushing through the open spaces between the concrete beams caught me and almost blew the hard hat off my head. What was a freshening breeze at street level was a whistling gale on the thirty-sixth floor. Someone had hung a huge piece of heavy plastic along the side of the building, but it was flapping loose in the wind.

Since my suit and tie had been good enough to get me past the elevator operator, I figured I was looking for a suit and tie group. What I saw on the thirty-sixth floor were plumbers, electricians, and carpenters without a pinstripe or knotted silk tie in sight.

I took the unfinished metal stairway and clambered down to thirty-five. Still no luck. I finally caught up with them on thirty-three. There were six men in the group altogether. Quietly, I attached myself to the end of the procession. I figured the guests would think I was with Gibson, and Gibson would think I was one of the visitors.

And I didn't have any trouble picking Gibson out of the crowd. He was the one doing most of the talking, pointing out building features, gesturing this way and that. Periodically, one of the visitors would stop him long enough to ask a question. Trailing at the end of the pack, it was far too noisy for me to hear much of what was said, but there was a good deal of nodding back and forth among the visitors. Gibson was evidently telling them what they wanted to hear.

At last we got back on the elevator for the return trip to ground level. The elevator operator recognized me and nodded, but he didn't say anything. Once we were back on the ground floor, Gibson stood to one side while the visitors headed for the tool shack to relinquish their hard hats.

I sidled up to him. "Mr. Gibson, could I have a word with you?"

He looked startled that I hadn't gone off with the others. "Sure," he said.

Pulling him aside, I discreetly showed him my identification. "My name is Detective Beaumont," I said. "I'm with the Seattle Police Department. We need your help."

Not nearly as cordial once he realized I wasn't a potential leasee, he glanced nervously toward the tool shack. "What do you want?"

"We need to get a look at that film of yours, the one with the lady who fell off the building."

Gibson swallowed. Clearly he didn't want his prospective tenants hearing about a police investigation into Angie Dixon's fatal fall.

Then he frowned. "Is there a problem?" he asked. "I thought that was all settled, that it had been ruled accidental."

"Maybe not," I answered. "How do we go about seeing the film?"

"I don't actually have it," Gibson said.

"I know you don't have it. Camera Craft does, but they won't show it to us unless you give them permission."

The first of the visitors was coming back from the tool shack. Gibson nodded hurriedly. "Okay, okay. I'll take care of it. Come along back to my office."

I did, trailing behind as before. When I sauntered into the Masters and Rogers office behind Darren Gibson and his guests, the look of absolute consternation on Paul Kramer's face made my day.

Gibson paused for only a moment beside the ice-lady's desk. "Call Camera Craft," he ordered brusquely. "Tell them to show this gentleman…What did you say your name was?"

"Beaumont. J.P. Beaumont."

"Tell them to give Mr. Beaumont here whatever help he needs." With that, Gibson swept into his private office with the entourage of potential customers following behind like so many trailing puppies.

"How'd you do that?" Kramer demanded in a startled whisper as he and Manny both stood up.

"Experience," I answered.

We started toward the door. "You're not going to wait then?" the receptionist asked.

"That won't be necessary now," I said, returning her chilly smile with a cool one of my own. "You just be sure to make that call to Camera Craft before we get there. It won't take us long."

We were there at nine, waiting outside on the street when Jim Hadley opened the doors to Camera Craft and let us in. "The secretary already called," he said, in answer to my question about Darren Gibson. "She said to show you whatever you need to see."

I was careful not to look at Paul Kramer. That was the only way to stifle a triumphant grin. Kramer was still dismayed by how easily I'd wrested permission out of Darren Gibson to see the film. I didn't want to shatter the fragile truce between us. My ability to keep my promise to Linda Decker depended totally on Kramer's grudging willingness to work together. One complaint from him, and Watty would have pulled me off the case in a minute.

"So when can we see the film?" I asked Hadley.

The owner of Camera Craft glanced at his watch and shook his head. "Not just yet, I'm afraid. Kath doesn't come in to work until almost three. The editing is one hundred percent her baby. If I go into that room and stir things up, she'll raise hell for weeks."

"Can't you call her at home then?" Kramer asked. "Ask her to come in early?"

Jim Hadley gave Kramer a derisive look and laughed aloud. "Are you kidding? No way. You've never worked with free-lance editors, have you? They're independent contractors, mostly a night-crawler variety, who won't answer telephones or show their faces before mid-afternoon. If I woke her up at this hour of the day, Kath Naguchi wouldn't ever work with me again, and she's damn good.

"Stop by around three," he added. "She'll be on her third cigarette and her second cup of coffee. By then she'll be about half civilized."

So there we were, stuck again. This job is like that. You get up early only to stand around and wait. Out on the street, Kramer was still in a hurry, still crabbing about finding Kath Naguchi early. His grousing was in direct opposition to Manny Davis' easygoing view of the world.

"Why'd you want to do a thing like that?" Manny asked, shutting off his partner's litany of complaint. "Sounds to me like we'd be better off tangling with a hibernating grizzly."

In the end, Manny's cooler head prevailed. I made arrangements to meet them back at Camera Craft at three.

"I suppose you're off on your hot date," Kramer noted sarcastically as I turned to make my way back home. I studied him for a long moment, wondering if I had been that ambitious in my youth, that ambitious and that obnoxious.

"Not hot," I corrected. "As a matter of fact, I'm taking two little girls to Bumbershoot. Care to join us?" Turning on my heel, I headed up the street just as the first real raindrops in more than a month began to fall on downtown Seattle.

It wasn't one of the Northwest's customary dry drizzles that you can walk for blocks in and not get wet. Instead of a light, gentle mist, this was a sidewalk-pounding, clothes-soaking downpour. I was completely drenched by the time I'd walked the six long blocks between Camera Craft and Belltown Terrace.

Annie, the building's concierge, was on duty in the lobby. She opened the door to let me in before I managed to get my key in the lock. Rivulets of water coursed down my face and dripped into my eyes. Looking for something dry, I wiped my forehead with the underside of my jacket sleeve.