J. Jance - Improbable cause

“He moved out, just like that?”

“Yup. Lock, stock, and barrel. He left some boxes in storage in the garage. Said he’d be back for those later. I called Gertie, my wife. She still works downtown. I’m retired, you see. So while he was packing, I called Gertie and asked her what she thought. She said he’d been a real good tenant, been here the better part of five years, always paid his rent on time, always kept the place neat, never was any trouble whatsoever. He was a hard worker, too. Worked all day and went to school at night over to the university. He never said what he was studying.

“Anyway, Gertie says to me, you give him half his deposit today, since it sounds like he needs the money, and you tell him that we’ll send the rest of it when we rent the place. So I did like she said. I gave him the hundred and fifty-three in cash, and he was real happy to have it. He must’ve been in a hurry. He went rushing off and didn’t tell me where to send the stuff or when he’d be back for it.”

My mind was racing. Why was Larry Martin in such a hurry to leave town? I could think of only one possible reason.

“What time did you say he got here?” I asked.

The old man shrugged. “Right around ten-thirty, thereabouts. No later than that. Maybe a little before, now that I get thinking about it.”

I glanced at my watch. I had talked to LeAnn Nielsen between nine and ten. If she had known how to reach him, that would have given her time enough to warn Larry Martin that I was prowling around asking questions. Was it cause and effect?

I’ve been a cop far too long to think otherwise.

Playing it low key, I tried not to alarm the garrulous old man. I didn’t want to shut off the flow of information.

“Did he happen to mention where home was?”

“Nope. If he did, I don’t remember. Seems like he was from around these parts somewhere, but the details escape me. Gertie might know. She’s good at remembering. Want me to call her and ask?”

“Sure,” I said. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

The old man helped himself up with the aid of a four-pronged cane that had been lurking beneath his chair. Once up, he paused long enough to straighten his shirt and snap his red suspenders.

“It’s gonna be a scorcher by afternoon,” he said, peering up at the cloudless blue sky overhead. “I don’t like it when it gets too hot. Don’t like it one bit.”

He tottered into the house, leaning heavily on the cane. I paced impatiently back and forth in the tiny yard, waiting for him to return. At last he reappeared at the back door.

“Nope, Gertie don’t remember either. She says she thinks he’s from somewhere down around Raymond or Aberdeen maybe, but she can’t say for certain. By the way, you didn’t say what you wanted him for. He’s not in any trouble, is he? I’d sure hate to think he was.”

“So would I,” I said.

Taking a piece of paper from my notebook, I jotted my home telephone number down and handed it to him. “If you hear from him, give me a call at this number, would you?”

“Sure thing. By the way, know somebody who’s in the market for an apartment? We’d make ”em a good deal, I can tell you that.“

“I can’t think of anybody,” I told him, edging toward my car. “But if I do, I’ll have them stop by.”

Once back in the car, I tried reaching Big Al by radio. I had a tough time getting through. All the dispatchers were busy with a major problem of some kind that seemed to center in the Fremont district. I waited my turn. Finally someone patched me through to Al.

“Beau, where the hell are you?”

“What do you mean, where am I? I’m coming back from Lake City just like I told Watty I would. Why? What’s up?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what, damn it?”

“Larry Martin’s holed up at the carpet store. He’s gone berserk. He’s barricaded himself in that room with Richard Damm. Nobody knows if he’s armed or not. The secretary thinks so.”

“How do you know it’s Martin?”

“The secretary called 911. She said it was him. Watty came flying in here and wanted to know if that wasn’t the name of the suspect in the Nielsen case. I told him yes. He’s ready to pull you limb from limb. He tore out of here mumbling something about you and justifiable homicide. I’d watch my butt if I were you.”

Grabbing my flasher, I stuck it on top of the car and jammed the gas pedal to the floorboard.

“So what else is new? Where is he?”

“Watty? He’s en route to the scene. Probably there by now. He said to send you there on the double as soon as we heard from you.”

“I’m on my way,” I said. “What’s the situation?”

“They’ve evacuated the building itself and some of the neighboring ones as well. They’re deploying the Emergency Response Team right now. The Fremont Bridge is closed to all traffic. They’re not letting anybody through. That whole area’s tied up in knots.”

“What’s the best way to get there?” I asked. By then I was approaching the freeway on Lake City Way.

“Hang on,” Big Al responded. He was off the radio for a moment, then he came back on. “Recommend taking Aurora southbound. Exit south of the bridge, then beat your way down the hill as best you can.”

His directions came back just in time. I darted across 1–5 and headed for Aurora.

“Who’s in charge there?”

“Captain Logan,” Al replied.

Dick Logan, the Emergency Response Team squad leader, is a tough, well-respected, longtime cop. I was relieved to hear his name. He’s someone you can count on when the chips are down.

“What about you?” I asked.

“Me?” The word exploded in my ear as Big Al’s voice shook with frustration. “Me? I’m stuck here waiting for the damn prosecutor! All I can say is, they’d better convict that crook. If they don’t, I may just finish him off myself.”

It wasn’t the kind of calm, routine interdepartmental communication the brass likes to have broadcast over police band radios.

Fortunately, the brass, both collectively and individually, were far too preoccupied with the crisis at hand to pay any attention to Big Al’s profaning of the airwaves.

Truth be known, I was probably the only one listening.

Something that always amuses me whenever I watch television or movie police dramas is the Hollywood version of the car chase scene. They make it look so easy. Traffic melts out of the hero’s way, letting him ride to the rescue just in time. Whatever doesn’t move is either crashed through or jumped over.

In real life, traffic doesn’t magically disappear, and municipalities frown on having their vehicles used in demolition derbies. That’s just not the way it works in real life. And it’s not the way it worked on Aurora Avenue that afternoon, either.

By the time I neared Green Lake, Aurora Avenue was stopped dead. One inattentive driver had rear-ended another, snarling the flow in both directions. So much for Big Al Lindstrom’s impromptu traffic advisory.

The City of Seattle is separated into sections by a string of interconnected lakes and channels-Lake Washington, the Montlake Cut, Lake Union, the Lake Washington Ship Canal, and Salmon Bay.

Damm Fine Carpets was on one side of the water. Naturally, I was on the other. With the Fremont Bridge closed to all traffic, I had no choice but to cut all the way across to Fifteenth in Ballard and cross the Ship Canal on the Ballard Bridge. Then I headed back toward Fremont on Nickerson.

And all the time I drove, my mind was racing. My justifiable homicide theory was pretty much out the window. Innocent people don’t panic and take hostages. LeAnn Nielsen had warned Larry Martin, and he had snapped. That meant the two of them were in it together. I knew where Larry Martin was. All of Seattle knew where Larry Martin was, but what about LeAnn?