J. Jance - Long Time Gone

“There’s no explaining some people,” I told him.

“This doesn’t sound like a social call,” Ralph said. “Is something wrong?”

My words may have been normal enough, but my voice must have been off. Ralph Ames is better at reading subtext than almost anybody I know.

“I think Ron Peters may be in trouble.” It was a gross understatement, and Ralph picked up on it immediately.

“What kind of trouble?” he asked.

“His former wife died over the weekend,” I told him. “She was murdered. Ron found out about it yesterday. He and Rosemary had been involved in a custody dispute that had turned ugly. He admitted to having said some things that might have been interpreted as threatening.”

“That’s troublesome,” Ralph said. “But those things happen all the time in disputed custody cases.”

“But there’s more,” I added. “And it gets worse. Amy stopped by here just a few minutes ago. This morning she was looking for something in the trunk of Ron’s car and came across what she’s sure is dried blood. Lots of dried blood.”

“Has anybody questioned him about this or taken him into custody?” Ralph asked.

“Not officially. He said the Tacoma PD cops who came to do the next-of-kin notification yesterday afternoon asked him a lot of questions. They’ll be asking more as soon as I tell them about the blood.”

“And you are going to tell them?”

“Of course I’m going to tell them,” I said. “I’ve got to. And it’s going to put me in a hell of a bind. A homicide involving officer-related domestic violence? The case will come straight to Special Homicide. It’s official state law. I wouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t end up being assigned to Squad B.”

“Assigned to Squad B, but not to you personally, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“What do you want me to do?” Ralph asked.

“Call Ron up. Tell him a little birdie suggested you stop by. Or tell him straight out that I asked you to touch bases with him. Tell him I wanted him to have an attorney waiting in the wings in case one was needed. And believe me, one will be needed. I’m guessing someone will show up at his place with a search warrant within the next couple of hours.”

“You’re going to call in the report right now?” Ralph asked.

“As soon as I’m off the phone with you.”

And that’s what I did-called my office. When Harry I. Ball answered the main number, I knew Barbara Galvin hadn’t made it in.

“I suppose you’re calling to tell me you’re snowbound,” Harry observed once he knew who was calling. “That little ‘Porsh’ of yours may be cute as all get-out, but it isn’t worth beans in the snow. If a few more people around here had four-wheel drive, I wouldn’t be here holding down the fort all by myself.”

The truth is, with proper tires, the 928’s weight distribution makes it an excellent vehicle in snow, but Harry wouldn’t have listened. I’m used to him taking jabs at the Porsche, which he consistently calls my “little foreign jobbie” and consistently mispronounces. For a change I didn’t rise to Harry’s bait.

“I am snowbound,” I agreed. “But I’m calling about Ron Peters.”

“I heard about that a few minutes ago,” Harry interjected. “Since he’s second in command of Internal Affairs at Seattle PD, the case is going to be a regular hot potato. I’m assigning Mel Soames and Brad Norton to handle it. You and Peters used to be partners, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s what I thought. So you aren’t to go anywhere near that investigation. Understood?”

“It’s too late,” I said.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Harry roared back at me. I had to hold the phone away from my ear to keep from being deafened.

“Ron and I are still good friends. And I’m friends with his family as well. His wife, Amy, stopped by here a few minutes ago. She told me she was looking for towels in the back of Ron’s vehicle this morning and found what she’s sure is dried blood. She didn’t want to report it. I told her I had to. And I am.”

I’ve never known Harry I. Ball to be caught speechless, but he was right then. He was quiet for so long that I wondered if the line had gone dead. Then he cut loose with a string of colorful and politically incorrect expletives.

“When the hell did that happen?” he demanded.

“Like I said. A few minutes ago. I called as soon as she left.” This wasn’t quite true, but my intervening call to Ralph Ames hadn’t taken very long.

“Where’s the vehicle?” Harry asked.

“At their house. On Queen Anne Hill.” I gave Harry the address.

“Remember, Beau. You’re to keep your ass out of this. You’ll have to be interviewed, but other than that…”

“Harry,” I said. “These people are friends of mine. I can’t just turn my back on them.”

“The hell you can’t! You can and you will. Your friend, as you call him, happens to be a homicide suspect,” Harry returned. “And in case you haven’t noticed, cop-related domestic violence cases are very big right now. You are not, I repeat, N-O-T to be involved in any way. Ross Connors says we can’t have even the slightest appearance of conflict of interest on this case. Do I make myself clear?”

“Got it,” I said.

“What about that other case?” he asked. “The one I assigned you to yesterday?”

I noticed no one, including the attorney general himself, was concerned about a possible conflict of interest when it came to doing a favor for Ross Connors’s old pal from O’Dea High School, but I decided that was something I’d be better off not mentioning.

“I’m working it,” I told him.

“Good,” Harry said. “And you keep right on working it. Following up on a cold case will keep you out of Mel and Brad’s way, which is exactly where I want you. It’s where Ross Connors wants you, too.”

“Okay, Harry,” I told him. “Okay. I can take a hint.”

Bent on following orders and hoping to keep my nose clean, I sat down and tried calling the special twenty-four-hour line at the Department of Motor Vehicles to see if I could locate licensing or vehicle information that would give me an address for either of Sister Mary Katherine’s parents, Sean and Molly Dunleavy. An unusual recorded message at the DMV told me that due to weather concerns the office was currently responding to emergency requests for information only. All others should call back at a later time. So much for state-run bureaucracies.

I sat there, staring out at the unfathomable blue of Elliott Bay and wondering what I should do next. That’s when I spotted the small round globe on top of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer building a few short downhill blocks away. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Newspapers have to put out editions every day, snow or no snow. Some of the answers I was looking for might be available in the morgue at the P.-I. at the bottom of the hill where I had watched cars playing crash-car derby in the snow the night before.

I had no intention of taking the 928 out on the street where it was likely to end up being run over by some SUV-wielding nutcase with too much horsepower and only the dimmest grasp of physics. I was going to have to walk. It took a while to locate my long-unused snow boots. Once I did, I realized I was hungry.

I’ve never been much of a cook. Marshmallows aren’t the only thing I don’t keep around my condo. Basic foodstuffs are also in short supply. I used to hang out at a neighborhood dive called the Doghouse, but that went away years ago. Since then, I’ve tried various other joints, none of which have had quite the same fit as the Doghouse. When I choose restaurants, I ignore menu and atmosphere in favor of proximity. The P.-I. office is located on Elliott. So is the Shanty, which may have been a little out of the way, but food is food. It also gave me an excuse for taking a longer but much flatter route to the newspaper.