J. Jance - Long Time Gone

“That way,” he said, pointing toward a wall of windows. “A room with a view. Don’t be such a stranger. Stop by later to visit.”

“I will,” I said.

Following Clarence’s nod, I headed toward the windows, ones that looked out on the wet expanse of Fifth Avenue, seven stories below. Kramer’s old office, the one we had called the Fishbowl, had been a glass enclosure that looked out on Homicide. This one, with Captain Kramer’s name on a nameplate beside it, had its back to the unit and its face-including a door and another interior window-looking toward the view. Kramer himself was nowhere to be seen, but the Marchbank evidence box was sitting in plain sight on the desk. So much for maintaining the chain of evidence.

I was standing outside the office, cooling my heels and looking down at the rain pelting the melting snow on Fifth Avenue, when my phone rang. It was Ralph.

“What’s up?” I asked. “You sound upset.”

“I am upset,” he growled back at me. “Ron just fired me.”

“He what?”

“Fired me. He told me he wants to plead guilty at the preliminary hearing, for God’s sake! When I told him that was a perfectly stupid idea, he told me to hit the road. You’ve got to talk to him, Beau. See if you can pound some sense into his head.”

I could barely believe my ears. “Ron is going to plead guilty? How can he do that?”

“Beats me. The only thing that makes sense is that he’s protecting someone,” Ralph said. “Or trying to.”

“Who?”

“I think maybe it’s Heather. I gather she’s been quite the handful lately-boy troubles, playing hooky from school, really, really didn’t want to be dragged down to Tacoma to live with her mother.”

Ralph didn’t say anything about possible drug use, and neither did I.

“So much so that she’d shoot her own mother to keep from going?”

“It’s the only thing I can think of,” Ralph continued. “By copping a plea, Ron probably hopes to forestall a more thorough investigation, one that would point suspicion in Heather’s direction. You’ve got to talk him out of this, Beau. Heather’s a juvenile. The worst she would end up with is a couple of years in Juvie. If Ron goes down for Rosemary’s murder, he’ll go away for good. A plea deal might take the death penalty off the table, but for an officer-related domestic-violence homicide, life without parole would be the next most likely possibility.”

The thought of Jared Peters growing up without his father made a hole in the pit of my stomach.

“I’ll go see him right away,” I said.

I started for the elevators only to run headfirst into Kramer. “You wanted to see me?” he asked.

“I did,” I replied. “Can’t now.”

But he followed me through the squad room and out into the elevator lobby. “I’ve been doing some checking,” he said. “Everyone I’ve talked to says they think reopening the Marchbank case is a very bad idea.”

I rounded on him. “Bad, why?” I demanded. “Bad because the Marchbank name still carries a whole lot of weight in this town? Has it occurred to anyone that maybe that’s precisely why the case was never solved in the first place?”

Kramer’s face darkened. His promotion didn’t seem to be agreeing with him. I suspected the man’s blood pressure had gone through the roof about the same time he put on his captain’s uniform.

“We’re not reopening this case on your say-so alone,” he muttered. “I’ve gone through the box. Whoever broke into Madeline Marchbank’s house and murdered her in her bed is long gone.”

“I think you’re wrong about that,” I said. “And I think Ross Connors will most likely have the final word on whether or not the case is reopened. In the meantime, I’d be mighty careful about how you handle that evidence box. If anything that should be in it turns up missing, I’ll make sure that the AG has your ears.”

Kramer bristled. “Are you threatening me?” he demanded.

“You can take it however you want, but I think the answer is probably yes. No, it’s definitely a yes. And believe me, Captain Kramer, it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

I drove straight from Kramer’s office to Amy and Ron’s place on Queen Anne Hill. I did not pass Go. I did not collect two hundred dollars. What Ralph Ames had surmised made perfect sense. Ron Peters was going to sacrifice himself in an effort to save his daughter.

And had Heather done it? Not the Heather I had known-not the sweet little girl who had sold me Girl Scout cookies and wrapped my heart around her little finger. But the Heather I had seen the other night? That teenager with all her piercings and her bare midriff, with her hennaed hair and pouty lips covered with black lipstick had been another Heather entirely-a stranger. And with the possibility of drug use involved? There was no way for me to fathom what she might do or how far she might have gone in order to have her own way.

There were two clearly marked media vehicles parked on the street outside Ron and Amy’s house. A bright red two-year-old Cadillac Escalade was parked directly behind Amy’s Volvo wagon. Yes, Harry I. Ball had told me to stay the hell out of the Peters situation, but at that point in the proceedings his prohibition had fallen completely out of my head. I parked directly behind the Escalade, jumped out, hurried up to the front door, and rang the bell. I was relieved when Amy herself, rather than her grump of a sister, answered the door.

“Oh, Beau,” she said. “Thank God you’re here!”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“In there.” She motioned toward a pair of French doors that opened into the living room. Through them, I heard Ron’s voice raised in anger.

“I don’t care if you’re the damned Second Coming himself!” Ron was saying. “The memorial service is for my girls, and I’m the one making the arrangements. As far as I’m concerned, Bread of Life Mission is having nothing to do with it!”

When I stopped in the doorway I saw that Ron was seated in his chair. A well-dressed but immense Hispanic man-six-six or six-seven at least and as broad as a wall-stood next to the fireplace.

“I don’t think you understand what a mainstay Rosemary was to our church and to the mission,” the man was saying.

“And I don’t care !” Ron retorted. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here, Mr. Lujan, a hell of a lot of nerve! None of this would have happened if you hadn’t started messing around in the child-custody situation. We were all doing fine until you stuck your nose into it. And now you think you should have a hand in the memorial service? Not on your life! Have your own memorial service if you want to, but the one we’re having tomorrow is strictly private. Now, I think it’s time you showed yourself out.”

When Michael Lujan made no move to leave, I decided it was time for me to interject the voice of sweet reason into the conversation.

“Hi, Ron,” I said. Approaching the man by the fireplace, I held out my hand. “How do you do. I’m Ron and Amy’s friend, J. P. Beaumont.”

Michael Lujan looked straight through me as though I didn’t exist. “Trying to regain custody of her children was no reason for Rosemary Peters to die,” he said tightly. “Being a mother and wanting to have your child with you isn’t a capital offense, Mr. Peters, but Rosemary is dead nonetheless. You and I both know that you deserve to be in jail awaiting trial right now instead of sitting here in the comfort of your own home. If you weren’t a cop, you would be.”

“Whether or not I’m in jail is up to the agency investigating the case,” Ron answered. “It isn’t up to me, Mr. Lujan, and it isn’t up to you, either.” His voice was tense. White knuckles showed in the fingers that held a death grip on the armrests of his chair. In all the years I had known him, I had never seen Ron Peters so angry. Fortunately, there were no pizza boxes within easy reach.