J. Jance - Long Time Gone

“And what was her demeanor like when you introduced yourself and told her who you were?”

“She was surprised.”

“Did she cry, break down, or anything?” I asked. “Was she afraid or upset?”

“I’d say she was emotional but not upset-relieved more than anything. I think what she and Albert did has been on her conscience for a very long time. She was ready to unburden herself.”

“Did she happen to mention how that unburdening might affect any other people?” I asked.

“What other people?” Sister Mary Katherine said. “I saw it. Albert and Elvira Marchbank were the only ones there.”

“They may have been the only ones at the scene,” I told her. “But they weren’t the only ones involved. There were other people who profited from maintaining their silence.”

“Other people besides my parents?” Sister Mary Katherine asked.

“Yes.”

“So they weren’t the only ones who were bribed?”

“No.”

“I suppose that should make me feel better,” she added after a pause. “But it doesn’t. And no, Elvira didn’t say anything about her actions impacting anyone else.”

“I don’t suppose she would have. Thanks for your help.”

“Just a minute,” Sister Mary Katherine said. “Before you hang up, have you heard any more about that little girl who ran away, about Heather?”

“Not yet,” I said. “We’re working on it.”

I wasn’t actually working on Heather’s disappearance right then-wasn’t even allowed to be working on it, but I figured I could be forgiven for the use of the royal “we” in that instance. Not only did it keep me from telling Sister Mary Katherine the absolute truth, it kept the truth from me as well.

Determined to do some follow-up work, I headed back to the office. While I was crossing the 520 Bridge, my phone rang. The caller was Andy Howard, my insurance agent.

“Just finished talking with our adjuster,” he said. “He says your Porsche is totaled. It would cost more to repair it than it’s worth. If you want to go ahead and fix it…”

I thought about it. Hanging on to the 928, even though it wasn’t the original one Anne had given me, had been a way of hanging on to her. Maybe it was time I stepped away from her and moved on. That momentous decision-one I had avoided making for years-came after only a moment of reflection and before I hit the end of the bridge.

“I guess I’ll take the check,” I said. “What about all the personal effects that were still in the vehicle?”

“The check will come in the mail,” Andy replied. “I can bring everything else by your place, if you like. Just tell me when.”

Andy was all business. To him a wrecked car is a wrecked car. He had no idea what saying good-bye to that piece of my life meant to me.

“Whenever,” I said, swallowing a lump that had suddenly lodged in my throat. “If I’m not home, you can leave it with the doorman. What about the rented Taurus?”

“The rental is authorized for another week,” he told me. “If you keep it beyond that, it’ll be on your nickel.”

Owning the Porsche had been a permanent way of avoiding buying a new car. Now I’d have to deal with it. The Taurus just wasn’t doing it for me. The sooner I was out of it, the better.

I drove back to the office. Mel wasn’t anywhere in sight, but I knew she hadn’t gone far, since Rush Limbaugh’s voice blared from her radio. I slipped into my own office, shut the door, and picked up the telephone.

In the days before easy access to computers, getting a look at someone’s telephone records took time. And getting permission to look at them took even longer, especially if you happened to be working for a jurisdiction or on a case that didn’t have a lot of impact. I had learned that having Ross Connors for a boss made accessing those numbers far easier, but first I had to work my way through the telephone company’s version of voice-mail hell. When I finally reached the right person and told her what I was looking for, she said she’d need time to check out my credentials as well as to gather the information. Fair enough.

While I waited for her to get back to me, I let my fingers do the walking to check out cab companies. Wink Winkler had definitely taken a cab to the University District. How had he left? As soon as I tried talking with dispatchers, I ran into a stumbling block. They needed an exact address in order to check their records, but I still didn’t know where Wink had been going when he exited the cab. Had he been on his way to see Elvira or had he been headed for the foundation offices instead?

In order to get a handle on that, I called the Washington State Patrol Crime Lab and asked to speak to Wendy Dryer. I had known her from the time she had walked into the crime lab as a lowly evidence clerk. Now she was the state’s lead fiber analyst. Wendy sounded genuinely glad to hear from me.

“Hey, Beau,” she said. “Long time no see. What are you doing these days?”

“Working for the AG’s office.”

“The SHIT squad?” she asked with a barely suppressed giggle.

“That’s the one, and don’t give me any grief about it,” I grumbled. “I only work here. I’m not the numbskull who dreamed up the name.”

“What do you need?”

“Are you the one who’s handling the Elvira Marchbank case?”

“Holding rather than handling,” she said. “Captain Kramer told me it’s most likely an accidental death with no particular rush.”

“Captain Kramer could be wrong about its being an accident,” I countered. “And I seem to be working the same case.”

Wendy’s tone turned serious. “A homicide, then,” she said. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“I’m trying to learn who all might have been at the house before Elvira died.”

“You should check with latent fingerprints for that.”

“I will,” I said, “but in the meantime, I’d like you to check for tennis-ball fibers on the carpet.”

Wendy laughed outright at that. “Tennis-ball fibers? Are you kidding? The woman was in her eighties. It doesn’t seem like she’d be whacking tennis balls around.”

“Humor me,” I said. “And let me know if you find any.”

“Give me your number, then,” she said. “I’ll call you when I know something.”

An hour after I originally got off the phone with the telephone company rep, Barbara Galvin knocked on my door and handed over a multipage fax. With my reading glasses plastered on my face, I read down the column of computer-generated records. And there, at 3:45

P.M. on Tuesday-right in the middle of the time when Sister Mary Katherine had said she was there-was the last phone call Elvira Marchbank ever made-a call from Seattle’s 206 area code to a 425 number on the east side of Lake Washington.

As soon I saw the number, it looked familiar. I pulled out my notebook and thumbed through it to the last few pages and the things I had jotted down in the course of my conversation with Raelene Landreth. The 425 number was the same one Raelene had given me as her home number in Medina, so I was right. When things started to go bad, Elvira had gone looking for help, all right, but not to Wink Winkler. No, she had gone straight to Tom Landreth, the guy whose first wedding had given Elvira and Albert Marchbank their unassailable alibi for murder.

Phone calls work like daisy chains-one phone number leads to another. If Elvira had called Tom, whom had he called in turn? While I still had the phone company numbers in order, I called back to trace Landreth’s recent telephone history. And while that process was under way, it seemed like a good idea to go see the man.

Telephone calls are fine as far as they go, but for getting usable information and real answers to tough questions, there’s nothing like an old-fashioned eyeball-to-eyeball visit.