J. Jance: Trial By Fury

"Any idea who it is?" Arlo asked.

"None whatsoever," Peters answered.

Hamilton turned back to the reporters. "That’s it. No further information at this time. The autopsy is scheduled for this afternoon." There was general groaning and grumbling as the reporters dispersed. Hamilton came back to us, shaking his head. "I got called in twice over the weekend. Here we go again, first thing Monday morning."

"Doc Baker says it must have been a full moon," Peters told Hamilton with a sarcastic grin.

"Right," Hamilton replied, then strode away.

We stopped in the drizzly parking lot and looked around. Two sides of Bailey’s Foods face Seattle Center. A third side is bounded by the backs of businesses that front on First Avenue North, while the fourth side is lined with backs of apartments and businesses that front on Mercer. There was nothing to do but hit the bricks with our standard question: Had anyone seen or heard anything unusual over the weekend?

The answer was no. Time and again. Everywhere we went, from little old retired ladies to a burly night watchman who was pissed as hell at being awakened out of a sound sleep. They all told the same story. No one had heard any unusual noises. Well, maybe it had been a little extra noisy Friday and Saturday nights, but that was to be expected. After all, the state high school basketball championships were being played in the Coliseum. Aside from that, there was nothing out of the ordinary. No strange vehicles. No strange noises. Business as usual.

Except for one dead man with a broken neck. He had evidently crept into the parking lot like fog. On little cat feet.

Who he was or where he’d come from, nobody seemed to know. Or care.

An army travels on its belly. J. P. Beaumont can go only so far on an empty stomach. On a good day. My endurance is reduced in direct proportion to the amount of MacNaughton’s consumed the night before-in this case, far too much.

By noon we had worked our way through most of the businesses and several almost deserted apartment buildings on Lower Queen Anne. Famished, I called a halt.

"We’ll come back later, after people get home from work. How about breakfast?"

Peters shrugged. "It’s up to you."

Leading the way to the Mecca Cafe, I ordered a full breakfast and conned a sympathetic waitress out of a pair of aspirin. Peters ordered herb tea. Tea, but no sympathy.

"You drink too much, Beau," he said.

"Lay off," I told him.

"I won’t lay off. You were fine when you left the house. What happened?"

I had spent Sunday afternoon helping Peters reassemble a secondhand swing set for his daughters, Heather and Tracie. The girls had supervised from the sidelines. They’re cute little kids, both of them. They were underfoot and in the way, but being around them made me realize once more exactly what I’d lost. I had finished the evening at the Dog House, my home-away-from-home hangout in downtown Seattle, crying over spilt milk and singing solos with the organist. Cold sober I don’t sing. I know better.

"Guess I got to feeling sorry for myself," I mumbled.

"Sorry!" Peters exclaimed. "What the hell for? You’re set. You wouldn’t have to work another day in your life if you weren’t so goddamned stubborn."

"Sure, I’m set. Now that it’s too late."

"Too late?" Peters echoed.

"Too late for me and my kids. Did I build the swing set for my own kids? No way. I was working nights as a security guard, trying to make ends meet. Karen had to ask a neighbor to help her put it up. No Little League games, no school programs. Now I’ve got both money and time, and where the hell are my kids? In California with Karen and their stepfather."

I dunked a piece of toast in my egg yolk and waited to see if Peters would jump me for eating eggs, too. He was quiet for a moment, stirring his tea thoughtfully. "Maybe you should join a health club, play racketball, get involved in something besides work."

"And maybe you should give up Homicide and go in for family counseling," I retorted. On that relatively unfriendly note, we left the Mecca and went back to work.

After lunch we spent some time in the Seattle Center Administration Office and got the names of all the security people who had worked Friday’s games. It was nice to have a list of phone numbers to work from for a change. They let us use a couple of empty desks and phones. We sat right there and worked our way through the list. For all the good it did us. None of the security guards could remember anything unusual, either.

When we left there, we finished our canvass of the neighborhood as much as possible considering the time of day, eventually returning to the car in the Bailey’s Foods parking lot. A man wearing a faded red flannel shirt over khaki pants and topped by a dingy Mariners baseball cap was leaving a nasty note under the windshield wiper.

"This your car?" he asked.

"Belongs to the mayor," Peters said, unlocking the driver’s door.

"City cars park free on city streets," the man continued plaintively. "Not on private property. Was gonna have you towed."

"Look," Peters explained, "we’re with Homicide. We’re working a case. Didn’t the store manager tell you?"

"Got nothin’ to do with the store. Parking’s separate. Good for half an hour, while you shop. That’s it. You gonna pay me or not?"

Peters glowered. "We’re here on official business."

"Me, too," the man whined. "My boss says collect. I collect. From every car. You included."

I reached into my pocket. "How much?"

"Two bucks." The man glanced triumphantly at Peters, who climbed into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him. I waited while the man counted out my change.

"You work over the weekend?" I asked.

"Me? I work every day. I’ve got four lots here on Queen Anne Hill that I check seven days a week, part-time. Keeps me in cigarettes and beer. Know what I mean?"

I nodded. "Did you tow any cars from here over the weekend?"

He lifted his grimy baseball cap and scratched his head. Peters had started the car. Impatiently, he rolled down the window. "Coming or not?" he demanded.

"In a minute," I told him. I returned to the parking attendant. "Well?"

"What’s it worth to you?" he asked.

I had no intention of putting a parking attendant on the city payroll as an informant. "How about if I don’t let my partner here run over your toes on the way out?"

Glancing at Peters, who sat there gunning the motor, the attendant mulled the idea, then reached into a pocket and retrieved a tattered notebook. He flipped through several pencil-smudged pages before stopping and holding the notebook at arm’s length.

"Yup, three of them Friday night, four on Saturday, and one on Sunday. Sunday’s real slow."

"Where to?" I asked.

He stuffed the notebook back in his pocket. "Like I said. That’ll cost you."

It’s a wonder some people are smart enough to get out of bed in the morning. He was standing directly in front of a green-and-white sign that said "Violators will be towed. At owner’s risk and expense. Lincoln Towing."

"That’s okay," I said. "We’ll figure it out."

"It’s about time," Peters grumbled when I finally got into the car. "Where to?"

"Lincoln Towing," I told him. "Over on Fairview. They towed eight cars out of the lot over the weekend. Maybe one of them belongs to the victim."

Peters put the car in gear, shaking his head in disbelief. "Come off it, Beau. Doc Baker said he was dumped here. After he died. Why would his car be left in the lot?"

"Humor me. Unless you’ve got a better idea."

He didn’t. We drove through what Seattlites jokingly refer to as the Mercer Mess, a city planner’s worst nightmare of how to stall traffic getting off and on a freeway. It’s a tangle of one-way streets that circle this way and that without any clear direction.