J. Jance - Trial By Fury

"What's up?" I asked Watty as soon as they called the deputy back upstairs to carry the equipment down to the alley. "What did they find?"

"Come see for yourself," Watty said grimly.

I followed him outside and down the steps. The King County van had been moved farther down the alley and was parked next to the garbage can. The deputy was busy hauling out power cables to hook the laser up outside.

As we started away from them without acknowledging their presence, the members of the press put up a hell of a fuss.

"Ignore them," Watty ordered. I was only too happy to oblige.

We walked down the alley and gathered around the garbage can like a group of male witches around a mysterious cauldron. Standing to one side, I watched as the laser operator lowered his cable into the can. The brilliant light illuminated only a tiny area at a time. Someone had removed the top layer of paint-sodden rags. I moved even closer to see what had been unearthed, what the light was focusing on.

It was a bottle, a tiny medicine bottle, the kind liquid narcotics are stored in before someone sucks them into a syringe.

I turned to Watty then. "Morphine?" I asked.

He nodded, saying nothing.

"Oh, shit!" I muttered. Sick with dread, I turned to walk away.

Just beyond the police barricade, a camera-man caught me walking back down the alley. As I passed him, I was aware of the red light from his videocam shining full on my face. It was then I realized I had never called Ames to let him know what was going on, and here I was, live, on the eleven o'clock news.

I wanted to grab the camera out of the man's hands and shove it down his throat. I didn't.

Excessive common sense is one of the few side benefits of advancing middle age.

Unfortunately, it's also a symptom of despair.

We went back into Candace Wynn's apartment, eventually, after the deputy had used the laser to go over everything of interest in the garbage can. By then, Watty was as serious as hell. The morphine bottle was no joke. He watched over our shoulders while the crime scene team, the other two Seattle P.D. detectives, and I scoured the place inch by inch. We found a number of useful items, including the automobile license renewal form on Andi's Chevy Luv. Watty phoned the license number, in to dispatch and told them to put out an APB on Candace Wynn.

I lost all track of time. Long after one in the morning somebody thought to reach down behind the couch cushions. There, stuck in the crack between the springs and the back of the couch, we discovered a small, dark, leather wallet. I recognized it at once.

"That's Peters'," I said.

Sure enough. Inside we found both his badge and his departmental ID. I felt like somebody had kicked me in the stomach.

Right up until then, I suppose I'd kept hoping I was wrong. Hoping that, despite the mounting evidence, Peters would show up and chew my butt for pushing panic buttons when he was just out knocking off a piece of ass. Finding his badge corked it for me. Cops don't get separated from their badges without a fight. Or without a reason.

When we finally left Candace Wynn's apartment, Watty and I took our separate vehicles and drove back downtown to the Public Safety Building. I went upstairs to write my report while a team from the crime lab night shift went to work as fast as they could on comparing the prints we'd found on the things in Joanna Ridley's trunk with the prints in Candace Wynn's apartment.

With every moment vital, it was frustrating to realize that the process, which would take several hours of manual labor, could have been done in a matter of seconds with a computerized fingerprint identification unit. The last request for one had been turned down cold by the state legislature.

When I finished my report, I stamped around the fifth floor, railing at anybody who would listen about goddamned stupid legislators who were penny-wise and pound-foolish.

In the meantime, another team downstairs had tackled the paint samples. It turns out that paint samples take a hell of a lot less time to compare than fingerprints. My friend, Janice Morraine, called me at my desk about three-thirty in the morning to let me know that the samples taken from Candace Wynn's porch matched those taken from Darwin Ridley's hair as well as those from the rope found in Joanna Ridley's trunk.

That one little chip of information told me who. It didn't tell me why or how. And it didn't give me a clue as to where she was right then.

I left the office about four. I had caught my second wind. Instead of driving home to my apartment, I headed for Kirkland. I needed to talk to Ames and tell him what we had found, to say nothing of what we hadn't. I also needed his calm assessment of the situation.

Much to my surprise, even at that late hour the lights were blazing in Peters' living room. I peered in the window of the door and caught a glimpse of Ames ' head peeking over the back of a chair. His face was pointed at a snowy, otherwise blank television screen on the other side of the room.

A series of light taps on the window brought Ames scrambling to his feet. "Who is it?" He opened the door, then stood back, rubbing his eyes. "Oh, it's you," he mumbled. "Did you find anything?"

Ames led me into the kitchen, where we scrounged around for sandwich makings while I told him what I knew. He nodded as I talked.

"I watched the news at eleven," he commented somberly. "The reporters didn't have any idea what was going on, but I could tell it wasn't good."

"Did Heather and Tracie see it?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Mrs. Edwards finally talked them into bed about ten."

"Good."

Over a thick tuna sandwich, I finished the story, including all the minute details I could remember, from the paint samples and the morphine bottle to Peters' ID holder hidden in the couch.

Me and my big mouth.

When I ended my story, the room got quiet. It was then I heard the sound of a muted whimper coming from the other room.

Hurrying to the pocket door between the kitchen and the dining room, I slid it open. There, crouched on the floor, I discovered Tracie, her whole body shaken by partially muffled sobs.

"Tracie, what is it? What's the matter?"

I picked her up and held her against my chest. "You didn't find my daddy. You promised you would and you didn't."

I touched her brown hair, smoothing it away from her tearstained cheeks. "Shhh, sweetie," I whispered. "It's all right."

She pulled away and looked at me reproachfully. "It's not all right. He's dead," she declared. "I know he's dead."

"No, Tracie. Your daddy's not dead. He's lost, and we're going to find him. You wait and see."

"But what if he is," she insisted stubbornly. "That's what happens on TV. The bad guys and the good guys shoot each other. Usually, the bad guys die. But sometimes the good guys die, too."

Ames came over and gave Tracie's head a comforting pat. "This isn't TV, Tracie. Everything's going to be all right. You'll see."

"But what if?"

"Don't you worry. You go back to bed and let Uncle Beau and me handle it. It's late. Mrs. Edwards said you have to go to Sunday school in the morning."

"I don't want to go to Sunday school."

"Too bad." Ames reached out and took Tracie from my arms. She went without objection. He carried her out of the room and down the hall. When he returned to the kitchen, he was alone.

"Will she stay in bed?" I asked.

"We'll see," he answered.

"Goddamned television," I muttered.

Ames sat down across the kitchen table from me, a small, tight frown on his face. He rubbed his forehead wearily. "What would happen to the girls?" he asked.

"You mean if something happened to Peters?"

Ames nodded again. "Has he made any arrangements? Do you have any idea?"