J. Jance: Trial By Fury

It wasn’t nearly innocuous enough. Just that quickly tears appeared in the corners of her eyes. "Two weeks," she managed. She wiped the tears away and then sat looking at me, her luminous dark eyes searching my face. "Is it true what you said, that your mother raised you alone?"

I nodded. "My father died before I was born. My parents weren’t married."

She lowered her gaze and bit her lip. Her voice was almost a whisper. "Are you saying that’ll make it easier, that we were married?"

"It’ll be better for the baby," I returned. "Believe me, I know what I’m talking about."

Wanda poked her head in the doorway to see if we were going to order anything besides coffee. I waved her away. I decided I’d offer Joanna Ridley food again later, if either of us had the stomach for it, but now was the time to ask questions, to begin assembling the pieces of the puzzle.

"Mrs. Ridley," I began.

"Joanna," she corrected.

"Joanna, this will probably be painful, but I have to start somewhere. Do you know if your husband was in any kind of difficulty?"

"Difficulty? What do you mean?"

"Gambling, maybe?" Even high school teams and coaches get dragged into gambling scams on occasion.

Joanna shook her head, and I continued. "Drugs? One way or another, most crimes in this country are connected to the drug trade."

"No," she replied tersely, her face stony.

"Was he under any kind of medical treatment?"

"No. He was perfectly healthy."

"You’re sure he wasn’t taking any medication?"

Again she shook her head. " Darwin never used drugs of any kind. He was opposed to them."

"The medical examiner found morphine in his bloodstream. You’ve no idea where it could have come from?"

"I told you. He didn’t use drugs, not even aspirin. Is that what killed him, the morphine?"

It was my turn to shake my head while I considered how to tell her. "He died of a broken neck," I said softly. "Somebody tied a rope around his neck and hung him."

Joanna’s eyes widened. "Dear God!" She pushed her chair back so hard it clattered against the wall. Dodging her way through empty chairs and tables, she stopped only when she reached the far corner of the room. She leaned against the two walls, sobbing incoherently.

I followed, standing helplessly behind her, not knowing if I should leave her alone or reach out to comfort her. Finally, I placed one hand on her shoulder. She shuddered as if my hand had burned her and shrugged it away.

She turned on me then like a wounded animal, eyes blazing. "It’ll always be like that, won’t it! We’re accepted as long as we’re smart enough to know our place, but cross that line, and niggers are only good for hanging!"

"Joanna, I…"

She pushed her way past me, returned to our table, and grabbed up her shawl. Just as suddenly as the outburst had come, it subsided. Her face went slack. "Take me home," she said wearily. "There are people I need to call."

I dropped money on the table for the coffee and trailed her outside. When I caught up, Joanna was standing by the Porsche, fingering the door handle. "Since when do cops drive Porsches," she asked when I walked up to open her car door.

"When they inherit them," I replied. I helped her into the car and closed the door behind her.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I glanced in her direction before I started the engine. She sat with her head resting against the carseat, her long, slender neck stretched taut, eyes closed, her face impassive. That unconscious pose elicited once more the striking similarity between Joanna Ridley and that ancient Egyptian queen, but this was no time to tell her how beautiful she was. Joanna Ridley was in no condition to hear it.

"I didn’t finish asking all my questions," I said, starting the car and putting it in gear.

"Ask them tomorrow. I’m worn out."

"Somebody will come stay with you? You shouldn’t be alone."

She nodded. "I’ll call someone."

We drove through the city. It was early, not more than eight o’clock or so, but it seemed much later. I felt incredibly tired. Joanna Ridley wasn’t the only one who was worn out. She just had a hell of a lot better reason.

I drove back to her place and pulled up in front of her house. "Would you like me to come in with you?" I asked. "I could stay until someone comes over."

"Don’t bother," she said. "I can take care of myself."

I started to get out to open the door for her, but she opened it herself, struggled out of the low-slung seat, and was inside the house before I knew what had hit me. I sat there like a jerk and watched her go.

It wasn’t until I turned the car around that I noticed the light in the carport was out. I couldn’t remember her switching it off when we left the house, but she must have. As a precaution, I waited in the car with my hand on the door handle long enough to see her pick up a phone, dial, and begin talking.

She’ll be all right, I said to myself as I put the car in gear and drove up the street. What Joanna Ridley needed right then was family and friends, people who cared about her and would give her the strength and courage to pick up the pieces and go on with her life. What she didn’t need was an aging police watchdog with a penchant for finding bogeymen under every light switch.

Right that minute Joanna Ridley needed J. P. Beaumont like she needed a hole in her head.

One of the drawbacks of living in the royal Crest is the lack of soundproofing. I can hear my phone ringing the moment the elevator door opens. It’s always a horse race to see if I can unlock the door and grab the phone before whoever’s calling gives up. My attorney keeps suggesting I get an answering machine, but I’m too old-fashioned. And too stubborn.

Detective Peters was still on the phone when I picked it up. He was hot.

"God damn it, Beau. What the hell are you up to now? I’ve had calls from Watty and Captain Powell, both. They’re ready to tear you apart. Me, too. They demanded I tell them what we had. Remember me? I’m your partner."

"Hold up, Peters. It’s not my fault."

"Not your fault! I heard you told Doc Baker to piss up a rope."

"Not in those exact words."

"Jesus H. Christ, Beau. What’s going on?"

"It’s Ridley, all right."

That stopped Peters cold. "No shit! The basketball coach? I remembered where I’d heard the name while I was stuck on the bridge, but there was no way to get hold of you. Who identified him?"

"His wife. He’d been missing since Friday, but she didn’t report it. Thought he was sulking over losing the game. She figured he’d come home eventually."

Peters gave his customary, long, low whistle. "Have you sealed the car?"

"Not yet. I just dropped Joanna Ridley back at her house."

"Should I come on in? That Buick shouldn’t sit outside any longer than it already has."

I glanced at my watch. It was nine o’clock and I was tired, but there was a lot of merit in what Peters said. Every effort has to be made to preserve evidence. "What about your girls?"

"Mrs. Edwards is here. The kids are asleep, and Mrs. Edwards is watching television." Mrs. Edwards was Peters’ live-in housekeeper/babysitter. "I’ll meet you at Lincoln Towing in twenty minutes."

As an old Fuller Brush salesman, I recognize an assumed close trap when I see one. Not do you want to meet me, but when will you meet me.

I needed to hit my second wind pretty damn soon. I was going to need it. Peters is a hell of a lot younger than I am, and he’s disgustingly immune to vices of any kind. Including booze. I avoided my recliner. I didn’t dare sit down and get comfortable for fear I wouldn’t get back up. Instead, I made a cursory pass at the refrigerator in a vain search for food before driving to Lincoln Towing’s Fairview lot.