J. Jance - Partner In Crime

I paused momentarily in front of Barbara’s desk. She motioned to the earpiece of her phone to indicate someone else was talking, so I went on my way. Back at my desk I opened Latisha Wall’s folder and was relieved when the first piece of paper that fluttered out contained a scribbled notation in Harry’s virtually illegible scrawl that said Officer Unreadable in Indecipherable, Georgia, had made the next-of-kin notification. I was glad to know I had dodged that particular bullet.

I had only just started on the file’s first page when my phone rang. “Beaumont here.”

“Good morning,” Naomi Pepper said cheerily. “How long did it take you to make it over to this side of the water?”

Naomi Cullen Pepper is a relatively recent widow and a girlfriend of rather brief standing. We had met more than a month earlier on a cruise ship bound for Alaska. Through several strange turns of events, we had found ourselves bunking in the same cabin – a situation that had, almost effortlessly, evolved into our becoming lovers. It was only when we were back home and on solid ground that the new reality hit me.

The first time I asked her out on a date, I spent hours agonizing over where I would take her and what I would wear. Ralph Ames, my attorney and good friend, happened to be visiting my Belltown Terrace condo at the time I was wrestling with that dilemma. He had almost fallen on the floor laughing.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he had demanded. “You’ve already spent several nights in a cruise-ship cabin with the woman. How can you be worried about what you’re going to wear?”

Believe me, worrying was easy. The truth is, on board the Starfire Breeze , where Naomi and I had walked away with the ship’s tango prize, everything had seemed amazingly simple. But back on dry land, being involved in a relationship was much more complicated. And a lot more like hard work. What wasn’t easy for me right then was carrying on my half of the conversation opposite Naomi’s breezy sweet nothings when I was stuck in a tiny open-ended cubicle with God knew how many of my fellow Unit B SHIT investigators lapping it all up.

“Long time,” I muttered in response to her question. “Two and a half hours. How about you?”

“I had to be here for a seven o’clock meeting,” she said.

Naomi had recently been promoted to assistant manager in the kitchen department at The Bon Marché. Part of the promotion had involved her transferring from the downtown Seattle store to the Bell Square one in downtown Bellevue. This meant we were both now commuting from the west side of Lake Washington to the east side, although our disjointed schedules made carpooling impossible.

“I was already crossing 520 before they shut down I- 90,” she continued. “I heard they’ve reopened the bridge,” she added. “No bombs anywhere. Are we still on for tomorrow?”

I was lost in Latisha Wall’s history. “For tomorrow?” I said vaguely.

“Come on, Beau. Don’t play dumb. It’s your birthday. We’re going out, remember? My treat.”

There comes a time, somewhere after forty, when birthdays are best forgotten. Or ignored. In this case, I had forgotten completely.

“Come on,” I wheedled. “Am I the kind of guy who would forget his own birthday?”

Of course, the answer was yes. I was and I had, but Naomi was all for giving me the benefit of the doubt.

“Good,” she said. “We’re going someplace special. As long as you don’t mind driving back to Bellevue after driving home from work, that is.”

With a dozen top-rated restaurants within walking distance of Belltown Terrace, there wasn’t much need to drive all the way to Bellevue for dinner, but Naomi had made it clear that this time she was paying. “I don’t mind at all,” I told her.

“All right,” she said. “I just wanted to confirm. Will I see you tonight?”

“Probably,” I said. “I’ll give you a call this afternoon.”

I looked up to see Barbara Galvin standing in my doorway and giving me a knowing smile. Why wouldn’t she? It’s no coincidence that the newest kid on the block – me – has the cubicle closest to Barbara’s desk.

“Gotta go,” I said hurriedly to Naomi. “Somebody’s waiting.”

“You didn’t have to hang up on her like that,” Barbara told me. “I would have waited.”

She had been listening. My ears turned red. “We were done anyway,” I said. “What’s up?”

Barbara tossed an envelope onto my desk. “Your travel packet, complete with itinerary,” she said. “You’re booked on Alaska Flight 790. It leaves for Tucson tomorrow morning at seven A.M.”

“Seven A.M.!” I groaned. “Are you kidding? Why so early?”

Barbara grinned. “What’s the matter, Beau?” she asked. “Got a hot date? You’re on that flight because, even though it’s the last minute, the travel agent was able to get us a good deal. She has you scheduled to return next Friday afternoon, but you can always extend if you need to.”

Maybe I should go ahead and do it right now , I thought glumly. When Naomi finds out about this, there won’t be any point in coming home .

Assuming the conversation had ended, I opened the envelope and glanced at the E-ticket itinerary. When I glanced back up, Barbara was still standing in my doorway looking at me with a strange, faraway look on her face.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said with a shrug. “I was just thinking about how much you remind me of my dad.”

Words every older guy loves to hear! No longer a hunk, you’re someone’s dad instead.

With that she was gone. Poor kid , I thought in a sudden flash of empathy. No wonder she can put up with all of Unit B’s geriatric cop crap. She must have spent most of her life living with an old troglodyte who is as tough to get along with as we are .

I picked up the phone and called Naomi right back. “Where were you planning on taking me to dinner tomorrow night?” I asked.

“Why? It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“It’s a surprise, all right. I just found out I have to be on a plane to Tucson at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Work or pleasure?” Naomi asked.

“What do you think?”

“Bis,” she said. “Bis on Main is the name of the restaurant.”

“What do you say we go tonight instead? I’ll pay.”

“I suppose,” she agreed, although I could tell she wasn’t happy about it. “If you can get a reservation, that is. It’s a pretty popular place.”

I looked up the number in the phone book, called, and gave whoever answered my tale of woe. “For you, my friend, I believe we can do something,” he said. “We’re very busy this evening, but if you could come in early, say five-thirty…”

“Done,” I told him. “It might just as well be early. I have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning to catch a plane.”

I put down the phone. Part of me was sorry to disappoint Naomi. And part of me was pissed at the people in the AG’s office for dropping this on me at the last minute. But there was a third part of me – the stubborn old-coot part – that was more than happy to get off his butt, put the cold-case files back where they belonged, and go to work.

FOR THE SECOND TIME IN AS MANY DAYS, Joanna and Frank Montoya’s “early-morning” briefing took place in the early afternoon. Afterward, Joanna started in on that day’s worth of correspondence. Almost an hour later and near the bottom of the stack, she discovered the latest edition of The Bisbee Bee . The words “See page two!” were scribbled on the top of the front page in Kristin Gregovich’s girlish handwriting.