thing in my own family. I’ve made a lifelong study of it.”
“You make it sound as though you’ve been working on this book for quite a while.”
“I have,” Anne said. “All over the country.”
“Making any money at it?” Peters asked. There was a classic cut to her clothing, elegant and expensive. They spoke of style as well as money.
Anne laughed, easily, comfortably. “If I were in it for the money, I’d have quit a long time ago. No, it’s strictly a labor of love.” The laughter disappeared from her face. She regarded Peters seriously. “Why do you think Angela Barstogi is dead?”
Peters shrugged. “No logical reason; she just is.”
The light dawned slowly. I’m not a fast learner. Hearing Anne questioning Peters about the case, I realized that I had been nothing more to Anne Corely than part of her pet research project. It was an ego-bruising realization. I reached for the check, ignoring the fact that neither Anne’s nor Peters’ coffee cup was empty.
I walked too fast, making it difficult for Anne to keep up. Let her dawdle along with Peters, I fumed. She probably had a whole string of questions to ask him. As for me, I had better things to do with my time than answer questions for some half-baked author. I felt suckered, used. I squirmed a little too. I remembered the previous evening’s dinnertime topic. I had shot my mouth off royally, all the time thinking Anne Corley was interested in me when in fact she had only been fishing for information. It would have been easier for me to handle if I had been a rookie. No veteran cop should have been so stupid.
Peters and Anne caught up with me in the elevator lobby on the first floor. Peters excused himself because he had to run an errand. I waited for the notoriously slow elevators, fervently wishing one would come quickly so I could escape Anne Corley’s quizzical look.
“Are you angry?” she asked, her question unnervingly direct.
“No,” I said quickly, defensively. “Of course not. Why should I be?”
“But you are,” she replied.
A bell rang and a door opened. People filed into an elevator, but I didn’t. “Yes,” I admitted at last. “You’re right. I am angry.”
“Why?” she asked.
“It’s a long story,” I answered. “I thought you were…Well, I mean I…”
“Why aren’t you listed in the phone book?” she asked. “I changed my mind about the drink after I dropped you off, but there was no way to call you.”
“I’m a homicide detective. We don’t have listed numbers.” I felt a momentary flash of pleasure that she had tried to call me, but then I remembered her subterfuge and was angry all over again. Another elevator showed up, and I made as if to get on it. She put one hand on my wrist. Her touch nailed my feet to the lobby floor.
“I’m not here about the Barstogi case, Beau,” she said. “I came because I wanted to see you.”
“Come on, Anne, there’s no fool like an old fool. I’ve been saying that to myself all day. If you want to ask questions, do it aboveboard. Don’t play games.”
“Will you meet me after work?” she asked.
“Do you want me to bring Peters? We’re both working the case.” I couldn’t resist a dig.
She responded in kind. “Bring a chaperone if you want, but that wasn’t what I had in mind.”
I swallowed the bait like a starving mackerel. “Where?” I asked.
“Meet me in the lobby of the Four Seasons,” she said. “We can have a drink there. About five-thirty.”
She turned and walked away. I missed the next elevator fair and square. In fact, I might have stood in the lobby for the rest of the afternoon if Peters hadn’t come through and dragged me back to the fifth floor.
The phone on my desk was ringing. “Hello, J. P.” Maxwell Cole said. “You didn’t return my call.”
“You noticed,” I observed dryly. “You know I can’t talk to you directly. Lay off it.”
“Who is she? The car is owned by a law firm in Phoenix, Arizona, and they won’t tell me anything.”
“I won’t tell you anything either, Max. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Come on, give. You left with her.”
“It was stricly social, I can assure you. Had nothing to do with the case, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“If it was strictly social as you say, tell me who she is.”
“Go piss up a rope, Maxey,” I told him, and I hung up.
The sole advantage of going to lunch at two-fifteen is there’s not a whole hell of a lot of day left when you get back. Maxwell Cole had good sources. The Department of Motor Vehicles gave me the same information he had, the name of a law firm in Phoenix. I called and got a chilly reception from the lady who answered the phone. “Mr. Ames handles Mrs. Corley’s affairs,” she said, “but I have been instructed to give out no information.”
“This is a very serious matter,” I said. “I’m investigating a homicide.”
“Give me your name, then, and Mr. Ames will get back to you.”
“Don’t you want the number?”
“No. If you really work for the Seattle Police Department, we’ll be able to get your number through information.
My phone rang a few minutes later, and a Ralph Ames introduced himself as Anne Corley’s attorney. “You’ll have to forgive my receptionist, Detective Beaumont,” he said. “Yours was the second call on Mrs. Corley we’ve had this afternoon. The first one didn’t check out.”
“Was his name Maxwell Cole?”
“As a matter of fact, it was.”
“And he tried to pass himself off as a cop?”
“Well, as an investigator of some kind.”
“He’s a member of the local press.”
“I figured as much,” Ralph Ames laughed. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“As I told your receptionist, I’m working on a homicide and—”
“Excuse me for interrupting, Detective Beaumont, but let me guess. You’re working on the murder of a young child, and you’re trying to figure out why Anne Corley came to the funeral, right?”
“That’s exactly right, Mr. Ames.”
“She’s working on a book. She’s been working on it for several years. I get calls like this all the time.”
“Yes, she told me about the book,” I said, relieved. “Still, I have to check things out. It’s my job.”
“That’s quite all right, Detective Beaumont. This is my job too. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No. Nothing I can think of. Thanks.”
“Anytime,” he said. He hung up.
I waited while Peters finished taking a call from Hammond, Indiana. Yes, Brodie had been investigated in the bludgeoning death of one of his parishioners two years earlier, but he had never been indicted. The case was still open.
There wasn’t a whole lot more we could do then, so we took off about four-thirty and went by the Warwick to check on Carstogi. He told us he had made plane reservations for the following morning. Peters went down to the lobby for a telephone huddle with Watkins to see what he thought about Carstogi returning to Chicago. While Peters was out of the room, Carstogi told me he planned to go to a movie that night. There are at least six theaters within walking distance of the Warwick, not counting the porno flicks. I didn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t go.
As I opened the door to let Peters back into the room, he signaled everything was okay. “You’ll keep us posted on how to get in touch with you once you get home?” Peters asked.
“Sure thing,” Carstogi said agreeably. He seemed to be in good spirits, all things considered; We left him to his own devices. His close encounter with Michael Brodie’s fist had pretty much taken the wind out of his sails.
Peters drove off in his Datsun. I hurried to my apartment and put on a clean shirt; then I caught the free bus back up to the Four Seasons. I didn’t tell Peters I was going to meet Anne Corley. I was afraid he’d want to tag along.
Chapter 11