company.
Peters brought out the sketch Aubrey had made and handed it to Sophie. She held it close to her face, examining it first with the pointed glasses in place and then with them lowered so she could peer over them. She handed it back to Peters.
“Maybe,” she said.
“What about a van? Do you remember seeing one of those in the neighborhood?”
She furrowed her brow. “I do, now that you mention it, a black one, but not the last few days. I thought it was part of the group. I saw it a few times, usually in the morning.”
“Will you call us if you see it again?” I asked. “Try to get the license number and call us right away.”
“I most certainly will, young man,” she said. I got the distinct impression Sophie Czirski still didn’t approve of me.
We escaped without having tea. We went back to the department and reported to Watkins. We felt like we were making progress. We sent for motor vehicle reports on a list of known sexual offenders in the state of Washington. It’s the grunt work, routine things, an expired vehicle license or an unpaid traffic ticket, that often break a case. We left the computer folks to pull together the information we needed.
“Ready to call it a day?” I asked Peters.
“How about stopping by for a drink on the way home. I’ll buy.”
I glanced surreptitiously at the clock, trying to remember exactly when I had told Anne I’d be home.
“Come on,” Peters insisted. “You’re not married yet.”
I took the bait. “All right,” I agreed. “I guess I can stop off for a while.”
Chapter 18
We went down to F. X. McRory’s on Occidental Street. Peters got off on the right foot by buying a bottle of champagne. “All right, you closemouthed bastard,” he said, raising his glass, “now that I’m a party to this little romance, you’d better tell me about her.”
I didn’t need to be asked twice. I hadn’t had a chance to tell anyone about Anne. I’m afraid I waxed eloquent. I told him how she had looked at the funeral and about our first dinner at Snoqualmie Falls afterward. I told him about the Porsche and the fur jacket and the Doghouse and the depth and the laughter and the wit and the sudden darknesses, all the things that seemed so contradictory in Anne, and all the things that made me love her.
About that time Captain Powell showed up and, uninvited, took a chair at our table. “What’s this I hear about you getting married?”
I looked to Peters for help, but he stared off into space, as innocent as the day is long. “Who is she?” Powell continued.
Taking a deep breath, I said, “her name’s Anne Corley. She’s the Lady in Red from Maxwell Cole’s column.”
“Are you shitting me? You said you met her at Angela Barstogi’s funeral, last Sunday. What is this, love at first sight? That only happens in the movies.”
“It’s a shotgun wedding,” Peters interjected snidely. I aimed a swift kick at him under the table, but I missed. He grinned at me and motioned to the waitress for what I thought would be our bill. Instead, a second bottle of champagne was delivered, Eastern Onion Style.
It consisted of a singing telegram complete with a down-and-dirty stripper. Only afterward, amid hoots of laughter, did I realize that while we’d been talking, the bar had quietly filled with people from the department. They were all there. Not only Powell, whose frown of disapproval had been replaced by a wide grin, but also the rest of the guys from homicide, Hamilton from public information, and the women from word-processing.
They had a wild assortment of off-color cards, congratulating me for lechery despite my advanced years. It was a rowdy party by any standards. I don’t know how Peters managed to arrange it. He must have done it while Anne and I were having lunch.
I had a good time. It was getting late, though, and no one seemed to be in any hurry to leave. I was trying to think of a polite way to abandon ship, when there was a flurry of activity near the front door. My reason for going home early strode toward me, a dazzling smile on her lips. Anne’s very presence brightened the room, and it became an engagement party to remember.
Captain Powell came up to be introduced. “Now that I see the lady in question,” he grinned, “maybe love at first sight isn’t out of the question after all.”
Well-wishers came forward for introductions and congratulations. The guests milled around for some time before they gradually began to disappear. At last only the three of us remained — Anne, Peters, and me. Peters looked enormously pleased with himself.
“You sure put one over on me,” I said to him. “Thanks.”
Anne added her thanks to mine and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“You’re welcome,” Peters replied.
We left Pioneer Square on foot. Peters said he was going back to the department, while Anne, after producing her pair of Nikes from the ubiquitous Adidas bag, set a swift pace up First Avenue. I found myself hurrying to keep up, wanting to shield her from the human debris around us. “Couldn’t we take our constitutional in a better part of town?” I suggested. “First Avenue tends to get a little rough.”
“The bums don’t bother me,” she said, and they didn’t. Panhandlers pick out soft touches from blocks away. It’s as if they have a radar connection. None of them approached Anne as she marched through them. Something in her carriage, her bearing, moved them away from her. Like the crush of people in Snoqualmie Lodge, the groups of bums opened before and shut behind her while she moved forward unimpeded.
Driving in a car you’re not as aware of it, but from Pioneer Square to Seattle Center there’s a long, steep grade that tops out at Stewart Street. By the time we reached that point, I was about half winded. Anne set a stiff pace.
“I didn’t know I was so far out of shape,” I grunted.
Anne was clearly enjoying herself. “You’ll just have to get out and walk more,” she said.
We walked in silence for a block or two. “Is Ron coming to the wedding?” she asked suddenly.
“Ron? Oh, you mean Peters? I don’t know. I invited him.”
“I don’t think he likes me particularly.”
“What makes you say that?”
“During the party I caught him staring at me several times.”
“I think he’d like to believe you’re after my money, although seeing your car should have taken care of any suspicions on that score. I guess he thinks we’re rushing into something. Leaping without looking, that kind of thing.”
I caught her by the hand and pulled her back to me. “Why
She reached up and kissed me on the cheek. “But great lovers. I’m marrying you for your body.”
“Anne, you could have any body you wanted. Why me?”
Her eyes, which had been bright and teasing a moment before, softened. “Because you made me remember what it’s like to be a woman, Beau. I had forgotten.”
I pulled her to me, and we stood clasped in an embrace for a long moment at the corner of First and Virginia. Her answer may not have been good enough for Peters or Powell, but it was for me. At last we resumed walking, both of us quiet and lost in our own private thoughts.
We ran into Ida Newell, my neighbor, in the lobby. It was a moment I had been dreading. I was sure by now Ida had monitored Anne’s comings and goings on the closed-circuit channel. It was time to make an honest woman of her, I decided. “I’d like you to meet my fiancee, Ida. This is Anne Corley. Ida Newell.”
“Fiancee,” Ida sniffed. “I’m surprised. I haven’t met you before.”
“I’m from Arizona,” Anne said with an easy smile. “It’s been one of those long-distance affairs. I’m very happy to meet you.”
