'The container and the trunk for certain. They said yesterday they're going to try to work out a deal with the county to run the contents past the county's YAG to see if they can raise anything there.'
'YAG? What the hell's a YAG?'
'Their new laser printfinder. Janice Morraine was telling me about it. They use it to raise prints on all kinds of unlikely surfaces-cement, rumpled tinfoil.'
'Off rope and clothing, too?'
'Not too likely, but possible. She said there's a remote chance. I've also called for a tech to go over Joanna Ridley's house for prints.'
'Any idea when the container was placed in the car or any sign of forced entry?'
I shook my head. 'The killer had Darwin 's keys, remember? House keys and car keys, both.'
'I had forgotten,' Peters said thoughtfully.
'She's going to have all her locks changed today, just in case.'
Peters nodded. 'That's probably wise.'
We were both quiet for a moment. It was as good a time as any to bring up my scheduling conflict between the real estate closing and Darwin Ridley's funeral.
'By the way,' I said casually, 'Ralph Ames is flying in this afternoon. I pick him up at the airport at one. We're supposed to close on Belltown Terrace at three-thirty this afternoon. Do you think you could handle Ridley's funeral by yourself?'
I more than half-expected an objection, for Peters to say that he needed to be home with his kids. It's an excuse that packs a whole lot of weight with me. Had he used it, I probably would have knuckled under, given Ames my power of attorney, and had him stand in for me at the closing.
Instead, Peters surprised me. 'Sure, no problem. What about the memorial service after the funeral? Want me to handle that, too?'
'That would be great.'
Dave Rimbaugh's house was a snug nineteen-thirties bungalow dwarfed by the evergreen trees that had grown up around it. The woman who came to the door was almost as wide as the door itself. Her pug nose and the rolling jowls of her face made her look like a bulldog. A nearsighted bulldog wearing thick glasses.
'Davey,' she called over her shoulder. 'Hon, there's somebody here to see you.'
'Davey' wasn't a day under seventy. He was a spry old man, as lean as his wife was fat. They were a living rendition of the old Jack Sprat routine. His face lit up all over when Peters showed his ID and told him who we were and what we wanted.
'See there, Francie. I told you I talked to a real detective on the phone, and you thought I was pulling your leg.' He led us into the living room. Every available flat surface in the room was full of glass and ceramic elephants of every size and description. Dave Rimbaugh noticed me looking at them.
'We've been collecting them for fifty-six years now,' he said proudly. 'There's more in the dining room. Would you like to see those?'
'No, thanks,' I told him quickly, stopping him before he could hurry into the next room. 'I can see you've got an outstanding collection, but we'd better get to work. Business before pleasure, you know.'
'Good.' Rimbaugh nodded appreciatively. 'Don't like to waste the taxpayer's money, right?'
'Right,' I said, sitting down on the wing-backed chair he offered me, while Peters sank into the old-fashioned, flower-patterned couch.
Rimbaugh rubbed his hands together in anticipation. 'Now then, what can I do for you boys?'
Peters grimaced visibly at the term 'boys.' It was clear 'Davey' Rimbaugh regarded us as a couple of young whippersnappers. Doing his best to conceal his annoyance, Peters reached into a file folder and pulled out the fanfold of photographs. He offered them to our host.
'Take a look at these, Mr. Rimbaugh. See if there's anyone here you recognize, anyone you may have seen at the Coliseum last Friday night.'
Dave Rimbaugh only had to glance through the pictures once before he pounced on Wheeler-Dealer's smiling countenance. 'Him,' he said decisively. 'That's him. He was there.'
Unable to contain her curiosity, Francie Rimbaugh got up from the couch and came over to her husband's chair. She stood behind him like she'd been planted there, leaning over his shoulder so she, too, could look at the picture in his hand.
'Why, forevermore!' she exclaimed. 'I know him. Isn't that the man on the television, the one on the late movies? I think he sells cars. Or maybe furniture.'
Dave Rimbaugh held the picture up to the light. 'Why, Francie, I do believe you're right. He looked familiar at the time, but I just couldn't place him.'
He patted his wife's rump affectionately and pulled her close to him. 'Francie here, now she's the one with the memory for faces,' he said. 'Faces and names both.'
'Do you remember when you saw this man?' Peters asked. 'It's important that we know exactly when he was there.'
Dave Rimbaugh leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, frowning with the effort of concentration. 'All I remember is, I was drinking a cup of coffee at the time. Almost spilled it all over me when he rushed past. Said there was an emergency of some kind. Didn't ask him what, just let him go through.'
'So what time was it?' Peters prodded. 'Halftime? Later than that?'
'I don't know if it was halftime or not. They play a whole bunch of games each day during the tournament. Let's see. Wait a minute, I had only two cups of coffee that night. That was all that was left in the pot when I filled the thermos. When he almost knocked me down, I remember thinking it's a good thing it's almost time to go home, 'cause there isn't any coffee left.'
I could see Peters was losing patience with trying to pull usable information out of the old man's ramblings. 'What time did you get off work?' I asked.
'Nine o'clock,' he said. 'Isn't that right, Francie? I was home by ten, wasn't I?'
She nodded. 'That's right. We watched the early late movie together before we went to bed. The old one with Gary Cooper in it.'
'And how close was that second cup of coffee to the time you came home?'
'It was just before. Sure, that's right. Must have been right around eight.' Rimbaugh looked at us triumphantly.
'You're sure you didn't see him after that?' Peters asked.
'Nope. Not that I remember.'
Peters sighed and rose. I followed.
'Does that help?' Rimbaugh asked.
'I hope so,' Peters replied. 'We'll be back in touch.'
Once outside, we held a quick conference. 'What do you think?' Peters asked.
I shrugged. 'Eight o'clock sounds like halftime to me.'
'But he could have come back later, without Rimbaugh seeing him.'
That, too, was a distinct possibility. As distinct a possibility as anything I'd come up with. There was no way to tell for sure.
So much for being the Grand Old Man of Homicide.
CHAPTER 21
Peters went back to the Public Safety Building. During my lunch hour, I took the Porsche and drove down to Sea-Tac to pick up Ralph Ames.
Ralph was a dapper-looking guy, an attorney's attorney. He had a low-key look about him that said he knew what he was doing. I probably never would have gotten to know him if I hadn't inherited him from Anne Corley. It took a while to get to know the man under his air of quiet reserve, but once I did, he turned out to be one hell of a nice guy.
At the airport that day, when I went to pick him up, he had an uncharacteristic shit-eating grin on his face that
