side of the conversation. 'So where's our little lost sheep?' he asked when I put the phone down.
'Being led around by his balls,' I replied.
'Is that what you're going to tell Maxine Edwards?' I looked at Ames. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
'No, God damn it. That's not what I'm going to tell Mrs. Edwards.'
'What then?'
'That he's working and he'll call as soon as he can.'
I did just that, punching Peters' telephone number into the receiver like I was killing bugs. Mrs. Edwards answered after only one ring. She must have been sitting on top of the phone. 'Hello.'
'Hi, Mrs. Edwards. Beau here. I haven't located Peters yet, but I understand he's working. He'll call home as soon as he can.'
'And I should just stay here with the kids?'
'Why not take them to a movie. It'll get their minds off their father.'
'That's a good idea. Maybe I'll do just that.'
As I stood up to leave, Ames handed me a yellow message sheet that he had plucked off my desk. 'Did you see this?' he asked.
The message was from Don Yamamoto in the crime lab, asking me to call. I did. Naturally, on Saturday morning, Don himself wasn't in. The State Patrol answered and tried to give me the runaround. When I insisted, they agreed to have Don Yamamoto call me back.
'It's about the flour container,' he said when we finally made the connection.
'What about it?'
'We got a good set of prints off Ridley's belt and also off the inside of the flour container. We're sending them to D.C. to see if we can get any kind of match.'
'Great,' I told him. 'That's good news.'
When I hung up the phone the second time, I told Ames what the crime lab had said as we marched out of the office.
Despite the good news from Yamamoto, I was still mad enough to chew nails. It was one thing if Peters wanted to get his rocks off with someone he had just met. I didn't have any quarrel with that. Peters' sex life was none of my concern, one way or the other. What burned me was that he had been so irresponsible about it. If not irresponsible, then certainly inconsiderate. Mrs. Edwards was upset. His kids were upset. So was I for that matter.
The least he could have done was call home, give some lame excuse or another, and then go screw his brains out. That way I wouldn't have been dragged out of a sound sleep and neither would Andy Taylor.
'So where are we going,' Ames asked me once he caught up with me on the street. 'Back to your place?'
'Not on your life. I'm not going to spend all day sitting there fielding phone calls for some wandering Romeo. And I'm not going to try calling his girlfriend's house, either.'
'Why not?' Ames asked.
'Because I don't feel like it. Want to go whack a few golf balls around a golf course?'
Ames stopped in his tracks. 'You really are pissed, aren't you? I've never once heard you threaten to play golf before.'
'Nobody said anything about playing golf,' I muttered. 'I want to hit something. Hitting golf balls happens to be socially acceptable.'
'As opposed to hitting someone over the head?' Ames asked. 'Ron Peters in particular?'
'That's right.'
'Golf it is,' said Ames. 'Lead the way.'
CHAPTER 24
The Foster Golf Course in Tukwila was the only place a couple of rank amateurs could get a toehold and a tee time on a sunny Saturday afternoon in March. We chased balls for eighteen holes' worth and were more than happy to call it quits. Ames wanted a hamburger. Just to be mean, I dragged him to what used to be Harry and Honey's Dinky Diner, until Honey ran Harry off and removed his name from the establishment. We had cheap hamburgers before returning to my apartment late in the afternoon.
On the kitchen counter, the little red light on my new answering machine was blinking cheerfully, announcing a message. Grudgingly, I punched the play button and waited to see what would happen. The machine blinked again, then burped, whirred, and beeped.
'Beau, I just…' a voice began, followed by the dial tone and then an operator's voice announcing, 'If you wish to place a call, please hang up and dial again. If you need help, hang up and dial your operator.'
Ames came out of the bathroom and wandered into the kitchen just as I punched the play button again. 'Who was it?' he asked.
'I don't know. I think it's Peters,' I told him. 'He sounded funny, though. Hang on a minute. I'm playing it again.'
When I heard the message the second time, I was sure the caller was Peters, but once more he was cut off, practically in mid-word.
'That's all?' Ames asked. 'Are there any other messages?'
'No, just this one.'
I picked up the phone and dialed Peters' number in Kirkland. Tracie, Peters' older daughter, answered the phone instantly. Disappointment was evident in her voice when she realized I wasn't her father.
'Oh, hi, Uncle Beau. Is my daddy with you?' she asked.
'No, he's not.'
'When will he be home?'
'I don't have any idea, sweetie. Let me talk to Mrs. Edwards.'
'She's taking a nap. I'm taking care of Heather for her. Should I wake her up?'
'No, never mind. She's probably tired. I'll call back later.' I hung up.
'He's still not there?' Ames asked.
'No, and that message on the machine has me worried.'
Ames nodded. 'Me, too. Mind playing it again?'
I did. It proved to be no different from the first two times we had heard it. The message simply ended in mid- sentence with no reason given.
'You're right. It sounds strange,' Ames commented after the message had finished playing. 'He seemed upset.'
'That's what I thought, too. I've got a bad feeling about all this.'
'Why not try the department once more,' Ames suggested. 'Maybe he showed up there while we were out playing golf.'
I tried, but no such luck. No one had heard from him. For a long time I stood with the phone in my hand, my dialing finger poised above the numbers, wondering what I should do. There was a big part of me that wanted to go on living in a fool's paradise, believing that everything was hunky-dory, that Peters was just getting his rocks off with Andi Wynn and didn't care if the sun rose or set. But there was another part of me, the partner part of me, that said something was wrong. Dead wrong.
I finally dialed Sergeant Watkins at home. Watty has been around Homicide two years longer than I have. He's virtually unflappable. 'What's up, Beau?' he asked when he knew who was on the phone.
As briefly as possible I summarized what I knew, that Peters had stayed out all night, that he had been fine when he dropped off the departmental vehicle at nine, that he had been seen on the fifth floor in the company of a young woman, and that he had left an abortive message on my answering machine at home.
'So what are you proposing?' Watty asked when I finished my recitation.
'File a missing persons report for starters,' I said.
'Missing persons or sour grapes?' he asked.
'Watty, I'm serious about this. It's not like him to go off and not bother to call home.'
