'Hey, wait a minute. I wanted off.'
'You'd better come with us,' Big Al Lindstrom ordered.
'How come? What's up?'
'Somebody just spotted that missing Chevy Luv,' he answered.
'No shit? Where?'
'Parked in front of Mercer Island High School. That's where we're going.'
'Who's we?' I asked.
'Baxter here and me. You, too, if you want. Mercer Island Police say they have the place pretty well sealed off, but they called us to let us know.'
Big Al and Baxter got off at the garage level. I had to ride down to the lobby and charge down the street half a block to where I had parked, but once I fired up the Porsche, there was no contest. I passed Big Al and Baxter on the bridge like they were standing still.
I'm not sure if it was because the Porsche was a better car or because Peters was my partner.
Actually, it was probably a little of both.
CHAPTER 27
We raced to the high school, only to find ourselves stuck behind a police barricade along with everybody else.
The next hour and a half was an agonizing study of affirmative action in action. From a distance, I caught a glimpse of the new Mercer Island Chief of Police-a lady wearing a gray pin-striped suit and sensible shoes with a dress-for-success polka-dot scarf knotted tightly around her neck. She had definitely taken charge of the situation.
When Marilyn Sykes, assistant police chief in Eugene, Oregon, was hired for the job on Mercer Island, there had been a good deal of grumbling in law enforcement circles. The general consensus was that, in this particular case, the best man for the job wasn't a woman. I hadn't paid a whole lot of attention to the debate since half the complainers said she was too tough and the other half claimed she was too soft. I figured the truth was probably somewhere in between.
Right then, though, watching the action from an impotent distance, my inclination was to dismiss Marilyn Sykes as a pushy broad, one who didn't have enough confidence in herself and her position to let any other cops within consulting distance, as though she was afraid our advice and suggestions might undercut her authority.
It's something I'll remember as one of the most frustrating times of my whole life. It was only an hour and a half, but it seemed much longer. I wanted to do something, to take some physical action, like knocking down the barricade and making an unauthorized run for the building.
Candace Wynn's pickup had been parked right in the middle of the high school lot, with no attempt to conceal it. Chief Sykes had sealed off the entire campus and was in the process of deploying her Emergency Response Team. Directing the operation from her car, she had the team secure one building at a time.
As a cop, I couldn't help but approve of her careful, deliberate planning. It was clear the safety of her team was uppermost in her mind. But I wasn't there as just a plain cop. I was there because Peters was my partner. Marilyn Sykes' deliberateness drove me crazy. I wanted action. I wanted to get on with it.
The interminable wait was made worse by the fact that our Seattle P.D. personnel were stuck far behind the lines, rubbing shoulders with reporters and photographers, all of them angling for an angle, all of them snapping eagerly toward any snippet of information. It was clear from the questions passing back and forth between them that the names of the missing officer and the missing teacher had not yet been released. I thanked Arlo Hamilton for that. At least Peters' girls wouldn't hear it from a reporter's lips first.
As the minutes ticked by and the tension continued to build, my fuse got shorter and shorter. Finally, I turned to Big Al, who was standing beside me. His face was grim, his hands jammed deep in his jacket pockets.
'God damn it!' I complained. 'Why the hell doesn't she send 'em into the gym? I'd bet money they're in the girls' locker room.'
Just then someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and found myself eyeball to eyeball with Chief Marilyn Sykes herself. She was a fairly tall woman in her mid-forties, with sharp, hazel eyes and a tough, overbearing way about her.
'Are you Detective Beaumont?' she demanded.
I nodded. 'I am.'
'As I'm sure you realize, Detective Beaumont,' she continued severely, 'we've got a potentially dangerous situation here. What I don't need is a Monday-morning quarterback second-guessing my decisions, is that clear?'
Chastised, I gave the only possible response I could muster: 'Yes, Ma'am.'
She turned on her heel. 'Come with me,' she ordered over her shoulder.
I looked at Big AI, whose only consolation was a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. Without a word, I followed. She led me back to where her car was parked before she stopped and waited for me. By then, we were well out of earshot of all the reporters.
'The detective who's missing, Detective Peters. He's your partner?'
'Yes.'
Turning away, she reached into her car and pulled out a handheld walkie-talkie. She flicked a switch. 'Come in, George. Have you cleared the way to the locker-room door yet?'
'Check,' a voice crackled from the device in her hand. 'Just now.'
'All right. I've got someone here, Detective Beaumont from Seattle P.D., who thinks they're in that locker room. I'm sending him in with you.'
I pulled my.38 from its holster and started scrambling out of her car. 'Just a minute, Detective Beaumont,' she snapped.
I stopped. Chief Sykes picked up a long roll of paper from the floor of the front seat. When she spread it out on the backseat, it was a detailed architectural drawing of the high school plant. With a slender, well-manicured finger, she traced a line from where we stood to the girls' locker room.
'This is the part we've secured,' she said. 'Don't go any other way, understand?'
'Right,' I said.
'And no heroics. You want to see your partner alive, and so do we.'
Once again she reached into the front seat. This time she brought out a bulletproof vest. 'Put this on,' she said. 'Now get going.'
I shrugged my way into the flak jacket and paused for just a moment before I bailed out of the car. Marilyn Sykes met my gaze without flinching. She was tough, all right, but not in the way her detractors meant. There was a soft spot, too. Not the kind of softness that translates into weakness, but a certain empathy that told me sometime in her past she, too, had lived with a partner in jeopardy, that she knew the terrible helplessness of doing nothing.
Someday, when we had time, Chief Marilyn Sykes and Detective J. P. Beaumont would have to sit down, have a drink, and talk about it. But not now.
'Thanks,' I said, then took off.
I trotted through the buildings, careful not to deviate from the path she had laid out. My footsteps echoed through the silent walkways. I'm not prone to prayer, but I found myself muttering one as I ran. 'Let him be safe, God. Please let him be safe.'
A uniformed Mercer Island officer motioned me into the gym. 'They're waiting for you by the door to the locker room,' he whispered as I passed.
Waiting they were. Three officers, all wearing bulletproof vests, crouched against the wall on either side of the door. One of them motioned for me to join him. When I was in position behind him, he raised a bullhorn to his lips.
'Come on out, Mrs. Wynn. You're surrounded. Give yourself up.'
There was no answer. The blank, silent door gave no hint of what was happening on the other side. We waited
