Right that minute Joanna Ridley needed J. P. Beaumont like she needed a hole in her head.
CHAPTER 5
One of the drawbacks of living in the royal Crest is the lack of soundproofing. I can hear my phone ringing the moment the elevator door opens. It’s always a horse race to see if I can unlock the door and grab the phone before whoever’s calling gives up. My attorney keeps suggesting I get an answering machine, but I’m too old-fashioned. And too stubborn.
Detective Peters was still on the phone when I picked it up. He was hot.
'God damn it, Beau. What the hell are you up to now? I’ve had calls from Watty and Captain Powell, both. They’re ready to tear you apart. Me, too. They demanded I tell them what we had. Remember me? I’m your partner.'
'Hold up, Peters. It’s not my fault.'
'Not your fault! I heard you told Doc Baker to piss up a rope.'
'Not in those exact words.'
'Jesus H. Christ, Beau. What’s going on?'
'It’s Ridley, all right.'
That stopped Peters cold. 'No shit! The basketball coach? I remembered where I’d heard the name while I was stuck on the bridge, but there was no way to get hold of you. Who identified him?'
'His wife. He’d been missing since Friday, but she didn’t report it. Thought he was sulking over losing the game. She figured he’d come home eventually.'
Peters gave his customary, long, low whistle. 'Have you sealed the car?'
'Not yet. I just dropped Joanna Ridley back at her house.'
'Should I come on in? That Buick shouldn’t sit outside any longer than it already has.'
I glanced at my watch. It was nine o’clock and I was tired, but there was a lot of merit in what Peters said. Every effort has to be made to preserve evidence. 'What about your girls?'
'Mrs. Edwards is here. The kids are asleep, and Mrs. Edwards is watching television.' Mrs. Edwards was Peters’ live-in housekeeper/babysitter. 'I’ll meet you at Lincoln Towing in twenty minutes.'
As an old Fuller Brush salesman, I recognize an assumed close trap when I see one. Not do you want to meet me, but when will you meet me.
I needed to hit my second wind pretty damn soon. I was going to need it. Peters is a hell of a lot younger than I am, and he’s disgustingly immune to vices of any kind. Including booze. I avoided my recliner. I didn’t dare sit down and get comfortable for fear I wouldn’t get back up. Instead, I made a cursory pass at the refrigerator in a vain search for food before driving to Lincoln Towing’s Fairview lot.
I waited outside the lot itself, watching the eager beaver fleet of tow trucks come and go. Peters must have flown low across the bridge. He was there in far less than twenty minutes. His first question nailed me good. 'Did you have her sign a voluntary search form?'
'You can’t expect me to remember everything,' I told him. He glared at me in reply, and we went inside together.
The night clerk wasn’t thrilled at the added paperwork involved in our securing Ridley’s Buick. She did it, though. Once the car had been towed to the secured processing room at Fifth and Cherry, I was ready to call it a day.
'No way,' Peters said, opening the passenger door on my Porsche and climbing inside. 'I’m not letting you out of my sight until we’ve mended some fences along the way, starting with the medical examiner’s office.'
We found the same night tech sound asleep in the employee’s lounge. The bell over the front door didn’t faze him. He awoke with a start when I gave his shoulder a rough shake. 'I thought you wanted information,' I told him.
He stumbled sleepily to his feet and went in search of his clipboard. I couldn’t help wondering if Doc Baker knew his baby tech took a little evening nap on company time. Eventually, the tech returned relatively awake and prepared to take down my information.
I filled in as many blanks on his form as I could, based on what information I had gleaned from Joanna Ridley. It consisted of the usual-name, address, phone number, next of kin-enough to clear the medical examiner’s office of one of its prime responsibilities: Identification of the victim.
As Peters and I left the office, I paused in the doorway. 'By the way, you might want to call Doc Baker with that now. He’s probably waiting to hear from you.' The tech didn’t look eager to pick up the phone to call Doc Baker’s home number.
'You ever hear of winning friends and influencing people, Beau?' Peters asked as we walked outside.
'I don’t like people who sleep on the job. Where to next?'
If I had any delusions of going home right then, Peters put a stop to them with what he said next. 'We’d better check in with the department and let them know what’s up. Officially.'
We were ready to climb into the car. I looked at him across the roof of the Porsche. 'What the hell happened to you, Peters? You used to be a lot more flexible, remember? You didn’t always do things by the book.'
He grinned at me. 'Two and a half years of hanging around with J. P. Beaumont. That’s what happened. Somebody in this outfit has to go by the book, or we’ll both get our asses fired.'
Back on the fifth floor of the Public Safety Building we sorted through our individual fanfolds of messages.
'Call,' Peters said. 'Five bucks says I take it.'
'You’re on.'
'Full house.' Triumphantly, Peters turned his messages faceup on the desk. Three from Sergeant Watkins, two from Captain Powell. 'See there?'
'Read ’em and weep,' I told him, turning over my own-four of a kind, all from Captain Lawrence Powell. With a grimace of disgust, Peters slapped a five-dollar bill on the desk in front of me.
One of the other detectives sauntered over to our cubicle. 'I don’t know what you two have been up to, but people are gunning for you. I’d lay low if I were you.'
We never had a fighting chance of lying low. We were right in the middle of writing our reports when Sergeant Watkins showed up in a stained sweat suit and worn running shoes. He hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion. He ignored Peters and came straight after me.
'You interested in the Officer Friendly program in Seattle Public Schools?' he demanded. 'By the time Doc Baker finishes with you, that may be the only job in the department you’re qualified for.'
'Doc Baker was out of line,' I returned. 'So was his tech. They had no business demanding information before I had a chance to question the individual.'
'Doctor Baker,' Watty corrected, enunciating every syllable clearly to be sure I understood his meaning. 'Doctor Baker happens to be the King County medical examiner, and don’t you forget it.'
He glanced down at the forms we were working on. He sighed and headed for his desk, still growling at us over his shoulder. 'When you finish those reports, you could just as well bring them by so I can see what you’ve got.'
It was eleven by the time we were perched on the front of Watty’s desk, waiting while he scanned our reports.
'A high school basketball coach. Holy shit! I’d better get Arlo Hamilton on this right away. Can you two be here for a press briefing at eight tomorrow morning?'
We both nodded. Unlike crooks, cops don’t get time off for good behavior. By the time I drove Peters back to his Datsun at Lincoln Towing, I could barely hold my head up.
'You satisfied?' I asked. 'Is everything by the book now?'
'As much as it’s going to be,' Peters replied mildly. 'What do you want to do tomorrow? Go to Ridley’s house or stop by the school?'
'The house first,' I answered. 'We’d better get that voluntary search form before this gets any deeper.'
Peters rolled his eyes and grinned. 'Wonders will never cease.'
I drove back to Third and Lenora and put the Porsche to bed in its assigned place in the parking garage. I
