walked onto the elevator only because it would have been too much trouble to get down on my knees and crawl. A phone was ringing when the elevator door opened. It’s always my phone.
'Hello,' I snarled into it.
'Don’t sound so happy to hear from me.' It was Ralph Ames, my attorney, calling from Phoenix. Ralph Ames’ law firm, and more importantly, Ralph’s personal attention, had been a gift to me from the same lady who left me the Porsche. I’m not one of his more dependable clients.
'I understand you didn’t make your closing interview this afternoon.'
'Damn it, Ralph. I got busy here and completely forgot about it. Can we reset it?'
'No sweat,' Ralph told me cheerfully. 'Only you’ll have to swear on a stack of Bibles that you’ll show up this time.'
'I swear. Just let me know when it is.'
When I got off the phone I was careful to steer clear of any hair of the dog. I figured I’d need to be on my toes early and long the next day. A clear head was essential. I fell into bed, but by then I was too wound up to sleep.
My mind slipped into overdrive and busily tried to sift through all the information it had received that day. So far the only person firmly fixed in my memory bank was Joanna Ridley. What was it she had said when she blew up at me there in the waiting room? Something about crossing a line. What line had Darwin Ridley crossed? And why had it been fatal? That was one of the tough questions I’d have to ask his widow the next day.
It was late when I finally drifted off. I was still awake when the last of the serious drinkers left Palmer’s Tavern across the street. It seemed like only minutes later when I surfaced in a dream with Anne Corley.
She never changes in my dreams. She’s always young and beautiful and vibrant, and she’s always wearing that same, tantalizing red dress.
In the dream, I’m always so glad to see her it’s pathetic. She smiles and reaches out to take my hand. Over the months I’ve learned to force myself awake then, to propel myself out of the dream before it has a chance to turn ugly.
I awoke shaking and dripping with sweat. I know better than to try to sleep again after one of those dreams. I always return to that same instant like some crazy broken record.
Instead, I stumbled out of bed, took a long hot shower, shaved, and dressed. I was at the Dog House ordering breakfast by five-thirty, along with a generous slice of Seattle’s colorful cast of late-night/early-morning characters.
I appropriated the discarded remains of a newspaper from the table next to me. I ignored the news as I always do. Daily doses of news are bad for me. Instead, I worked The New York Times crossword puzzle over coffee, bacon, and eggs.
It’s one way to take your mind off your troubles.
CHAPTER 6
The murder of a prominent man is always news. The murder of a winning high school coach is news with a capital N. The department’s conference room was jammed to the gills for the promised briefing, with the attendees nothing short of a Who’s Who in Seattle media, from television reporters to print pukes. Including Maxwell Cole, my all-time least favorite newspaper columnist.
Max is part of a long-running rivalry that dates back to college days. His position as crime columnist for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer has kept us at odds for as long as I’ve been with Seattle P.D. He has a way of getting under my skin. And staying there.
Arlo Hamilton, Seattle P.D.’s public information officer, is a reasonable sort, but I could see he was losing patience as Max asked questions that were nothing less than an illdisguised tirade-the media busily manufacturing news to suit themselves.
'One of my sources stated that Mr. Ridley was…' He paused for dramatic effect and consulted a small notebook. 'I believe the word he used was lynched. Doesn’t that sort of take you back to the Old South? Is it possible this homicide was racially motivated?'
'As I said before, Mr. Cole, at this time we have no motive in this crime. The exact cause of death is being withheld pending investigation.'
'But wouldn’t you say lynching is a step backward to the Ku Klux Klan mentality of the sixties?'
'I wouldn’t say anything of the kind.'
'You’re ruling out race as a possible motive, then?'
I was glad Arlo was running the press conference instead of me. About then I would have told Max to fuck off. Hamilton managed to remain unruffled. 'We are investigating all possibilities at this time. No potential lead will be ignored, racial or otherwise.'
Arlo glanced around the room, hoping to shut Max down by calling someone else. Max blithely launched into another question.
'Two years ago, during the height of the Neo-Nazi scare, there was talk of creating an all-white preserve here in Washington. Could this action be connected with one of those groups?'
'As you know, Mr. Cole, members of those groups were apprehended, tried, and found guilty of numerous crimes. Those who didn’t die during the initial siege of their headquarters are in prison for long terms. I don’t think we need worry that Mr. Ridley’s death is part of a Neo-Nazi plot. Any other questions?'
Fortunately, someone else raised his hand, and Hamilton gratefully acknowledged him. 'Were police officers in attendance at the basketball championships in Seattle Center Friday night?'
Hamilton nodded.
'The Mayor’s office has been concerned about special event security at the Center. Has security been beefed up?'
'Yes, it has. The horse patrol was there as well as several officers patrolling the grounds on foot. None of them saw anything out of line.'
'You’re saying that it wasn’t a lack of security?'
'Look, you guys, give me a break. Don’t read between the lines. We had numerous officers at the Center, but until we know exactly what happened, I can’t say whether it was a security problem or not.'
It was clear the newshounds had Arlo’s scent. There was no need for Peters and me to hang around for the bloodletting. I reached over and tapped Peters on the shoulder. 'Let’s get out of here.'
He followed me to the door. I didn’t notice that Maxwell Cole had trailed after us until he showed up at the elevator lobby. Everything about Max is big, from the layer of flab that spills over the top of his belt buckle up to and including his ego. He wears a waxed, handlebar mustache that tends to be littered with bits and pieces of his most recent meal-egg yolk in this particular case.
'How’s it going, J. P.? You two working this one? I saw you hanging around the briefing room.'
'Look, Max, we’ve got a long day ahead of us. Get lost.'
'Come on, J. P. Give an old fraternity brother a break. All I need is an angle. Race would be dynamite. It would bust this town wide open.'
I try not to deal with Maxwell Cole in anything but absolute contempt. Lesser insults go straight over his head. 'We’re booked up already, Max. We don’t need you to start a race war just to keep us busy.'
The elevator door slipped open. We got on and left him standing there in the hallway. 'Think he got it?' Peters asked once the door closed.
'Beats the hell out of me.'
We went on down to the garage and checked out a car. The first order of business had to be the voluntary search form from Joanna Ridley. That would enable the crime lab to go to work on Darwin Ridley’s Buick.
Several cars were parked on the street outside Joanna Ridley’s house, including an immense old Lincoln. I led the way to the door and rang the bell. A tall but stoop-shouldered black man opened the door and peered down at us through gold-rimmed glasses. 'What can I do for you gentlemen?' he asked.
'We’re with Seattle P.D.,' I said, offering him my ID. 'We’re here to speak to Mrs. Ridley.'
'Joanna’s not feelin’ too well.'
