With Simmons still driving, we had searched as far as the western shore of Lake Washington when the sun came up over the still snowbound Cascades later on that morning. I don’t know if this happens in other parts of the world or not, but it was one of those special Washington mornings when, as the natives say, the mountains were out, their rugged profiles shining brilliantly in the early-morning sun without their usual cloak of cloud cover. It was the kind of morning when Seattle’s cross-bridge commuters get regular traffic advisories warning them to watch out for the unaccustomed glare of sun off Lake Washington. It was a morning when, shootings aside, Seattle really is one of the most livable cities on the face of the earth.
Believe me. I was happy as hell to be alive to enjoy it.
CHAPTER 6
Simmons and Deddens offered to give me a lift back downtown to the Public Safety Building, and I would have been more than happy to accept, but Watty sent a message through Dispatch that I was to return to the Weston house for a debriefing. When I got there, Detective Kramer was sitting on the front porch waiting for me, notebook in hand. He was not a happy camper.
“I was just crawling into bed for a nap when Watty called and told me to come back here and take your statement. I feel like so much dogshit.”
“Well pardon me all to hell for getting shot at,” I returned. “Remind me to schedule the next one at a more convenient time, would you, Kramer? I hate to think that I’m causing you to miss your little nappy.”
“Cut the crap, will you, Beaumont? Just tell me what happened so we can both get out of here.”
So I told him, as briefly as possible, while he took notes. No doubt I’d have to do some paper on the assault, but it seemed fair enough that someone else should have to do so as well. After all, I’m a taxpayer too, I thought, remembering, for the first time since writing it, the sizable check to the IRS that I had left in Ralph Ames’s charge.
“The crux of the question, then, is did someone plan to hit Ben Weston, or were you the target this time?” Kramer asked finally.
“I have to assume the bullet was meant for me. Why kill a dead man?”
“Maybe they didn’t know he was already dead. Who all knew you were here tonight? Anyone at home?”
“No, I have company from out of town, but at the time the call came in and I left the house, Big Al and I had no idea where we were going or when we’d be back.”
“Anybody follow you?”
“Are you kidding? Even if they were, who would notice? Do you watch the rearview mirror when you’re on your way to a crime scene?”
“Hardly ever.”
“I rest my case.”
“Have you been in any kind of a beef with someone here at the department?”
I hesitated for a fraction of a second before I answered, remembering Janice Morraine’s blurted theory that a fellow cop might have killed Ben Weston. But I couldn’t think of anyone at Seattle PD who would be that happy if J. P. Beaumont was no more.
“You mean other than you?” I returned.
Kramer glared at me. “Yeah. Who else other than me? I’d already gone home, remember?”
“I don’t know of anyone.”
“The place was crawling with reporters. I know you don’t like them. Is the feeling mutual?”
“Most likely, but I can’t think of any of them who’d have balls enough to take a shot at someone they didn’t like. Besides, the ones I know are mostly opposed to guns as a matter of principle.”
Kramer made another note. “Who all was still here when this happened?”
“Janice Morraine and the rest of her crew from the Crime Lab. And there were two officers from Patrol who were left on duty guarding the front and back doors. They’re the ones who brought me back here, Officers Simmons and Deddens.”
“And nobody got a good look at the car?”
“No. It was dark-maroon or black maybe, but I can’t be sure. It was too far away to get even a glimpse of the license.”
It was morning now. People leaving their houses on their way to school and work slowed and stared openly at the two men sitting on the steps of Ben Weston’s house-at the two men and also at the grim-looking yellow tape that had been wrapped around the outside of the yard.
Kramer got up stiffly and stretched. “I’m going to go take a look at that hole in the wall. Is the slug still in it?”
“No, Janice Morraine had one of her guys dig it out. They’re gone now, but they said they’d have it whenever anybody needed it.”
I let Kramer go by himself to examine the bullet hole. He certainly didn’t need me holding his hand while he looked at the shattered mirror and the crater in the wallboard. I was waiting for him to come back out on the porch when a beater of a BMW stopped in the street, and a tall black man got out. He started toward the gate. He stopped at the barrier created by a strand of yellow crime scene tape.
“You can’t come in here,” I called. “It’s off limits.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m a police officer.”
“Oh,” he said. “Good. You’re just who I’m looking for.” With that he ignored what I had said, stepped easily over the tape, and came on into the yard anyway.
Knees creaking, heels yelping in pain, I got up and limped forward to head him off. “I tell you, you can’t come in here. Who are you?”
When he stopped next to me, I realized he dwarfed me. He held out his hand. “Johnson,” he said. “Carl Johnson. I’m the principal of McClure Middle School.”
If I hadn’t been two thirds brain-dead, I would have made the connection without him having to draw me a picture, but I was too slow on the uptake.
“Douglas Weston attends my school,” he explained. “One of my parents called me at home and told me something had happened, that police cars had been here during the night. I’m always concerned about anything that affects one of my children, so I came by to see if I could be of any help. What’s going on?”
For a moment, I didn’t know whether to hug the man or what. His appearance was an answer to a prayer. “Do you happen to know how to get hold of Adam Jackson’s mother?”
“Adam? He’s here too?”
I nodded. Carl Johnson frowned. “I don’t know her number right off the bat, but I’m sure I could get it for you from the office. If Adam spent the night here, it probably means she’s on call.”
“On call?”
“Emma Jackson is doing her residency with University Hospital. She told me about it at the beginning of the year. She has trouble getting a sitter for those thirty-six-hour shifts, so Adam often spends the night with the Westons. You still haven’t told me what’s going on.”
I reached in my pocket and pulled out a card. He read it, then met my eyes over the top of the card. “This says Homicide.” I nodded. “Has someone been killed?”
“Several people,” I answered quietly. “Maybe you’d better have a seat here on the porch so I can tell you about what happened.”
Carl Johnson shed real tears when I told him, but he jumped up as soon as I finished. “I’d better get back to school,” he said urgently. “I need to alert the faculty and the counselors. The district has a team of people who come in to help in situations like this, but I’d better hurry. I want to be there when word gets out.”
He started away, then stopped and turned back. “Where will you be?” he asked. “I’ll call you with Emma Jackson’s phone number as soon as I get back to my office.”
I gave him my home number. “I’m going to race home, take a shower, and change clothes. It’ll only take a few minutes. If there’s no answer, leave the number on my machine, but please don’t make any effort to contact
