“Doing what?”
“By calling each of the hospitals and checking with the various E.R. s to see if any dog-bite victims came through last night.”
“If I find anything out, what makes you think I’ll tell you?”
“You’re not stupid, Dr. Jackson,” I told her bluntly. “If the killers were tough enough to handle Ben Weston, they’d certainly be more than a match for you.”
She seemed to think about it for a moment or two. “I suppose I could do that,” she said eventually. “Check for you, I mean.”
“Good.”
We came to a stoplight. I dug out one of my cards and scribbled my home number on the back of it. “Call me any time of the day or night and let me know whatever you find out.”
“All right.”
“The department has created a task force to handle this,” I continued. “I’m only assigned to Adam’s part of the case. Later on, I’ll need to interview you in detail and, most likely, so will other members of the team.”
She nodded. “Right,” she said. “I understand.”
“But do me a favor, would you?”
“What’s that?”
“If you talk to someone named Detective Kramer, don’t mention to him that I have you checking with the hospitals for me, would you? He’s a lot more territorial about that kind of thing than I am.”
“I won’t mention it,” she said.
We headed straight back toward her house on Queen Anne Hill. We were turning off Denny Way onto Fifth North when Emma Jackson jumped as though she’d forgotten something important.
“What is it?”
“You said Junior’s all right, but you never told me where he is.”
“With his grandfather,” I told her, “Ben Weston’s father. We turned Junior over to old Mr. Weston early this morning. He came down to the Public Safety Building and picked him up.”
“Really,” she snorted. “Wonders will never cease.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Ben Weston’s father hated everything about the Seattle Police Department. I’m surprised he’d set foot in that place, even to pick up his grandson.”
“But why?”
“Who knows?” she returned. “I gave up trying to figure out men years ago. There’s no percentage in it.”
The reverse is also true, I almost told her, but I didn’t. Because Emma Jackson had what kids playing tag used to call King’s-X so they couldn’t be caught by whoever it was. Her son was dead and mine wasn’t. She had full permission to say any damned thing she pleased and get away with it.
After dropping her off at her place, I headed back home. It was close to noon. I’m too old to work all day, all night, and all the next day without stopping long enough for a nap. There was plenty to do, but nothing that wouldn’t wait until I caught a couple of hours’ worth of shut-eye.
I walked into my apartment and went straight down the hall to my bedroom. Kicking off my shoes, I flopped across the bed fully dressed while my back and feet heaved heartfelt sighs of relief.
Tired as I was, I didn’t fall asleep instantly. There was too much about this case that hit close to home, too many crossed and recrossed connections-Ben Weston and Big Al Lindstrom, Emma Jackson and Doc Baker. Everyone involved seemed to be involved twice over, and at least one of the people who had killed Ben Weston had tried to kill me as well. The slug that had smashed into the wall behind me had come far too close for comfort.
Then, just as I was telling myself I was being jumpy for no good reason, I heard the door of my apartment open and close. My heart pounding, I eased my way off the bed, gasping at the pain in my feet. I limped across the room to the closed bedroom door and stood there listening.
“You’re sure he won’t come in and catch us?” a woman’s voice asked.
Relief flooded through me when I heard Ralph Ames’s answering laughter. “He won’t, not when he’s busy working a case. We’ve got hours. Come on. Let’s get started. Can I get you something to drink?”
The voices moved away from the entryway into the front end of the house, the living room, dining room, and den. Every once in a while I could hear the sounds of low voices and muffled laughter. I was uncomfortably aware that Ralph and his female companion were under the erroneous impression that they had my apartment all to themselves. No telling what they were up to.
There I stood, trapped in my own bedroom, while the impeccable Ralph Ames carried on with a lady friend just down the hall. I didn’t know if I should be more embarrassed for him or for me, so I finally gave up, undressed, and crawled back on the bed. Into it this time, covers and all.
If I was going to have to take an enforced nap anyway, I might just as well be comfortable.
CHAPTER 9
My pager woke me up an hour or so later. Lack of sleep left me feeling as rummy and miserable as any honest hangover I’ve ever encountered. The call, when I returned it, was from none other than the Weston Family Task Force commander, Sergeant Watty Watkins himself.
“Beau, where are you?”
“In bed. Asleep actually. I was up all night, remember?”
“You and everybody else. You’re not the only one whose tail is dragging. I’m headed home myself in a few minutes, but I wanted to touch bases with everyone first. I heard from Doc Baker that you got the positive IDs handled. Good work. Anything else turn up that I should know about?”
I tried to sweep some of the cobwebs out of my poor, befuddled brain.
“Did Doc Baker mention the two separate hair samples and the possible dog bite?”
“He told me about both of those,” Watty acknowledged. “Anything else?”
Only one other item stood out in my mind as being important enough to mention. “Emma Jackson, the one boy’s mother, believes Ben Weston might have been screwing around on the side. She thinks his death may be somehow related to that.”
There was a pause while Watty mulled over what I had told him. “No kidding. That doesn’t sound like Ben Weston to me. What exactly did this Jackson woman say?”
“Remember, she’s a long-term friend of the family, a childhood chum of Shiree Weston’s. She claims that in the past few months Ben’s been coming and going at all hours of the day and night. She says Shiree assumed it was another woman and had talked to her about it, complained about it.”
“What do you think?” Watty asked.
“I think there are a whole lot of other possibilities besides another woman. Besides, a jealous husband might have a beef with Ben, but not with the entire rest of his family. It just doesn’t add up.”
“Maybe not,” Watty replied, “but you’d better check it out anyway and see if there’s any truth to it. If there does turn out to be another woman involved, then we’ll look for a possible connection.”
Watty paused. Through the receiver I could hear the scratching of pen on paper as he made notes. “Do you want to mention all this to Detective Kramer or should I?” he asked.
“It’ll all be in my report when I get around to writing one, but be my guest. You go right ahead and tell him if you want to,” I said. The less I had to talk to Paul Kramer, the better I liked it.
“Will you be coming back in to the department?”
“Eventually, I suppose. I had planned on getting a little more sleep first. Anything important going on that you think I should know about?”
“Everybody’s in pretty much the same shape you are-worn-out and barely upright. Several of the guys are trying to catch a little shut-eye while we wait for some of the preliminary test results. Both the Crime Lab and Doc Baker’s crews are hard at work. Kramer has a squad of officers out surveying the Weston neighborhood to see if anyone saw or heard something out of the ordinary last night.”
By rights, I should have been part of the neighborhood survey, but considering the number of people involved,
