“Would I be able to go for a ride in it? I’ve never ridden in a Bentley, and I’ve always wanted to.”
“Call down to the concierge,” I told her. “If the driver isn’t all booked up, and if he can get it started, maybe he can take you and Ralph for a spin later on tonight after dinner.”
“Wouldn’t you like to come along?” Alex Downey enthused. “We could ride over to West Seattle and watch the city lights from Alki Point.”
“No thanks. I’m on my way to bed. I was up working all last night.”
“Oh really? What do you do?”
Obviously in the “so much” Ralph had told her about me, he had neglected to include anything so basic as information about my work. “I’m a cop,” I told her. “A detective down at Seattle PD.”
“How exciting.”
“It’s a job,” I returned.
Alex glanced meaningfully around my penthouse apartment, suddenly seeing it with new eyes. “Yours must pay better than most,” she said.
“Not that much better,” I told her gruffly.
I didn’t feel like going into any detailed personal explanations about how I managed to live in Belltown Terrace’s penthouse on an ordinary cop’s salary. It was none of Alex Downey’s business.
During all this repartee, Ralph sat at the far end of the table, grinning from ear to ear. His eyes shifted between Alex and me as though watching a conversational tennis ball being lobbed back and forth. He was up to something, but I couldn’t quite figure out what, and I didn’t want to.
Halfway through my steak, I gave out completely. “You two are going to have to excuse me,” I said, abandoning my plate. “I just hit the wall. If I don’t go to bed soon, you’ll have to carry me.”
Alex Downey stood up and offered her hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Beau. Can I call and talk to you about the Bentley Monday or Tuesday of next week?”
Back to the Bentley again. “You can talk to me about it anytime you please, just not tonight.”
With that, I staggered off to bed. I was asleep within seconds, but my last waking thought was something about Ralph Ames’s strange taste in women.
I slept for twelve solid hours. The clock radio evidently came on and went off again without my hearing a thing. Big Al called at ten to eight. “Aren’t you supposed to be down here for a task force meeting in ten minutes?”
“Holy shit! I overslept.”
With no time to shower, I bounded out of bed and started rummaging for clothes. I was slipping on my shoes when Ralph knocked on the bedroom door.
“Coffee?” he asked. He was already dressed. In his hand he held a steaming mug of coffee which I accepted gratefully.
“I’m late,” I told him. “Do you mind dropping me off at the department?”
“Not at all. I’ll go get my wallet.”
The lights on Second and Fourth Avenues are timed so that, if you hit them just right, you can make it all the way from Denny to Jackson or the other way around without being stopped. Ralph guided my newly repaired Porsche down Second without the slightest hitch, and I dashed into the building at three minutes after. The real traffic jam of the morning was inside the building, where the lobby was crowded with people waiting for elevators. The door of one was plastered with a hand-painted OUT OF ORDER sign, making a critical problem out of a chronic one. I bypassed the elevators and ran, puffing, up the seemingly endless flights of stairs.
After jostling my way through another lobby, this one crowded with media types, I edged my way into the eighth floor conference room. Sergeant Watkins, standing in front of a chalkboard, fixed me with a hard-edged stare as I tried to slip unobtrusively into the last row of seats.
“Glad you could make it this morning, Detective Beaumont,” he said, meaning, of course, that everyone else had managed to arrive on time. “Hope this meeting isn’t inconveniencing you.” Properly chastised, I stared down at my feet. Only then, in the brilliant glow of fluorescent lights, did I realize I was wearing one brown and one black sock.
Up front, Watty continued his chalk talk. While he spoke, I listened to what he was saying, but my eyes kept straying back to the black ribbon, the department’s traditional symbol of mourning, that had been taped over part of his badge. Looking at the badge was a constant reminder that, no matter what Ben Weston may or may not have done, the business at hand was really about a dead cop.
“As I was saying, this task force is a team effort, and I do mean T-E-A-M. Each of you will have focused responsibilities on one aspect of the case or another, but every one of you will be sharing all pertinent information with everyone else. Is that clear?”
Nods of agreement spread through the room. Detective Kramer, seated next to a small table in the front of the room, nodded so hard I’m surprised his teeth didn’t fall out-the ass-kissing son of a bitch.
“Through the years, many of you may have had personal dealings with Benjamin Weston,” Watty went on. “He was a well-liked, well-respected officer. At this time, however, there’s a distinct possibility that this investigation may turn up some wrongdoing on his part. Our responsibility, as officers of the law, is to find the killer and take him off the streets. If Ben Weston’s reputation ends up taking a beating in the process, that’s life! Our first and foremost duty is to solve these homicides without any kind of whitewashing or cover-up. Again, am I making myself clear?”
There was a second series of nods, this one less general, and it was accompanied by an uneasy shifting of butts on chairs. No one, with the possible exception of Detective Kramer, wanted to hear that Gentle Ben Weston had somehow gone bad.
“Taking all this into consideration, we have to remember the kind of impact this case is going to have on the entire community. Because Ben was an African American and because the investigation may lead to suspects involved in some of the better-known gangs-the Bloods, Crips, and Black Gangster Disciples-we must be careful that no one involved in the investigation says or does anything to further inflame the situation. There are all the usual restrictions about not speaking directly with the media, but it’s not out of line to suggest that we all exercise extra caution in this regard.”
Watty paused and glanced around the room, letting his eyes hold those of each officer for a fraction of a second. Finally he nodded. “All right then. Enough cheerleading. Let’s get started. Kramer, what have we got?”
With that Sergeant Watkins sat down abruptly while Detective Kramer took the floor and assumed the speaker’s mantle. Ever since he showed up in Homicide, I’ve been one of Kramer’s main detractors and not, I believe, without reason. As a partner, he’s a damn prima donna at best, but I have to admit that the military-type briefing he delivered that morning was good, very good, in fact.
The first day following a multiple homicide is like the first day of a war-there are so many things happening on so many fronts that it’s almost impossible to get a clear overview of any of it. Kramer had done his homework. Starting from the collection of written reports by everyone involved, he broke the whole process down into bite-size pieces, going over in detail the pertinent information about the murder victims themselves, times of death, manner of death, etc. He discussed the preliminary autopsy findings as well as what little had so far been gleaned from Crime Lab analyses. He went on to discuss what avenues were being explored in the immediate neighborhood of the crime scene as well as some of the side issues-the questionable bank loans, the involvement of various gang members, etc. At the very end he even threw in a brief mention of the almost fatal attack on yours truly.
When Kramer finished his formal presentation, he called on the officers present in the room to volunteer any additional information that had turned up during the night. Sue Danielson was the first to raise her hand.
“I’ve been in touch with all the schools mentioned on the loan applications,” she said. “All of them cite confidentiality issues, and they all refuse to confirm or deny the attendance of any of the names listed.”
“What do you mean, refuse?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Just that. Evidently, one of the schools gave out unauthorized information on a student years ago and that student ended up as the victim of a serious crime. They all seem to be under orders not to make the same mistake again. The only way we’ll get any real information out of them is with a court order.”
I tried to catch Watty’s attention. “Can we get one?”
He deferred my question to Kramer, who said, “When we get around to it, Beaumont. All in good time.”
In other words, don’t hold your breath.
A brief silence followed before one of the uniformed officers raised his hand. “I’ve been down working the
