“Understand what?” I demanded.
“Adam was only a little boy,” she said softly, “and African American besides. His death is hardly newsworthy. And I don’t expect people down at the Seattle PD to pay any particular attention. In fact, I guess I’m surprised you do.”
For the first time since meeting her, I had the smallest glimmer of what made Dr. Emma Jackson the way she was.
“Your son was murdered,” I told her. “And I’m a Homicide detective. It’s my job to find out who did it, regardless. I care.”
She nodded. “I know,” she said. “Ask your questions, Detective Beaumont. I’ll do my best to answer them.”
The waitress stopped by and poured more coffee. The interruption gave us both a break, some emotional breathing space. Once she left I went about getting the interview on track.
“Did you check on the dog bite?”
“I tried to, but I didn’t turn up anything at all. Chances are, if the man was bitten, it was only a superficial wound, one that didn’t require stitches or medical attention.”
“I’m not surprised. A wound serious enough for stitches might have interfered with the killer’s ability to function.”
She nodded. “That doesn’t seem to have been the case, does it.”
Emma Jackson was a curious and puzzling mixture, forever switching back and forth between dispassionate professional and grieving mother. From moment to moment, it was impossible to predict which one of the two would surface.
“No,” I agreed.
“If you already had a pretty fair idea that was the case to begin with, why did you send me off on a wild- goose chase? Was the plan to keep me occupied and out of your hair?”
When it comes to dealing with difficult women, especially smart difficult women, it’s often best to fall back on some of my mother’s sage advice about honesty being the best policy.
“You’ve got me dead to rights,” I admitted. “I wanted to keep you out of my hair, but I’ve changed my mind about you.”
“How so?”
“Some things have surfaced in this investigation that make me think you may be able to be very helpful.”
Dr. Emma Jackson eyed me intently. “What kinds of things?” she asked.
“You’re going to have to bear with me, Dr. Jackson. To begin with, I’m going to ask some tough questions. Please be patient and don’t expect any answers in return, at least not right away.” She started to voice an objection, but I held up my hand to stop her.
“I’m going to ask you things about Ben and Shiree Weston’s relationship that only someone like you, only a close family friend, would have any knowledge of. Those things may or may not have some future bearing on the case. If they don’t, whatever you tell me stays between us. If they do, then I’ll do my best to protect you as the source of whatever revelations may be pertinent.”
“It sounds as though you expect some of these ”revelations,“ as you call them, to be damaging, either to Ben or Shiree.”
I nodded.
“And what’s in it for me?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. All I can hope to promise you is a better chance at catching your son’s killer.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not Ben Weston’s killer?”
“I’m the only detective who’s been officially assigned to your son’s case,” I said quietly. “And by solving that one, we’ll automatically solve the others as well, but my primary responsibility is to you and to Adam.”
She gave me a long, searching look, and it was clear from the expression on her face that my answer to her question had been correct.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Everything, Dr. Jackson. I’ll need to know every single detail you can tell me.”
“You can call me Emma,” she said.
I knew then that I had won big. Emma Jackson was going to be working with me on this one and not with Detective Paul Kramer. Maybe he and I really don’t work on the same team.
“Thanks,” I said. “My friends call me Beau.”
We spent the better part of the next two hours together, drinking cup after cup of Little Cheerful coffee. Gradually Ben and Shiree Weston’s story trickled out. At first it seemed like a fairy tale, like something too good to be true, and maybe that was part of what had gone wrong.
According to Emma Jackson, Ben and Shiree Garvey had known each other vaguely from church, but they hadn’t really become well acquainted until that critical period of time in Ben’s life when his first wife, Vondelle, was dying of cancer. With his wife sick, Ben had struggled desperately to keep all the various balls in the air-his job, his kids, the regular bills, and the medical bills. When he found himself inevitably sinking into a morass of past-due notices, Reverend Homer Walters sent him to Shiree Garvey at the Mount Zion Federal Credit Union for some much needed help and counseling.
Shiree had worked with him and with the creditors through the cash flow crunch, helping to smooth things over until insurance payments and hospital bills coalesced into an understandable whole. With Shiree’s guidance, the financial picture began to improve, even while Vondelle’s physical condition steadily worsened. Gradually, almost without either one of them really noticing, Shiree Garvey began assuming more and more responsibilities in the Weston household, helping to care for the children while Ben spent long nights haunting hospital corridors. By the time Vondelle died, Shiree had become emotionally indispensable to all of them. She and Ben married six months later.
“That’s what hurt Shiree so much, you know,” Emma said. “And I don’t blame her.”
“What?” I had no idea.
“He never ran around on Vondelle, not during all the years she was sick. He was true to her to the very end. He and Shiree were nothing but friends until after Vondelle was dead and gone. So Shiree couldn’t understand what was going on when he started messing around behind her back.”
“Do you know who with?”
“No, not yet. But I will. You just wait and see. Somebody will spill the beans, and when they do, you and I will know where to go next.”
So Emma Jackson was still convinced that the killer was a jealous husband, but then she didn’t know anything about the loan applications either.
“Were Ben and Shiree having money troubles?”
“You mean recently? No. No way. Not them. Shiree Garvey Weston knew how to budget and how to squeeze the very last pinch out of each and every penny. Ben never had another moment’s worth of money worries from the time Shiree started handling the bills. Why are you asking about money?”
I wanted Emma Jackson’s help, but I didn’t want to tell her everything I knew. “Sometimes that’s one of the reasons marriages go bad,” I said evasively.
“Not this one,” Emma declared with yet another flare of anger. “Ben and Shiree Weston’s marriage went bad because Ben was too damn stupid to recognize a good thing when he had it.”
CHAPTER 13
On my way back to the department I slipped into a noontime brown-bag AA meeting in a downtown Methodist church. It’s not a meeting I attend often, so I could come and go without being trapped into a long- drawn-out post-meeting conversation as sometimes happens. When I got back to the fifth floor, Curtis Bell was comfortably ensconced at my desk chatting earnestly with Big Al Lindstrom. Curt looked cheerful, Big Al thunderous.
