disgusting. This is still part and parcel of what’s going on between you and Kramer, isn’t it? You’re afraid to give him the information for fear he’ll ignore it. And you think I’m dumb enough to jump into the cross fire.”
“Are you?”
She grinned back at me. “I prefer to call it curiosity rather than stupidity, if you don’t mind.”
“Which is why you’re going to be one hell of a detective one of these days, if you aren’t already.”
I was deliberately baiting her, expecting a little on-the-job male-female give-and-take. Instead, Sue nodded and raised her Coke glass in acknowledgment, ignoring the teasing and accepting my comment as a compliment.
“And what do you suggest we do about IIS?” she asked. “Call them in? Leave them out of it?”
“That’s a sticky one. I would imagine they’re already looking into the Ben Weston matter. Their concern will be what exactly he was up to and whether or not any other police officers were involved. For right now, though, until we get a better handle on your ”players,“ as you call them, I don’t think we should call the Double I’s in. It would be premature, and it just might backfire.”
She nodded. “That’s exactly why I wanted to talk to you about it, Detective Beaumont. I figured if anybody could give me the benefit of the long view, it was you.”
I’m sure Sue Danielson meant her comment as a compliment-at least I think she did-but there’s a certain amount of ego damage that goes along with being considered the ancient, all-knowing, and time-honored dispenser of the long view. When she offered to buy my coffee, I let her, and I left the restaurant feeling more butt-sprung than ever.
We walked back to the Public Safety Building together. Sue headed for CCI while I went back to my little cubicle in Homicide. Big Al was gone, giving me some working peace and quiet for a change. I was just getting a good start on the Emma Jackson report when the phone rang. It was Sue. I could tell from the sound of her voice that something was seriously wrong.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Meet me on the eleventh floor,” she answered tersely. “We’re going to IIS for sure, now, and I do mean now. I tried to get hold of Kramer to tell him, but he’s not around, and neither is Watty. I don’t think we should sit on this any longer. It’s too important.”
“For Christ’s sake, Sue, tell me what’s happening?”
“I had to jump through all kinds of hoops, but I finally got Ben Weston’s password and current verification question from the only person who supposedly has it, Kyle Lehman, the department’s computer systems operator. Captain Nichols, the head of CCI, woke him out of a sound sleep to do it. We logged into Ben’s directory on the computer just a few minutes ago.”
I didn’t like the way she verbally underlined the word “supposedly.” “And?” I prompted.
“Between one forty-five and two-fifteen on the morning of April fifteenth, all but two of the files in Ben Weston’s directory were opened and closed.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that within hours of Ben Weston’s death, someone went through his secured computer directory in CCI. The directory shows log-on and log-off times. In each case the file was open for less than a minute.”
“Was anything changed?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But someone was looking for something.”
“Someone inside Seattle PD was looking for something,” Sue Danielson corrected. “You know yourself. The computer operates on a secured system. You don’t get into it without having the proper passwords as well as coming up with all the right answers to the verifying questions.”
“What do you suppose they were looking for?” I asked.
“And did they find it?” Sue added.
Of course, that changed everything. If someone had tampered with Ben Weston’s files on a secured computer system located in the Public Safety Building within hours of his murder, then it was definitely time for someone to pay a visit to Internal Investigations. High time.
“You’re absolutely right, Sue,” I said. “See you on the eleventh floor just as soon as that damned slow-boat- to-China elevator can get us there.”
CHAPTER 15
In my opinion, the internal investigations Section is a whole lot like a plumber’s friend-one of life’s necessary evils. A bathroom plunger isn’t something you’re particularly proud of owning. You don’t wave it around and brag about it, but when you need one, there’s nothing in the world quite like it. As circling water rises ominously and inevitably toward the rim of a backed-up toilet bowl, you’re usually damned grateful to have one in your hand.
I wasn’t ready to brag about IIS, but knowing that in the aftermath of Ben’s murder someone inside the Seattle Police Department had gained unauthorized access to his computer files made me more than ready to go see them. Sue Danielson, still too new at the Detective Division to have rotated in and out of IIS, was edgy about the entire process. I, on the other hand, had done a couple of stints in IIS over the years. Once again, I was able to offer some moral support from that dubiously gratifying vantage point-the long view.
“It’s not really an us-and-them situation, you know,” I counseled, once we met in the elevator lobby on the eleventh floor. “As a detective, you’ll find yourself assigned to work up here from time to time. These folks are mostly just a bunch of regular guys, especially Tony Freeman.”
Sue shot me a skeptical glance. “They may all be regular,” she countered, “but I still can’t see myself ever wanting to join them.”
Because IIS is a secured area, we had to stop at the reception desk and log in. “I’m Detective Beaumont,” I said to the young woman sitting there. “And this is Detective Danielson from Homicide. We’re here to talk to whoever’s handling Ben Weston’s case.”
There must be something about the set of my eyes and nose, or maybe it’s the way I comb my hair that brings out the worst in receptionists everywhere. This one was no exception. Busy filing a broken nail, she seemed only vaguely interested in what I had to say.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
I smiled back at her, one of those long-view smiles. “We work in Homicide,” I told her. “It’s hard to schedule those a week or so in advance. Can you tell me if someone in IIS has been assigned to work on the Weston case?”
“I’m not allowed to give out that kind of information.”
“Who is?”
“Captain Freeman.”
“Can we see him?”
She glanced pointedly behind her at the door with its number-coded lock. A red light glowed above it, announcing to those outside that the room was occupied and no one was to enter without Captain Freeman’s express permission. “He’s with someone right now,” the receptionist replied curtly, “and it’s already after four. Maybe you could come back tomorrow morning.”
“Maybe we’ll wait,” I said. “In fact, I’m sure of it.”
I motioned Sue into a chair and took one myself. It’s the kind of passive/aggressive resistance that universally drives receptionists crazy. This one flushed angrily and slammed the nail file into the top drawer of her desk. She picked up the phone and pounded the keypad.
“Captain Freeman? There are two detectives from Homicide out here. They want to talk to someone about the Weston case. Should they wait, or should I have them come back later?”
After listening for a moment, she nodded. “All right. I’ll tell them.” Putting down the phone, she allowed grudgingly, “You can wait, but it may be some time.”
We must have cooled our heels for a good half hour before the light went off and the inner door clicked open. Captain Anthony Freeman, the tall, ramrod-straight commander of IIS, ushered a young black woman out of his office. She was five six or so and slender, wearing one of those tight, ankle-fitting getups we used to call toreador
