off the possibility of vehicular flight. I switched off both the lights and the motor. Closing the doors as quietly as possible, we started toward the house.
Halfway there, Freeman motioned frantically toward the side of the house. My heart went to my throat, but finally I understood why he was pointing. There, parked in a small lean-to, sat a white Toyota Tercel. I gave Freeman a thumbs-up acknowledgment. If either one of us had been entertaining any doubts, that was the end of them. The presence of a car that matched one of Bob Case’s suspicious vehicles pretty much corked it.
Automatic in hand, I followed Captain Freeman onto the small wooden porch. Boards creaked ominously underfoot. From inside came the sound of a radio station playing soft rock music. The door itself stood partially ajar. There was no doorbell.
Freeman stepped to the door and pounded on the casing. “Sam,” he called. “Sam Irwin. Are you in there?”
There was no answer. None. But the radio continued to play. Freeman knocked again. Still no answer.
Cautiously, moving the door aside with his foot, Freeman shoved it open. Across the room a man sat in front of a glowing computer screen.
“Sam?” Freeman asked again tentatively.
There was no answering movement, no sound. The man’s hands hung down limply on either side of the straight-backed chair. His head lolled crazily to one side.
With two long, quick strides, Tony Freeman covered the distance between the door and the chair. I stood in the doorway with automatic at the ready, just in case, but that wasn’t necessary.
“You’d better go call nine-one-one on that cute little cellular phone of yours,” Tony Freeman told me. “This one’s already dead.”
Summoned by 911 dispatchers, cops from the King County Police Department arrived within minutes, followed by a pair of longtime homicide detectives named Edwin Hammer and Tom Crowe. Over the years, passing in and out of courtrooms, we’ve all developed something of a nodding acquaintance. I stayed with them while Tony Freeman hustled off to talk with the commander in charge of the arriving contingent of officers.
For a change, I was shuttled into the background, answering questions only when called upon to do so, giving information that would show up in other people’s reports as well as in my own, eventually. When they put me on hold while awaiting the appearance of someone from the Medical Examiner’s Office, lack of sleep caught up with me. I was sitting on the couch dozing when Detective Crowe happened to read the words written on the computer screen.
“Get a load of this!” he gloated to his cohort Detective Hammer. “We’ve got this one sacked and bagged, and we’ve barely been here twenty minutes. Hey, J.P. What’ll you give us if we solve your case for you?”
Far too worn-out to get a kick out of their teasing, I willed my tired legs to move and forced my butt off the couch to go see what they were talking about. I had already seen the selection of drug paraphernalia on the table next to the computer, had already observed the bandage on Sam Irwin’s wrist which I assumed probably concealed a set of Spot Weston’s teeth marks, but I hadn’t spent a whole lot of time examining the body. In my business, if you’ve seen one drug overdose, you’ve seen ‘em all. It doesn’t take a whole lot of imagination to fill in the blanks.
Detective Hammer pointed me toward the computer. The screen itself was filled with text. I had glanced at it briefly in the beginning, and it seemed to be some kind of building fund report, but in the ensuing hubbub, neither Tony nor I had finished reading it.
I did so now, however, starting from the beginning, squinting down at the amber letters, and wondering if it was time to have my eyes checked. Halfway through the screen, layered in with the other text, was the following: “To Whom It May Concern: I can’t live with what I’ve done. Tell my mother I’m sorry. Sam.”
I wasn’t particularly impressed. “That doesn’t say much,” I said to the two King County cops. “So it was a deliberate overdose rather than an accidental one. What’s the big deal?”
Hammer grinned at Crowe and jabbed him in the ribs. “He still hasn’t seen it. Not this case, stupid. Yours. The one that’s got the whole city of Seattle turned inside out. Look again.”
Again I struggled to read the text. At last Hammer could stand it no longer. “What are you, blind? Look at the metal plate glued to the bottom of the CRT.”
I saw it and read it and felt like somebody had jabbed me in the ribs. “Property of Benjamin Weston, Sr.,” the plate said, followed by Ben’s complete address and phone number.
“So what do you think?” Hammer gloated. “Have we found the killer for you or not? You guys are always rubbing our noses in it, but this time we’ve got the drop on you. What say we go over to the Pancake Corral when we finish here and have a cup of coffee. You buy.”
“Buy nothing!” I headed for the door.
“Wait a minute,” Tom Crowe said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To call Sergeant Watkins. He’s head of the Weston Family Task Force. He needs to know about this on the double.”
Freeman met me in the doorway. “Needs to know about what?”
I pointed. “That’s Ben Weston’s computer. It’s got an ID plate on the CRT.”
The head of IIS went over to the computer and looked for himself. “I’ll be damned,” he said under his breath. He turned around and faced Detectives Hammer and Crowe. They were grumbling back and forth about me being your basic spoilsport.
“Do you two know who I am?” he demanded. The question and the way it was asked cut through the comedy.
“Yes, sir,” Detective Crowe said respectfully. “We certainly do.”
“Good,” Freeman returned. “Now I’m going to tell you to forget it. Not just tell you to forget it, order you to forget it. Do you understand?”
The two King County detectives exchanged puzzled glances.
“There’s a whole lot more at stake here than a simple murder investigation,” Tony Freeman continued. “It is absolutely vital that no one-no one at all-knows that Detective Beaumont and I were here this morning.”
Detective Hammer looked as though he was building up to say something cute, but Freeman cut him off. “I’ve already spoken to your superior about it. He understands the seriousness of the situation. You are to say that the body was reported by person or persons unknown. I’ll get the nine-one-one operators to back you up on that for the time being. No way is word of Detective Beaumont’s or my participation in this to be leaked to anyone inside or outside your department. Is that clear?”
“You bet,” Detective Hammer returned, but his reply sounded less than halfhearted. Captain Anthony Freeman was not amused.
He moved a foot or so closer to Edwin Hammer. “You may think,” he said softly, “that as a King County police officer you are immune from an Internal Affairs officer at Seattle PD, but let me assure you, if word of Beau’s or my presence here leaks out, I will hold you both accountable for whatever happens, and I’m prepared to make it stick.”
Tony Freeman may have been SPD’s regular straight arrow, but it didn’t pay to piss him off. Detective Hammer finally got the message. He swallowed hard and took a step backward.
“Yes, sir,” he responded. “I understand completely.”
Freeman did not smile. “Good,” he said. “We’ll be going then. Come on, Beau. They’re holding the media at bay out front. I have it on good authority that once we make it to the street, someone can lead us out of here by a back way. That red car of yours is a little too distinctive.”
Moments later we were back in the Porsche and threading our way through Beaux Arts. “So that’s what you meant earlier when you told me you could be persuasive?” I asked.
Tony sighed and leaned back against the headrest, closing his eyes. “Whatever works,” he said wearily. A moment later he was sound asleep and snoring.
CHAPTER 23
Captain Freeman didn’t wake up until I pulled to a stop in front of the Public Safety Building. “My brains are
