It seemed to me I'd already been down that path. 'I am working the floater,' I said. 'This is his apartment. Our initial and still tentative I.D. would indicate that the dead woman found here is his wife.'
Larry sniffed the air. 'She's been dead for a while.'
'A day or two,' I agreed. 'With the thermostat turned up to eighty degrees, it doesn't take long for a body to go bad.'
'You're thinking it's maybe a double, then?' he asked.
Kramer shook his head and horned his way into the conversation. 'For my money, I'm thinking it's maybe a homicide and/or suicide.'
'Audrey Cummings from the M.E.'s office doesn't necessarily agree with that theory,' I mentioned while Kramer shot me a withering look.
'What does she say?' Captain Powell asked.
'She's calling it a double,' Kramer grumbled. 'And she's going for a full-court press.'
'And I'm sure you three are going to give her your full cooperation,' Powell said with an encouraging smile.
'Absolutely,' Detective Kramer replied at once, deftly executing a judicious U-turn. It amazed me that he could pull it off without so much as missing a beat. And without Captain Powell catching on to his game, either. 'No question about that,' Kramer continued. 'We were just about to start dividing up responsibilities.'
'How?' Powell asked.
No one had previously discussed the division of labor, but once again Kramer covered himself. 'Since Beaumont here was already tracking down the floater's background and next-of-kin notification, we thought he should go on with that while Detective Arnold and I go to work on the neighborhood here.'
The captain nodded. 'Sounds reasonable,' he said. 'Let's not stand around here jawing about it, either. Get busy. I was in a meeting with Chief Rankin when the call came in. Do you realize that, counting this one, the city of Seattle now has a total of four homicides in just over two days? And if the one critical-condition drive-by victim at Harborview kicks off, that'll make five? Believe me, that doesn't bode well for the year, and it doesn't bode well for the chief, either. I'm putting you both on notice that he's going to be wanting progress. Immediate progress!'
'So what else is new?' I asked with a shrug. I couldn't resist the jibe. When the brass starts jumping up and down and demanding results yesterday, when they lose track of the fact that instant results often breed long-term disaster, that's when I have a hard time keeping a civil tongue in my mouth. In those situations, faced with all that bureaucratic huffing and puffing, I think a little healthy disrespect is good for all concerned. Kramer's exasperated answering glower warned me that he disagreed.
No doubt he wanted to distance himself from my moderately disrespectful jibe. Maybe he was worried that some of my reputation as Homicide's smart-ass-in-residence might rub off on him. And, although my comment may have irked Detective Kramer, it seemed to have very little effect on Captain Powell, who was more than capable of taking recalcitrant homicide cops in stride.
'Where do you stand on your end of it, Detective Beaumont?'
'I'd best be making some phone calls,' I told him. 'If Lizbeth Wolf turns out to be alive and well down in San Diego, then our tentative identification is wrong and we've got a Jane Doe dead in that apartment and two sets of next-of-kin notifications to handle.'
'Get with the program, then,' Powell told me. He turned to Kramer and Arnold. 'And you two guys are canvassing the neighborhood?'
Kramer nodded. 'And talking to the people in the building? All we're waiting on is an approximate time of death so we have some idea what to ask.'
About that time, the elevator door opened. A police photographer stepped into the hallway. Captain Powell waved her into the apartment just as Audrey Cummings emerged, peeling off a pair of latex gloves. She must have heard the tail end of Kramer's answer.
'I'd say she's been dead for days. My guess, pending the autopsy, is two or three, but it could be less. The extreme heat in the apartment may have distorted the condition of the body. Who's going to be working on the identification?'
'I am,' I answered. 'I.D. and next of kin both.'
Audrey nodded. 'Good. Let me know what you find out. And remember, Beaumont. Positive I.D. None of this secondhand crap.'
'Sure thing,' I said. 'I'll get on it right away.'
I pushed the down button. When the elevator came, Jack Braman was inside and running the controls with a key. 'That way, I can keep track of who comes and goes,' he told me apologetically. 'There's a whole bunch of reporters downstairs. I was afraid some of them would sneak into the garage and then go on upstairs without anyone knowing.'
'Good thinking,' I told him.
He stood there looking at me. The elevator key was in the lock, but since he hadn't pushed any buttons as yet, we still weren't moving.
'Is something wrong?' I asked.
He shrugged. 'I was just wondering if…well, you know…'
'Know what?'
'Who it is? The person who's dead, I mean?'
'We don't know for sure. It may be his wife. We're checking.'
'That would sure be better for me,' he said.
His comment mystified me. 'Better for you? What would?'
'If it turned out to be his wife,' Braman replied. The elevator stopped, but he switched off the key, and the door didn't open. 'Husbands and wives knock each other off all the time,' he said. 'That kind of thing happens. But if a hooker or even just a girlfriend were to turn up dead in the building, people might think I wasn't doing such a good job of managing the building. You understand that, don't you?'
'You're telling me that from a PR standpoint, it's more respectable for the building and better for your job performance if the victim turns out to be a resident's wife instead of a girlfriend or a prostitute?'
Braman nodded. 'Don't you think so?' he asked, turning the key and opening the door.
'Actually,' I told him, 'I've never given the matter a whole lot of thought.'
Just as Braman had warned me, a miniconvocation of local representatives of the Fourth Estate was taking place in the entry courtyard of the Lake View Condominiums. Phil Grimes, the guy who'd been tapped to replace Ron Peters in Media Relations, was standing in the middle of the crowd and being bombarded by the roving pack of reporters. It seemed obvious to me that since he'd just arrived on the scene, he probably wouldn't have much of anything to report. That didn't keep the newsies from peppering him with questions.
Using Grimes as a diversion, I headed for my car. I was almost there and thinking I had made a clean getaway when I heard someone calling me. 'Detective Beaumont.'
I stopped and looked back. Behind me, missing her cameraman, was the same television reporter I'd encountered twice the previous day, both at Pier 70 and out in front of Belltown Terrace during the soapsuds debacle. High heels clicking on the cement, she came hurrying after me. She was surprisingly old for a female television reporter-forty at least-but her makeup and clothing certainly made the most of what was there.
'Maribeth George,' she said, holding out her hand. 'Could I talk to you for a minute?'
Knowing who she was and what she did, I didn't exactly fall all over myself in my eagerness for a private chat. Years of being a cop have bred in me an instinctive distrust for the media-any kind of media. Even good- looking women in nice clothing. Maybe especially good-looking women.
'Miss George,' I said coolly. 'No doubt you've been in the news game long enough to know that detectives aren't supposed to talk to reporters.'
My rebuff didn't seem to faze her. 'Not even off the record?' she asked. 'I left Stan and his camera over there,' she added, jerking her head back toward the noisy group of reporters still eddying around Phil Grimes. 'It's just the two of us. No recording devices of any kind.'
'What do you want to talk about?' I asked.
Maribeth George had short brunette hair with a vivid streak of white that started just over her left eyebrow. Her dark-gray eyes, fringed by long, thick lashes, were made darker still by the carefully applied makeup that surrounded them.
