Chair Topper on it that looks a whole lot like yours.'
'Cool,' Ron said. 'No telling what people in chairs are up to these days. If the lady in question bought her Chair Topper locally, you can pretty well figure it came from Rich's Northwest Mobility. It's up in Snohomish County, on Maltby Road.'
To people who live in the Denny Regrade, words like Snohomish or Maltby Road are enough to give you heartburn. Those hard-to-place place names denote exurbs, not suburbs. Foolhardy city dwellers who venture out in search of them would be wise to arm themselves with a current copy of The Thomas Guide.
'I assume Rich is the owner, then?' I asked, making a quick notation in my notebook.
Ron shook his head. 'Rich is long gone. He started the place as a customizing joint for hot rods. A young couple named Eddie and Amanda bought Rich out years ago. After a while, they ended up going straight, as they put it. They're out of hot rods completely. They still do customizing, all right, but now it's strictly to create handicapped-accessible vehicles.'
'Would they talk to me?' I asked.
'Who, Eddie and Amanda? Of course they would. I'll call ahead and let them know you'll be stopping by. When?'
'Tomorrow sometime,' I said. 'I'm sure as hell not going to fight my way over there now in the middle of rush-hour traffic.'
'Wise decision,' Ron agreed. 'I'll call them first thing in the morning. Anything else?'
'Not right now.' I stood up to leave, but Ron motioned me back into my chair. His face grew suddenly somber.
'Have you heard from Roz yet…from Sister Constance, I mean?' he asked.
'Sister Constance!' I said. 'Why would I be hearing from your ex-wife?'
'You probably won't hear from her directly,' Ron said, 'but you'll be hearing from someone. She's coming after us demanding full custody. She's charging Amy and me with willful child neglect.'
'Child neglect!' I exclaimed. 'You and Amy? You've got to be kidding.'
Ron shook his head sadly. 'I'm not kidding, Beau. I only wish I were.'
Nine
Half an hour later, I skulked back down to my fifth-floor cubicle. I had been feeling pretty cocky when I checked off Find Latty. I wasn't nearly as chipper when I put the little check mark next to number four, Find Wheelchair Lady. Somehow, the possibility that Ron and Amy Peters might lose permanent custody of Heather and Tracy had taken the blush right off my little investigatory rose.
I studied the remaining items on my list. There wasn't anything on it that I couldn't do at home. The big- screened TV-useful for reviewing the tapes and also for watching the news if I managed to make it all the way to ten o'clock-was right there in my den. And as for working on reports, including the almost completed ones the computer had eaten, that could be done on my laptop-assuming I could get the damned thing running again-while sitting in my very own recliner.
Gathering things into a wad, I was about to switch off the overhead light when Detective Kramer stuck his head in the doorway. 'There you are,' he said, 'I thought you were still here.'
Caught, I thought.
'With any luck, I wouldn't have been,' I told him cheerfully. 'What's up? If you're going to brief me on what you and Arnold found out this afternoon, couldn't it wait until morning? I'm beat.'
'One of your star witnesses just stopped by to pay a visit,' Kramer said. 'I told her to wait in my office while I tried to track you down.'
Kramer's cat-eating-shit grin as he spoke warned me that something wasn't quite right. 'What star witness?' I asked.
'Her name's Johnny,' he said. 'Johnny Bickford. And she particularly asked for Detective Beaumont. She wasn't the least bit interested in talking to anyone else, even though I tried to assure her that we were working the same case.'
Groaning inwardly and wondering how long Johnny Bickford had been traipsing around the fifth floor, I followed Kramer down the hall to his cubicle, which happens to be two doors away from Captain Powell's fishbowl. Parked next to Kramer's desk sat Johnny Bickford in 100-percent full-dress drag, complete with frosted wig, impossibly high heels, dark-colored panty hose, and a tightly belted trench coat which emphasized that Johnny's Wonder-Bra was still performing its figure-producing magic. A massive leather purse sat on the floor next to his feet, which were demurely crossed-at the ankle.
Looking at him made me think of that old 1950s classic Some Like It Hot with Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis, and Jack Lemmon. I remember seeing the movie back then and being pretty much mystified by all those men running around in women's clothing. And although I'm supposedly older and wiser than I was in Ballard back in 1959, I have to admit that I still don't understand it. Nor, would I venture to say, do most of my Homicide colleagues on the fifth floor of the Public Safety Building.
'Hello, Johnny,' I said without enthusiasm. 'You wanted to see me?'
Chirping with glee, Johnny leaped to his/her feet the moment I appeared in the doorway. 'Why, there you are, Detective Beaumont. I was about to give up hope that this nice Detective Kramer would ever be able to find you. He's been so helpful.'
'I'll just bet he has,' I said. 'Come on, we'll go down to my office to talk.'
'You're more than welcome to talk here if you like,' Detective Kramer offered genially.
'No,' I said, giving Kramer a black look. 'I don't think so.'
'Detective Beaumont is right,' Johnny added. 'I've already taken too much of your time, but I do appreciate your visiting with me. Detective Kramer and I were just sitting here chatting. You police officers do lead such interesting lives.'
'Yes,' I agreed grimly. 'We certainly do.'
While Johnny groped for his purse, Kramer planted himself in the doorway, blocking our exit. 'Johnny here seems to have a very high opinion of your skill as an investigator,' Paul Kramer said with a deceptively bland smile. 'She dropped by the department to ask you to sign an autograph for her mother back in Wichita.'
'Another one?' I asked.
'Another one?' Kramer repeated. 'You mean you've signed autographs before? Sounds more like a major- league baseball player than a cop. You don't charge for it, do you?'
'No,' I said. 'No charge.'
Kramer shook his head. 'I don't understand it,' he said. 'Nobody's ever asked me for my autograph.'
Now it was my turn to smile. 'I'm sure Johnny here could remedy that. As far as your mother is concerned, one detective's signature should do just as well as any other's, shouldn't it?'
'I suppose,' Johnny agreed dubiously, 'but the truth is-no offense, Detective Kramer-I really did have my heart set on Detective Beaumont's. You don't mind, do you?'
'Oh, no,' Kramer said. 'Not at all!'
That's what he said, but it wasn't what he meant. On the face of it, the whole idea of someone wanting a detective's autograph was more than slightly ridiculous. Still, I knew enough about Kramer to understand that he was feeling slighted. And jealous. I could see that for myself in the involuntary twitch that was tweaking the corners of his thin mouth. The twitch, combined with the humorless glower in Kramer's eyes, warned me that both Johnny Bickford's request for an autograph, along with his outrageous appearance, would be a hot topic around Homicide for months to come. Detective Kramer would see to it.
'Let's go, Johnny,' I repeated. 'I'm sure Detective Kramer has work to do.'
Hoping we wouldn't meet too many of my fellow detectives along the way, I herded Johnny down the hall and into my cubicle. Once seated at the chair next to my disaster of a desk, my visitor began fumbling in the purse. What he finally excavated was an envelope containing a carefully folded newspaper article.
'A reporter called me this morning from The Seattle Times,' Johnny said. 'She interviewed me about finding the body. The article came out in this afternoon's edition. Since my name actually appears in this one, I thought I'd
