rather send it home to Mother instead of the first one where I'm only the nameless jogger.'
JOGGING INTO HEALTH AND HOMICIDE
Johnny handed me the article, and I scanned the first several lines:
When Johnny Bickford went jogging down along Alaskan Way on New Year's morning, she was only keeping a New Year's resolution to take better care of herself. Trying to get into better shape has now embroiled the lower Queen Anne resident in a homicide investigation. She has spoken to police detectives in regard to one of the two violent deaths and several assaults that marred Seattle's New Year's celebration.
As Ms. Bickford rested on Pier 70, catching her breath, she spotted a body floating facedown in the waters of Elliot Bay. Seattle police investigators have since stated that the victim, a white male in his late thirties, died as a result of a gunshot wound. The victim has been tentatively identified, but his name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin.
I looked up at Johnny Bickford, who was watching me with rapt attention. 'Where do you want me to sign this thing?' I asked.
'Right under the headline, I suppose,' Johnny said. Shaking my head, I started to comply. 'You didn't tell me he died of a gunshot wound,' Johnny continued reproachfully.
'It wasn't something you needed to know,' I returned. 'As a matter of fact, the newspapers weren't supposed to know it, either.'
Johnny Bickford mulled that last statement while I finished signing the article and passed it back to him. 'I suppose you think it's morbid, my wanting you to sign the articles,' he said.
'It's none of my business one way or the other,' I answered.
'You see,' Johnny went on, 'I've always secretly wondered what it would be like to be involved in a murder investigation, and now I am.'
'Excuse me,' I returned. 'You discovered a body, but that doesn't mean you're involved.'
'But couldn't Seattle P.D. use someone like me?' Johnny asked. 'As an informant or something? Believe me, I could get into places a regular cop could never dream of going.'
'I'm sure that's true, but I don't think the department is in the market for that particular kind of information.'
'But Detective Kramer said…' Bickford stopped.
'What exactly did Detective Kramer say?'
'That each detective develops his own network of informants. I thought maybe I could work for you. On a voluntary basis, of course. I wouldn't expect to be paid anything. I just think it would be utterly fascinating.'
The phone rang at my elbow. In order to answer it, I had to unearth it from beneath a mound of loose paperwork. 'Detective Beaumont, here.'
A brisk female voice came on the line. 'This is Sally Redding, with Yellow Cab. I understand you were looking for some information?'
'Just a sec,' I said into the phone. Then I turned to Johnny. 'This is private,' I told him. 'You'll have to go.'
Nodding, Johnny picked up the purse and started toward the door. 'But, if you change your mind…'
'If I do,' I said, 'I'll be in touch.' Johnny left my cubicle, and I turned my attention back to the phone. 'Sorry,' I said, 'someone was here in my office, and yes, I did need some information.'
'The owner of the company has authorized me to tell you what you need to know,' Sally Redding said. 'The car you were asking about is number eleven forty-eight. On that particular night, the twenty-eighth, it was driven by Norm Otis. He picked up a fare from thirty-three hundred Western at approximately twelve-twenty A.M. and drove her to a building on Main Street in Bellevue. The number there is one zero two eight five Main.'
'Is that a house or an apartment?' I asked, jotting the information in my notebook.
'I can't tell that from the record,' Sally Redding answered. 'We have building information for pickups, but not for dropoffs.'
'When can I talk to Norm Otis?'
'He came on duty at six tonight, but he's off on a call right now. Do you want me to have him get back to you when he's available?'
'Please,' I said. 'The sooner the better.' I gave her my collection of possible phone numbers.
'I'll see what I can do,' Sally returned, but she didn't sound exactly overjoyed at the prospect.
'I appreciate your help, Ms. Redding' I said. 'I really do.'
'Right,' she said, sounding unconvinced.
'And be sure to have him try the home number first. I'm leaving the office as soon as I finish gathering things up. I should be there in just a matter of minutes.'
I parked the 928 on the P-4 level of the Belltown Terrace garage and took the elevator as far as the lobby, where I stopped off to pick up my mail. As I headed back toward the elevator, the lobby door opened and in came Gail Richardson and her Afghan hound, Charlie.
A renter of one of the larger upper units, Gail is some kind of bigwig on a Seattle-based sitcom that had just been renewed for a second season. She's a tall, good-looking woman in her late forties. Her hair is snow white, without, as she tells it, the benefit of any chemical enhancements. She is one of the few people I know who can manage the difficult feat of appearing totally dignified while holding a leashed dog in one hand and a plastic bag of still-warm dog crap in the other.
When I stepped aside to allow her and the dog aboard the elevator first, however, she looked decidedly harried. And knowing that some of her holiday company had been staying with her for the better part of three weeks, I guessed at the problem.
'When do you finally get your life back?' I asked.
She flashed me a woebegone smile. 'Maybe never. I'm sure you heard all about it.'
'All about what?'
'My mother took Charlie for a walk today and forgot how to get back to the building. Luckily, one of the Denny Regrade security officers spotted them and knew where they belonged. I hate to think what would have happened if he hadn't come to the rescue.'
I had been introduced to Gail's mother, Nina Hopper, at a Belltown Terrace pre-Christmas party. Nina, a birdlike woman in her mid-to-late eighties, had seemed bright enough when I talked with her, but we had spoken for only a matter of minutes.
'She forgot where the building was?' I asked.
Gail nodded. 'My sister had mentioned her growing forgetfulness and that it was becoming more and more worrisome. She had talked about getting one of those bracelets for her, so other people could help her find her way home if need be. Here in a strange city, her getting lost like that could have been disastrous. And then after that mess with the hot tub…'
'What mess with the hot tub?' I asked.
'Don't tell me you didn't hear about that. It even made the news. Mother thought she would help me out by cleaning the bathroom. She must have put half a bottle of liquid soap in the tub. Then she turned on the water and the jets and shut the bathroom door. By the time I realized what was happening, the bathroom was floor-to-ceiling bubbles. I guess it made a terrible mess in the party room.' The door opened and Gail and Charlie stepped off.
'You mean your mother did that?' I asked, holding the door open.
'Yes.'
'Did you know that Dick and Francine blamed Heather and Tracy?'
Gail nodded. 'It's an understandable mistake, I suppose. I didn't have a chance to tell them about it until late last night, after I finished cleaning up the mess in my own apartment.'
I tried not to let my face betray the smug relief I felt now that the girls had been totally exonerated. 'I'm sorry things are so bad with your mother, Gail,' I said sympathetically. 'Is there anything I can do?'
She looked at me and smiled. 'You already did it,' she said. 'You gave me a way of letting off steam before I walk back into the apartment. Believe me, that's a big help. Good night.'
I rode on up to my own floor. It struck me that Dick Mathers, Belltown's resident manager, ought to go on TV and make a public apology for accusing Heather and Tracy of the hot tub bubble caper, but that didn't seem likely. Dick Mathers isn't the apologizing type.
Once in the den, I pored over the tapes on my big-screen TV. Unfortunately, it didn't make any difference. No
