without ever playing a single pro game.
I dropped the paper back on Captain Powell's desk. 'What about them?' I asked.
'Those are the people Detectives Kramer and Arnold are off to interview this morning.'
I picked up the list and studied it again. 'Interview them?' I asked. 'How come?'
Powell leaned forward in his chair. 'Because these people are recent major investors in D.G.I., or did you already know that?'
'No,' I admitted. 'I had no idea.'
'And you probably also have no idea that Martin Rutherford, the ex-coffee-bean guy, is dating the mayor.'
Seattle's mayor, Natalie Farraday, is a divorced single mother who, since her election, has gone through several boyfriends at the rate of about one a year.
'I guess I had heard that,' I said, now understanding the implications and how this had suddenly become such a sensitive case. 'I'd heard it, but I think maybe I'd forgotten.'
'So what exactly are you doing to solve it?' Powell asked.
Hurriedly, I gave Captain Powell a shorthand version of what I had learned so far. He seemed even less impressed with that then he had been with my tale of computer woes. When I finished, Powell sat looking at me, drumming on the surface of his desk with a pencil eraser.
'I spoke to Detective Kramer at some length before he and Detective Arnold hit the bricks,' Powell said thoughtfully. 'Based on this new information,' he said as he gave the list of names a meaningful tap, 'I was going to assign another pair of detectives to the case, but Kramer asked me not to. He said that pulling in more people at this point would probably do more harm than good. He says he thinks the three of you will be able to pull it out of the fire. What do you think?'
The public seems to like the 'task force' approach to major crimes. Unfortunately, from my point of view, when it comes to effective investigations, less is usually more.
'Kramer's probably right, Captain Powell. I think we're making progress.'
'And you don't think you need any more troops?'
'Not at this time.'
Captain Powell glanced at his watch. 'All right, then,' he said. 'I'm giving the three of you twenty-four hours to bring this case to some kind of order. If I don't have really solid progress by tomorrow morning at this time, the head count goes up. Understood?'
Nodding, I rose to my feet. 'Is that all?' I asked.
'Not quite,' Powell answered. 'There's one more thing.'
'What's that?' I asked.
'Let me remind you, Detective Beaumont, complacency can be a dangerous thing.' While he spoke, the captain's steady gaze held mine. 'When cops lose their edge-when they stop being hungry-that's about the time they get careless. The next thing you know, somebody gets hurt.'
I paused in the doorway. 'What's that supposed to mean?'
'Do yourself a favor,' Captain Powell returned. 'You're a cop, not a professional ball player, Beau. Until further notice, no more autographs. Is that clear?'
'Perfectly!' I said.
I stormed back to my office, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the great outdoors. 'Hey, Beau,' Watty said as I charged past his desk. 'Where are you going? You forgot to sign out.'
Initially, I headed for the motor pool. I think if I had run into Paul Kramer along the way, I would have punched his lights out. Halfway to the motor pool, I changed my mind-not about cleaning Kramer's clock but about taking a company car.
'Hell with it,' I muttered under my breath, startling a sweet young thing clerk headed downstairs with a cartload of file folders. Kramer could be pissed off about where and how I lived, and Captain Powell could order me to not sign autographs, but if I wanted to drive my Guards Red Porsche on my trip to Bellevue, then I would, and nobody-including Captain Lawrence Powell-was going to stop me.
The 928 didn't exactly observe the speed limits as I crossed Lake Washington on the I-90 bridge. Fortunately, the state patrol didn't spot me or pull me over. That would have been tough to explain. By the time I turned off on Bellevue Way, I had cooled down a little.
For someone who has lived downtown for years and who often walks from home to work, the problem of going from Seattle to Bellevue isn't so much a matter of geography as it is one of mind-set. Seattle has a city feel and smell and look to it. Office workers and tourists, drunks and bums mingle on sidewalks on multilane one-way streets filled with traffic.
Bellevue, on the other hand, a city one quarter the size of Seattle proper, is an alien kind of place where, although high-rise buildings dot the skyline, Main Street is still a narrow, two-lane cow path. For some strange reason, North East Eighth, the real main drag, is several blocks to the north.
Downtown Seattle seems intent on banking and commerce while downtown Bellevue is more inclined toward serious shopping. It's a place where Mercedes-wielding, Nordstrom-bound matrons have been known to run down any fellow shoppers who have nerve enough to try to reserve a parking place without benefit of a four-wheeled vehicle. Seattle's largely liberal, pro-Democrat citizenry see Bellevue as a suburban hotbed of rich, recalcitrant Republicans-a questionable place to visit and one where you certainly wouldn't want to live.
I arrived on Main Street in what is quaintly called Old Bellevue, with all my Denny Regrade, dyed-in-the-wool Seattleite prejudices still firmly intact.
It turned out to be easy to find the address I'd obtained from Yellow Cab. Dorene's Fine China and Gifts- complete with a woman's name-was right where Norm Otis had said. Finding the place was simple. Getting in wasn't. Dorene's was closed. A sign on the door said they supposedly opened at nine-thirty. My watch read nine- fifteen.
Like Seattle, Bellevue seems to have an espresso cart stationed on every corner. The one outside Dorene's was no exception. I figured the price of a latte and biscotti would give me the right to ask the cart's long-haired proprietor what, if anything, he knew about Dorene and company.
He shrugged his grunge-clad shoulders and shook his purple-tinged locks. 'I think Latty goes to school in the morning. She usually doesn't come to the shop until after noon,' he said. 'The old lady usually opens up, but she more or less gets here when she gets here, earlier or later, depending.'
It was an answer, although not a very definite one. I hung around for a few more fruitless minutes. Finally, it made sense for me to try seeing Eddie at Northwest Mobility first and come back to Bellevue about the time Latty herself was due to show up for work.
I headed off toward Snohomish, threading my way through the maze of suburbs with the help of my faithful companion, The Thomas Guide. Since Ron had told me that Eddie and his wife had started out as hot-rodders, I headed for Rich's Northwest Mobility with a whole headful of preconceptions. I expected a run-down garage with derelict vehicles scattered behind it, maybe an aging, marooned motor home of an office, and a motley collection of worker-bees whose grease-covered clothing went far too many overhauls between washings.
Turning left off Maltby Road onto a narrow paved track that ran through a thicket of towering trees, I was sure my worst suspicions would be confirmed, especially when I saw the ominous sign that warned, in no uncertain terms: STAY ON PAVED ROAD. That generally means if you wander off, you'll be caught in mud up to your hubcaps before you can say Triple-A Towing.
My first inkling that I was mistaken came when I saw the second Rich's sign, the one sitting in the middle of an ornate bricked entryway. I rounded a corner and found myself looking at a collection of several neat, low-built buildings, all painted an inviting pale yellow, nestled at the base of a grass-covered hill. I counted three separate garages on either side of a central paved area. At the far end of that central courtyard was a well-maintained house and yard. Taken together, the garages and house formed a U-shaped outline, the interior of which was parked full of wheelchair-accessible vans. Some of them looked brand new. Others were obviously older and waiting for service at one of the stalls in the various garages, all of which seemed to be fully occupied at the moment.
I parked my 928 out of the way as best I could. At the near end of the U was a sign that must have been a holdover from the old hot-rod days: STREET ROD ALLEY. Unnoticed, I walked toward a group of people gathered around one of the shiny new vans where a heavyset man in a wheelchair was laughingly rolling himself up a gentle ramp into the vehicle. Once inside, he turned around and gave his audience a triumphant thumbs-up. While they
