circumstance.
But with all the focus on Latty, I couldn't afford to ignore the other possibilities. The other detectives and I had somehow fallen into the trap of thinking that Don Wolf had been the first to die. But that might not be the case. The question raised by Harry Moore about whether or not Don Wolf had murdered Lizbeth was one that merited some serious consideration.
And then, there in the distance, stood Bill Whitten. Another station heard from, as they say, and one I couldn't afford to ignore.
I must have driven another five miles or so before I realized what I had done. Even lacking proper identification, I had given the second victim a name. In my mind, Audrey Cummings notwithstanding, the dead woman found in Don Wolf's apartment was Lizbeth Wolf and nobody else. Harry Moore had told me that Don Wolf had been determined to be rid of his relatively new wife. One way or another, now he was.
The trip back to Seattle from Tacoma took far less time than the drive down. Part of that was due to the fact that I was dreading the inevitable ass-chewing from Captain Powell. But by the time I finally made it back to the fifth floor at ten past seven that evening, I knew I was home free. Powell's a day-shift kind of guy. He might stay late to work a case, but never just to issue a reprimand.
Ducking into my cubicle, I paused long enough to take three messages off my voice mail. One was from someone I didn't know-a lady named Hilda Chisholm. She left two numbers-both for work and home-without giving me even a glimmer of information as to why she was calling. That wasn't particularly disturbing or unusual. In my line of work, I often receive phone calls from witnesses who are reluctant to leave important information of any kind on a recording device. They have to be handled on a person-to-person basis. Consequently, I started my next day's TO DO list by writing Hilda Chisholm's name on the topmost line. Then I retrieved my next message.
That one was from Lucille Enders down in La Jolla. 'Detective Beaumont,' she said, 'I just left Anna Dorn's house. I've talked to her, told her that Don Wolf is dead and that her daughter may be as well. That way, in case something shows up on the news, at least she's been warned. She's taking the whole thing pretty hard. She requested that you not call back until tomorrow morning. I did ask her if she knew any other next of kin on her son- in-law, and she said she couldn't help us there. She told me that if he had any family, he never mentioned them to her.'
Bless you, Lucille, I said to myself as I erased her message and wrote Captain Powell's name directly beneath Hilda Chisholm's. Being able to tell him that the next-of-kin notification was a fait accompli might help bail me out of the Larry Powell doghouse, as far as Grace Highsmith's public nonconfession was concerned.
Lucille Enders' message buoyed me up. The third one left me reeling.
'Hello, Beau,' the voice said. 'This is Dave-Dave Livingston, calling from Rancho Cucamonga.'
My heart fell. I would have recognized Dave Livingston's voice even without the tagline introduction. Dave is my first wife's-Karen's-second husband. I could tell from the minute quaver in his voice-the slight hesitation between words-that this wouldn't be good news. Karen had been battling cancer for more than two years-most of that time without my knowing anything about it. I gripped the phone tightly and braced myself for whatever was coming.
'I had to take Karen back into the hospital early this morning,' his disembodied voice continued. 'I've been here all day. In fact, that's where I'm calling you from right now-a pay phone in the lobby. I've been in touch with the kids. Scott should be home within hours. Kelly will be coming with Jeremy and little Kayla. They'll be leaving Ashland sometime this evening and driving straight through. If you want to come down…'
Dave broke off. I could hear him struggling to regain his composure before he went on. 'Sorry about that,' he said finally. 'I guess I got a little choked up. As I was saying, if you want to come down, too, it would probably be better if you did it sooner than later. Sometime in the next two or three days. I'm off work, so I can pick you up from the airport anytime. You're welcome to bunk in here with me if you like. It's a big house. Even with the kids, there'll be plenty of room. I'm leaving pretty much this same message on your machine at home in case you miss this one. I told Kelly I'd let you know, so she and Jeremy won't have to worry about getting in touch with you before they leave town. I probably won't be back at the house until fairly late tonight-sometime around midnight. Give me a call then. However late it is, I doubt I'll be asleep.'
Then he hung up. I held the receiver away from my head, staring uncomprehendingly at it through tear- dimmed eyes. Faintly, very faintly, I heard the recorded voice mail reciting its familiar directions: 'To replay this message, press four. To erase this message, press seven. To save it, press nine. To disconnect, press star.'
But at that precise moment, I was incapable of pressing any number at all. The receiver simply tumbled out of my hand. For some inexplicable reason, it came to rest exactly where it belonged-in its cradle-automatically disconnecting the call.
Dave's chilling words sank in slowly. Karen was dying. The surgery, the chemo, the radiation had worked together and had bought her a little relief and a little time-enough for her to see her granddaughter born and to see her daughter, Kelly, happily married. But very little beyond that. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
And here was Dave-staunch old bighearted Dave-calling to see if I wanted to come down. Calling with the very generous offer of letting me decide whether or not I wanted to be included in the looming family crisis when there was no good reason for him to do so. When most people in his position would have said, 'Screw you, buster. You blew your chances a long goddamned time ago.'
I can't quite enumerate all the conflicting emotions that washed over me in the course of those next few awful minutes. Terrible sadness. Anger that life could be so unfair and that Karen would die so young. Regret that I had ever lost her in the first place. Thankfulness that, of all the guys out there in the world, the one she had chosen to marry had turned out to be as kind and caring as Dave Livingston inarguably was. Jealousy that Dave was there at her side instead of me. And last of all, the appalling realization that had our situations been reversed, I might not have been nearly as openhanded to him as he was being to me.
God help me, I didn't cry. Some kind of stupid pride stuck in my craw. I didn't let myself go, although it probably would have done me a world of good. Instead, I sat there stunned and empty and not moving for a very long time-ten minutes? Fifteen? Maybe longer. I have no idea.
Finally, almost like an electric shock, something else took over. Force of habit kicked in, and responsibility and maybe a kind of stiff-necked pride. Of course I'd go. I had to. I'd call Dave back and tell him I was coming, but not until after things were straightened out. After all, I was in the middle of a case. I couldn't just walk away and leave the job half done, could I?
The answer to that question should have been an unequivocal yes. The sensible thing would have been to pick up the phone right then. I should have called Paul Kramer, given him everything I had, and then caught the very next plane to southern California. But for some reason, I didn't do that. Couldn't do that.
When I glanced at my watch again, it was almost seven-thirty. That gave me four and a half hours before I could call Dave back. Opening my notebook, I thumbed through until I found the numbers Dave Riveira had given me for Virginia Marks. I tried the cellular number that was listed there. She answered almost immediately, 'AIM Research.'
'Hello,' I said. 'Is this Virginia Marks?'
'Yes. Who's this?'
'My name's Beaumont. Detective J. P. Beaumont with the Seattle P.D.'
'I know who you are,' she said. 'What do you want?'
Her reaction wasn't exactly warm and fuzzy, but she didn't hang up on me, either. I hurried on. 'I need to talk to you, Ms. Marks. I'd like to do it as soon as possible. Tonight, if it's convenient.'
'Cut the ‘convenient' crap, Detective Beaumont. I know what this is about, and I know I have to talk to you, so we might just as well get it over with. I'm already late for one meeting, but I'll probably be done with that by eight-thirty or so. How about nine o'clock?' she concluded.
'Where?' I asked.
'My place, I suppose.'
'Where's that?'
'It's in Bellevue,' Virginia answered. 'It's a new condo at the corner of Bellevue Way and Northeast Twelfth. It's called The Grove on Twelfth. You'll have to park under the building and then call my unit from the security phone next to the elevator.'
'Good enough,' I said. 'I'll be there right at nine.'
Since I had to go back to Bellevue anyway, I decided to try to kill two birds with one stone. I dialed
