asked.
'I came to talk about you,' she said.
'Me?' I asked in surprise. 'Why me?'
'Because you are a prime consideration in my investigation.' Once again, she smiled her chilly smile, one that lowered the temperature in my living room by a full ten degrees. 'What I'm most interested in knowing, Mr. Beaumont,' she continued, 'is why a man like you-a man with all the money in the world and with known transsexual contacts-would take such an unhealthy interest in those two little girls.'
'Transsexual contacts?' I echoed.
'One of your fellow detectives mentioned to me that Johnny Bickford, one of Seattle's most infamous cross- dressers, is a special friend of yours.'
'Special friend!' I choked. 'Are you kidding? I barely know the man, but obviously, you've been chatting with Detective Kramer behind my back. That creep…'
'Naturally, I spoke with several of your coworkers,' Hilda returned, unperturbed. 'I'm conducting an investigation, you see.'
Gradually, an understanding of the scope of her accusations was beginning to seep into my consciousness. 'An investigation, or a kangaroo court?' I demanded, while my temper rose several degrees.
The room was quiet for several moments while Hilda Chisholm eyed my reaction with a disquieting, coolly speculative gaze.
'The girls' mother, Constance Peters, is very much concerned about that, especially now that she's learned- through a local television news broadcast, no less-that the girls are sometimes left alone in your care and under your control.'
'Give me a break! Are we back to those stupid soapsuds again?' I sat up abruptly, letting the recliner's footrest slam down to the thickly carpeted floor with a resounding thump. 'If so, you need to talk to Gail Richardson down on nineteen. Her mother's been visiting. It turns out she's the one whose attempt at cleaning turned into a mountain of suds.'
'This has nothing whatever to do with soapsuds,' Hilda interrupted, 'although that incident is part of what brought this unfortunate situation to our attention. If the girls had been properly supervised at the time-'
'What unfortunate situation?' I interrupted.
'Your inappropriate involvement with the Peters girls.'
'Inappropriate!' I exclaimed while the social worker's cold, unwavering stare sent a chill clear through me.
'Wait just a damn minute here! What exactly do you mean by inappropriate?'
She smiled. 'You tell me.'
'Are you suggesting that I'm some kind of dirty old man and that I'm interested in the girls for some kind of immoral purpose?'
Hilda Chisholm raised an eyebrow. 'Aren't you?' she returned.
Calmly, she removed a notebook from her briefcase and thumbed it open. 'For starters,' she said, 'let me ask you this, Mr. Beaumont. Did you or did you not pay money-your own personal money-to fund a good deal of the mission that sent Constance Peters to Central America three and a half years ago?'
'She was Roslyn Peters then,' I told her. 'And that was a contribution. A charitable contribution.'
'I'm sure it was,' Hilda smiled again. 'Arranged by a man named Ralph Ames, I believe. Who exactly is he?'
'Ralph? He's my attorney.'
'Your personal attorney?'
'Yes.'
'And you keep him on retainer?'
'Yes.'
'And why would an ordinary homicide detective need to have a personal attorney on retainer?'
'My reasons for having an attorney on retainer are none of your business, Ms. Chisholm. Although they could be. I'm sure Ralph would be more than happy to help me take you to court. Defamation of character is no joke, and I'm not going to take it lying down. And based on that, I think you'd better leave.'
It took every bit of self-restraint I could muster to keep from leaping out of the recliner and simply throttling the woman on the spot.
Hilda Chisholm, however, made no move to leave. 'But, Mr. Beaumont,' she said, 'I was sure you'd want to give me your side of the story.'
'No,' I returned, 'I don't think so. I'm not going to dignify this ridiculous process by according it the benefit of two sides. In addition, as long as I have an attorney available to protect my interests, I don't intend to say another word to you until he is present.'
'Your insisting on the presence of an attorney indicates a certain reluctance on your part, Mr. Beaumont. An unwillingness to cooperate. It makes it sound as though you have something to hide.'
'I'm a police officer,' I reminded her. 'You're accusing me of a serious crime-a felony. Not having my attorney present at the time of questioning is a violation of my constitutional rights.'
'This is simply an informal inquiry,' she said.
'Like hell it is,' I retorted. 'Now get out of here.'
'Very well, Mr. Beaumont,' she said, carefully returning her notebook to the briefcase and closing the lock with a sharp snap. 'But I will have to say in my report that you were uncooperative and abusive. Cursing is considered abusive, you know.'
'You can put any damned thing you want to in your report, but only if you're out of my apartment within the next thirty seconds. Otherwise, you'll be writing that report with two broken arms.'
'And I'll have to report that as a threat,' she responded.
'No, Madame Chisholm,' I said, 'that was no threat. It's a goddamned promise!'
She retreated as far as the doorway before she paused long enough to deliver her parting shot. 'I suppose you know Captain Freeman?'
'Tony Freeman, of Internal Investigations?'
'Yes, that's the one. I have an appointment to discuss this matter with him tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. I expect he'll be taking some action pending the outcome of my investigation, of course.'
Thankfully, she left then. And it's a good thing, too. If she had stayed one second longer, there's a good possibility I might have done something I would have regretted for the rest of my life.
Fifteen
I brooded over Hilda Chisholm's visit all the way to Bellevue. Once there, I found my way to the Grove on Twelfth. Following Virginia Marks' directions, I parked beneath the building in a spot designated VISITOR. Then I locked the door to the Porsche and walked over to the elevator. There, almost on top of the elevator, sat the powder-blue Crown Victoria complete with its Braun Chair Topper. At least she's here, I thought.
After consulting the listing next to the door, I punched the proper number into the security phone and waited for her phone to ring. It did. Several times. On about the sixth ring, the same old voice mail recording I had heard before came on once again, inviting me to leave a message at the sound of the tone.
I didn't want to leave a message. I wanted to talk to this woman in person. And for good reason. Virginia Marks, a detective who certainly should have known better, had nonetheless conspired with Grace Highsmith to conceal evidence in a homicide investigation. To my way of thinking, not only did I have a reason to talk to Virginia Marks; I also had a scheduled appointment, so she, by God, owed me the common courtesy of answering her goddamned door. A glance at my watch told me I was five minutes early. Still, my old door-to-door-salesman instincts were already sending me the message that I was about to be stood up.
For a few minutes, I stayed where I was, standing next to the security phone and the elevator door. Three residents came by and let themselves into the locked elevator with keys. The last one, an elderly gentleman, gave me a particularly questioning look. 'Can I help you with something?' he asked.
