'And that if you want to drop by her house, she has some information for you. Something to the effect that she knows who Don Wolf really is. Does that make sense? Her message was a little hard to understand.'
'Grace Highsmith is like that,' I said. 'Did she leave a number?'
'She said you had it.'
'I do, but I'll have to look it up.'
'Sorry, Beau.'
'What's going on now?' Ron asked, as I started fumbling my notebook out of its pocket. One of the advantages of two-way radio communications is that both partners hear the communication without unnecessary repetition. 'And where are we headed?' he added.
'Kirkland,' I said. 'We've been summoned to Grace Highsmith's house,' I said. 'She's got some kind of-' I stopped cold.
'Some kind of what?' Ron asked. 'What's wrong?'
'Information. All of a sudden she has information about Don Wolf, about who he really is.'
'So?'
'And she didn't have it earlier today, when we were talking to her at the shop this afternoon.'
'Beau,' Ron said impatiently. 'You're talking in circles. What the hell are you blithering about?'
'If it came from Virginia Marks, then it was probably sent the same way Harry Moore's was-by fax before she died. And if she sent it with that little computer of hers, then there'd be the full text of the fax as well as a complete record of where it was sent. That information would have been in Virginia Marks' computer which, as far as anyone can tell, was the only thing missing from her condo when her body was found there this morning. And if whatever it was made it worthwhile to kill Virginia Marks…'
Ron didn't need any further urging. 'Where-abouts in Kirkland?' he asked.
'Down along the water, below Juanita Drive. On Holmes Point Drive, just below Denny Park.'
'There's a bubble light in the glove compartment,' Ron said. 'Drag it out, turn it on, and give it to me.'
We were at the north end of the Regrade. The shortest way to the north end of Kirkland would have been across the Evergreen Floating Bridge on Highway 520. But by now, at five-fifteen, we were smack in the middle of rush hour, and the floating bridge would be a parking lot. Even with lights and siren, it would be slow going. Ron made the entirely sensible decision of going south to head north. It may have added another sixteen miles to the trip, but we both knew it would save time.
We were headed down Fifth Avenue when Peters asked the tough question. 'Are you going to call Kramer?'
At that juncture, calling Detective Kramer was the last thing on my mind. 'Why would I do that?' I returned.
'Because you need to,' Ron answered. 'Look, you told me yourself that Grace Highsmith's house is halfway down a cliff.'
'That's right. What's the point?'
'Think about it,' Peters said with a glower. 'If I were you, and if my partner had turned out to be some kind of gimp, I sure as hell would call for backup. You should, too.'
Ron and I are good friends. We go back a long way. He was the one, who on that disastrous day when I married Anne Corley, had done me the incredible kindness of stuffing the remains of that damned wedding cake down the garbage disposal. Most of the time, his physical infirmity is a taboo subject between us-one of those unmentionable but understood issues that hover in the background of our friendship. We didn't sit around discussing the permanent injuries that long-ago car wreck had done to Ron's body any more than we did the indelible damage Anne had inflicted on my heart.
'You're worth three or four Paul Kramers any day of the week,' I said at once.
He glared at me again. In the glow of the headlights from oncoming vehicles, I could see the stubborn set of his jaw.
'That's bullshit and you know it,' he returned. 'Now shape up and dial the damned phone. I don't want anything to happen to you because I'm physically incapable of bailing you out if your tail ends up in a sling.'
After Ron's accident, it had taken a long time for him to reach an accommodation with his new and permanently rearranged physical reality. Other people, those of the bleeding-heart persuasion, might pretend his handicaps didn't exist or else meant nothing. Peters himself, viewing those limits from the inside out, had no patience for phony sentimentality. Not from anyone. Including from me, his best friend.
'All right,' I said.
Without another word, I shut up and dialed Paul Kramer. He didn't answer, but that didn't get me off the hook. 'Call Sergeant Reeves back,' Peters said. 'Have dispatch find him.'
'Boy, you guys are really racking up the overtime,' Kent said. 'I think he's on his way back from the Eastside right now.'
'Patch me through to him, if you can,' I said. 'I need to have him turn around and go back.'
By the time Kramer came on the line, Ron and I were driving through the International District. 'How soon can you and Sam Arnold meet us at Grace Highsmith's house in Kirkland?' I asked.
Putting it that way, without any polite preamble, clearly raised Paul Kramer's hackles. 'Why should I?' he asked. 'It's after hours. I'm on my way home.'
'What if I told you Bill Whitten may be our man?' I said.
'How'd you happen to come to that brilliant conclusion?'
At least the instant antagonism between us was a two-way thing. With Ron hanging on my every word, however, I knew better than to let myself be sucked into an argument.
I took a deep breath. 'Look, Kramer, cut the crap. Grace Highsmith claims she has some important new information about Don Wolf, information that was probably faxed to her by Virginia Marks before her death.'
'So?'
'Three people are dead so far. You want to try for four, or are you going to get your butt over there so we can check it out?'
'I'll go, I'll go,' Kramer grumbled. 'Because of the traffic, I was heading home by way of Lynnwood. So I'm only a few minutes out. How soon will you be there?'
'Twenty minutes, maybe? We're in the express lanes heading for the I-Ninety bridge.'
'If this turns out to be a wild-goose chase, Beaumont…'
I punched END on my phone and cut Detective Kramer off in midthreat. 'Satisfied?' I asked.
'For the time being,' Ron Peters said.
Back when he was married the first time, Ron and his family used to live in Kirkland. So when we ventured off I-405 at Totem Lake, he didn't need either a copilot or a map. Within minutes of leaving the freeway, we were careening along the steep, winding road that led down the bluff to Grace Highsmith's cliff-side cottage.
'You're a hell of a lot better at getting here than I am,' I told him.
'I ought to be,' he answered. 'When we lived on this side of the lake, the girls and I came to Denny Park about once a week.'
Heading north along the water, we were just passing Grace Highsmith's neighbors to the south when I caught sight of Kramer's car. 'Pull over,' I said. 'He must have gotten here ahead of us.'
We pulled up alongside the unmarked Caprice. Empty, it was double-parked, half on and half off the roadway. It sat at an angle partly behind and partly alongside a second vehicle that was stopped on Grace Highsmith's parking ledge. The positioning of the Caprice effectively blocked the other vehicle, a Lexus, from being able to return to traffic.
The Lexus had Washington plates. Using the cell phone once again, I called through to records to check ownership of the parked vehicle.
'Where do you think Kramer went?' Peters asked as we waited for the clerk to give us an answer. 'I heard you tell him to meet us. He wouldn't have gone down there by himself, would he?'
'Somebody who's as much of a fan of teamwork as Detective Kramer? Surely you jest. Of course he went down by himself. Why wait for the rest of the troops when you have a chance to play hero?'
The records clerk came back on the phone. 'The Lexus is owned by a company named D.G.I.,' she said.
'Bingo,' I told Peters, tossing him my cell phone. 'Get on the horn to Kirkland Police and tell them we need help here. Fast.'
