Long Time Gone

looked down at the stoplight at First and Broad. While I watched, a vehicle stopped on the steep incline west of First began to slip backward. The first vehicle slid until it bashed into a second one that had been coming up the street behind it. The second car spun like a slow-motion top before ending up sitting astraddle the opposite lane. Just then a westbound car came through the green light. The driver slammed on his brakes and then skidded down the hill until he T-boned the passenger side of the second vehicle.

There’s nothing like Seattle in the snow. It can be an incredibly entertaining spectator sport as long as you’re not out in it.

“No,” I declared, turning away from the window. “You’re not going anywhere in this weather. You can sleep in the spare room. We’ll figure out how to get you home in the morning.”

“But what about…?”

“Your parents?” I asked.

Tracy nodded.

“I’ll call and let them know you’re here. I’ll tell them you came by because you were upset about Rosemary’s death and needed to talk.”

“They’re still going to be pissed at me,” she said.

“No, I don’t think so,” I told her. “They have so much on their plates right now, I doubt they’ll even notice.”

I gave Tracy one of my T-shirts to sleep in and a robe to wear. After she headed for bed, I called her house. No answer. That wasn’t a big surprise. It was late. Knowing what Ron and Amy were going through, I should have expected they’d turn off their phone. I left a message saying Tracy was with me and that I’d bring her home in the morning. I hit the sack then, too, but I didn’t sleep.

Ron Peters’s marriage was in trouble and he had been having serious difficulties with his ex-wife. I knew nothing about any of it, and yet I was supposedly his best friend. So what kind of friend did that make me?

Not so hot, I concluded. And not nearly as good a friend as I thought I was.

CHAPTER 5

I awakened the next morning to the unwelcome news that there were five to seven inches of snow in the Denny Regrade area of downtown Seattle where I live, with more than twice that on the East-side and at higher elevations. What followed was a droning recitation of school closures. Many offices and businesses were suggesting that unessential workers stay home.

Which am I? I wondered. Essential or not?

Scrambling out of bed, I pulled on some clothing and then went to make coffee. I stood in the kitchen and looked out onto a beautiful winter wonderland where the streets were practically deserted. With the exception of a chained-up bus or two and a couple of speeding SUVs, no one else seemed to be out and about.

When the phone rang I knew it would be Ron, and I was right. “What the hell was Tracy thinking, taking off like that in the middle of the night? Where is she?”

“In the other room and still asleep, if the phone didn’t wake her, that is,” I said.

“Wake her up,” Ron told me. “I want to talk to her.”

“I told her you wouldn’t be mad.”

“Well, you were wrong,” he grumbled. “I am mad. With everything else going to hell around here, the last thing I needed was for her to go AWOL.”

“She was scared,” I said.

“Of what?”

“She’s afraid you did it.”

“Did what?”

“She’s afraid you’re responsible for Rosemary’s death.”

This stopped Ron cold. “Tracy thinks I killed her mother?” he asked after a long pause.

“Evidently,” I responded.

It was one thing for homicide detectives from Tacoma to hint around that they suspected Ron Peters of being a killer. Ron already understood that, as far as the investigation was concerned, he, as the ex-husband, was bound to be a prime suspect. I understood that, too. It was quite another thing for him to realize that his own daughter was drawing that same conclusion. The realization did nothing to improve Ron’s frame of mind.

“Let her sleep then,” he said finally. “She isn’t going to school today anyway, but when she wakes up, tell her from me that since she got herself down to your place, she can jolly well get herself home.”

“That’s not going to work,” I said. “The snow accumulation wasn’t that bad when she got here, but she showed up dressed in a jogging suit and tennis shoes. She can’t walk home in that outfit in several inches of snow. I’d be glad to give her a ride, but I put off changing to winter tires too long, which makes my 928 pretty much worthless for driving in snow.”

“Okay,” Ron said. “I guess you’d better wake Tracy up after all. Amy’s outside now, putting chains on the Volvo. I’ll ask her to stop by your place before she goes to work.”

“You’re not going in today?” I asked.

“As of yesterday I’m on bereavement leave,” he answered. His tone was grim.

We both knew that would change. If and when Ron became an acknowledged suspect in the homicide investigation, bereavement leave would become a thing of the past. Paid administrative leave would be more like it-if he was lucky. Unpaid if he wasn’t.

“And it’s just as well,” he added. “I guess I need to start planning Rosemary’s funeral. She’s been estranged from her family for years, so there’s nobody else to do it. But with no way of knowing when the body will be released…Wait a sec. There’s another call coming in. Gotta go.”

Expecting to waken Tracy, I ventured as far as the guest-room door. Before I could knock, I heard a toilet flush and the shower come on. With my houseguest already up and about, I returned to the kitchen and poured another cup of coffee.

The showers in my condo are equipped with demand heaters, which means you can shower until hell freezes over without ever running out of hot water. Tracy, being a typical teenager, was nonetheless prepared to try exhausting the inexhaustible supply of hot water. The shower was still running sometime later when the phone rang again. This time Amy Peters was calling from the security phone on the first level of the parking garage.

“Tracy’s still in the shower,” I told her.

“That’s okay,” she returned. “I wanted to talk to you. Can I come up for a minute?”

“Sure,” I said and buzzed her into the elevator lobby.

After a car accident had left Ron Peters paralyzed from the waist down, he was pretty much lying in a bed of pain and wallowing in self-pity until Amy Fitzgerald walked into his hospital room and into his life. She was there to do physical therapy, but it turned out she performed mental therapy as well.

In the years I had known her, I had never seen Amy Peters upset. She has always struck me as someone with a permanently positive attitude, and she’s mostly unflappable. When she stepped off the elevator that morning, though, I could see she was flapped. Clearly she’d been crying, and she wasn’t over it yet. Was it possible she was this upset over Rosemary’s death?

No, I reasoned silently. More likely she and Ron have had some kind of quarrel.

“Amy,” I said aloud. “What’s wrong?”

She looked around. “Where’s Tracy?”

“Still in the shower.”

“Thank God!” She spoke in an urgent whisper and then took a deep breath. “While I was putting the chains on my car, I got grease on my hands and needed a towel. Ron usually keeps a supply of washrags in the back of his Camry. I opened the trunk and-” Amy stopped speaking. Her face crumpled, letting loose a fresh spate of tears.

“And what?” I demanded.