Long Time Gone

“Harry,” I said. “These people are friends of mine. I can’t just turn my back on them.”

“The hell you can’t! You can and you will. Your friend, as you call him, happens to be a homicide suspect,” Harry returned. “And in case you haven’t noticed, cop-related domestic violence cases are very big right now. You are not, I repeat, N-O-T to be involved in any way. Ross Connors says we can’t have even the slightest appearance of conflict of interest on this case. Do I make myself clear?”

“Got it,” I said.

“What about that other case?” he asked. “The one I assigned you to yesterday?”

I noticed no one, including the attorney general himself, was concerned about a possible conflict of interest when it came to doing a favor for Ross Connors’s old pal from O’Dea High School, but I decided that was something I’d be better off not mentioning.

“I’m working it,” I told him.

“Good,” Harry said. “And you keep right on working it. Following up on a cold case will keep you out of Mel and Brad’s way, which is exactly where I want you. It’s where Ross Connors wants you, too.”

“Okay, Harry,” I told him. “Okay. I can take a hint.”

Bent on following orders and hoping to keep my nose clean, I sat down and tried calling the special twenty- four-hour line at the Department of Motor Vehicles to see if I could locate licensing or vehicle information that would give me an address for either of Sister Mary Katherine’s parents, Sean and Molly Dunleavy. An unusual recorded message at the DMV told me that due to weather concerns the office was currently responding to emergency requests for information only. All others should call back at a later time. So much for state-run bureaucracies.

I sat there, staring out at the unfathomable blue of Elliott Bay and wondering what I should do next. That’s when I spotted the small round globe on top of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer building a few short downhill blocks away. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? Newspapers have to put out editions every day, snow or no snow. Some of the answers I was looking for might be available in the morgue at the P.-I. at the bottom of the hill where I had watched cars playing crash-car derby in the snow the night before.

I had no intention of taking the 928 out on the street where it was likely to end up being run over by some SUV-wielding nutcase with too much horsepower and only the dimmest grasp of physics. I was going to have to walk. It took a while to locate my long-unused snow boots. Once I did, I realized I was hungry.

I’ve never been much of a cook. Marshmallows aren’t the only thing I don’t keep around my condo. Basic foodstuffs are also in short supply. I used to hang out at a neighborhood dive called the Doghouse, but that went away years ago. Since then, I’ve tried various other joints, none of which have had quite the same fit as the Doghouse. When I choose restaurants, I ignore menu and atmosphere in favor of proximity. The P.- I. office is located on Elliott. So is the Shanty, which may have been a little out of the way, but food is food. It also gave me an excuse for taking a longer but much flatter route to the newspaper.

As I said, the good news about the Shanty is that it’s close to theP.-I. The bad news about the Shanty is that it’s close to the P.-I. It’s also very small. As I stood in the open doorway knocking snow from my boots, I spotted none other than Maxwell Cole ensconced at the counter. If I could have ducked out without his seeing me, I would have, but it was already too late.

“Well, well, well,” he said in a loud voice that carried throughout the restaurant. “If it isn’t former Detective J. P. Beaumont. I was under the impression you worked mostly on the Eastside these days. Out slumming, I take it?”

Over the years I’ve occasionally had friends who, for one reason or another, dropped out of my life. Enemies tend to hang on forever. That’s certainly the way it is with Maxwell Cole.

Max and I go way back-all the way back to our frat days back at the University of Washington. He was dating a cute girl named Karen Moffitt. I took one look at her, decided she was the one for me, and stole her away from him. Max has been pissed about it ever since.

Unfortunately, Max and I work different sides of the same mean streets. He started out as a cub reporter at the Post-Intelligencer about the same time I went to work for Seattle PD. Since he’s never forgiven me for poaching Karen, he’s never given me anything but journalistic hatchet jobs whenever he’s had the chance. I’m a long way short of perfect. That means I’ve given him lots of opportunity to show me in a bad light. It wasn’t so annoying when he was a simple reporter. Back then he more or less had to stick to the facts. Now that he’s a seasoned, big-deal columnist, he’s allowed to say whatever he damn well pleases. And does.

Everybody in the tiny restaurant sensed the underlying antagonism in his voice. They all fell silent as if waiting for the equivalent of a schoolyard fight to break out right there at the lunch counter.

“Just looking for a little grub,” I said as pleasantly as I could manage.

For years the man has sported a handlebar mustache. It’s an affectation that doesn’t suit him. Think overfed walrus, droopy jowls and all. With a swipe of his arm, he cleared the place next to him at the counter, ceremoniously offering me a place to sit. The tiny restaurant was crowded. The only other available spot was at the far end of the counter. Ignoring Max’s invitation would be an obvious insult, one I’d be delivering on his own turf. Bad idea. And so, even knowing that it might cause trouble later, I took the stool he indicated.

“Thanks, Maxey,” I said. “That’s mighty decent of you.”

Assuming the confrontation was over, the other diners relaxed and resumed their chewing and talking. Max, who doesn’t appreciate being called Maxey, glared at me.

“I hear that old partner of yours is in a lot of trouble,” he said.

“Is that so?” I asked noncommittally. “Which partner would that be? I’ve had several over the years.”

A harried waitress swooped by and took my order for ham and eggs and coffee. Max, finished with his food, was nursing a cup of coffee. The waitress dropped off his check at the same time she took my order. If delivering his bill was a subtle hint for Max to eat, pay, and go, he didn’t take it.

“Peters,” he replied. “Ron Peters. His ex-wife was gunned down over the weekend.”

“Really,” I said.

“Are you telling me you don’t know anything about it?” he demanded.

I shook my head, and Max was only too happy to assume the role of the bearer of bad tidings. “Ron and his ex were involved in some kind of custody dispute. According to what I’ve heard, the wife’s attorney is the one who got the investigation pointed in Ron’s direction. Something about a threat Ron made last week.”

“You don’t say,” I said.

“With Peters being a cop and all, that means the Special Homicide division will be handling the investigation, right?”

Those of us who work there may affectionately refer to our agency as SHIT, but outsiders had best beware. They’re better off not referring to us by that moniker even if they think we are. As far as I was concerned, Maxwell Cole had made a good choice.

“I suppose so,” I said. “In fact, I believe it’s a state law.”

“What do you think?”

“About the law?” I asked, acting dim.

“About Ron Peters.”

“Come on, Max. You know I can’t discuss ongoing investigations.”

“So you’re saying it is an ongoing investigation after all?”

The short-order cook on duty was a regular speed demon. My food came just then. I salted and peppered the hell out of it, not because the food needed the extra seasoning, but because I needed to do something with my hands besides throttling Maxwell Cole’s bulging twenty-two-inch neck.

“Look,” I said finally. “Ron Peters is a good friend of mine. Whatever may or may not be going on in his life, I have two words for you, Max, and they are ‘No comment.’ If you want official information, I suggest you contact my boss, the Squad B commander.”

I grabbed a fresh napkin from the dispenser on the counter. After jotting Harry’s name and office phone number on it, I passed the napkin along to Max. He studied it for a minute before his portly face broke into a grin.

“You’re pulling my leg, right?” he asked.

“About what?”

“You want me to talk to somebody named Harry I. Ball? What kind of joke is that?”