ever stood for, worked for, or believed in.”
“Nobody gave you the right to judge me,” he said.
“No,” I agreed. “But I think I’ve earned the right to be your friend.”
We were silent for a long time. Finally, his shoulders heaved. “If you repeat any of this, I’ll say you’re lying, that it’s my word against yours.”
“Repeat what?”
Ron turned to face me at last. His eyes were red-rimmed and desolate. “The ballistics tests came back this morning, Beau,” he said quietly. “That’s why I fired Ralph. Rosemary was shot to death with one of my weapons- with my very own Glock. I let your friends from SHIT, Mel Soames and Brad Norton, think I kept the Glock in my car, but I didn’t. The last I knew, it was locked in my desk in the den. Somebody had to have access to both the desk and my Camry. Rosemary’s missing shoe was found in the trunk, and so was her blood.”
“But why would Heather do such a thing?” I asked.
Ron shook his head. “She’s been a handful lately,” Ron admitted. “Missing school, hanging out with the wrong crowd. In a way-if I could have been rational about the whole thing-it might have been easier for Amy and me if she had gone to Tacoma to live with her mother. But after everything Rosemary had done, I couldn’t stomach it, and Heather hated the idea. She must be the one who did it,” he added bleakly after a pause. “Who else would there be?”
Had I been dealing with anyone else, it would have been natural to bring up the possibility of Heather’s being involved in drugs, but friendship trumped my being a cop right then, and so I didn’t mention it. The burden on Ron Peters already seemed to be more than his wide shoulders could bear. Still, I didn’t fold entirely.
“Look, Ron,” I argued, “you can’t just let her off the hook. If she did this-if she committed a murder-she has to pay for it. Admittedly, Heather’s your daughter and not mine, but I love her, too. No matter what, you and I both have to make her accountable for her actions.”
“But she’s just a kid,” Ron returned. “She has her whole life in front of her.”
“Yes,” I said. “Precisely. What’s the worst that can happen to her-Juvie until she turns twenty-one? If you take the rap for this, you’re probably looking at nothing less than life in prison.”
“I’m already serving life in prison,” he said bitterly. “I’m in prison every damned day I’m stuck in this chair. What’s the point? What difference does it make if I’m in a cell or out of it?”
“It’ll make a hell of a difference to Amy and Tracy,” I said. “And what about Jared?”
I had told Ron I could handle anger, but what he delivered surprised me.
“What about Jared?” he demanded in return. “He’s a little boy. Who’s going to take him on his father-son camp-out when it comes time for Cub Scouts? Who’s going to teach him to swim or ski or hit a baseball or even drive a car, for that matter? Oh, sure, I can do what I’ve done with the girls and teach him to drive whatever handicapped conversion vehicle I happen to be driving at the moment, but what about a regular car or one with a stick shift? That’ll all be up to Amy, won’t it. Just like everything else is up to Amy. When does she get a break?”
“When did I ever ask for a break?” Amy Peters asked.
Ron and I had been so locked in our nose-to-nose confrontation that neither of us had heard her enter the room. I have no idea how long she had been standing there or how much she had overheard. For the longest time after Amy asked her question, no one moved or even breathed. In the aftermath of the Escalade’s crashing into the 928, I had distinctly heard the tinkle of shattering glass. Now, in the stark silence that followed, I was convinced I could hear the shattering of broken hearts.
“Amy,” Ron began. “I didn’t mean…”
But it was too late. Amy didn’t hang around long enough to listen. Instead, she fled back the way she had come. Her departure left me with absolutely nothing to say. I hadn’t walked a mile in Amy’s moccasins-or in Ron’s, either, for that matter.
“Just go,” Ron said at last. “That’s enough damage for one day.”
I stopped in the doorway. “What about the memorial service?” I asked.
“What about it?”
“You told Lujan it was private. Is it family only or am I invited?”
“Of course you’re invited,” Ron said. “Whatever made you think you weren’t? Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. The Bleitz Funeral Chapel over by the Fremont Bridge.”
“Okay,” I said. “See you there.”
It wasn’t until I was back outside and standing in the rain that I remembered my car had been towed. I was about to call for a cab when a battered Ford Focus with British Columbia plates pulled into the driveway. The passenger door opened and Heather charged out of the car. She raced past me with her head bowed, without a glance or a word of greeting. The mascara running down her face had nothing to do with falling rain. I was standing looking after her when a voice asked, “Need a lift?”
“Yes,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Where to?” Dillon asked as I climbed into the cramped front seat. It was pulled so far forward I had to readjust it before I could fit my knees past the glove box.
“Belltown Terrace,” I said. “It’s at the corner of Second and Broad.”
The interior of Dillon’s Focus was littered with a layer of fast-food wrappers and crushed soft-drink containers. When Heather and Tracy were little, Ron had tried his level best to turn them into vegans and to keep them safe from the evils of Coca-Cola. The strategy hadn’t taken-at least not as far as Heather was concerned. If, as I suspected, she was experimenting with drug use, eating right wasn’t the only lesson she had failed to learn at her father’s knee.
I sniffed the air for telltale odors and glanced around for drug paraphernalia-a stray roach clip or a visible hypodermic needle-that would tend to confirm my suspicions, but nothing jumped out at me. All that really indicated, though, was that whatever was going on probably wasn’t going on in the Focus.
As we started down Queen Anne Hill, I caught a glimpse of Queen Anne Gardens and realized that I hadn’t talked to Lars in several days, not since he had told me my grandmother was a little under the weather. When my phone rang halfway down Queen Anne Hill, I thought it might be Lars and Beverly, even though they seldom try calling my cell. When I saw the SHIT office number in the caller ID window, I slipped the phone back into my pocket without answering. Whoever was calling to chew me out-Harry I. Ball or Mel Soames-I wasn’t about to endure what would most likely be a severe dressing-down within earshot of a young punk like Dillon.
“What’s going to happen?” Dillon asked as he drove. “To Heather’s dad, I mean. Do you think he’ll go to prison?”
“Not if he didn’t do it,” I said grimly.
“Heather’s real upset about all this, you know,” Dillon continued. “I mean, like, she’s upset about her mother being dead and everything, too, but her dad…It’s like he’s her hero or something.”
“Heather says you’re a cop,” Dillon continued. “Do you think he did it?”
On the surface, it could have been an innocent comment from someone just making conversation. On the other hand, it could have been someone fishing for inside information. I decided to turn the question right back on the questioner.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Me?” Dillon stammered.
“Yes, you. You’re evidently close to Heather. You’re around the house a lot. Do you think Heather’s dad is capable of doing such a thing?”
Dillon concentrated on his driving for a time before he answered. “You mean, like, do I think he’d kill somebody?”
I nodded.
“He seems like a regular guy to me,” Dillon answered at last.
“And Heather?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is she capable of murder?”
This time his answer was as explosive as it was immediate. “Of course not! No way!”
