We drove to Bleitz Funeral Chapel, which is west of the Fremont Bridge and only a few blocks from where my former partner, Sue Danielson, died. I had managed to avoid that neighborhood ever since her death. Returning to it now on the occasion of another murder made me uneasy-right up until I saw the gang of reporters massed outside the front door. That made me mad.
“Damn!” I muttered under my breath.
“What are all those reporters doing here?” Sister Mary Katherine asked, observing the crush of people gathered near the entryway into the chapel.
“Because they’re vultures,” I said. “And the idea that a police officer may have done something wrong sends them into a feeding frenzy.”
“Your friend is a suspect?” Sister Mary Katherine asked.
“As far as the press is concerned, he is,” I answered.
As we walked toward the chapel, I heard footsteps hurrying behind me. I turned to see Mel Soames rushing to catch up. “Are we late?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “But close. Come on.”
Introductions happened as we walked while the gaggle of reporters turned their attention and lenses on us. I did my best to shield the two women from the cameras as we made our way through the crush to the door, but my efforts weren’t entirely successful.
Inside the funeral home’s vestibule, we were approached by a man in a dark suit. “You’re here for the Peters service?” he asked in a hushed voice.
I nodded, and he handed each of us a program. “Down the hall and to the right,” he said. “And you’d best hurry. They’re about to start.”
By the time we reached the room and slipped into the back row of folding chairs, the service, such as it was, had indeed started. The room was small. Since Rosemary had been cremated, there was no coffin, only a photo of her that looked as if it might have been taken from a high school yearbook. She was a sweet-faced girl back then, before she had succumbed to the ravages of substance abuse.
The media may have been milling around outside, but the service itself was sparsely attended. Even counting Mel, Sister Mary Katherine, the minister, and me, there couldn’t have been more than a dozen or so people in the room. Besides Ron and Amy and the kids, Ron’s parents and Amy’s were there as well. So was an older couple I later learned were Rosemary’s grandparents.
It was telling that, despite the fact that Ron had worked for Seattle PD most of his adult life, only one current police officer from that jurisdiction was in attendance. To me that meant that word had filtered down from on high that Ron Peters was to be hung out to dry and that everybody in the department, if they knew what was good for them, should distance themselves from him. The only exception to that ostensibly unofficial order was Commander Anthony Freeman, head of Internal Affairs and Ron Peters’s boss.
Even as head of IA-an unenviable job if ever there was one-Tony had maintained his reputation as a straight shooter. He was the one who had plucked Ron from his long exile in Media Relations and had given him an avenue back into what Ron regarded as active police work. It didn’t surprise me that Tony alone would defy the brass and come to the memorial service.
Molly Wright, Amy’s sister, was also there. I thought it odd that she was sitting by herself toward the back of the room rather than with her parents, who were up front, just behind Ron and Amy. And then, a minute or so after we arrived, Dillon Middleton showed up. Instead of joining Heather, he slipped into an empty chair next to Molly. She reached over, greeted him with a hug, and then whispered something in his ear. When we stood up for the opening prayer, I noticed she was holding his hand.
It wasn’t out of character that Dillon wouldn’t attempt to sit near Heather. In fact, considering what he and Heather were most likely doing behind her parents’ backs, I would have expected him to make himself scarce whenever Ron or Amy was around, but Molly’s apparent closeness to Dillon surprised me and I wondered what exactly was going on, but by then the memorial service was well under way.
I’m sure Ron had arranged the affair in order to give Tracy and Heather some kind of closure in the aftermath of their mother’s death. I don’t know how much the service did for them, but it didn’t do much for me. I’ve attended funerals and memorials that moved me. This one didn’t. The man who officiated seemed to have almost no knowledge about Rosemary Peters and her many demons and struggles. He seemed to know even less about the broken and grieving people who were left behind or the forces that had splintered Ron and Rosemary’s marriage and family. By the time the minister segued into a lame benediction, the only person in the room who was actually weeping was Rosemary’s grandmother.
When it was time to go, Dillon was the first to leave and Mel shot after him. Shoving his wheelchair into high gear, Ron Peters dodged away from his family and made straight for me. “What’s she doing here?” he demanded.
At first I thought he was talking about Sister Mary Katherine. Then I realized he meant Mel. “She’s only doing her job,” I said. “She needs to talk to Dillon.”
“That little creep?” Ron asked. “You mean he was here, too?” He rounded on Molly. “I suppose you told him it was all right for him to come, didn’t you!” he said accusingly. Shaking his head in disgust, Ron turned his back on Molly and rolled away.
Watching him go, Molly’s face flushed deep red. Whether the color came from anger or embarrassment I couldn’t tell. Maybe it was both. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room.
“Just because I have to stay with you at the moment doesn’t give you the right to talk to me that way,” Molly called after him. “I’m not your wife, you know, and I’m not one of your daughters, either. You can’t tell me what to do.”
Ron stopped, turned, and came back. “And you don’t have the right to undermine my authority over my own children,” he retorted. “Dillon’s too old for Heather. I told her that, and I told him, too. And I meant it. Just because he’s your friend’s son…”
“There’s nothing wrong with Dillon Middleton,” Molly interrupted. “If you’d give him a chance, you might find out what a nice boy he is. As for Heather, one of these days you’re going to have to let her grow up and make her own decisions.”
“Maybe when she’s grown up,” Ron returned, “she’ll be capable of making better decisions than she’s making right now.”
Amy’s mother, Carol, attempted to intervene. “Come on, Molly,” she said. “Everyone’s upset right now. Let it be.”
“I won’t let it be!” Molly stormed. “He seems to think I’m some kind of charity case and it’s okay for him to treat me like dirt. I look after his kids when he and Amy are off at work, I cook the meals, and this is the thanks I get.”
“Enough, both of you,” Amy interjected, leveling searing looks at both her husband and her sister. Then, to everyone else, she announced, “Come on up to the house. We’ll have refreshments there.”
With Sister Mary Katherine in tow, I hadn’t planned to accept that invitation, but Amy changed my mind. “Please stop by,” she said as I was holding the door for my passenger. “It would be a huge help to me.”
I looked questioningly at Sister Mary Katherine. “It’s fine,” she said. “I don’t mind. I can wait in the car.”
When we stopped in front of the Peterses’ place, the media horde was once again on our heels. “You’d better come on in,” I said, changing my mind about leaving Sister Mary Katherine in the car. “I don’t want you to be at their mercy. They’re going to want to know who you are and why you’re here. Until we talk to Detective Jackson, it’s probably best if you don’t talk to any reporters at all.”
I parked on the street and then ushered Sister Mary Katherine up to Ron and Amy’s front door. When I rang the bell, Tracy opened the door and let us in. She reached up and hugged me. “Are you okay?”
Biting her lip, she nodded. “Dad’s downstairs,” she said. “He’s the one who needs help.”
I looked back at Sister Mary Katherine. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll wait right here.”
She settled into a chair near the door while I went looking for Ron. He was in the daylit basement apartment staring up at the crowd of reporters milling outside. “I wanted it to be private,” he said.
“It was private,” I said.
“The parking lot wasn’t private, not with those yahoos chasing people to and from their cars. And it’s not private here, either. And then I had to go and make an ass of myself and jump all over you about that Soames woman. I’m sorry,” he added. “I thought you had brought her.”
