name on our prayer list,” she said. “The sisters and I will pray for her, morning, noon, and night. That’s what we do best.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
We met up with Sister Therese and the Odyssey van in the parking lot of the Burger King north of town. I was headed back to Seattle when Ron called.
“I can’t find her,” he said.
“Are you going to call Mel, or should I?”
“You go ahead,” Ron said.
And I did. “What do you mean, she took off?” Mel Soames asked.
“Just that. She and her boyfriend disappeared.”
“The boyfriend is from Canada,” Mel responded. “Do you think they went there?”
“That would be my first guess.”
“Damn,” Mel said. “How much of a head start do they have?”
“Probably a couple of hours.” I didn’t specify how much of that head start was due to my delay in sending out an alarm.
“That’s long enough for them to have made it across the border.”
“I know,” I said. I wasn’t even sorry. No matter what I said, a part of me wanted Heather to walk. It was the reason I shouldn’t have been involved in the case to begin with-I cared too much. It’s the same reason doctors shouldn’t treat themselves-or their loved ones.
“Thanks for the heads-up, Beau,” Mel said. “I’ll get right on it.”
I might not have felt so guilty if she hadn’t thanked me. But there you are. I always have been a magnet for guilt.
The long solitary drive back to Seattle gave me plenty of time to think. In order to avoid thinking about Heather Peters, I focused on Kramer. Once you reach a certain level in the police hierarchy, newspaper headlines, not necessarily the articles themselves, become far more important to you. “Local Philanthropist Dies in Fall” was less of a hot potato than “Local Socialite Found Murdered.” And “Former Officer Commits Suicide” would be far less inflammatory than something like “Disgraced Cop Slain.” And if Kramer could convince the media to say those things long enough and loud enough, he might convince the general public they were true.
But I wasn’t the general public, and I wasn’t convinced. Wink Winkler had carried his wrongdoing around with him for fifty-plus years. Why would having it revealed now push him far enough to put a bullet through his own head? And Elvira Marchbank had fallen to her death due to stepping on a magazine? How lame was that? But if Kramer was on track for quick closures in both those cases, details on them were going to be hard to come by- especially for a Seattle PD outsider like me.
One of the good things about the attorney general’s Special Homicide Investigation Team is that it’s relatively new-so new that it hasn’t had time to develop the kind of entrenched bureaucracy that exists in many law enforcement agencies. As a result, there’s less emphasis on paperwork and more emphasis on fieldwork; less emphasis on punching the clock and more emphasis on getting the job done. That calls for people who are self- starters. Ross Connors decides on who works for him and who doesn’t. Harry I. Ball is in charge of the Bellevue branch, but Connors is the one calling the shots, and every investigator has access to the attorney general himself. We have his phone numbers, and we’re encouraged to call if necessary without being hassled about going through channels and across desks. This was one of those instances where I thought a call was in order.
Months earlier, Ross Connors’s wife had committed suicide when a witness protection scandal in Ross’s office had come to light. Instead of covering up what had happened, Ross had faced up to it in public, and voters reelected him in a statewide landslide.
I know what it feels like to lose a spouse to suicide. It hurts like hell. And I know that burying yourself in work is sometimes a substitute for dealing with the empty spot in your heart, so I wasn’t surprised to find the attorney general still in his office at eight o’clock at night.
“Hey, Beau,” Ross Connor said cordially when he heard my voice on the phone. “How’s it going with Sister Mary Katherine? Are you making progress?”
“Some progress,” I said. “And some new developments as well.” Over the next several minutes I brought him up to speed on everything that had happened.
“You’ll write all this up for me?” Connors asked when I finished.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll have a report in Harry’s hands in the morning.”
“And you think Kramer’s going to deep-six both of the new cases?” Connors continued.
“He’s going to try. He’ll most likely do a cursory job on Wink Winkler and come up with some kind of plausible excuse for the suicide. With Elvira he’ll go for an accidental death. By ignoring Sister Mary Katherine’s allegations, he’s most likely giving Elvira and Albert a pass on their involvement in Mimi Marchbank’s homicide, which, according to him, he intends to solve by ‘traditional’ methods.”
“Meaning, of course,” Connors said, “that he’s really going to let it disappear once again. What do you think the chances are that Kramer’s conclusions are being suggested from the top down? Doing it Kramer’s way avoids the awkward possibility of besmirching the beloved memory of a local and recently departed arts patroness.”
“Are you suggesting the possibility of more police corruption?” I asked. I didn’t want to hear an affirmative answer. I didn’t want to think that some of the people I had worked with for so many years had gone over to the dark side.
“Not necessarily,” Connors said. “More like wanting to avoid bad PR. The Marchbank Foundation was and is an influential arts institution in Seattle. But you know what? I work in Olympia, and I don’t give a rat’s ass about what goes on in Seattle. So what do you need from me?”
“Access to official information,” I said at once. “If Paul Kramer’s being pressured to close these two cases as quickly and quietly as possible, he’s going to stonewall me at every turn. To do the job right I’m going to need to see the crime scenes and autopsy reports and to have a look at any and all witness interviews that have been done so far.”
Connors paused. “I’m not sure how much good seeing that material will do. After all, street cops can tell which way the wind is blowing. What they write down may have more to do with what’s expected as opposed to what is. If I were you, I’d rely on whatever information you’re able to turn up on your own.”
“Still,” I said, “it’ll be easier to have the names, addresses, and phone numbers of who has been interviewed and who hasn’t. I don’t mind going back over the same territory, but I shouldn’t have to reinvent the wheel to do it.”
“Yes,” Ross Connors agreed. “You’re right. Fortunately for you, I can apply a certain amount of pressure in all the right places.”
As the call ended, I was coming up on the Northgate Exit on I-5. In all the hubbub of the last day or two, I realized, I had barely thought about my grandmother, much less called or stopped by since Lars told me she was in the hospital. Maybe, if I hurried, I could get to Swedish in Ballard before visiting hours ended. Abruptly crossing three lanes of traffic, I exited the freeway and headed straight there.
But I was too late. “Beverly Jenssen?” the receptionist said, typing in the name and then frowning at the answer that appeared on her computer screen. For a moment I held my breath.
“I’m afraid she’s not here,” the receptionist said. “She was released earlier this afternoon.”
Hearing the word “released” allowed my breathing to resume. I hurried back outside and stood in the haze of secondhand cigarette smoke that surrounds the entrances to most of Seattle’s public buildings. When I called Lars and Beverly’s apartment, he was the one who answered.
“Oh, ja,” Lars said. “The doctor sent her home today. Shouldn’t have, if you ask me. Beverly’s still weak as a kitten, but she wanted to be home with me. Doesn’t t’ink I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I should have come by the hospital long before this.”
“You’re busy,” Lars said, excusing me. “Beverly and I don’t expect you to drop everyt’ing and come running every time one or the other of us ends up in the hospital. That’s why we have each other.”
“Can I speak to her now?” I asked.
“She’s already asleep, and I don’t want to wake her up. Coming back from the hospital pretty well wore her out,” Lars said. “Why don’t you give her a call in the morning. She’ll be glad to hear from you.”
I was on my way home from the hospital when my phone rang again. It was Ross Connors. “I’ve been in touch with Seattle PD,” he said. “If you’ll drop by the main lobby in the next little while and ask for Denise, she’ll
