“Working for the AG’s office.”
“The SHIT squad?” she asked with a barely suppressed giggle.
“That’s the one, and don’t give me any grief about it,” I grumbled. “I only work here. I’m not the numbskull who dreamed up the name.”
“What do you need?”
“Are you the one who’s handling the Elvira Marchbank case?”
“Holding rather than handling,” she said. “Captain Kramer told me it’s most likely an accidental death with no particular rush.”
“Captain Kramer could be wrong about its being an accident,” I countered. “And I seem to be working the same case.”
Wendy’s tone turned serious. “A homicide, then,” she said. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“I’m trying to learn who all might have been at the house before Elvira died.”
“You should check with latent fingerprints for that.”
“I will,” I said, “but in the meantime, I’d like you to check for tennis-ball fibers on the carpet.”
Wendy laughed outright at that. “Tennis-ball fibers? Are you kidding? The woman was in her eighties. It doesn’t seem like she’d be whacking tennis balls around.”
“Humor me,” I said. “And let me know if you find any.”
“Give me your number, then,” she said. “I’ll call you when I know something.”
An hour after I originally got off the phone with the telephone company rep, Barbara Galvin knocked on my door and handed over a multipage fax. With my reading glasses plastered on my face, I read down the column of computer-generated records. And there, at 3:45
P.M. on Tuesday-right in the middle of the time when Sister Mary Katherine had said she was there-was the last phone call Elvira Marchbank ever made-a call from Seattle’s 206 area code to a 425 number on the east side of Lake Washington.
As soon I saw the number, it looked familiar. I pulled out my notebook and thumbed through it to the last few pages and the things I had jotted down in the course of my conversation with Raelene Landreth. The 425 number was the same one Raelene had given me as her home number in Medina, so I was right. When things started to go bad, Elvira had gone looking for help, all right, but not to Wink Winkler. No, she had gone straight to Tom Landreth, the guy whose first wedding had given Elvira and Albert Marchbank their unassailable alibi for murder.
Phone calls work like daisy chains-one phone number leads to another. If Elvira had called Tom, whom had he called in turn? While I still had the phone company numbers in order, I called back to trace Landreth’s recent telephone history. And while that process was under way, it seemed like a good idea to go see the man.
Telephone calls are fine as far as they go, but for getting usable information and real answers to tough questions, there’s nothing like an old-fashioned eyeball-to-eyeball visit.
CHAPTER 18
Whenyou hear about “Lone Ranger cops,” you’re usually hearing about young cops-ambitious ones. By the time cops get to be my age, Lone Ranger cops have either wised up or are dead. There’s not much middle ground.
With my unfortunate track record with partners, when I joined SHIT, the ability to work solo had been high on my list of requirements, but working solo is fine only up to a point, and working without backup is downright stupid. Needing to enlist some help, I went prowling through the office.
A glance at the duty roster at midafternoon on this January Friday told me that Mel Soames and I were the only Special Homicide investigators still in the office. Mel wasn’t my first choice for this little ride-along, and not because she isn’t a good cop. My reluctance had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.
I’m still carrying a lot of emotional baggage from losing Sue Danielson in her tiny Fremont apartment. Her death may not have been my fault but, in my book, it was still my responsibility. Her ex-husband was the one who actually pulled the trigger. Rationally I know I didn’t cause Sue’s death. The problem is, I didn’t prevent it either. If only I had arrived on the scene a few minutes earlier…If onlyIhad been smart enough to figure out what was going on…An endless supply of woulda, coulda, shoulda litanies plague my late-night hours. I drag out of bed the next morning groggy and sleep-deprived, but the outcome is always the same: I’m alive, and Sue Danielson is dead.
Heading out to interview a possible homicide suspect, I was reluctant to put Mel Soames into a life-or-death situation. What if some blunder on my part put Mel at risk? Still, I didn’t have much choice. When I tapped on her door, she turned down her radio. “Come in,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Care to take a trip?”
“What kind of trip?”
“The bulletproof vest kind,” I told her.
“You bet,” she said with a grin, and reached for her small-of-back holster, which was hanging on the back of her chair. “Sounds like the best offer I’ve had all day.”
By the time we pulled up in front of Tom and Raelene Landreth’s place in Medina, I had briefed Mel on everything I knew.
“So you suspect Elvira’s death wasn’t accidental after all and you think Landreth may have had something to do with it?”
“That’s one possible scenario,” I said. “Raelene said Elvira treated Tom like a long-lost son, so maybe he’s in line to inherit.”
“Sounds possible,” Mel agreed. “Even sounds like motive.”
“We’ll see,” I said. “Once we talk to him.”
If you live in the Seattle area, the word “Medina” conjures an image of palatial mansions spilling over steep lakeside bluffs and wandering down to the water. It’s where many of Seattle’s elite meet and greet. It’s also where Bill and Melinda Gates have their sprawling family compound.
I may live in a downtown penthouse condo now, but in my heart I’m still a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks in Ballard. My mother struggled every day to keep things together. She stretched our meager budget by sewing her own clothing and mine as well. All my classmates’ shirts came from places like JCPenney or Monkey Ward. Mine were homemade, a telling difference that made me the butt of countless schoolyard jokes. The sense of inadequacy that grew out of those years is still a visible chip on my shoulder.
When I pulled up in front of Raelene and Tom Landreth’s place in Medina, I was prepared to be intimidated. The house, a large two-story affair with faded cedar-shingle siding and two separate wings, was set in the middle of a huge hedge-lined lot. A big Dodge Ram Diesel hauling a trailer full of lawn equipment was parked outside. One guy was raking fallen leaves and branches while another gave the hedge a dead-level flattop. A third was blowing debris off the front porch and sidewalk. He nodded in acknowledgment as Mel and I stepped onto the porch and rang the bell.
Although the yard swarmed with landscape workers, the house itself seemed almost deserted. Drapes were still drawn and no interior lights were visible. For a long time after the bell sounded, no one answered. Mel and I were about to leave when I heard a muttering from inside.
“I’m coming. I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Seconds later the door was flung open by an unkempt man wearing a frayed woolen bathrobe and a pair of worn Romeos. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any.”
I produced my wallet and ID and handed it over. “I’m J. P. Beaumont,” I explained as he peered at it through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “This is my associate, Melissa Soames. We’re with the attorney general’s Special Homicide Investigation Team. We’re looking for Tom Landreth.”
“That’s me,” he mumbled. “Did you say homicide? Whaddya want?”
I had known Tom Landreth was about three years older than his first wife, but compared with the quiet- spoken, dignified Faye, this guy appeared to be a loudmouthed, doddering old man. He was also a drunk.
They say it takes one to know one. I knew Tom Landreth was a drunk the moment he opened the door. I knew it even before I saw the beaker-sized glass of scotch-scotch with no ice-that he held in one hand. There was
