loose a little more information as to the whys and wherefores of my needing one. No such luck. Other than telling the alterations lady that we needed to have the tux in hand by Friday evening, Mel didn’t let slip any additional details. By then I was in far too deep to ask.
After my ordeal by tux (the first one I ever purchased as opposed to rented, by the way), we hurried across the street to the California Pizza Kitchen to grab some lunch. Mel knows her way around downtown Bellevue the same way I know my way around downtown Seattle. The place was bright, busy, crowded, and noisy, which suited me just fine. I hoped that Mel would be preoccupied enough with her surroundings that she’d stop giving me the third degree about Ross’s special project. Fat chance.
“So what are you up to later?” she asked.
“I have an MPT interview set up for this afternoon,” I said. “Once that’s over, I may end up having to go directly from there into Seattle.”
“So I’m on my own for getting across the water tonight?” she asked.
“Looks like.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “I had forgotten. I have a board meeting tonight. I’d need to bring my car home anyway.”
That’s when it finally dawned on me. Mel had been drafted onto the board of SASAC-the Seattle Area Sexual Assault Consortium. (Who makes up these names?) Their annual fund-raising auction was scheduled for Friday night. Since she’s on the board, not appearing simply wasn’t an option, and that’s why I needed the tux. But my relief was short-lived.
“What about Beverly?” Mel prodded. “Did you call her yet?”
“Not yet, but I will,” I promised.
“If you go see her tonight, be sure to take that picture of Kyle along. I left it on the hallway table with the rest of the mail.”
I was eager to move away from the uncomfortable subject of visiting my grandmother. “What does your afternoon hold?” I asked.
Mel rolled her very blue eyes. For weeks she’d been working on a county-by-county analysis of violent crime. She’d been complaining about it for that long as well.
“As of this morning,” she said, “I’m suddenly charged with creating a catalog of violent sex offenders, which is, if you ask me, a long way away from our primary mission.”
“A catalog?” I asked.
She took a bite of her pasta salad and nodded. “More like a survey,” she answered. “For the past five years. Ross wants to know where Washington’s released sexual offenders have been-where they went once they got out of jail and where they are now. Oh, and he also wants it ASAP.”
Considering Mel’s extracurricular activity with SASAC, I could see why Ross Connors had drafted her for that particular job.
“Sounds like fun,” I said.
“Doesn’t it just,” she agreed glumly. “I guess I’ll be letting my fingers do the walking.”
We had paid up and were headed toward the door when, over the noise of rattling crockery, I heard someone call, “Melissa! Oh, Melissa.”
I turned and saw someone-a blonde-waving frantically from a table on the far side of the cashier stand. “Is that someone you know?”
Mel’s face broke into a smile. “Come on,” she said. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. It’s Anita.”
Mel tends to refer to her friends by first names only. I knew that Anita was somehow related to SASAC, but in that moment I couldn’t have remembered how for any amount of money.
Anita Nolastname stood up, held out a diamond-bedecked hand, and proffered a smooth perfumed cheek for an expected kiss. She was upper thirty-something, pencil-thin, and drop-dead gorgeous.
“Why, you must be the unparalleled Beau Beaumont,” the woman said with a smile. “I’m Anita Bowdin. Mel talks about you all the time, by the way. Says you’re wonderful.”
“I wouldn’t believe everything I hear,” I told her. When I glanced in Mel’s direction I saw she was blushing, and I have to confess that the idea of Mel’s talking about me in my absence put a smile on my face.
“So you’re coming on Friday?” Anita continued.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, faking for all I was worth with what I hoped sounded like sincere enthusiasm. “Got my tux and everything.”
“Good boy,” Anita said. “See there? You’re every bit as wonderful as she says. And you’ll be at the board meeting tonight?” she asked, turning to Mel.
“Yes, I will,” Mel answered.
We didn’t say anything more until we were back in the BMW.
“So you talk about me when I’m not around?” I asked innocently.
“Don’t press your luck, buddy,” Mel returned. “Wouldn’t miss it!” she repeated, mimicking my delivery. “You’re such a liar I’m surprised you weren’t struck by lightning.”
“As a matter of fact, so am I,” I said, and we both burst out laughing.
When we arrived back at the office I got into my own car and headed out for my interview with DeAnn Cosgrove.
For years I went along with the self-congratulatory prejudice that causes people who live in downtown Seattle to maintain that the east side of Lake Washington is nothing but a vast residential wasteland. Driving across the lake and becoming instantly and hopelessly lost is a point of honor for some confirmed city dwellers. Now that I work in south Bellevue, however, I’m gradually getting over it. With the help of my newly purchased GPS, I had no difficulty making my way to the residence of DeAnn and Donald Cosgrove on the western edge of Redmond.
The house was one of a number of small neat family homes tucked onto a quiet cul-de-sac. A tiny fenced and well-maintained front yard was graced by a number of plastic vehicles and a small swing set. When I rang the bell it was answered by a woman in her early thirties who carried a relatively new baby on one hip while being trailed by a pair of what looked to be three-year-old twins.
DeAnn Cosgrove had the wan, distracted look of someone suffering through months of sleep deprivation. She wore a long-sleeved denim shirt with distinct traces of baby burp dribbling down one shoulder. Her hair was pulled back in a ragged ponytail. Looking at her reminded me of Kelly. When we’d seen my daughter down in Ashland, she’d looked a lot like that, too-weary beyond words.
“J. P. Beaumont,” I said, holding out my ID. She glanced at it with no particular interest. “I’m with the Special Homicide Investigation Team,” I added. “Are you DeAnn Cosgrove?”
“Yes, I am,” she said, nodding. “Come in. Please excuse the mess.”
She was right. The house was messy-not dirty but cluttered with laundered but unfolded clothes piled two feet deep on the couch, with the dining room table covered by a snarl of papers, and with a minefield of toys littering the carpeted floor. That, too, reminded me of Kelly and Jeremy’s place, for many of the same reasons. Taking care of kids doesn’t leave a lot of excess time for anything else, most especially housekeeping.
“I meant to shower and have this all picked up before you got here, but…” she began.
“Don’t worry about it,” I assured her. “I just came back from visiting my daughter and son-in-law down in Ashland. They have small kids, too.”
DeAnn gave me a sincere but haggard smile and then swiped an easy chair free of plastic toys so I could sit down. Then she settled into a rocker. Without practiced aplomb, she unbuttoned her blouse, covered herself with a tea towel, undid her bra, and began nursing the baby. She accomplished this while at the same time trying to cajole the twins-two impish little boys-into picking up their toys and putting them in a nearby toy box.
“So what’s this about my dad?” she asked.
I glanced at the name on the folder I was carrying. The missing person’s report for Anthony David Cosgrove had been filed by someone named Carol Cosgrove on May 19, 1980. DeAnn, the daughter, had been listed on the form by name.
“Who’s Donald, then?” I asked. “Your brother?”
DeAnn shook her head. “No,” she said. “Donnie’s my husband. Cosgrove’s my maiden name. When Donnie and I were getting married, I told him I wanted to keep my name just in case Daddy ever showed up and came looking for me. Luckily for me, Donnie’s a really practical guy. He said it made no sense to have more than one name in our family, so he changed his name to mine. His dad didn’t like the idea very much, but Donnie said he was
