good that’ll do. The one other oddball phone call was placed to a number in Portland to a phone listed to someone named Kevin Stock. That one-and there was only one-was made on Saturday morning from the Lawrences’ home phone.”
I know Tim Lander was talking, but I wasn’t really paying strict attention. Suddenly I had another idea.
“Hold on a second,” I said into the phone. Then I called over my shoulder to Mel. “Hey, Mel, when you looked up Thomas Dortman the other night, didn’t you tell me he had a book coming out sometime soon?”
“Something about whistle-blowers,” Mel replied. “You’re right. I think it’s due in bookstores sometime in the next several weeks. If you need the exact date, you can always check on Amazon.”
“Give me a little time,” I told Lander. “Maybe I can figure out a way to get in touch with our friend Dortman.”
When I put down the phone, Mel was staring at me. “What?” she said.
“Supposing you were someone who had cut a corner here and there in the past. Supposing you’d done something really wrong, but as far as the world was concerned, you’d gotten away with it clean. So you’re free as a bird, with nothing but a guilty conscience. Then, all of a sudden, out of the blue, you get a call from some guy who says he works for the Washington State Attorney General’s Office. Would you be eager to call him back?”
“Not me,” Mel said.
“Me either. But what do authors need more than anything else?”
Mel wasn’t at the top of her game either. “I give up,” she said finally.
“Publicity?” Todd Hatcher asked.
“Bingo,” I said. I scrolled down my outgoing calls and handed Mel my phone. “Here’s the number, but call him on your phone, not mine. Tell him you’re writing a magazine article or a newspaper article or something and you want to review his book. Tell him you’re working on a deadline and don’t have time to go through his publicity department.”
“What good will that do?” Mel wanted to know.
“You make an appointment to talk to him, only we show up instead.”
Mel was shaking her head and giving me one of her glowers when Todd took the phone from me and said, “I’ll do it.”
He did, and he did a credible job of it, too, leaving a message that was flattering enough that I figured no author in his right mind would be able to resist. In the meantime I took my own phone back and called DeAnn Cosgrove. She sounded more with-it than I would have expected, and certainly more connected than I was feeling about then.
“J. P. Beaumont,” I said when she answered. “How are things?”
“Better,” she said. “The doctor was here just a little while ago. They’re going to keep him until later on today, maybe even until tomorrow. For observation.”
“Is he well enough to answer questions?” I asked.
DeAnn stalled. “I don’t think-”
“You know about the note he left, don’t you?” I interrupted.
“I know there was a note,” she said. “I haven’t seen it.”
“Your husband admitted being at the scene of the crime,” I said. “It’s possible he saw the killer drive away after that person shot your mother and stepfather. We need to talk to Donnie. We need him to tell us what he saw.”
“This isn’t some kind of trick? I mean, if he’s still a suspect, shouldn’t he have a lawyer here when he talks to you?”
“Your husband isn’t a suspect at this point,” I said. “He’s not even a person of interest. As a potential witness he doesn’t need a lawyer.”
“You’re sure? I mean, he had his gun there and everything.”
I was losing patience. “Whoever killed your mother and stepfather fired a pistol,” I said. “Your husband’s.357 is a revolver. Unless Donnie has another weapon none of us knows about, he can’t have been the shooter. Now, can Mel and I come over and ask him some questions?” I asked. “Please?”
“Okay,” DeAnn said at last. “I guess it’ll be all right.”
I closed the phone. “Okay,” I said to Mel. “Come on. Let’s go talk to Donnie Cosgrove.”
“What about me?” Todd asked.
“Keep working,” I said. “There’s fresh coffee in the pot. We’ll be back.”
“And what if that Dortman guy calls to set up an interview?”
“Tell him where and when and then call us,” I said and gave him the number.
It was daytime. Since we didn’t need to get to Kirkland in a hell of a hurry, I drove. At the hospital, when we located Donnie Cosgrove’s room, he was still hooked up to an IV. Looking haggard, DeAnn hovered on the far side of the bed.
“This is Mr. Beaumont,” she said as we approached. “I think you talked to him on the phone. And this is his partner…”
“Melissa Soames,” Mel supplied easily, holding out her hand. “Most people call me Mel.”
In the heat of the moment, when we’d been milling around in the Cosgroves’ living room, summoning EMTs and trying to determine whether Donnie Cosgrove was going to live or die, I hadn’t taken the time to look at him very closely. Now I did. Propped up in his hospital bed, I realized he was a big man, in a flabby, flaccid kind of way. And the distended veins on his nose spoke of a man with a more-than-nodding acquaintance with the sauce. I’ve spent enough time with boozers and ex-boozers to read the signs-as in, it takes one to know one.
“They’re the people who saved your life last night,” DeAnn continued.
“No,” Mel corrected. “That’s not true. The person who saved your life is your wife. When everyone else was busy giving up on you, when everyone else was telling her to stay away, DeAnn insisted on coming back to check on you. If she hadn’t, we’d be talking about a successful suicide here, not an attempted one.”
“I’m sorry I made such a mess of things,” Donnie said to DeAnn. “Sorry I put you through so much…”
“Hush,” she said. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. They need to talk to you is all. Need to ask you a few questions.”
“What kind of questions?” Donnie asked.
“Tell us about Saturday-everything about Saturday.”
“I’d been thinking about Jack ever since he showed up at the house on Thursday. It just burned me up that he could come over and raise hell like that and get away with it. I wanted him to know that wasn’t okay, and I wanted to get a little of my own back. Saturday I decided I was going to go give him a piece of my mind. I told DeAnn that I had some work to do at the office, even though I didn’t, and when I left the house I put my.357 in my pocket. Did you ever meet Jack Lawrence?”
The question seemed to be directed at me. “No,” I said. “I never met the man.”
“He was a big guy-bigger than me-and very tough. I’m not exactly awash in muscles. I may not be a ninety- pound weakling, but close enough. So I took the gun along, sort of to even things out between us, if you know what I mean. To buck up my courage a little bit. And on my way there I stopped off a couple of times for a beer or two.”
“As in liquid courage?” I asked.
He nodded. “But it didn’t work. Not really. When I got there I was so nervous I couldn’t drive up the road. I parked at their turnoff instead.”
“Parked and chewed gum?” I asked.
“Nicorette,” he said. “I’m trying to stop smoking.”
“The beer,” he said. “I was just sitting there thinking about him and then I fell asleep. Something woke me up-I’m not sure what. Maybe it was the gunshots. Anyway, I woke up with a start and was sitting there trying to get my bearings and think what to do next when this car comes barreling out of Jack and Carol’s driveway. Scared the crap out of me. I thought Jack had seen me and was coming out to clean my clock. I was grabbing for my gun to defend myself when the driver turned in the other direction and took off like a bat out of hell.”
