“What kind of car?”
“An ’04 Lincoln LS,” Donnie said. “Silver. I didn’t see the plates.”
I was surprised. Most people are lucky to remember the color. The make, model, and year was way more than I expected.
“Donnie knows cars,” DeAnn put in. “He’s already teaching the boys which are which when they come on TV.”
“What happened next?” Mel asked.
Donnie bit his lip, and for the first time in the whole encounter he clearly didn’t want to talk anymore.
“What?” I pressed.
“Nothing,” he said finally, not looking at DeAnn when he answered. “That’s what’s so bad-why I feel so guilty. I sat there in the car for a while. I mean, I didn’t have any way of knowing something awful had just happened, so I sat there and had another beer or two-thinking things over. If I had gone right then, when it first happened, maybe I could have helped them. Maybe it would have made a difference. But when I got there and found them, it was too late. There was so much blood that I just couldn’t think straight.”
And suddenly, like a flashbulb going off in my head, I knew why Donnie Cosgrove hadn’t come forward at the time, why he had staggered around in Jack and Carol Lawrence’s blood without bothering to report the shootings to anyone. He wasn’t thinking straight because he was drunk.
“And you were afraid if you called the cops they’d either think you had done it or give you a DUI,” I said accusingly. “Or both.”
Donnie Cosgrove gave me a baleful look and nodded. “I already have one,” he admitted.
Even though I had already figured out the lush part, his admission made me mad as hell. DeAnn deserved better. Their three kids deserved better. It made me want to pick Donnie up out of his sickbed and toss him through the nearest window.
“I think we’re done here,” I said.
With that I turned and left the room. A few minutes later Mel joined me in a covered breezeway.
“What the hell were you thinking walking out like that? You didn’t even bother asking him if he’d seen the shooter.”
“Had he?” I asked.
“No, but-”
“That’s what I figured. That’s why I left-and to keep me from flattening the drunken bum’s nose.”
“I don’t understand…” Mel began.
“Of course you don’t. But I do. Donnie Cosgrove is a self-important bastard with a gorgeous wife and three little kids who all think he walks on water. And why shouldn’t they? He’s told them so. He’s got an education and a good job. But he’s too busy drowning his nonexistent sorrows on the weekends to pay any attention to them. And when he came across Jack and Carol Lawrence’s bodies, he was too damned drunk to do the right thing.”
“But I thought DeAnn told us he hardly ever went out drinking like that,” Mel said. “That he loved spending time at home with her and the kids.”
“Of course she told us that,” I said. “She wants to convince everyone her life is perfect, even if the first person she has to convince is herself. As for Donnie, he’d rather commit suicide than face up to his own mistakes. Talk about a worthless excuse for a human being.”
We were out in the parking lot by then. Naturally it was raining. Again.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh about this?” Mel wanted to know. “A little judgmental?”
Maybe she was right. Maybe Donnie Cosgrove’s failures as a husband and father too closely mirrored my own. Maybe that’s what set me off.
“Not nearly judgmental enough,” I shot back at her. “Believe me, I recognize the symptoms. I’ve been there, done that, and I’ve got the T-shirt.”
CHAPTER 21
We were almost back to 405 before either one of us spoke again. Mel was the one who broke the silence. “If Cosgrove was that drunk, do you think there’s any validity to the vehicle description he gave us?”
I could remember having momentary flashes of clarity like that in the middle of royally tying one on. I also knew there were times when I had driven home blind drunk with no memory of how I got there. It’s not something I’m proud of, and it’s something I make an effort to remember rather than forget.
“The man’s an engineer,” I said. “The vehicle ID may very well be accurate.” I tossed Mel my phone. “We’d better let Tim Lander know. His number is in there somewhere. Look for a 509 area code in the dialed calls.”
Detective Lander didn’t answer, so Mel left a message.
“Try Todd,” I suggested. “Let’s see if Dortman called him back.”
“He did,” Hatcher was saying when Mel turned my cell phone on speaker. “I just got off the phone with him. He said he couldn’t do an interview today because he’s been called out of town and is on his way to the airport. He gave me the number for his publicist in New York and suggested we arrange to do what he called a ‘phoner’ later. Sorry I didn’t do better,” Hatcher added.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “He called you from a cell phone?”
“Yes. Like I said, he’s on his way to the airport.”
“Give me that number.”
Mel pulled out her own phone. Because she’s a woman and, as she’s told me many times, can do more than one thing at once, she held one phone to her ear with her left hand and keyed the number into her own phone with the other.
“Mr. Dortman,” she said when he answered, “Melissa Soames with Special Homicide. We’re looking into a pair of homicides that happened up in Leavenworth over the weekend. If you don’t mind, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Sugar wouldn’t have melted in her mouth. “Oh, that’s quite all right, Mr. Dortman. We’re near the airport right now. Tell us where we can find you. Just a few questions. I’m sure you’ll have no problem making your flight. In the Alaska Board Room? Sure. That’s great. I know where it is.”
I had already hit the gas pedal. We were in fact nowhere near Sea-Tac Airport, but we would be soon.
“He couldn’t resist,” Mel said. “I love crooks. They always think they’re smarter than we are, and they always want to know what we know.”
My phone rang. Mel put it on speaker before she answered. “Bingo!” Tim Lander shouted. “Dortman has an ’04 Lincoln LS. How did you figure that out?”
“Donnie Cosgrove,” I told him. “That’s the vehicle he saw driving away from the crime scene in Leavenworth on Saturday. Dortman is on his way to the airport right now, and so are we. Do some digging on him if you can. Call us if you find out anything more.”
Sometimes I long for the old days when telephones couldn’t touch you in a vehicle. On the other hand, I’m glad we have them. I was especially happy about that when Tim Lander called back a few minutes later, long before we’d even reached the S Curves in Renton.
“I’m headed over the mountains right now,” Lander said. “Guess who has a license to carry? Our friend Dortman is the proud owner of a nine-millimeter Beretta, which would be consistent with that one piece of brass we found.”
“Which, with any kind of luck,” Mel said, “he won’t have on him at the airport.”
One can always hope. Even sworn police officers have a tough time getting through security with handguns these days.
“I’m in my car and headed in your direction right now,” Lander said. “When I get to Sea-Tac, I’ll call for an update. Or you call me.”
“What are we going to ask Dortman once we find him?” Mel asked me.
“We try to catch him in a lie. First we ask him whether or not he was in Leavenworth on Saturday night. Depending on how he answers the first one, we ask him whether or not he knew Jack and Carol Lawrence. If he lies about either one, he’s not flying today. But what do you think are the chances that he won’t be waiting for us in the
