started to call the police right away, but then I remembered my diaphragm, the one I kept in the office. I was afraid if someone found it, they’d ask questions. So I got rid of it.”
“How?”
“I took it out to the dumpster and threw it away.”
“But the dumpsters are in the back alley. You were seen entering by the front door.”
“I tried the back door, but I couldn’t get out. Someone had taken the key to the dead bolt from the drawer. It wasn’t where it was supposed to be.”
Of course it wasn’t there. LeAnn had taken it, but I didn’t tell Debi that.
“And you don’t have one?”
“No. I always used the one in the drawer.”
“And was the dead-bolt lock changed when the other ones were?”
“Yes. I made the arrangements. I called the locksmith and set up the appointment. Dr. Fred asked me to.”
“And how long ago were the locks changed?”
She shrugged. “A couple of weeks ago. I’m not sure of the exact date.”
“After LeAnn Nielsen moved out?”
Debi nodded.
“What time will your husband be home?”
She glanced nervously at a clock on the wall. “Any time now,” she said.
I got up to leave. “All right,” I said. “I’m going. We’ll be checking on your husband’s movements on Saturday.”
“Are you going to tell him?” Debi asked.
I searched her face. “What makes you think he hasn’t already found out?” I asked. “And even if he hasn’t, you must realize that he will by the time this investigation is over. You’d better be the one to tell him.”
With that I turned away and left her sitting there. I didn’t have enough evidence in hand to accuse Tom Rush of Nielsen’s murder, and if the poor simple bastard really didn’t know his wife was fucking around on him, I didn’t much care to be there when she told him.
I don’t like to see half-grown men cry.
Back home in Belltown Terrace, I settled into my recliner and sat there thinking about Tom Rush-wondering if he’d done it, hoping he hadn’t.
The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. After all, I personally had walked several miles in Tom Rush’s moccasins. I didn’t want to have to arrest him for something I might well have done myself if I’d only had the opportunity.
I fell asleep with the sure knowledge that I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
CHAPTER 17
I went to the Doghouse for breakfast the next morning and discovered J. P. Beaumont was suddenly a local media hero. “Saw you on the eleven o’clock news, last night.” Wanda told me as she unloaded a platter of bacon and eggs in front of me. “Somebody else saw you on the five o’clock. They said you went in and talked that crazy guy into giving up.”
“For once the news got something straight,” I said.
“Weren’t you scared? Looked to me like you were wearing one of those bulletproof vests.”
“I was,” I said. “What I really needed, though, more than a bulletproof vest, was a batting helmet.”
Wanda stood there with her arms crossed, frowning. “What’s that?”
“A batting helmet, like they use in baseball games. The guy didn’t have a gun, he had a baseball bat.”
Wanda grinned from ear to ear. “Really? They never told us that on TV.”
“Why should they? It makes a better story if they imply the other guy had a gun.”
“You don’t mind if I tell the other girls, do you? They’ll get a real bang out of it.”
“Be my guest,” I told her.
She hustled off toward the kitchen while I settled down to eat my breakfast.
Knowing I had deliberately avoided Sergeant Watkins the day before, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to going into the office. My game plan was to go in, get Big Al, and get the hell back out ASAP. Watty must have read my mind. The sergeant was leaning against my desk waiting for me when I got to the cubicle.
“Got back too late to put in an appearance up here, did you?” he asked with a frown.
I nodded.
“You write me a report, Beaumont. We’ll take it to Captain Powell together after I get a chance to look at it. He wants to know what the hell a suspected murderer is doing sitting in isolated splendor up at Harborview Hospital. Believe me, so do I.”
I glanced across my desk. Big Al Lindstrom was sitting there making himself as small as possible. When you weigh 220, that’s no easy task. There was a definite twinkle in his eyes.
“I’ll have a report on your desk in half an hour,” I said.
“You’d better,” Watty replied grimly.
He took off, and I turned to Al. “What the hell are you laughing at?” I demanded.
“For once it looks like the prosecutor did me a favor. At least my ass isn’t in a sling.”
“Don’t count on it. What about that assault case? Are you done with it or not?”
“He plea-bargained down to simple assault late yesterday afternoon. I came by to tell you, but Margie said you’d already disappeared. What can I do to help?”
“Go check with the crime lab and the medical examiner’s office and see if they’ve come up with anything while I get Watty’s goddamned report out of my hair.”
Twenty minutes later, I took my report into Watty’s office. He read it through, then tossed it on his desk.
“I guess I owe you an apology,” he said. “Margie was under the impression that you were on your way home. I didn’t realize you still had someone else to see last night.”
I didn’t tell him that when I talked to Margie I was on my way home. I’m gradually wising up and learning when to keep my mouth shut.
“The captain isn’t going to swallow this stuff about the wife and the carpet installer. It sounds fishy even to me, especially considering they spent the weekend together.”
Watty certainly called that shot: Captain Powell wasn’t impressed. He read my report with both Watty and me seated on chairs in his window-lined fishbowl. I felt like a kid stuck in a principal’s office waiting to collect a swat. When Powell finished reading, he dropped the paper on his desk, glowering at me.
“I’ve already been on the horn with Logan.” he fumed. “What do you mean talking him into committing Martin for psychiatric observation? What the hell kind of deal is that? For God’s sake, man, that bastard held half of Seattle hostage yesterday afternoon.”
“Have you talked to his boss yet to find out what really happened?” I asked.
“No one has talked to Richard Damm, if that’s who you mean. He’s in intensive care with a heart attack, and instead of putting his attacker in jail where he belongs, you’ve got him in a goddamned hospital. Beaumont, are you aware that Larry Martin’s an ex-con who’s already spent two years in the slammer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know that his fingerprints were found all over Nielsen’s office?”
“I didn’t know it for sure, but it makes sense. He was laying carpet there. Why wouldn’t he leave fingerprints?”
“And now you’re telling me that he spent the weekend shacked up with the grieving widow, but you still claim he had nothing to do with her husband’s murder? Come on, Beaumont. Give me a break. I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck yesterday, you know.”
“Look,” I said, “I’ve got a line on another suspect, the receptionist’s husband. The good doctor and the receptionist were screwing around. If the husband knew about it, that certainly gives him motive. So far, we haven’t
