is a hell of a nice place you have here. That 928 you drive is a sweet little piece of machinery. I happen to know where all of it came from, but you're getting a whole lot of notoriety both inside and outside the department. People are starting to talk about the playboy cop. When you go around pulling fool stunts like this, it sure as hell adds fuel to the fire.'
I must have winced when he said it. The words 'playboy cop' had hurt badly enough when I heard them from Paul Kramer. Coming from Watty, from someone I've worked with for years, someone I respect, they cut clear to the bone.
He didn't miss my reaction. 'So you have heard it then,' Watty said.
I nodded.
'Being a cop isn't something you do when you feel like it. It isn't something you do now and then just to keep your hand in. It's not a goddamned part-time job. It's something you do because you have to, because it's in your blood. But you do it by the rules. If you're tired of those rules, if you're tired of taking orders and being on the team, then quit. Get the hell out.
'Your net worth doesn't mean a damn thing to me, Beaumont. It doesn't make you sergeant. I'm still calling the shots. I assign the cases, and my people answer to me. I don't need any goddamned Lone Ranger on my squad. I won't tolerate it, and if you've got a problem with that, then maybe you'd better make this vacation permanent or put in for a transfer. You got that?'
'I've got it,' I said.
I followed Watty to the door. He opened it and stepped into the hallway, then he turned back. 'If I were you, I'd have someone take a look at that nose. It looks broken to me.'
I watched him go. Watty had just climbed all over my frame, but he still worried about my goddamned broken nose. That hurt almost as much as the ass-chewing.
Ralph Ames came out of the guest room with an empty coffee cup in one hand and a fistful of papers in the other. He had told me that as long as he was in Seattle he could just as well do some work for the Belltown Terrace real-estate syndicate and save himself another trip later.
'How was it?' he asked, refilling his cup.
'Pretty rough,' I said. 'Watty told me to shape up or ship out. Either get back on the team or get the hell off it altogether. From the sound of it, he doesn't much care which way it goes.'
'I see,' Ames said and let it go at that. He took the fresh cup of coffee and disappeared into the guest room, leaving me to stew in my own juices.
There was plenty of stewing to do. Over the years, I've been in varying degrees of hot water on occasion, but that's not unusual among detectives. As a breed we're the ones who ask the questions, who ferret out information people often don't want us to have. It's a world that attracts pragmatists-self-starters with strong streaks of independence.
I had been reprimanded before, called on the carpet and brought back to heel, but never anything like this. Watty's words had gutted me, hit all my professional cop buttons, and left me empty, with nothing to say in my own defense because I knew damn good and well he was right. I had been out of line, off the charts.
Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I took it out on the balcony and stood looking down at the street far below, hoping the sound of morning commuter traffic hurrying down Second Avenue would help lessen the sting of Watty's departing words, but it didn't. Nothing could. Because for everything Watty had said, I could add three more burning indictments of my own.
Of course I should have gone to Manny Davis and Paul Kramer and told them what I had found out, what I suspected. Of course I shouldn't have driven to Pe Ell to question Linda Decker alone. Going without a backup was stupid. Inexcusable.
The personality conflict between Kramer and me was like a couple of little boys duking it out on a playground, fighting over who ruled a small square of gravel turf or who got the biggest swing. But I had let that little-boy game overshadow my professional judgment.
Professional? Who the hell was I to call myself a professional?
The phone rang, interrupting the self-flagellation. I was sure it was Kramer, and I started rehearsing my apology as I went to pick up the receiver. Instead it was Peters, calling from the hospital.
'So you made it back all right after all.' He sounded relieved.
'Yeah,' I said. 'I should have called you last night, but it was too late. Sorry.'
'Don't worry about that. How are things?'
'Watty was just here and reamed me out good. I deserved it.'
'One thing to be thankful for, though. At least the papers didn't name names this morning. They called you an ‘unidentified off-duty Seattle Police officer.''
'So it's in the paper today?'
'Front and center.'
'Great. Did the article say anything about Linda Decker's brother?'
'The one who got burned? Only that he's in the burn unit down here at Harborview. Critical condition. Intensive care. You know what that's like.'
'One step away from the Spanish Inquisition.'
Peters laughed ruefully. 'Something like that,' he said. 'I assume Watty told you hands off?'
'In a manner of speaking,' I allowed.
Peters knew me well enough to sense that what I said was only the tip of the iceberg, but he didn't press the issue. Instead, he went on to something else. 'Has Maxine gotten hold of you to arrange a schedule for Bumbershoot?' he asked.
I had forgotten all about the outing I had promised Peters' girls. 'No,' I said guiltily. 'She hasn't caught up with me. I've been a moving target.'
'Maxine called here yesterday and said that she heard that kids get in free on Friday. She wondered if it would be possible for you to take them then. She's got a doctor's appointment in the early afternoon. Otherwise, she'll have to locate another sitter.'
'Tell her that'll be fine. By tomorrow afternoon, I'm sure time will be hanging heavy on my hands. Tell her to send them up here about eleven. We'll eat lunch over at Seattle Center.'
'Okay,' he said, 'I'll let her know.' He paused. 'Don't kick yourself too much, Beau. You never would have done it if I hadn't been egging you on from the sidelines, remember?'
'Sure,' I said, and we hung up.
I know Peters was trying to make me feel better, but it didn't work. When you've been flat on your back in bed for six months, you're allowed some lapses in judgment. When you're still supposedly dealing with a full deck, when you're still walking around upright, carrying a badge and packing a loaded. 38, it's a whole different ball game.
Ames came out of the bedroom again. He was dressed in a suit and tie, briefcase in hand. He found me sitting in the chair by the telephone, staring off into space. He set the case down on the table for a moment and stood there looking at me.
'You could always quit, you know,' he said.
'Quit?'
'The force. You don't need to work if you don't want to.'
The realization that Watty might fire me had shaken me to my very core, but the idea of quitting had never crossed my mind.
'It's what I've always done,' I said.
Ames shrugged. 'Maybe that's reason enough to make a change. Lots of men your age do, you know,' he added quietly. He picked up the briefcase again and started toward the door. 'What are you going to do today?'
'I don't know yet,' I said. 'I'm going to have to think about it.'
After Ames left, the silence in the room was oppressive. I felt restless, ill at ease. Unbidden, Jimmy Rising came to mind. I remembered how much he had wanted to go to work the day he missed the bus, how proud he had been of the thermos and the lunch pail. Well, he wasn't going to work now. The micrographics department at the Northwest Center would have to do without him for awhile. Maybe forever. The burn unit at Harborview is good, but they can't always work miracles.
