'Just tell me.'
He shrugged. 'It's something I have to do, that's all.'
'You want to make the world a better place to live in?' I suggested.
'Something like that.' He frowned. 'What kind of deal is this, Beaumont? I'm here because I'm pissed as hell, and you sit there making fun of me.'
'I'm not making fun of anybody, Kramer. I've never been more serious in my life.'
Reluctantly, Kramer settled back in the booth, holding his cup while he studied me warily. He said nothing.
'And how long do you plan to be in homicide?' I asked.
'Me? As long as it takes.'
'As long as it takes for what?'
'To be promoted out.' At least we had cut through the bullshit. He was being honest.
'So you see homicide as a stepping-stone to bigger and better things?'
'There's nothing wrong with the,' Kramer said defensively.
'I never said there was. What were you doing seventeen years ago?'
'Seventeen years ago?' He laughed. 'I was thirteen and in the eighth grade down in Tumwater. What does that have to do with the price of peanuts?'
'Because seventeen years ago, I was just starting out in homicide. Fresh up from robbery, same as you are now.'
'So?'
'It's my life's work, Kramer. I've never wanted to do anything else. I never saw homicide as a springboard. I do the job. I like it. I'm good at it.
'A few days ago, you called me a playboy cop. It hurt me real good, but I've been doing some thinking. It's true. I've got more money right now than I'll ever know what to do with. I could quit the force tomorrow and never have to work another day in my life, but you know what? I don't know what the hell I'd do with myself if I quit. There isn't anything else I'd rather do except maybe drink too much and die young.'
Kramer shifted in his seat. 'Why are you telling me all this? What's the point?'
'The point is, we're on the same team, Kramer. Different motivations maybe, but we work the same side of the street. Logan Tyree's death is important, far more so than anyone's figured out. Solve it, and you'll be a hero. Screw it up, and your time in homicide gets that much longer.'
'Does that mean you know something we don't know?'
'Maybe,' I said.
'You can't do this, Beaumont,' he protested. 'You can't withhold information and you know it.'
'I'm not withholding anything. That's why I called you here, to tell you what I know. But I want in on it.'
Kramer looked astonished. 'You're going to ask Watty to put you on the case?'
I shook my head. 'No, Kramer. You are.'
'Why would I? And why do you want on the case?'
'Because I give a shit about Jimmy Rising and Linda Decker and Logan Tyree and Angie Dixon. Because I want to see the creeps who did this off the streets.'
When I mentioned Angie Dixon's name, a spark of excitement came to life in Kramer's eyes. 'The woman who fell. Did she have something to do with the others?'
I could see he needed to know the answer. As far as that was concerned, he was just like me, but I deliberately left him hanging without directly answering his question.
'I want in because I'm a good cop, Kramer. Because I've discovered things you need to know. I want this case solved. I want it every bit as much as you want to be Chief of Police.'
I finished what I had to say and shut up. The cards were all on the table now. The question was, would he pick them up or not? There was a long silence. I was determined to wait him out. Selling Fuller Brush taught me that much. After you've made your pitch, keep quiet. The first one to open his mouth loses. I waited. The silence stretched out interminably.
'You want it that bad, do you?' Kramer said at last.
I nodded. 'That bad.'
'Then you'd better tell me what you know.'
Eating crow was as simple as that.
CHAPTER 18
When we left the Doghouse an hour and a half later, we had hammered out rough guidelines for an uneasy alliance. Kramer had called Watty, and Detective J. P. Beaumont was now officially part of the investigation into Logan Tyree's death. It was a big improvement over the other alternative of being flat-out fired.
We took Kramer's car and drove to the Northwest Center on Armory Way. The receptionist summoned Sandy Carson from the micrographics department. When she arrived, she was still blonde and still willowy, but she looked like hell. Her eyes were red. I'm sure she had been crying.
'I didn't want any visitors out in the shop today,' she explained. 'Everyone's still too upset about Jimmy. But Linda called and told me you'd be coming by. She said for me to give you this.' She handed me a large brown interdepartmental envelope with its string fastener firmly tied.
'Who actually took the pictures?' I asked.
'Jimmy did. I supervised, of course.'
'And do you have any idea what became of the originals?'
She shook her head. 'I gave them to Logan when he came by and picked Jimmy up one day. He asked me to keep the copies here. He said he thought that would be safer.'
'Do you remember when that was?'
'Several days before he died.'
'And did you go to the police with it?'
'There wasn't any point. Everyone said it was an accident.'
I glanced at Kramer, but I didn't say anything. There was no sense rubbing his nose in it.
'Any idea where we should go to take a look at these?' I asked.
Kramer nodded. 'I know a place.'
He drove us to the Seattle Times building on Fairview and pulled into the parking lot. 'I know people here,' he said. 'They'll let us use their fiche reader. Not only that, maybe I can get a line on that Masters Plaza film.'
One of my objections to the new breed of law enforcement officers is their total preoccupation with the media. These cops want to solve crimes, all right, but they also want the publicity. They want to be sure their names are spelled right in the papers, pronounced right on the eleven o'clock news. Old war-horses like Big Al Lindstrom and me don't give a damn what the media have to say one way or the other.
In this case, however, Detective Paul Kramer's cozy friendship with the Third Estate paid off. Kramer's buddy in the news department hooked us up with someone from photography. He said the picture of Angie Dixon had come to the paper through a local free-lance film editor. The guy at the Times wasn't sure exactly how that had transpired, and the person who had handled the transaction wasn't in, but he was able to tell us that the company actually doing the filming was a small outfit called Camera Craft in the Denny Regrade.
Kramer's buddy also let us use a microfiche reader. It didn't do us any good. The fiche showed nothing but accountant's tapes, some with barely legible notations on them. Without the accompanying journals, they were worthless.
Kramer leaned away from the viewer long enough to let me take a look. 'None of this makes sense,' he said. 'These aren't something worth killing for. Are you sure this is what Linda Decker thought they were after?'
'Positive.'
'So what now? Go down to Camera Craft?'
'Seems like.'
We were told that the owner of Camera Craft was grabbing a late lunch at the Rendezvous, a small
