all right?' I asked. 'Can you move your fingers?'
He wiggled them and nodded.
'And your feet?'
He nodded again.
'It's over,' I told him. 'You guys are out of business.'
'Damn,' Kaplan murmured and closed his eyes.
The Medic One unit showed up minutes later and loaded Kaplan on a stretcher. They were just getting ready to haul him away when Paul Kramer and Manny Davis arrived on the scene. Someone had thrown a blanket over my shoulders, and I was standing there wet and shivering.
'Where is he?' Kramer asked.
'Kaplan?' I nodded toward the Medic One unit. 'He's in there,' I answered.
True to form, Kramer headed for the van. He didn't give a shit about whether or not I was hurt. He wanted to be sure Don Kaplan was locked up securely enough that he couldn't get loose.
Manny Davis came over to me then. 'Are you all right, Beau?' he asked.
And that was the difference between them. Manny cared. Kramer didn't. It was as simple as that. The son of a bitch might very well end up as police chief some day. God knows he's ruthless enough.
I hope to hell I never have to work for him.
CHAPTER 23
I jerked my head in Kramer's direction. 'Tell him I've gone home to change clothes. I'll meet you guys back down at the department and we'll finish sorting this out.'
Manny at least made the effort to stop me. 'Don't you want a ride, Beau? Our car's right over there, just behind the Coliseum.'
I shook my head. 'No thanks. I need to walk. It'll clear my head.'
I limped back to Belltown Terrace. My heel was killing me, sending shooting pains across the top of my foot as I hobbled along. People steered clear of me. It wasn't until I saw myself reflected in the window glass of Belltown Terrace that I realized why. I was still wearing the soaking wet blanket. With two black eyes, my broken nose, and my freshly bloodied face, I'm sure I was mistaken for one of Seattle's more actively unfortunate street people. At least this set of torn and dripping clothing could go on a line-of-duty replacement voucher.
Annie, the concierge, was still on duty. 'My God!' she exclaimed when I came into the lobby. 'You're a mess, Detective Beaumont. What happened? I thought you were going to Bumbershoot.' She must have been at lunch when I brought the girls home.
'I did,' I told her. 'It's really crowded.'
Leaving a puddle of water on the marbled lobby floor, I stepped into the elevator and went upstairs. Within minutes I had stripped off my clothes and was lying in my Jacuzzi.
Good sense said I should have iced my foot, but the steaming water felt good on my chilled body and aching muscles. I should have felt victorious, triumphant. I didn't. I felt broken. Stiff. Old. And filled with a vague sense of discontent.
I guess it was professional pride. I had caught Kaplan, sure. And somebody else had nailed Martinson. But there were seven numbers besides theirs in that leather-bound ledger. That meant seven others still on the loose. Maybe we'd find out who they were if the private eye was right and Martinson was ready to talk, but he had been out of town when the murders started, when Logan Tyree's boat blew up and when Angie Dixon fell off Masters Plaza.
Murder is my bailiwick. Let somebody else deal with the union racketeering. It was the killer I wanted.
With a sudden sense of purpose, I scrambled out of the Jacuzzi, showered, and toweled off. I hurried to the bedroom phone, dialed Manny's number, and got Kramer instead.
'When are you going to question Kaplan?' I asked. 'I can be there in ten minutes.'
'We're not,' Kramer answered shortly.
'What do you mean, you're not?'
'He's in surgery. Ruptured spleen. The doctors are taking it out. They don't know when we'll be able to talk to him.'
'Damn. What about Martinson then?'
'Manny's working on it, but right this minute, Green is refusing to press charges.'
'So do you want me to come back down or not?'
'I wouldn't bother if I were you. Stay home and take it easy. And keep this under wraps. We're not releasing any names until we see what information Green drags out of Wayne Martinson.'
I wasn't dumb enough to believe I was talking to a transformed Paul Kramer, to somebody genuinely concerned about J. P. Beaumont's health and well-being. He was down at the department playing hero, letting the brass know how great he was and how he'd come up with all the answers, and he didn't want me down there gumming up the works.
Let him, I thought savagely as I slammed down the phone.
Pulling on a comfortable pair of sweats, I went on into the living room, poured myself a drink, and settled down in the recliner. Since I wasn't going back to the department, the situation called for a MacNaughton's or two. For medicinal purposes.
I tried to make my mind go blank, to blot the case and everything connected with it out of my head, but it wouldn't stay blotted. I kept coming back to those numbers, those seven people. And Martin Green.
For as long as I'd known him, I had thought of Green as a problem, first in the building and then later, after I'd talked to Linda Decker, in the case. He was supposed to have been the villain of the piece, but now for the first time I began to think seriously about him as an ally, as someone who had come to Seattle to put a stop to the skullduggery in the union that had caused the deaths of Logan Tyree and the others.
What was it he had told us? Something to the effect that after months of work he was finally beginning to scratch the surface. Obviously Don Kaplan had blindsided him. Green hadn't expected Kaplan to be part of the conspiracy, but I wondered if maybe he had identified some of the other scumbags and was playing his cards close to his chest while he waited to bag Martinson and force a private deal.
I had picked up the phone to call him when I remembered that Martin Green had an unlisted phone number. Instead, I dialed the doorman in the lobby.
'I've lost Martin Green's number. Do you happen to have it?'
Pete Duvall sounded a little wary. 'I do, but I'm not supposed to give it out. It's probably all right to give it to you, though. Oh, and by the way. When Mr. Ames went out earlier, he said to tell you not to bother to cook. He'll be home around eight, and he's bringing food back with him.'
As if I would have cooked anyway. Ames must have been choking with laughter when he left that message. He knows I don't cook. His sense of humor and his self-sufficiency are two things that make Ralph Ames an enjoyable houseguest. He was being so goddamned self-sufficient that in my preoccupation with the case I had completely forgotten he was still in town.
When I got off the phone with Pete, I tried calling Martin Green. There was no answer. I found myself fuming that the man didn't have an answering machine on his phone. I've come a long way from the time when I didn't have one and wouldn't use one on a bet. I have Ralph Ames to thank for that, among other things.
He showed up right on schedule, bringing with him a selection of delectable carry-out Chinese food which he served with suitable ceremony. 'So how did your day go?' he asked.
'Medium,' I said, filling him in on the details as we worked our way through sweet-and-sour prawns, ginger beef, and pork-fried rice.
'And how's Jimmy Rising doing?' he asked, when I finished.
'I don't know,' I said, 'but it won't take long to find out.' I went over to the phone and dialed Harborview's number from memory. When the switchboard answered, I asked to be connected to the burn unit.
'This is Detective Beaumont,' I said. 'I'm calling about Jimmy Rising.'
'Are you a member of the family?' the woman asked.
