knowledge that I hadn't done as I'd been told and gone to see Dr. Wang.
Sitting in the recliner, I noticed how quiet the apartment was. Far too quiet. Ames had left a message on the answering machine saying that he and Winter were driving over to eastern Washington to visit with Machiko Kurobashi at Honeydale Farm. I missed the kind of creative uproar that seems to accompany Ralph Ames wherever he goes. And I missed having Peters' kids popping in and out unannounced in hopes of snagging some forbidden treat. And I missed having someone there to talk to. And I was restless as hell.
About six, I picked up the phone, dialed the Mercer Island Police Department, and asked to be put through to the chief. The words police chief didn't used to make me think of sex. Ever. But that was before I got to know Marilyn Sykes. Before I really got to know her.
Mercer Island is one of Seattle's suburban neighbors, an independent bedroom community in the middle of Lake Washington with its own city government. Marilyn Sykes, the Mercer Island police chief, and I have a sometime thing going. Like me, she works too much and plays too little. She answered the phone in her office on the second ring.
'It's six o'clock. Why are you still working?
'Do you have any better ideas?
'Actually I do. What are you having for dinner?
She laughed. 'Lean Cuisine. Again. As usual.
'How about leftover linguini primavera?
'At your house? If you've got leftovers, that must mean Ralph Ames is still in town.
'In Washington, but not in town.
'Is that a hint?
'An invitation, I corrected.
'Are you sure you're up to it? How are the fingers?
The damn fingers again! 'Now that they've stopped hurting, they're fine, I answered. 'Believe me, I never felt better.
'So I don't need to bring over a pot of chicken soup?
'No. Your toothbrush.
'I'll be there in twenty minutes, she said.
And she was. That's one of the reasons I like Marilyn Sykes. She doesn't require engraved invitations or lots of advance notice.
We never did get around to the linguini. When I woke up at six o'clock on Friday morning, Marilyn was plastered against my back, one hand wrapped around my middle, snoring softly. I felt the soft swell of breast against the skin of my shoulder blade and the arousing tickle of her pubic hair against my butt.
We've been around one another enough now that I no longer wake up in a blind panic, trying desperately to figure out who's in bed next to me. I know upon waking and without looking that it's Marilyn, and I'm grateful to have her there. We've never discussed the fact that she snores. I probably do too.
I lay there for a while, delighted to notice that my fingers weren't throbbing. Between Marilyn's capable ministrations and Dr. Blair's red-hot paper clip, I was feeling a whole lot better. A gentle euphoria slipped over me as I relived the previous evening's activities. Neither Marilyn nor I had anything to apologize for in the screwing department. On that score alone, I felt downright terrific. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I thought Dr. Blair must have had his wires crossed. It wasn't possible for someone who felt this good to be sick. Enlarged liver, my ass! Enlarged something else.
Marilyn stirred in her sleep. A hand grazed my chest.
'Awake? I asked, turning to face her.
'Mmmmmm, she answered.
I couldn't tell if that meant yes or no. 'Which is it? I asked.
'Depends on the question.
She snuggled comfortably against my chest, nuzzling into the curve of my neck. Totally un-police chief like behavior.
'What time do you have to be at work today? I asked.
'Eight. I told them last night that I might be running late.
'Oh no, you won't. I have to be at work at eight, too. Do you want breakfast?
'Not exactly, she said.
'Me neither, I said, eating myself on top of her. She pulled my face down to hers and gave me a lingering kiss. A demanding kiss.
When I drew back from her lips, Marilyn's eyes were open, and she was smiling. 'Good morning, she whispered.
'Don't talk, I said, and buried myself inside her, which is why, without ever having breakfast, I was ten minutes late to work and Marilyn Sykes was twenty. The good thing about being chief of police is that not many people have nerve enough to ask a police chief where she's been or what she's been doing, and even if they had asked, Marilyn Sykes is the type who probably would have told them.
I wasn't that lucky. Big Al was waiting for me, and so was Sergeant Watkins.
'You working banker's hours these days? Watty demanded.
Watty and I have had numerous run-ins of late, particularly since my series of hassles with Paul Kramer, one of the newer detectives on the squad. I'll admit, I haven't been busting my butt to mend fences, but then neither has Watty.
'Doctor's orders. I answered with a tiny white lie, and Watty didn't question it. With a disgusted shrug of his shoulders, he walked away.
'I've got a message here for you, Big Al said. 'George Yamamoto wants to see you right away.
'Where are you going?
'To see Captain Powell.
'What about?
'Maxwell Cole is doing a feature on Hubert Jones' mother. He wants to interview one of the detectives. Powell says I'm elected.
'Thank God for small favors, I responded.
Maxwell Cole is a longtime acquaintance of mine, a crime reporter turned columnist, whose profession naturally puts him at odds with cops in general and me in particular. We can't be in the same room together without setting off explosions. Powell probably figured, and rightly so, that any interview Maxwell Cole did with me would not reflect favorably on the Seattle Police Department.
Counting my blessings, I dashed down the stairway and into the crime lab to talk with George Yamamoto. As soon as I saw him, I knew something was wrong. George was sitting alone at his desk, staring at his phone. I knocked on his door frame twice before he heard me and looked up, his narrow face drained and haggard.
'Come in, he said, motioning wearily. 'Come in and close the door.
'What's the matter, George? You look beat.
He cocked his head to one side. The slightest hint of a sardonic smile played around the corners of his lips. 'Beaten? Maybe I am. Isn't that Ralph Ames a friend of yours?
'Yes.
'A good poker player? Yamamoto asked.
I shrugged. 'I wouldn't know about that. I don't play poker.
George nodded wisely. 'I do. He's a good bluffer. I believe I've just been blackmailed, Detective Beaumont, and unless I'm sadly mistaken, your friend Ralph Ames is behind it.
'Ames? Blackmail? No way. I almost laughed aloud, but George's coldly humorless expression stifled the urge.
'There are many degrees of blackmail, Detective Beaumont, and this is probably fairly benign, but it's blackmail nonetheless.
'Jesus Christ, I groaned. 'What the hell is going on? I don't understand any of this. And how you got the crazy idea that Ralph Ames is behind it-
'He is, George interrupted. 'Ames and that Winter fellow.
'What could Ralph Ames or Archie Winter possibly have on you?
