ask.
I was up by then, totally up and awake and hungry. All was quiet in the guest room. I took off my wrinkled, slept-in clothes, put on a pair of comfortable sweats, and left the apartment where Ames was still sleeping to go in search of food. The deli downstairs is closed on Saturdays, so I walked over to the Doghouse. Wanda was surprised to see me.
'What are you doing here so early, and on a Saturday yet?
'Feed me, I said.
She grinned and slid a cup of coffee in front of me. 'Let me guess. Two eggs, over easy, bacon, hash browns, whole wheat toast, and a crossword puzzle.
'Right on all counts, I said.
She brought me the section of paper with the crossword puzzle in it. Unfortunately, it was also the section that contained Maxwell Cole's column on Hattie Marie Jones, mother of Hubert.
Hubert would have been fine, his mother said, if the cops hadn't harrassed her son and forced him to fall in with a bad crowd. It was during a stint in Juvie that he had gotten involved with drugs, specifically cocaine, more specifically crack. All of that was in the first four paragraphs. I didn't bother to read any further.
I turned instead to the puzzle. The theme was biblical, both passages and characters. For somebody whose days in Sunday school ended a long time ago, I surprised myself by doing all right. Very well, in fact. I knew most of the answers, but writing them down proved difficult.
When I had gone to have my fingers drilled, I had forgotten to ask Dr. Blair how long I'd be stuck in the splints. We had been too busy hassling about my enlarged liver. And I sure as hell didn't want to call him back to ask about it now. He'd climb all over me about not seeing Dr. Wang.
Lost in thought, I didn't notice Wanda standing beside me with my plate in her hand watching as I struggled to write down twenty-three across, Jacob.
'You're sure good at that. I never have been able to work crossword puzzles.
'I'm good at it, Wanda, because my mind is brimming over with useless facts and information.
She looked at me sympathetically and shook her head. 'You just eat your breakfast now, and don't you go paying any attention to what that Maxwell Cole writes. He doesn't know what he's talking about, and you shouldn't take it to heart, you hear?
She put down my plate and walked away. I did as I was told. I ate my breakfast. I did not read the end of Maxwell Cole's column. I didn't want to, didn't dare. I was afraid that if I did, I'd go out and find that rotten little son of a bitch and shoot him.
Whoever said, 'Sticks and stones will break my bones/But words will never hurt me, didn't know Maxwell Cole.
So much for everything I ever learned in Sunday School.
CHAPTER 19
Ralph Ames was up and gone when I got back to the penthouse. I was restless, itchy, and frustrated. Maxwell Cole's sniping column had cast a pall on the morning. Like a man who looks at his glass and sees it half empty rather than half full, I could no longer take any pleasure from the fact that Lorenzo Tabone was safely in custody in Illinois. All I could see was that I still hadn't gotten to first base on finding Tadeo Kurobashi's killer.
I was missing something. His death wasn't an act of random violence committed by a total stranger. No, there had to be a pattern, a connection, one that still eluded me.
To give myself something to do, I tried calling Clay Woodruff in Port Angeles. The Port Angeles police had reluctantly verified that the number of the pay phone in the 'lobby of the Ritz Hotel did indeed match the one on Tadeo Kurobashi's notepad. I wasn't surprised when nobody answered. When I called Davey's Locker and spoke to the bartender, he told me Clay had been called out of town. I already knew that, you jerk, I thought, as I slammed the phone back in its cradle.
Next I tried calling Andrew Halvorsen. He answered on the seventh ring.
'How're you doing, Andy? I asked.
'Okay, he mumbled. He sounded groggy, half asleep. 'What time is it?
'Eight-thirty. Are you going to go on over to Spokane today?
'Yeah, he said. 'Sure.
'When?
'Don't rush me. As soon as I get work-wise. I had a bad night.
'You've talked to Alvin Grant?
'No, oh wait a minute. I guess maybe I did.
'So you know they've got Tabone in custody?
'I remember that now.
Halvorsen was so rummy, I wanted to shake him, wake him up. Monica Halvorsen wasn't worth being this screwed up over. 'Get your ass out of bed and go to Spokane, I ordered. 'Are you going to lie around all morning and feel sorry for yourself, or are you going to go to work?
'You're an asshole, Beaumont, Halvorsen said, banging the phone as he hung up.
Was he going to Spokane or not? I couldn't tell, but at least he was awake. It was cold comfort. Next I tried calling Lieutenant Alvin Grant. The dispatcher in the Schaumburg Police Department told me that Grant had gone home, and when I called there, his wife said he was asleep.
'Al was up working a case all night, she told me. 'He just went to bed a few minutes ago. Can I take a message?
'Tell him Detective Beaumont called from Seattle. Ask him to call me and let me know how things are going with Tabone.
'I'll do that, she said. 'But not until after he wakes up.
Chafing at the bit, I tried pacing the floor only to discover that with the splints on my fingers it was impossible to shove my hands into my pockets. Quality pacing requires that both hands be shoved all the way down to the bottoms of pants pockets. I couldn't do anything right, not even pacing.
But just when I thought I was losing it, the phone rang. Somebody was calling me for a change.
'Detective Boomont? a woman asked. She stumbled over my name the way telephone solicitors do when they are blindly working their way down some charity's sucker list.
'This is Detective Beaumont, I said, withholding the snarl, waiting for the inevitable pitch before I blew her out of the water. The pitch never came.
'Sorry to call you at home, but this is the number you gave me.
'It's fine, I said, trying to place the unfamiliar voice. 'What can I do for you?
She paused, and for a moment I wondered if she was going to hang up.
'It's Chrissey, she said finally, her voice dropping several levels so I had to strain to hear her. 'Chrissey Morrison, she added.
The woman from DataDump. Every object in the room suddenly shifted into sharper focus as my whole body jarred to attention.
'Yes, Chrissey. Is there something I can do for you?
'Can you meet me? she asked.
I wanted to ask her what had happened, to find out if anything was wrong, but I didn't dare. Her connection to the telephone seemed so tenuous, so frail, that I was afraid any unexpected comment on my part might scare her away, frighten her into hanging up.
'Where? I asked, keeping my voice low and reassuring. 'Where would you like me to meet you?
'At the locks, the Ballard Locks, she said. 'Over by the fish ladder.
'When?
'Would an hour be all right?
I could have been there in ten minutes, five if traffic was light, but I didn't say so. 'Sure, I said. 'An hour will be fine. I'll meet you there about a quarter after ten.
