morning Group had broken up. Family members from my session and others were on their way to an outlying portable, this one a new addition across the parking lot. The group had to pass down the aisle directly in front of where Deputy Hanson and I were standing.
Several people gave us curious glances as they went by. Kelly walked past without acknowledging my existence. Karen nodded but didn't stop. Scott walked past but then turned and came back, frowning.
'Dad, is something wrong?'
'No,' I said quickly. 'I'm fine. It's nothing.'
Scott smiled. 'Good,' he said. He started away again, but stopped once more. 'I just wanted to tell you in there that it's all right. Kelly's a spoiled brat. She carries on like that all the time, and Dave and Mom let her get away with it. You know how it works.'
'Yeah,' I said. 'I know.'
'And I…' Scott paused.
'You what?'
'I just wanted to tell you that I love you,' he said.
The lump returned to my throat. I grabbed Scott then, right there in the parking lot with a puzzled Deputy Hanson looking on, and held him tightly against me, feeling his strong young body next to mine, marveling at how tall my little boy had grown, how well built and capable.
'I needed that, Scotty,' I said at last, when I could talk again. 'You've no idea how badly I needed that.'
CHAPTER 5
Despite the extraordinary circumstances, Louise Crenshaw sent word through her secretary that I was to return to Group until the sheriff's department investigators were ready to speak to me. Deputy Hanson reluctantly agreed to let me leave the parking lot only after cautioning me not to mention Joey Rothman's death to anyone at all until after a decision had been made on an official announcement.
Bearing that in mind, I returned to our portable where Burton Joe was leading the client group through a meandering discussion about denial and its impact on a dysfunctional, chemically dependent families. The bottom line revolved around the catch-22 that denying you have the disease of alcoholism is in and of itself a symptom of the disease. Naturally, until you admit you have a problem, you can't fix the problem. According to Burton Joe, breaking through denial is a major step on the road to recovery.
I've heard it before, and I must confess I didn't pay very close attention during the remainder of the morning. My mind wandered. There was no denying I had a problem all right. Regardless of the fact that the weapon belonged to me, the presence of my fingerprints as the most recent prints on a possible murder weapon clearly posed a very touchy problem, one that had nothing to do with alcoholism or liver disease, although I'd say that in terms of potential for long-term damage it rivals either one.
I could feel myself being sucked inevitably into the vortex of circumstances surrounding Joey Rothman's death. If any homicide cop worth his salt started asking questions, it wouldn't take much effort to discover that J. P. Beaumont had both motive and opportunity. I took small comfort from the fact that all the circumstantial evidence pointing at me also pointed at Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens. (In the course of the long night and longer morning, his official title and rank had surfaced in my memory.) Whatever fatherly motive I might have had, Owens had more. In spades. Kelly Beaumont wasn't pregnant. Michelle Owens was.
Blocking out Burton Joe's psycho-babble, I wondered about the official time of death. Lacking that critical piece of information, I couldn't assess exactly how much trouble I was in. If the coroner happened to declare that the murder occurred while Guy Owens and I were together in the cabin, then life would be good. Each of us could provide the other with an airtight alibi.
But if Joey Rothman died later than that, I thought uneasily, if the autopsy indicated that the crime occurred sometime after Guy Owens left my cabin and before I went to see Lucy Washington and to report the problem with my car, that would be a white horse of a different color.
Around eleven o'clock, Nina Davis came to the door of the portable and crooked a summoning finger in my direction. Annoyed at the barrage of unexplained interruptions, Burton Joe nonetheless nodded that I could go. I followed Nina out the door wondering why Louise had once more sent her secretary instead of coming herself. This was exactly the kind of one-woman show Louise did so well, playing the part of a grande dame puppet master, jerking the strings of anyone dumb enough to let her.
But even outside, Louise Crenshaw was nowhere in sight. Instead, waiting on the path was an attractive Mexican-American woman in her mid-thirties. Nina Davis introduced her as Yavapai County Sheriff's Detective Delcia Reyes-Gonzales.
I've survived a good portion of my career in the fuzzy world of affirmative action. Years of departmental consciousness-raising seminars have taught me better manners than to call women girls, especially not the ladies who make their way up through the law enforcement ranks and land on their feet in detective divisions.
The female detectives with the Seattle police are women who definitely carry their own weight. Although I can't say the trail-blazers have always been welcomed with open arms, they've done all right for themselves and for the department as well, because the ones who really make it in a man's world, quotas notwithstanding, have to be smart and capable both.
Detective Delcia Reyes-Gonzales seemed to qualify on both counts. She was only about five six, slim and olive-skinned, but I sensed tensile strength packed in that slender body. Lustrous ebony curls were pulled away from her face while silver earrings dangled from each delicate earlobe. She was far and away the prettiest and most exotic detective I've ever seen, but there was nothing frivolous about her dignified carriage. Her brown eyes sparkled with intelligence and purpose.
Delcia Reyes-Gonzales inclined her head and held out her hand, acknowledging Nina's introduction. She smiled slightly, revealing a row of straight white teeth.
'Sorry to disturb your session,' she said. 'Hopefully this won't take too long.'
'No problem,' I replied. 'I was getting a little antsy in there. Can I do anything to help?'
'We'd like to go through your cabin, if you don't mind, since it belonged to you as well as the deceased. We'll need to search your vehicle as well since presumably he was in it shortly before he died.
'I have someone standing by in Prescott ready to obtain search warrants if necessary, but that will take several hours. In the meantime, I have a Consent-to-Search form here. If you'd be so good as to sign that, it would certainly speed things up.'
'I don't mind at all,' I said. 'Hand it over.'
The detective withdrew the consent form from a maroon leather briefcase and handed it to me. Using the case as a writing surface, I signed the paper on the spot.
'I suppose you've already called in a crime scene team,' I commented, passing the signed paper back to her.
Detective Reyes-Gonzales shook her head. 'We do our own crime scene work,' she replied, 'although the state crime lab in Phoenix does the actual analysis. This way, please, Detective Beaumont. We're to use Mrs. Crenshaw's office. Mr. Crenshaw will be making the official announcement as soon as people come to the dining hall for lunch.'
In the course of the morning a new bank of lowering clouds had blown in from the west. Now it began sprinkling in earnest. Walking briskly through the spattering rain, Detective Reyes-Gonzales led the way up the path to the main building, through the deserted dining room, and down the tiled hallway to Louise Crenshaw's office. She opened the door without knocking and motioned me into a chair before pausing to speak briefly to someone who had followed us down the hall. Finished with that, Detective Reyes-Gonzales closed the door firmly behind her, then settled herself easily into Louise Crenshaw's executive chair.
'I take it things weren't particularly cordial between you and your roommate, Detective Beaumont,' she said, opening our discussion with both a shrewd statement and an equally disarming smile. That's a killer combination for a detective-one few male detectives ever master. It did as expected and suckered me right into talking when I probably should have been listening.
'‘Not cordial' isn't the expression I'd use,' I replied shortly. 'Joey Rothman was a punk kid. I've never liked
