muddy ground even as Lars Jenssen himself heaved the last shovelful of dirt onto the grave. When he saw me standing there panting, he leaned on his shovel again, pointing and laughing.
I fought my way out of the dream and found that the sheet had somehow come loose during the course of that restless night. It was bunched up and wrapped around my neck. I fought my way out of that too, throwing it on the floor beside the bed, and made my way into the bathroom. I didn’t need an interpreter to explain that particular dream. What I really needed was a steaming hot shower to wash it away.
As I shaved, the radio in the bathroom reported that another day had dawned clear and cold. There was a slight warming trend, all the way up into the low twenties-a big help for Belltown Terrace’s heat pumps, which still rumbled away outside-but the slightly higher temperatures wouldn’t make things that much better for anything else.
I was glad not to have to pay attention while the announcer went through the long list of school closures that would extend holiday vacations for most Puget Sound youngsters for yet another day. And I was relieved to hear that no new incidents of sled/vehicular fatalities had occurred the day before.
Armed with a cup of coffee, I stood at my living room window gazing across the snowwrapped city. From the penthouse level of Belltown Terrace, the snow-covered hillsides still looked picture-pretty, but that sense of beauty changed drastically once it was closer at hand.
Down on street level, standing outside in it, shivering in snow up to my calves, that seemingly pristine white stuff took on a hard and brittle texture. It was dirty and crusted over by the mottled leavings of sanding crews. I waited for the bus in front of Belltown Terrace.
With a badge and ID, police ride free on city buses. “Pray for rain,” the driver of the overloaded Metro bus told me with a cheerful grin as he glanced at my badge. “Rain’s the only thing that’s going to help.”
I was sure that was true, but despite Lars Jenssen’s prediction to the contrary, that morning’s biting cold didn’t make rain a likely possibility.
The slow-moving bus was jammed to the gills. The almost carefree holiday attitude from the day before was completely gone, wiped out by that second frigid morning. There was no lighthearted camaraderie and banter among the people pressed together in the hot, steamy bus. Those few who did talk were mostly weary mothers, comparing the logistics of hastily arranged child care. Along with unaccustomed heavy-duty coats, gloves, and scarves, people wore frowns of grim determination. This was winter, real winter for a change, and the grownups of Seattle weren’t having any fun.
Once on the fifth floor of the Public Safety Building, I went directly to my cubicle, opened Doris Walker’s envelope, and dragged out the bomb-threat folder, which, out of deference to Lars Jenssen, I hadn’t even cracked open before coming to work.
There in my office, I read through it quickly. According to the file, there had been a total of seven threats in all, starting and ending back during the teachers’ strike at the beginning of the school year earlier that fall. Most had come in at night or on weekends, two by phone on the district’s answering machine and the others wrapped around rocks and tossed through plate-glass windows. All of them had targeted the school district administration office itself.
Despite seven thorough searches, no bombs had ever been found. After the first one, round-the-clock security guards had been instituted at the office complex on Queen Anne Hill. That surveillance continued for some time, even though the threats themselves had ceased about the same time striking teachers had returned to work. Now, several months later, round-the-clock coverage had been replaced by two consecutive after-hours shifts.
I was surprised to learn that each of the several incidents had indeed been reported to the school authorities and then passed on to the proper personnel at the Seattle Police Department. The report specifically mentioned the names of several members of the Fraud and Explosive squad. Try as I might, I couldn’t remember anything at all about the case coming through official departmental pipelines. Nor, to the best of my knowledge, had there been any mention about it in the media. That seemed odd to me. Local school district bomb threats are always big news, but these seemed to have fallen into a black hole without a single reporter noticing. I wondered why.
I don’t pretend to understand media people, and when I need help in that department, I always turn to Ron Peters, the man who was my partner until a permanent back injury made his return to regular duty as a homicide detective a physical impossibility. Back on the job after months of hospital treatment and rehabilitation, Peters was now ensconced, not entirely happily, in his new job with the Media Relations Department.
Unfortunately, when I called down to talk to him, Peters was closeted in that champion bureaucratic waster of time-a morning-long meeting. He was there, and so was everyone else from his unit. Did I want to leave a message?
I’ve long held the revolutionary belief that if all staff meetings in the world were totally abolished overnight, not only would civilization as we know it survive, it would actually thrive.
“No,” I said. “I’ll call back.”
My next call was to the F amp; E squad itself, where I reached Detective Lyle Cummings, affectionately known around the department as Officer Sparky.
Lyle Cummings had been plain old Lyle Cummings for his first eight years at Seattle P.D. The Sparky handle had come to him in midcareer as the result of an unfortunate incident in which Lyle and his partner, Dave Cooper, had been out test-driving the department’s brand-new$150,000 bomb-disposal truck. Crossing the Spokane Street Bridge, a missing three-cent grommet caused an electrical short circuit in the radio wiring. Unable to summon help, the truck wound up as a smoldering ruin parked in the far righthand lane of the West Seattle Freeway.
When the smoke cleared from around the charred remains and when the dust settled on all the paperwork, it turned out that the damage to the vehicle was completely covered under the truck’s original warranty, but the damage to Cummings’ name and reputation proved to be permanent. The “Sparky” handle was liberally applied, and it stuck. Cummings managed the teasing with a combination of humor and good grace.
“Hello, Sparky. This is Beaumont from Homicide,” I said.
“Top of the morning, Beau,” he said. “What can we do for you?”
“I’m calling about the school district bomb threats.”
Instantly his tone became markedly guarded. “School district bomb threats? What do you know about that?” he demanded.
“Not much, but I’ve got the file right here and…”
“What the hell are you doing with it? That file’s not supposed to be out of this office.”
“Hold on,” I countered. “I don’t have your file, Spark. I have the school district’s file.”
There was a long pause before he said, “Ouch. Me and my big mouth. I guess I blew it, didn’t I?”
“You could say that,” I returned lightly, knowing I had him dead to rights, but I didn’t rub it in. “Look, I’m working yesterday’s school district case. That file of yours may have something to do with it.”
“You mean the suicide/homicide? How could it? I got the distinct impression from what I read in the paper this morning that it was some kind of love-triangle thing. What does that have to do with bomb threats?”
“Beats me,” I answered, “but it’s out job to check all the angles. I want to see that file. ASAP.”
There was another long, thoughtful pause. “Hang tight, Beau. I’ll see what I can do and get back to you.”
Ten minutes later Detective Cummings appeared in my cubicle, file in hand.
“I got the word from upstairs,” he said, handing it over to me. “You can look at it all you want, but only while I’m here. You can take notes if you like, but nothing gets copied, and nothing gets taken out.”
“Wait just a goddamned minute here,” I objected. “What is this? I’m a homicide detective working a case and I can’t have unlimited access to one of Seattle P.D.”s own files?“
Sparky shrugged. “It’s the best we can do under the circumstances. If you’d like a word of friendly advice, I wouldn’t make too many waves about it either. Rumor has it that some of the brass are getting their chains yanked real good on this one by person or persons unknown. My guess is it’s somebody important from across the street.”
“Across the street” was the department’s sarcastically euphemistic reference to the city’s administrative offices located on the other side of Fourth Avenue.
“You mean as in the mayor’s office or somebody on the city council? We’re supposed to be talking squeaky clean Seattle here.”
“We’re also talking partisan politics,” Cummings replied meaningfully. “Now, are you interested in looking at the file or not?”
