moment or two to pull himself back together.
“How well do you know Pete Kelsey?” I asked finally when Max looked once more as though he were capable of speech.
“Jesus Christ, J.P.!” Max exploded. “We already went over that! I know him like my own brother.”
“Did you ever hear of anyone named John David Madsen?”
“No. Who’s that?” Max asked with a frown.
“If you don’t know John David Madsen, Max, then you don’t know Pete Kelsey, either. Where is he?”
“At my house. He came there yesterday afternoon. I swear to God, I didn’t know you were looking for him until the paper came this morning.”
“Is he armed?” I asked.
“Of course he’s not armed. What kind of a fool do you think I am?” Max demanded.
“Are there any weapons in the house?”
Maxwell Cole thought for a moment and then said, “Well…”
His hesitation told me what I needed to know. I stood up, dropping a fistful of change onto the table. “Where are you going?” Max asked.
“To call for a backup. Kelsey got away from me yesterday. That’s not going to happen twice.”
“No deal then?”
“No deal.”
Maybe Pete Kelsey wasn’t asking for much, but it was far more than he was going to get.
Chapter 20
It was done without sirens or fanfare. And without any reporters, either.
Two cars, one marked and one not, accompanied Maxwell Cole and me back up Queen Anne Hill to Max’s house. I had told him that under no circumstances would he be allowed to approach the house, but while I was busy strategically placing my six backup officers, Max slipped away from me and made a beeline for the front porch. He was opening the door before I realized what he was up to, and by then it was too late to stop him.
Leave it to Maxwell Cole to blow my cover. One way or another, Kelsey/Madsen now knew we were there. We had lost whatever small advantage might have been gained by the element of surprise. If he chose to make a stand, to force us to come in after him, Max’s huge old house stood there like an impenetrable fortress. And then there was always the possibility that Kelsey would take Max hostage and attempt to use him as a bargaining chip.
While I was still assessing the situation and trying to determine whether or not to summon the Emergency Response Team, the door opened and both Max and Kelsey stepped outside onto the wide front porch. Kelsey walked with both hands held high over his head.
Quickly I moved to intercept them, my whole body tense and alert for any sign of trouble. In one hand I gripped my new Beretta and fervently wished it was my trusty old Smith amp; Wesson.
“Step aside, Max,” I ordered, motioning him away with a sideways jerk of my head. He complied, but not without argument.
“Put the gun away, J. P. I told you there wouldn’t be any trouble. I told you Pete was ready to turn himself in.”
Kelsey/Madsen was looking me straight in the eye. “Will I be able to go to Marcia’s funeral?” he asked.
“I already told Max that we don’t make deals, Madsen. Now, up against the wall, feet apart and hands over your head. You’re under arrest.”
For a long moment Pete Kelsey didn’t move. He leveled his ice blue eyes at me in a steady, unblinking stare, but the working muscles across his jawline told me that my use of his real name had hit home. At last, when he dropped his eyes, his whole body seemed to sag. He started to lower his hands.
“Hands up, Madsen!” I barked again, putting real menace in it this time. “I said move it!”
He did move then, but slowly, as though he were in some kind of uncomprehending trance. As soon as he turned his back to me, I stepped behind him and propelled him toward the house with a swift shove to his shoulder. He had gotten away from me once, and I wasn’t going to allow him the slightest opportunity to do it again.
“I didn’t do it,” he said quietly, almost under his breath. Standing behind him, I was the only one who heard him speak. “No matter what you think, Detective Beaumont, I didn’t kill my wife.”
As soon as Max and Kelsey had appeared on the porch, my backup officers had abandoned their positions and converged behind me. Now two of them, their weapons drawn, sprinted up onto the porch, shoving Max aside as they did so. While one of them kept Kelsey covered, another did a quick pat-down search, finishing by cuffing Kelsey’s arms tightly behind him.
“He’s unarmed,” the pat-down officer reported.
Relieved, I nodded. “Good.”
“I told you,” Max said indignantly.
Holding Kelsey by the arm, one of the officers spun him around so the two of us stood facing each other. It’s a moment I’ve lived through a thousand times when hunter and hunted, captor and captive, come face-to-face. Maybe it’s due to the adrenaline pumping through my system at those times, but years later, although the names have long since disappeared, I can still recall those moments and those faces with absolute clarity.
Some murderers, especially repeat offenders, swagger when they’re caught, their faces haughty with contempt because they know there’s no such thing as life in prison and no such thing as life in prison and no such thing as the death penalty either, no matter what the lawbooks say. They know there are plenty of ways to slip through plea-bargaining cracks and plenty of attorneys who will help them do it. They’re sure they’ll walk away without doing any time at all, and usually they’re right.
The inadvertent ones, drivers in vehicular manslaughter cases, drunks who kill without meaning to in the course of a barroom brawl, don’t swagger and are usually scared shitless when we pick them up. The domestic violence types-people who kill their husbands and wives and kids-are often still angry when they’re arrested: angry at the victims for causing their own deaths and angry at the cops for catching them doing it.
A very few killers are grateful to have their crimes finally out in the open-a few but not most. Unlike the others, they make no protestations of their innocence because they want the nightmare to be over.
Despite his claim of innocence, what I saw on Kelsey/Madsen’s face was just that kind of relief. No fear, no bitterness, no animosity-just a profound resignation. I wondered if, after so many years of living a lie, he wasn’t grateful that the other shoe had finally dropped.
We stared at each other for some time. I was the one who spoke first, and then not to him but to the other officers.
“Read him his rights,” I said, “then take him downtown to the fifth floor so we can take his statement. Have someone call the Criminal Investigations Division down at Fort Lewis to find out what they want us to do with him. His ID will give his name as Kelsey, but his real name is Madsen, John David Madsen. For the moment the only charge against him is desertion.”
Maxwell Cole’s mouth dropped open a foot. I think he had missed it the first time I called Pete Kelsey by his real name.
“What’s this?” he demanded. “What’s going on?”
“This man is a deserter,” I said, “from the United States Army. We’re holding him for them.”
“Wait just a minute,” Max objected. “Pete’s never even been in the Army in his life. This is crazy.”
“Let it go, Max,” Kelsey said tersely, his voice almost a low growl. “Stay out of this.”
“But…”
“I said let it go,” Kelsey repeated.
Rebuffed and hurt, Maxwell Cole ducked back as though he’d been slapped. Meanwhile, Kelsey/Madsen turned to me. “How’d you find out, Detective Beaumont? Fingerprints?”
“Does it matter?”
He gave a short, harsh snort and shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose it matters at all.”
He looked back at Max, who stood to one side wringing his hands helplessly. “There is something you can do
