Breach of Duty (9780061739637) (12 page)

“Any relation to Forrest Considine?” I asked, thinking of the man who had started one of the local Washington state banks—a bank that had long since been merged into oblivion with one of the large multistate conglomerates.

Hilda Smathers nodded. “Forrest. I'm pretty sure that's the father's name,” she said. “I think they started out originally in timber—both his family and Regina's—somewhere up around Stanwood. At any rate, Regina had money in her own right. Rumor had it that during Prohibition Forrest had some involvement in bootlegging. All I know is, by the end of the Depression when everybody else was flat broke, the Considines had plenty of money. That's when Forrest made his move into banking. From what Agnes told me, the two boys never wanted for anything except good sense, maybe.”

“And the Considines were the only people Agnes ever worked for?”

“As far as I know,” Hilda responded. “They treated her very well, too—almost like family. Still, she might have done work on the side for someone else that I never knew anything about.”

“Do you know where the Considines are now?” Sue was asking.

“The mother and one of the boys—Lucas, I believe—are both dead now,” Hilda answered. “The last I heard, Forrest was in a nursing home somewhere in Seattle or maybe Shoreline. I don't know anything at all about Freddy.”

We stayed a little while longer. When we finally got back in the Caprice, Sue leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. “I guess that answers at least one of your questions from yesterday,” she said.

“What question is that?”

“About why there weren't any services scheduled in the aftermath of Agnes Ferman's death. Nobody gave a damn about her one way or the other. Where to?”

“Sounds like time to visit the reservation.” Sue nodded.

Heading toward the casino, I thought about Sue's previous statement for some time. “That's not true,” I said finally.

“What's not true?”

“By actual count,” I said, “we've interviewed a total of four people so far. Three of those definitely fit in the ‘don't care' category, but I'm not so sure about number four.”

“Who's that?” Sue asked.

“Malcolm Lawrence,” I said. “Somehow, I picked up the impression that he actually liked the old bat.”

“Really?” Sue said. “It didn't seem that way to me, but then…”

Before she could finish that thought, the voice of one of the dispatch operators came over the radio. “Where are you?” he asked, when Sue responded.

“Everett,” she said. “We're up here interviewing a next of kin. We're on our way to the Tulalip Casino in an attempt to verify an alibi.”

“You'd better put that on the back burner for the time being. Sergeant Watkins has been looking all over for you.” Remembering the page, I checked the display. Sure enough, there was the number for Watty's extension.

“Put me through to him then,” Sue said impatiently.

“Sergeant Watkins,” she said a few seconds later. “This is Detective Danielson. Dispatch said you wanted us. What's up?”

“Is Beaumont with you?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Kramer's looking for him with blood in his eye. Maxwell Cole called 911 about nine o'clock this morning to report his car was missing from the parking lot at the Hurricane Cafe. Somebody located it about an hour ago now sunk off the end of a public boat ramp down in Renton with a body inside it. Max told the detectives that all he knows is that J.P. Beaumont left a message on his machine late last night telling him that his car was in the restaurant parking lot. Do you know anything about this, Detective Beaumont?”

The words “dead body” and “Hurricane Cafe” left a clutch in my gut. Mr. Greenjeans! I had gone there with Darla Cunningham's warning and had left without ever delivering the message. Any warning issued now would be too late.

In true partnerships just as in true marriages, there comes a time when words become unnecessary. I'm sure Sue took one look at my face and knew what I was thinking.

“Do we have a description on that Lake Washington victim?” she asked into the mike.

“Midtwenties. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Hundred and sixty pounds. ID found with the victim gives his name as Anthony Lawson. The people at the Hurricane Cafe have confirmed that they have a busboy by that name, but it's still too early for a positive ID.”

Relief washed over me. At least the dead man wasn't Jimmy Greenjeans.

“Now, where are you two again?” Watty continued. “And how soon can you be back here at the department?”

“We're just coming up on the freeway in Marysville,” Sue replied. “We'll be back as soon as traffic will allow. Half an hour if we're really lucky.” With that, she put the mike back in its holder. “For the time being,” she added, “it looks as though that trip to the Tulalip is on hold.”

T
he rest of the way back in to Seattle, I told Sue everything I could remember about my visit to the Hurricane Cafe the night before, including my running into Maxwell Cole and the fact that I had threatened to turn him loose on Newsome and Atkins.

“That would have served them right,” Sue observed.

It was while we were talking though, that I remembered one almost-forgotten detail, something Jimmy Greenjeans had said when I first got there. “He said he didn't want Newsome and Atkins seeing me talk to him or to Tony. He seemed really worried about it. What was the name of that victim again?”

Sue checked her notebook. “Anthony Lawson. Why?”

“See there?” I said. “Tony/Anthony. It could be the same person Jimmy Greenjeans was talking about. If it is, this may be related to the Seward Park case after all.”

“Maybe,” she said finally, “but who do you suppose you're going to have to walk that theory by? None other than Paul Kramer. Something tells me he isn't going to have any more faith in medicine men than I do.”

“You're right,” I agreed, after a moment's reflection. “It could be a pretty hard sell.”

“That's okay,” Sue said brightly. “You should be used to it. After all, you used to be a Fuller Brush salesman.”

“A long time ago,” I said.

When we arrived back at the Public Safety Building, Sue headed straight to our cubicle to see what she could do about finding Agnes Ferman's former employers while I went to see Paul Kramer. Despite Sue's warning, I told him pretty much the whole story, including my concern that if Anthony Lawson was actually Jimmy Greenjeans' “Tony,” then the dead guy in Lake Washington might very well have some connection to the ghouls of Seward Park. In addition, I tried to convince Kramer that if “Tony” had been in danger from Newsome and Atkins, so might Jimmy Greenjeans. Kramer wasn't buying.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, when I finished. Regarding me with a sardonic, superior smile, he was leaning so far back in Larry Powell's old leather chair that he was almost horizontal. I couldn't help wishing he'd fall over and land on his head.

“According to what the Renton detectives are telling me, if the guy in the Volvo hadn't drowned, the only other danger he was in was the possibility of dying of cirrhosis of the liver. There must have been a dozen empty booze bottles floating in the car right along with him.”

I thought about the condition Maxwell Cole had been in the night before. I had a strong suspicion as to who owned those empty booze bottles, but Kramer was on a roll and there wasn't any point in interrupting him.

“That's the assumption the Renton police are going on at the moment. Lawson was driving drunk and mistook the boat ramp for a freeway ramp or even a ferry dock ramp. It happens, you know. They'll be checking blood-alcohol and all that jazz.”

“They're not treating it as a homicide?”

“Beaumont, would you just can it?” Kramer returned impatiently. “Listen to yourself for a minute. Instead of going for the obvious—the drunk-driving scenario—you want me to call the chief down in Renton and try to convince him, solely on your sayso, that Anthony Lawson died as a result of some kind of mystical medicine-man bullshit? Are you looney or what?”

He paused, but not long enough for me to say anything.

“And all this is based on the fact that some broad whose father is a medicine…Wait, excuse me—a shaman—claims that the bones we found in Seward Park last week actually belong to some long-dead pal of his from over on the peninsula? Give me a break. For all we know, the two Indians got in some kind of a brawl, the one guy—Leaping Deer—killed the other one and now he's trying to get the bones back in the ground in a hurry so we won't take the time to investigate. What a deal! He kills somebody and then hides behind the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act.”

“The what?”

“NAGPRA for short, Beaumont. I'll bet you didn't think I knew anything about this, but I do. As soon as I heard about the Seward Park bones, I started doing my homework because I was afraid something like this would happen. That we'd have a whole bunch of Indian activists parading up and down the streets and causing trouble. That's why I got this promotion. Because I see things other people miss. But I got to tell you, I didn't expect one of my detectives to be the one raising the issue. That's one I didn't see coming, and I'm disappointed. Really disappointed.”

I was no stranger to the Fishbowl's traditional hot seat. Over the years and due mainly to my unfailing knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I'd ended up being grilled there time and again. The only difference between this session and the others was that previous coming-to-God sessions had been administered by Lawrence Powell. Larry had somehow perfected the art of telling his detectives exactly how wrongheaded they were without necessarily making them feel like dog turds. That was one facet of the captain's job I doubted Paul Kramer would ever master.

“So,” I concluded, “your position is that no one is to mention to the Renton officers that their case might actually be connected to the other one.”

“That's right,” Kramer replied. “It's not necessary.”

“But…”

“No buts!” Kramer bellowed, slamming his fist on the desk. “End of discussion, Beaumont. Do you hear me? I know exactly what the hell you're up to, and by God it's not going to work!”

His explosion of anger came so quickly that it surprised me, but I was packing around a little pent-up anger of my own.

“What
I'm
up to?” I demanded in return. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You can talk about medicine men and little green-haired men until you're blue in the face, Detective Beaumont, but I'm here to tell you, Paul Kramer wasn't born yesterday.” He took a breath and attempted to haul his temper back under control. Templing his fingers under his chin, he continued in a somewhat calmer voice.

“I'm not falling for this, you see. I'm not buying into this phony baloney that you actually believe any of this medicine man bullshit. I can spot a sucker punch a mile away.”

“Sucker punch?” I returned. “What do you mean?”

“Can the innocence. I'm not falling for that, either. It's a perfect setup. For one thing, with two jurisdictions involved, it's a surefire way to turn me into an interdepartmental laughingstock. Pulling a stunt like this in the relative privacy of the squad room wouldn't be good enough. You want to spread it around, don't you? First day on the job and you drag me into a mess that sounds like it's straight off the psychic network. And who comes out looking like a bozo? Me.”

“You think that's what this is all about? That it's some kind of hazing?”

“That's right, hazing. You and your pal Maxwell Cole probably cut your teeth on this kind of thing back in the old days when you were fraternity rats together. Let me remind you, though, this isn't a college campus, Detective Beaumont. This is the real world where reputations and jobs are on the line. That said, I'm pulling you off the case as of right now.”

“You're what?”

“Pulling you off the Seward Park case. Both you and Danielson.”

“You can't do that.”

“The hell I can't. I've had enough of your fruitcake notions, Beaumont. I believe I'll turn it over to a couple of real detectives—Wayne Haller and Sam Nguyen, for example. That way you and Sue can concentrate on that North-End arson case that's already a week old and isn't going anywhere at all as far as I can tell.”

It would have been easy to blow up at him. God knows I wanted to, but I was concerned that other lives might be at stake in addition to Anthony Lawson's. “We're working on it,” I said doggedly. “In fact, we were on our way to interview someone when you called.”

“I suggest you get back to it then, ASAP.”

I've never been any good at playing the role of sweet reason, but I gave it one more try. “Look, Kramer,” I said, “obviously something isn't getting through here. Let's say, for argument's sake, that Anthony Lawson really was murdered. When I talked to Jimmy Greenjeans at the Hurricane Cafe last night, he was scared to be seen talking to me. If Atkins and Newsome targeted Lawson, what are the chances that Jimmy Greenjeans is also in danger?”

“Zero,” Kramer replied. “But speaking of Newsome and Atkins reminds me. We've gone so far afield that I almost forgot the reason I called you in here in the first place. I've had a call from a guy named Troy Cochran. You know him?”

“Not personally. I've heard the name.”

“He's an attorney who represents Mr. Atkins and Mr. Newsome. He says his clients are considering filing a police harassment charge against you. He also mentioned that if anything derogatory about them appears in print, they'll be looking into filing a libel suit against you. Which brings me back to your friend, Mr. Cole.”

“What about him?”

“Until the dust settles around here, there's to be no further fraternizing between you and the press.”

“Fraternizing? With Max? Kramer, you've got to be kidding. All I did was give a poor drunk a ride home. Kept him off the streets. Probably kept him from running down some innocent pedestrian.”

“The report I read said you were out barhopping with Maxwell Cole…”

“We were in one bar. The Hurricane Cafe.”

“Boozing it up.”

“Drinking
lattes.”

“If all Cole was drinking was
lattes
, how come he forgot where he left his car?”

I didn't bother answering. Kramer's mind was made up. No amount of factual information was going to change it. Instead, I sat back in my chair and tried to let his diatribe roll off me.

“The point is, Detective Beaumont, regardless of what you personally were drinking, you were drinking it with
him,
with a guy who happens to be a reporter. Furthermore, you know chumminess with members of the media is officially frowned on by the folks upstairs even when no bodies show up in said reporter's parked car. Can't you see how all this is going to play in the
P.-I.
tomorrow morning?”

So much for good intentions. So much for staying calm in the eye of the storm. “I'll tell you what, Mr. Kramer,” I snapped back at him. “I, for one, don't give a flying fig how any of this plays in the morning paper. Worrying about what the media will and will not do isn't my job. My responsibility is solving homicides with whatever help happens to be available.”

Kramer's no dummy. I'm sure he didn't miss the snide reference to Henry Leaping Deer, but he ignored the jibe. “Like I said earlier, the Ferman homicide, the one you're currently supposed to be solving, isn't going away. Now that you and Danielson will be able to focus totally on that one, maybe you'll actually make some progress.”

“Right,” I said sarcastically, standing up. “Is that all?”

“For the time being, but remember—when you hand off your Seward Park files to Haller and Nguyen, there'd better not be a word said about medicine men. You got that?”

“I've got it, all right!”

With that, I stormed out of his office. Watty, seated at his desk just outside the open door, raised a single eyebrow as I flew past. He seemed more amused than sympathetic, and that pissed me off that much more.

Out in the hallway I paused long enough to lower my blood pressure by counting to ten. Once in control, I could have taken a direct route back to the cubicle. Instead, I took a long, thoughtful detour through the rest room on the way. I needed time to get over Kramer's pompous, self-serving reprimand. I also needed time to think out a course of action.

I had no quarrel with Wayne Haller and Sam Nguyen. Without a doubt, they're both good cops. I was certain that, if the links between Anthony Lawson and ghouls existed, Haller and Nguyen would ferret them out eventually. The only question in my mind was how long would it take, especially if Lawson's death was being handled as a routine traffic death? Kramer assumed that the call from Cochran would warn me off when, in fact, it was more like waving a red flag.

By the time I finished washing my hands, I'd made up my mind. Darla Cunningham had brought me her father's warning in good faith and with some degree of risk to her own reputation as a physics professor at the university. She must have worried about whether or not I would listen or simply laugh her out of my office. The fact that I paid attention had far more to do with the way my mother raised me than it did with a natural proclivity toward things mystical.

To say my mother came from an intolerant background is understating the case. Seventeen years old, pregnant, and unmarried, she might have chosen what must have seemed like the line of least resistance and put me up for adoption. Instead, she had insisted on keeping me and raising me on her own, thereby setting the stage for a lifelong estrangement from her hard-nosed Bible-thumping father.

Even as a child, I remember being puzzled by the fact that she never had anything bad to say about her parents. “They have their beliefs and I have mine,” she told me. “I have to respect that.” Her tolerance of her parents had translated into tolerance for others as well, for people of other races, customs, and religions. The lessons my mother taught me had served me well once I left behind the de facto segregation of my old white-bread Ballard neighborhood, and I had no doubt they had come into play once more when I found Darla Cunningham asleep in my office.

Kramer was welcome to his opinion. He could call Henry Leaping Deer's warning crap if he wanted to. I, on the other hand, found it impossible to dismiss. Those Native American beliefs might differ from my own, but they came with an obligation of respect and also one of action. I had left the Hurricane Cafe the night before without fulfilling my charge, without passing along the warning that should have gone to Jimmy Greenjeans. If the green-haired bartender was still alive, then I had another chance. I may have been pulled off the case, but Paul Kramer be damned, I wasn't going to blow it a second time.