Improbable Cause (8 page)

That’s what we did. With the laundry bag safely stowed in our car, we went back to the steaming billboard and prowled around under it. There were six cars parked there in all, but no red VW bug.

“This must be the Damm Fine Carpets employee parking lot,” Al observed.

We scrambled around in the hot dusty gravel for ten or fifteen minutes, but found nothing that seemed out of place, nothing that appeared to have anything to do with Dr. Frederick Nielsen’s murder.

“Do you think Nielsen’s wife set him up?” Al asked finally as we abandoned our search of the parking lot.

“Could be,” I said, “but how?”

“Let’s go back inside and ask around.”

So we walked back in the front door of Damm Fine Carpets. The same eager salesman started toward us but quickly backed off when he recognized us. We went straight to Cindy at the counter.

“Can you tell us who Dr. Frederick Nielsen ordered his carpet from?” I asked.

“I guess,” she said. “Do you know the invoice number?”

“No. It was supposed to be installed on Saturday.”

She hefted a huge three-ring binder from a shelf under the counter and leafed through several dozen pages of yellow carbon copies. She had to lean over the counter to read what was written on the papers.

“Here it is,” she said at last, pointing with one of her crimson talons. “It was a special phone-in order. Mr. Damm took it himself.”

“I see,” I said. “One more thing. Can you tell us anything at all about Larry Martin. Did he have a girl friend, that you know of?”

Cindy shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that,” she said.

“Maybe we’d better go talk to Damm about the order,” Al suggested.

“Oh no,” Cindy objected. “Not right now. He’s in conference. He’s not to be disturbed.”

“Have him call us when he’s done,” I said, scribbling my home phone number on one of my cards and handing it to her. “We need to ask him a few more questions.”

We left then. Big Al Lindstrom was fuming by the time we got to the car.

“Conference my ass!” he exclaimed. “That SOB’s probably sitting in there watching dirty movies and jacking off.”

“It’s no skin off our teeth,” I reminded him. “It isn’t illegal you know. They now have definite clinical proof that masturbation doesn’t cause blindness.”

Al glowered at me as if my sense of humor was wearing thin on his straitlaced, Scandinavian sensibilities.

“Isn’t it almost time to go home?” he asked plaintively.

“Almost,” I told him. “Just as soon as we get a line on LeAnn Nielsen.”

We stopped by the crime lab to drop off our bag of bloody towels. Janice Morraine took it from me, glanced inside, then closed it back up.

“Thanks,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the smell. “Where’d this come from, a dry cleaners?”

“A Damm Fine Carpets van,” I replied.

“You don’t need to get pissed off about it, Beau.”

People in the crime lab tend to be somewhat defensive at times. “I’m not pissed,” I explained. “It’s Damm Fine Carpets. D-A-M-M. The owner’s name is Richard Damm. It’s part of the Nielsen case.”

“Oh,” she said.

I filled out the lab request and handed it to her. Jan signed the bottom of the form.

“What are we looking for?” she asked.

“Blood,” I answered. “Can you type blood even if it’s been diluted with cleaning solution?”

“That depends,” she said.

“See if it matches up with what came in on that carpet kicker from the crime scene on Second Avenue, will you?”

She nodded. “Knowing you, I suppose you want it yesterday, right?”

“You got it.”

Al and I walked up the three flights of stairs between the crime lab and the fifth floor. There, in our cubicle, he took charge of the paperwork while I got on the horn to Sergeant Bob Daniels at the Community Services Section over at Eighteenth and Yesler.

Daniels is the commander of the twenty or so community service officers, that strange branch of Seattle P.D. that’s neither fish nor fowl. Daniels told us we’d need to come to talk to the nighttime supervisor of the CSOs.

The concept of CSOs is fairly new on the scene. They’ve only been around for the last few years, and I’m one of the die-hard old-timers who resisted the idea tooth and nail when they first talked about instituting it. In my book, cops are cops and social workers are social workers and never the twain shall meet.

But CSOs turn out to be a little of both without quite being either. They aren’t sworn police officers. According to the procedures manual, they’re supposed to relieve street cops of a lot of the landlord disputes, juvenile runaways, utility turnoff problems, domestic violence, and other noncriminal crap that eat up law enforcement time without taking any hardened criminals—routine killers, drug dealers, and other professional bad guys—off the streets.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that domestic violence isn’t a crime. And I’m not implying that there’s that much more of it now than there used to be. Like child abuse, it’s finally being reported more these days. And DV cases take time, lots of it.

As the number of reported incidents increases, some of the old domestic violence myths are gradually biting the dust. DV doesn’t happen only in blue-collar families on payday Saturday nights. Rachel Miller hadn’t said as much in so many words, and Debi Rush had flat-out denied it, but I suspected LeAnn and Frederick Nielsen’s big gracious house on Green Lake had been the setting of some ugly scenes most people prefer to relegate to the wrong side of the tracks.

But to get back to the community service officers. They are called to reported cases of domestic violence, the ones where someone— usually a woman—has had the crap beaten out of her. The CSOs take over where street cops leave off. Once the initial police report has been taken, they provide moral support for the victims, as well as transportation to a local safe house.

I was vaguely aware that safe houses existed, in Seattle, three of them by actual count, but this was my first experience at trying to find someone who was staying in one. I was surprised to find myself running smack into a brick wall, a petite red-haired brick wall whose name was Marilyn McDougal.

There are always rumors downtown of street cops and detectives running afoul of the CSOs, but this was the first time I had tangled with one. It turned out that all those rumors were fact, not fiction.

If I had seen Marilyn McDougal on the street, I might have thought her cute, but I’d hate to think what would have happened to anyone dumb enough to call her that to her face. They wouldn’t do it twice, that’s for damn sure. She was like a little bull terrier, all growl and teeth and determined as hell.

She sat there, dwarfed by the bulk of her regulation-sized desk. Her brown, lightweight summer uniform was open at the collar. With horn-rimmed glasses pushed up into curly red hair like some offbeat crown, she regarded me with a kind of regal disdain.

“Of course we don’t give out that information,” she said archly in answer to my question about the location of the various shelters in Seattle.

“What do you mean you don’t give it out?” I demanded. “Not even to fellow cops? Aren’t we playing on the same team?”

She smiled a chilly smile. “Let me remind you that we’re not all cops, Detective Beaumont. There happen to be a few cops who beat their wives, too, you know,” she added.

“I’m not one of them,” I snapped back. “I’m not even married.”

Unruffled, Marilyn McDougal looked meaningfully from me to the wide gold band on Big Al Lindstrom’s ring finger. “He is,” she said, “but it doesn’t matter if you are or aren’t. We don’t divulge the shelters’ locations to anyone. That’s a closely guarded secret. Besides,” she added, “you haven’t said why you want to know.”

No, I hadn’t said why, deliberately hadn’t said why, and wasn’t going to if I could help it. After all, if Marilyn McDougal was reluctant to talk to us then, how much more reluctant would she be once she knew we were working a homicide investigation, once she figured out that one of her little safe-house chicks, LeAnn Nielsen, was a prime suspect.

“But CSOs do deliver the women to these safe houses, don’t they? Isn’t that your job?” Al tried attacking the problem from the flank.

Unperturbed, Marilyn McDougal nodded. “Right. About eighty percent of the time we’re the ones who take them. But not directly.”

“What does that mean? Either you do or you don’t.”

Marilyn McDougal shook her head impatiently. “Look,” she said. “The women who work in these shelters put their lives on the line every single day. They’re not cops. They don’t carry weapons. The husbands are frantic to find their wives, want to get them back no matter what. The CSOs take the women to a drop point, some public place near the shelter. One of the shelter workers meets them there, picks the woman up, and takes her the rest of the way.”

I could hardly fault the cloak-and-dagger mentality. After all, we were investigating a homicide. Frederick Nielsen was dead and his abused wife was under suspicion.

“So how would we go about getting in touch with someone in one of the shelters? What would you suggest?”

Marilyn shrugged. “You could call and leave a message. They won’t tell you whether or not she’s there, but they’ll post a message on the bulletin board. She can call you back or not. The choice is up to her.”

“What do you suppose the chances are that she’d actually return the call?”

“Not very good.”

“That’s about what I figured.” The brick wall wasn’t giving an inch. I got up to leave. “Come on, Al, let’s get going. We’re wasting time.”

Al eased his bulky frame out of the chair while Marilyn McDougal leaned back in hers, a sharpened yellow pencil balanced deftly between two opposing index fingers. She regarded me seriously over the top of the pencil.

“Are you going to stop playing games and tell me what this is all about, Detective Beaumont?”

The brick wall won. I sat back down. So did Big Al.

“It’s a homicide,” I said. If sneaking around hadn’t worked with Marilyn McDougal, maybe honesty was the best policy after all. It couldn’t hurt to try.

“I figured as much. Whose?” she asked.

“A man by the name of Nielsen—Dr. Frederick Nielsen. He’s a dentist with a house on Green Lake and a swish office up in the Denny Regrade.”

“And the woman?”

“LeAnn Nielsen, his wife.”

“Why are you trying to find her—notification of next of kin or is she a suspect?”

“Both,” I said simply.

Marilyn dropped the pencil onto her desk, got up, and walked to the door of her office. “Wait right here,” she said. It was an order, not an invitation.

“Now what?” Al asked.

“Beats me,” I replied. I’ve long since given up trying to understand how women think. It’s too complicated. Besides, Marilyn McDougal was in a league by herself. She came back a few minutes later. “I checked our records. We didn’t transport her,” she announced firmly. “Which means, if she’s actually there, that she checked in on her own. What makes you think she is?”

“The husband’s secretary told us. So did his aunt.”

“I see. Are there children?”

“Two. A boy and a girl as I understand it. Seven and eight.”

“When did this happen?”

“Saturday. The body wasn’t found until this morning. We’re worried someone will slip the name to the media before we have a chance to notify the wife.”

“If she didn’t do it,” Marilyn added.

“That’s right.”

She sat back down at her desk. “It happens over and over. We see it all the time. They stay too long, until they feel totally trapped and can’t see any other way to break the cycle. They end up trying to fight fire with fire and somebody gets hurt or killed.”

She didn’t seem to be talking to us. With a sudden, decisive movement, she spun the Rolodex on her desk, picked up the discarded pencil, and jotted a series of names and telephone numbers onto a piece of paper. When she finished, she handed the paper to me.

“Those are the numbers of each of the three shelters. The women on that list are the executive directors. When you call them, tell them I gave you their names. I don’t know exactly what the reaction will be, but I expect they’ll want to be sure the wife is properly notified so the family isn’t traumatized more than they already are.”

“What made you change you mind?” I asked.

Marilyn shook her head again. “It’s got to stop,” she said. “The violence must stop somewhere. Killing the sons of bitches isn’t the answer.”

On that score, we were in total agreement.

“I’d try Phoenix House first,” Marilyn added. “The last one. It’s fairly new. It has better facilities for women with children.”

“Thanks.” I told her. “We’ll do that.”

Once outside the door I noticed Al was shaking his head. “We may do it all right,” he said, “but not today. It’s past quitting time. We’re having company for dinner. Molly’ll have my ears if I get home much later than this. I’m already in deep shit.”

We drove back to the Public Safety Building. Al took off from the parking garage without bothering to come upstairs. I was in no particular rush to get home, however, so I stopped by our cubicle long enough to try calling the three numbers Marilyn McDougal had given us. Shelter directors must keep bankers hours because at ten to five not one of the three was in her office. I left messages with my name and both telephone numbers and headed home.

A man’s home is his castle, right? It’s supposed to be a haven of tranquility where he can recover from the slings and arrows that the world and his job throw at him, right? And since I live in the penthouse of one of Seattle“s newest condominiums, it should have been true. But when I got off the elevator and saw the two distinct puddles dripped on the carpet outside my front door, I knew there was trouble afoot.

Ron Peters, my partner until March when he was badly injured, was still confined to the rehabilitation floor at Harborview Hospital. His dippy ex-wife had disappeared into thin air while on a religious mission to South America. As far as his kids were concerned, that left things pretty much up to me.

I had moved Peters’ two young daughters, Heather and Tracie, as well as their live-in baby-sitter, Mrs. Edwards, into a vacant unit several floors below mine. It was a hell of a lot easier for me to pay the extra rent than it was to run back and forth across Lake Washington to their house in Kirkland. Mrs. Edwards is by and large a fine baby-sitter, but during Mrs. Edwards’ occasional naps, the girls tend to get into mischief.