Injustice for All (18 page)

“Do you want to go to the house?” I asked.

“Would you come along?” he countered.

He needed an ally, and I was it. “Why not?” I said, rising. “Between the two of us, we should be able to handle that bunch.”

We took a cab to’the motel where Tom was staying, then we drove to Darrell Watkins’

Capitol Hill mansion in a GMC pickup with “Tom’s Union 76” emblazoned on the door.

Chapter 23

THE Watkins mansion sits atop Capitol Hill with a spectacular view of downtown Seattle and Puget Sound. At the base of the hill, Interstate 5 bisects the city. As we rounded the circular driveway and drove past a gurgling fountain, I could imagine Homer and Darrell sipping cocktails and watching the freeway turn to a parking lot each evening as commuters tried to go home.

“Who lives here?” I asked.

“Homer used to,” Tom said, “but now he’s moved into a condominium. ” “This is where Ginger lived, then?”

“For about a year,” Tom answered.

The mansion itself was a spacious white colonial, set in a manicured, parklike setting.

By the time we arrived, the drive was already teeming with a variety of trendy late-model vehicles. Ginger had described the last few years as a struggle for financial survival.

That was why she had gone to work for the parole board. These surroundings gave no hint of encroaching poverty. “They bought this from Homer Tom shrugged. “Ginger never talked to me about their private affairs. They used to live over there someplace.” He gestured down the back of Capitol Hill. “Nice enough place, if you didn’t need to find it in the dark.” We rang the bell, setting off a multinote chime. A uniformed maid opened the door. “Yes,” she said in a truculent manner designed to frighten off gate-crashers.

“Tom Larder. “

“Oh, yes, Mr. Lander.” She stepped back, opening the door in welcome. “You’re expected.”

We entered a foyer with an intricate parquet floor and a magnificent chandelier that hung from a vaulted ceiling far above us. Polished mahogany handrails lined a circular staircase. From behind a closed door to our left came a murmur of voices. “This way, please,” the maid told us. As the door opened, we heard a small burst of laughter from a group of people gathered near a fireplace at the opposite end of an enormous room. To one side an arched doorway led into the dining room where a lavish buffet supper lay spread across a gleaming tabletop. A scatter of twentyfive or thirty fashionably attired people chatted amiably over drinks and hors d’oeuvres. It would have made a wonderful cocktail party. Any relation to a funeral was purely coincidental.

Our host was nowhere in sight, but Homer broke away from the congenial group and came to meet us, a careful smile displayed on his face. “I’m glad you decided to come, Tom. You too, Mr. Beaumont. Care for a drink?” “I’ll have a beer,” Tom said.

“McNaughton’s and water,” I answered. Homer nodded to the maid, and she disappeared.

Gravely solicitous, Homer guided Tom toward the fireplace. I trailed behind. “Let me introduce you to some of the folks, Tom. There wasn’t enough time at the church.”

Several of the names were preceded by “Representative” or “Senator.” Clearly this was more a gathering of Darrell’s peers than it was one of Ginger’s friends. I tried keeping track of names, attempting to remember only those I hadn’t already gleaned from the guest book. Senator George Bent’ and Representative Dean Rhodes. Ray Johnson always told me that the secret to remembering names was creating colorful word pictures using the names. I had seen him do it for years. I made a stab at it.

Rhodes and Berry. I imagined several roads and saw them intersecting at one giant strawberry. Representative Doris Winters. I covered the strawberry with a giant load of winter snow. Berry, Rhodes, Winters. So far, so good. Representative Larry Vukevich. Shit. Vukevich!

Race car driver. Okay. Vukevich racing past the berry. Senator Toshiro Kobayashi.

I gave up.

The maid handed me my McNaughton’s. I wandered away from the introductions to a chair beside a leaded-glass window. I needed Peters. He’d know all those people. The room was stifling. I belted that drink and ordered another when the maid walked past again.

The door at the end of the room opened, letting in a welcome rush of cool air. Darrell Watkins-accompanied by a handsome, smiling young brunette-entered the room. Tom’s back was to the door. Homer, facing both Darrell and Tom, gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head over Tom’s shoulder. Darrell caught the warning and spoke quietly to the woman, who melted smoothly into the crowd.

So this was the tender blossom, the competition Ginger had talked about, already marking her territory and claiming her prize. I downed my second McNaughton’s and sauntered over to where the brunette had settled on a green velvet love seat. She crossed her legs, revealing a rather lengthy stretch of shapely thigh.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked.

She smiled up at me. “Sure. Vodka tonic.”

I found the maid and placed the order. “It’s for the young woman over there, I forget her name.”

“Miss Lacy,” the maid supplied helpfully.

“I’ll have another McNaughton’s,” I said, returning my glass. Casually I meandered back to the sweet young thing on the love seat. “My name’s Beau,” I said. “You’re Miss Lacy?”

“Darlene,” she replied, smiling.

“Glad to meet you, Darlene. Mind if I sit down?” “No.” She moved to make room, demurely covering some of the visible thigh. “Are you a lobbyist?” she asked.

“No, I’m a friend of Ginger’s”

“Oh,” she said, a trifle too quickly.

I don’t believe any of Ginger’s friends had been expected. “It’s too bad about Ginger,”

Darlene continued. “I didn’t know her personally, but everyone says she was a very nice person. ” “She was,” I replied.

The maid brought the drinks. Darlene sipped hers, eyes holding mine over the top of her glass.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“I’ll go to Olympia in January. I’ll be on staff, either with the lieutenant governor’s office or the senate. It doesn’t matter to me.” She laughed. “A job’s a job.”

Homer caught sight of us sitting together and hastened toward the love seat. “Mr. Beaumont, I didn’t mean to ignore you. Would you care for a sandwich, deviled eggs, salad?”

“No, thanks. I was just chatting with Miss Lacy here. She was telling me about her new job. Sounds like a good deal to me.” I managed a hollow grin, hoping it adequately expressed my feelings on the subject. “Have you met Darrell?” Homer asked.

“No,” I replied. “Haven’t had the pleasure.” I took another belt of McNaughton’s-for luck, maybe. Or maybe because the room was uncommonly hot and I was very thirsty.

I set my empty glass on a polished table and followed Homer to where Darrell was waxing eloquent with the lady from my memory word picture. Snow, I decided fuzzily.

That was her name. Homer caught Dan-ell’s attention. “Darrell, this is Mr. Beaumont.

It was his-“

Darrell turned toward me, his smile turning sallow. “Oh yes, Mr. Beaumont. I hope your Porsche isn’t ruined.”

“No. It’ll be fine. It takes time. I wanted to express my condolences,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, his face assuming the grieved air that had offended me at the funeral. “So nice of you to stop by.” I resisted the temptation to smack that phony look right off his face. Homer steered Representative Snow away from us, leaving Darrell and me together. Darrell signaled the maid for two more drinks. “It’s scary,”

he said, turning back to me. “First Sig, then Ginger, now Mona.”

I was sure he knew all about Don Wilson. Considering the family’s close ties to the governor’s office, that was hardly surprising. “I hope to God they catch that guy before he gets anyone else,” Watkins continued.

“Me too,” I said. “We usually do, sooner or later.”

He gave me an appraising look. “We? Is Seattle P.D. involved too?” he asked.

“No, not officially. I’m here because Ginger and I were friends.” The maid broke in to deliver drinks. My series of McNaughton’s had come in rapid enough succession that I was getting a little buzz.

“I don’t recall her mentioning your name.” It did my heart good to note the subtle shift in Darrell’s manner, a wariness. I was something he didn’t expect. How about that! Maybe Ginger had some secrets too, asshole. How d’you like them apples? The thoughts bubbled unspoken through my new glass of McNaughton’s.

“You can’t tell about women,” I said jokingly. “Ginger and I go back a long way.

We ran into each other up at Orcas by accident; but then, life is full of little surprises, right?”

“Right,” he replied lamely.

The door opened, and a new trio of people entered. Darrell excused himself to greet them. The room had grown more crowded. There were far more people sipping drinks than had been at the chapel earlier. The coffee, the McNaughton’s, and the water asserted themselves. Searching for a restroom, I wandered into the kitchen, slipping through the swinging door when a maid carried a new tray of deviled eggs into the dining room. The kitchen, massive and polished, was a combination of old and new.

An ancient walk-in refrigerator covered one wall while, on the other side of the room, a long commercial dishwasher steamed under the hand of a heavyset woman rinsing a tray of plates. On a third wall sat a huge eight-burner range, while the middle of the room held a sleek stainless steel worktable laden with food. The woman looked up from the dishwasher and saw me at the doorway. “Can I help you?” she demanded.

“I’m looking for a restroom.”

“No restrooms here,” she stated flatly. “Upstairs. On the right. ” Chastised, I zetreated the way I had come, threading my way through the chatting guests to the foyer and up the stairs. A dizzying trip up the circular stairway convinced me I had had too much to drink. The first likely-looking door I found was locked. I tried the next floor. Bingo. I had already flushed and was splashing my face with cool water in an effort to sober up when I heard voices in the hall outside. I’m sure it never occurred to anyone that a guest might have ventured all the way upstairs in search of a restroom. I opened the door and stepped into the hall. “It looks great, Darrell,” a voice was saying from a room farther up the corridor. “The fact that it was private makes it that much better.”

“That’s what we pay you for, Sam.” I recognized Darrell Watkins’ voice. “That’s what a campaign manager is supposed to do.”

“Name familiarity’s way up, up five points over last week. That’s a tremendous change this late in the campaign. I’d say you have it in the bag.” “I’d better get back downstairs. Leave that paper up here when you go,” Dan-ell said. “We wouldn’t want Tom to stumble across it before he leaves.” I was standing outside the door when Darrell Watkins stepped into the hall. He almost ran over me.

“You son of a bitch!” I muttered.

“What are you doing up here?”

“Taking a leak,” I said.

“I think maybe you’d better go, Mr. Beaumont.”

“I’ll go when I’m good and ready, asshole.”

Another man appeared behind Darrell, a young blond man in casual clothes who looked as if he had just stepped out of a racquet club advertisement. Behind both of them stood the newly hired Darlene Lacy. “Who’s this, Darrell?” the other man asked. I answered. “The name’s Beaumont, Detective J. P. Beaumont, Seattle P.D.” I was riding a boozy wave of moral indignation. “So you ran a poll, did you?” I sneered. “Figured the voters would like it better if you made it look quiet and dignified. That’s how Ginger said you’d handle the divorce, too.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yes you do. You got the newspapers to bury the story, but Ginger was filing on Monday morning.”

“Shut up,” Darrell said.

“I won’t shut up. How much does it cost to buy the press?” “You’re drunk, Mr. Beaumont.

You’d better leave.”

“I’m more pissed than I am drunk.”

“Get out,” he snarled. He moved toward me, reaching out to put a hand on my shoulder.

“Get your hands off me!” I flung him away. What happened next was in slow motion.

I reached for him, wanting to grab him by the shoulders and shake his teeth out.

Instead, I lost my balance and slipped, shoving him backward toward the stairs. He fell, catching his face on the heavy mahogany ball at the top of the handrail. When he straightened, blood spurted from his nose. “I said get out!”

“I’m going.”

“What’s happening up there?” Homer called from below. Darrell held a hanky to his nose. “Nothing,” he replied. “Mr. Beaumont here has had one too many.”

I charged down the stairs, shoving my way past Homer in the foyer. The air outside the house was sharp and cold, with a stiff breeze blowing off the water. It cleared the smoke-laden air from my lungs and cut through the haze of McNaughton’s in my head, enough so I was shocked by what I had done. Taking a drunken swing at Darrell Watkins would add credence to the J. P. Beaumont legend-the hotheaded, killer-cop myth promoted by Maxwell Cole and his cohorts.

I took a deep breath of the biting, cold air. “You’re not doing a whole hell of a lot to live it down,” I told myself aloud. A horn honked beside me, startling me out of my reverie. Tom Lander’s GMC pulled up beside me. Tom leaned over and rolled down the window. “Get in,” he ordered.

I did.

“What happened back there?” he asked, putting the pickup in gear. “I had to get the hell out of there. They were driving me crazy. ” “Me too,” he said, accepting what I said at face value. “Where to?” I directed him to my building at Third and Lenora.

I didn’t invite him up. I was sure he’d be reading all about it in the morning edition, and I didn’t feel like doing any explanations beforehand.

“Thanks for coming along,” Tom said as I opened the door to get out. “I’m glad at least one of Ginger’s friends was there.”

Nodding in agreement, I climbed out onto the sidewalk, then I reached back into the truck to shake his hand. “Your daughter was a very special lady, Tom. I’m sorry she’s gone.”

“Thanks,” he said. He drove away without further comment. Words are never enough in a situation like that. Actions were what was needed. I turned and walked into the lobby of the Royal Crest. By then I was stone-cold sober.