Injustice for All (19 page)

Chapter 24

FRIDAY morning. My last day of vacation, and I was hung over as hell. It seemed like all I had done was drink and go to funerals, a regular busman’s holiday. I called Ames to invite him to breakfast. Reluctantly, he agreed. “I’m very busy, you know,”

he said crossly as we picked up our menus. “I’m working on the condominium thing, and I’m still negotiating with New Dawn. What do you want?”

“Well,” I parried, “as my attorney I thought you ought to know I was in a mild altercation with a Washington State senator last night. Bloodied his nose, probably blacked his eyes c. Accidentally,” I added. Ames put down his menu. “This is a joke, right?”

“Wrong. No joke.”

“Maybe you’d better tell me about it.”

For an answer, I handed him a copy of a newspaper. Ames read silently: “In a private funeral ceremony attended only by family and close friends, State Senator Darrell Watkins said a tearful farewell to his wife Ginger yesterday afternoon.

“Mrs. Watkins, a member of the Washington State Parole Board, died in a one-vehicle accident on Orcas Island, Saturday, October 25. Her funeral services were delayed to allow fellow board members to travel to Welton for the funeral of another board member, Sig Larson, who was the victim of a homicide the previous day.

Initially thought to be the underdog against longtime incumbent, Lieutenant Governor Rod Chambers, Sen. Watkins has seen his political base increase even as he has faced personal tragedy. Public-opinion polls now show him running neck and neck with Lt. Governor Chambers. “A Watkins family spokesman said services for Mrs. Watkins were kept private to avoid a `sensationalizing press from taking advantage of an unfortunate situation.’

“Senator Watkins, in a terse statement issued late last night, said that he is canceling all campaign appearances for the remainder of the week.”

Ames looked up from the paper. “Don’t I remember reading that it was his wife’s wish that he continue with the campaign? When did you break his nose?” “Last night. After the funeral. I’ll bet he’s not a pretty sight this moming.”

“No wonder he canceled his public appearances.”

“That sorry son of a bitch deliberately staged a `private ceremony’ in order to gain the sympathy vote.” I relayed to Ames the conversation I had overhead.

“This the first you’ve been around politics?” Ames inquired dryly. “That’s how it works. Will he bring charges?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I called you.”

“Were there any reporters there at the time?” “You mean when he fell? Not that I know of.”

“I’m surprised they’re downplaying it like this. By all rights, you should be plastered all over the front page for the second time this week.” “Maybe I just got lucky,”

I suggested.

Ames shook his head. “I doubt it. They probably won’t go for criminal charges, but my guess is we’ll be hearing from their attorneys. They’ll sue for damages.”

“Wonderful,” I mumbled.

“Considering their financial situation, they’d be crazy not to.” “What do you mean?”

Just then the waitress brought our food and put it in front of Ames. He had taken a file folder out of his briefcase. He sighed, put the folder down, and picked up his fork. “You know which of the condominium projects aye in trouble, don’t you?”

“I wasn’t asking about that. You said it wouldn’t make sense for them not to sue me. “

“Beau, listen to me. I’m trying to explain. The two that are in trouble are Belltown Terrace and Waterview Place. Belltown Terrace is theirs. Scuttlebutt says the project will go on the auction block by the end of the year unless they pick up some new capital. They might go for a fat out-of-court settlement in order to pick up some quick cash.”

“Slow down. You’re talking about two different things.”

“I’m talking money.”

“Look, Ralph, if they’re going bankrupt, then I’d better not get involved. I didn’t realize they were almost to sheriff’s-sale time. ” Ames looked at me sadly and shook his head. “You haven’t been listening.” “Yes, I have. Why would I want to buy a unit from someone who’s about to go belly-up? More specifically, why would I want to buy in a building owned by someone who’s about to sue me?” Waiting for Ames’ answer, I chased a slippery chunk of egg across my plate with a piece of whole-wheat toast.

Peters had convinced me to give up white bread, not cholesterol. “A unit!” Ames exploded.

“Who’s talking about a unit? I’m talking about the building. You said you wanted to invest. It would be a great write-off. You rent the units for five to seven years; then go in, do some remodeling, and sell them. It’s a heck of a good deal.”

I put down my toast. I put down my fork. “You were supposed to be looking for a condominium for me to buy.”

“The penthouses in Belltown aren’t sold. You could live there, but in order to keep our noses clean with the IRS, you’d have to pay rent back to the corporation.”

“Ames, I can’t buy a whole building.”

“Well, not by yourself. I can get you in with a syndicate. I know of one in the market for just this kind of deal, five of you altogether. What do you think?”

I didn’t know what to think. I knew my inheritance was considerable, but I still hadn’t gotten a handle on the magnitude of it. I kept trying to get my arms around it.

“You do what you think is best,” I said to Ames. “You know a hell of a lot more about this stuff than I do, but -I can’t see myself doing business with Homer and Darrell Watkins, especially after last night.”

“Forget last night. We’ll be dealing with the bank, not Homer and Darrell. The FDIC

is ready to eat the bank alive if they don’t get out from under this loan. Want to go over the financial papers?”

I shook my head. “That’s your job.”

Ames patted his mouth with his napkin and returned the file folder to his briefcase.

“Very well,” he said, rising. “I’ve got to run. I’m expecting a call from The Dalles.”

“How’s that going?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I’m not talking. I don’t want to get Peters’ hopes up, but it’s not a dead issue.”

He left me in the restaurant. After I paid the bill, I walked down Second to Belltown Terrace. It was a twenty-story building with a small grassy courtyard setting it back from the street. The sign said “Model Open,” so I went inside. A real estate lady came down to meet me. She showed me through the entire project, from the indoor pool and exercise room to the outdoor racquetball court and running track. A gas barbecue grill sat on a small patio near the party room.

I lost the barbecue and also my only form of cooking expertise when Karen and I split up. The number of decent barbecued ribs I’d had since then could be counted on one hand. I decided that if Ames could negotiate my way into the building, it might not be such a bad idea. Taking the woman’s card, I promised to call her once I made up my mind. Back on the street, I dealt with the problem of my last day of vacation.

The bug was on me. Jurisdictions notwithstanding, I had to do something. I didn’t bother going back to Avis. Considering my track record, they wouldn’t be eager to rent me another car. I tried Hertz instead. I drove north on I-5 and took the Lynnwood exit. Using the phone book, I located Don Wilson’s address. When I got there, I found that both the front and back doors were secured with police padlocks. Huggins had made the place off-limits. A quick check of the neighborhood showed no surveillance vehicles.

Wilson’s house was set back by itself on a wooded lot. The nearest neighbor was a good half-block away in a tiny clapboard cottage. I walked to it and knocked. After a time the door inched open the length of a security chain. “Yes?” a woman’s voice demanded.

I held one of my cards up to the door so she could see it. “I need to ask a couple questions about Mr. Wilson.”

“You and everybody else,” the woman grumbled, but the door closed long enough for her to unfasten the chain. “What do you want to know?” The woman was more than middle-aged, with a white apron spread across an ample figure. With an exasperated glare, she pointed her index finger at her ear and made several quick circular gestures. “What else do you want to know?”

“Crazy enough to kill someone?”

“Wouldn’t you be if you was him? You know what happened to his wife and kid.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Look,” she said, “I’m trying to cook dinner. I don’t have all day. I already said this once. Do I have to say it again?” “It would help,” I said.

She sighed. “Well, follow me into the kitchen, then-before I burn it up.” Opening the door wide, she motioned me inside. I followed her into a small kitchen where she was peeling vegetables for what looked like a stew. “Last I saw him was Friday morning. He was unloading signs from his car.” “Unloading?”

“That’s what I said. Unloading. Packing them into the house.” It struck me as odd.

If he was on his way to Orcas to demonstrate, he should have had his signs along.

“Why?” I said, more to myself than to the woman.

“How should I know?”

I spent a while longer in the steamy kitchen, but other than stoutly defending Don Wilson’s right to go off the deep end, the woman told me nothing more of consequence.

I drove back into Seattle with the unsettling feeling that I knew both more and less than I had known before. By the time I got home, late-afternoon sun had broken through the clouds. I called Peters at the Department.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“I hate depositions,” he answered.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought I’d hang around here long enough to wait out the traffic.”

Friday afternoon rush-hour traffic is worse on Seattle’s two floating bridges than it is during the rest of the week, as weekend travelers join regular commuters trying to cross Lake Washington to get to the suburbs and beyond.

“Why don’t you stop by and have dinner? Maybe Ames could join us.” “What kind of food?” Peters asked.

I hadn’t planned that far in advance. “I don’t know.”

“Tell you what,” Peters offered. “I’ll stop by the market and pick up something.”

He didn’t fool me for a minute. That way he could control the menu. “Sure,” I said.

“That’ll be fine.”

Hal Huggins called right after I talked to Peters. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

“Out,” I said without explanation. “What do you want?” “We searched Wilson’s house,”

Huggins said. “All his picketing stuff was there-the signs, the brochures, the petitions.

Nothing out of the ordinary except one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“He left a half-chicken thawing on the counter, like he planned to be home in time for dinner. And he didn’t leave food out for his cat. By the time we got there, the cat had helped himself to the chicken.”

“Smart cat,” I said.

“Get serious, Beau. What does that say to you?” “He didn’t expect to be gone long.”

“Yeah,” Huggins agreed.

We talked a few more minutes before my Call Waiting signal buzzed me to say Peters was downstairs. He carried a box of marinated vegetables, a pound of cooked spinach tortellini, and some fresh sole that he proceeded to bake in my oven. Ames turned us down cold, so it was only Peters and I who sat down to a gourmet dinner overlooking Seattle’s nighttime skyline. Peters glanced at his watch as we finished eating.

“I’d be lucky to be home now, even if I left right at five. It takes an hour on Fridays.

Longer if there’s an accident on the bridge. ” “Why don’t you move downtown?” I asked.

A shadow crossed his face. “I keep thinking I’ll get the girls back. You can’t raise kids in the city.”

I told him then about what I had seen at Belltown Terracethe running track, the pool, the facilities. “You could raise kids there,” I told him, “and not have to spend half your life commuting in a car.”

“I don’t have the kids c. Probably never will,” he replied bitterly. “Besides,” he added, “I don’t have that kind of money. ” Respecting Ames’ wishes, I said nothing about continuing negotiations in The Dalles.

Our evening was pleasant. I told Peters about the reception at the Watkins mansion, including my taking a swing at Darrell Watkins. I tried unsuccessfully to recall the names of some of the people there. Vukevich was the only one I could remember for certain. “There was a Representative Snow, I think, and maybe somebody named Lane.”

Peters shook his head. The names didn’t sound familiar. So much for using word pictures to enhance my memory. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

Chapter 25

ERNIE Rogers called at six forty-five Saturday morning. The car was ready; would I like him to bring it to Seattle?

“Sure, but-” I thought about the Porsche and wondered how he’d handle it. En-tie heard the pause and understood it.

“My wife will drive,” he said.

“Well, sure. Do you know your way around Seattle?” “Some. “

I gave him directions, describing the electronic gate into the garage on Lenora at the base of the building. “The Genie may not work now that it’s been wet. “

“It should,” Ernie said. “I fixed it. We’ll be there early afternoon. ” “How will you get back to Orcas?”

“We’re going to make a weekend of it. My mother-in-law is keeping the kids. We won’t catch the bus back to Anacortes until Monday afternoon. Jenny wants to do some shopping.

We thought we’d turn this into a mini-vacation.” “Do you have reservations somewhere?”

I asked. “No, we’ll check into a motel after we get to town.”

“Do I owe you any more money?” I asked, wondering if I should be prepared to write another check.

“As a matter of fact,” he answered, “you’ll be getting back some change.”

“I’ll look for you when you get here,” I said. “My parking space is number forty-eight.

After you park, come on up to 1106. We’ll go to lunch.” “Sounds great.”

Peters called from home while I was drinking my second cup of coffee. He was reading his morning paper. “Somebody blabbed about the search warrant. I’ll bet Huggins is pissed. The paper names Wilson as the major suspect in both Larson murders. Who’s the leak?”

Peter and I had hammered away on Don Wilson’s thawing chicken over drinks after dinner.