Injustice for All (2 page)

Chapter 3

HUGGINS had barely asked his first question when the phone rang. I answered it-the phone, not the question. The voice on the other end of the line was one degree under rude. “I’m told Ginger Watkins is there.

Let me speak to her.”

“May I say who’s calling?”

“No you may not! If she’s there, put her on.”

I don’t like imperious schmucks. I fought fire with fire. “Mrs. Watkins is busy at the moment. Can I take a message?” He fired off a verbal volley. I held the phone away from my ear long enough for the shouting to stop. “Give me your name and number,” I told him. “She’ll call back.”

“I already left one message, damn it. Put her on. Tell her it’s Homer. ” When I heard his name, I remembered the forgotten message. I hung up the phone, cutting short his tirade. “It was Homer,” I told Ginger. “He wants you to call.”

Something flickered across her face, but I couldn’t tell what. Anger? Fear? She turned her attention back to Huggins. “What were you saying?” He regarded her with a sad-eyed glower. “I understand you discovered Mr. Larson’s body. Now someone has ransacked your room. These incidents may or may not be related. We can’t afford to assume they’re not.” He shifted on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. “Isn’t it unusual for coworkers to have keys to each other’s rooms? “Sig and I were close.”

Huggins waited as though expecting her to say something further. She didn’t.

He sighed. “Did you have any valuables in your room? Items of jewelry, something like that?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Anything else of value-cameras, prescription medications?” Again she shook her head.

He continued doggedly. “Any paperwork concerning parole board business that might be considered damaging or in some way usable? Maybe something you and Mr. Larson were working on together?” There was a slight hesitation. “I brought some papers from home. They have nothing to do with work.”

“May I ask what they are?”

“I’m filing for divorce on Monday,” she said levelly. “I brought the paperwork with me. Sig and I planned to discuss it this evening.” Her answer was calm, but her eyes betrayed a turmoil of warring emotions. I noticed it. So did Huggins. “That’s why I was late to see Sig,” she went on. “Darrell called. Someone told him. “

Hal sat up. “You didn’t tell him before you left?” “No.” Ginger gave him a wan smile.

“It was a surprise.”

“Someone told him. Who?”

Ginger shrugged. “I don’t know, not for sure.”

“Did he mention what time?”

“Sometime today, I know that much.”

“Can you guess who it was?”

“Probably Mona.”

“Mona?”

“Sig’s wife, Mona Larson.” The antagonism in Ginger’s voice set little alarm bells ringing. Had Sig Larson died in a matrimonial crossfire between his wife and Ginger’s husband?

“But how did Mrs. Larson know?”

“I wrote Sig a letter last week, the day I made up my mind. He suggested I not file until after we had a chance to discuss it. ” “Why talk it over with him? What did he have to do with it?” “I told you before, he was my friend c. My best friend,” she added defiantly. “Why wouldn’t I discuss it with him? We weren’t having an affair, if that’s what you mean.” Her denial of an unspoken accusation gave credence to Huggins’ line of questioning. Sig’s having her room key made it even more plausible.

Hal’s disbelief must have showed. She continued. “Our families were involved in a joint venture, a condominium project in Seattle. I didn’t want to jeopardize Sig’s position.”

“Would you have?”

Her smile was caustic. “Evidently not. Homer and Darrell seem to have covered all possible contingencies.”

I had sat quietly as long as I could. “Who the hell is Homer?” I demanded.

“Homer Watkins,” she replied, her answer permeated with sarcasm. “My illustrious father-in-law.”

“I don’t know him.”

“You haven’t missed a thing.”

Huggins pulled himself to a sitting position and studied his notes. “How will a divorce go over with the voters?” he asked, approaching from another direction.

Ginger bit her lip. “It won’t make much difference. No one will pay any attention. It certainly won’t cost him the election.” She looked at Huggins closely. “Does Mona know about Sig?” she asked. “Not yet. We still haven’t located her.” Huggins sighed. “Let’s talk about today, from the beginning.”

“I came over on the ferry early this morning,” Ginger said. “Alone?”

She nodded.

“Did you bring your car?”

“No. It’s in Anacortes. I didn’t think I’d need it.”

“What time did you check in?”

“Our meeting started at one. I checked in sometime before that. ” “What time did Mr. Larson get here?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him before the meeting. During our afternoon break we arranged to meet on the beach. That’s when I gave him my key.” “Do you have a key to his room?”

“No. Mona was coming.” Her answer spoke volumes. “Oh, I see,” Hugging said. “Was anyone else aware you planned to meet on the beach?”

Ginger shook her head. “Not as far as I know.”

Hal Hugging was meticulous. “You got out of the meeting at four. What did you do then?”

“I went back to my room. I took a nap. Then Darrell called.”

“What time?”

“I was almost ready to go meet Sig. It must have been right at five.”.

“What did he say?”

“He asked me to reconsider.”

“And you said?”

“No.”

Huggins reminded me of a doctor, probing and poking to find out where it hurts. “Was he upset?”

“He seemed to be. That surprised me. If I didn’t know him better, I would have said he was jealous.” Her tone was resigned. Ginger Watkins had long since come to terms with her losses, whatever those might be. “Why wouldn’t he be jealous?”

“He’s not the type.” She gave a half-assed grin, the kind people use to cover their real feelings, to hide something that hurts more than they’re willing to admit. Huggins skirted the issue, leaving me wondering what kind of husband wouldn’t be jealous of Ginger Watkins.

I had never met the man, but I decided I didn’t like Darrell Watkins, candidate for lieutenant governor. As a matter of fact, I was sure I wouldn’t vote for him.

“Where did he call from?”

“He didn’t say. It could have been anywhere in the state. He’s out campaigning.”

“You don’t keep a copy of his schedule?”

“No...”

“Supposing he were jealous. Would he have done something to Sig Larson or maybe hired someone to do it?”

“You mean put out a contract? No, for two reasons. Number one, he wouldn’t have the money. Number two, I don’t believe he’s that much of a hypocrite.”

“I see,” Huggins said sagely. “You mean he fools around himself?” Ginger’s lips trembled.

She dropped her gaze and nodded. Hal’s questions had led circuitously to the heart of the matter. I had to give him credit. He made another note. “Watkins is an old, respected name in Seattle. Long on reputation and money both. Supposing Darrell did want to get rid of Sig Larson, why wouldn’t he have the money? It only costs a few grand to put out a contract.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” she said. “I’m not working gratis, you know. “

“Which means?” Hal prompted.

“It means we need the money. Some of Homer’s investments haven’t turned out so well.

The parole board job was designed to help out. Connections are nice. How else do you think someone without a degree could walk into a forty-thousand-dollar-ayear job?” Her voice carried a defensive edge. The phone rang, and I answered, recognizing Deputy Pomeroy’s officious voice. “Detective Huggins,” he demanded.

I handed the phone to Hal. He listened for a few seconds before he said, “Keep her at the desk until I get there. And, Jake, if one of those goddamned reporters gets near her before I do, I’ll have your badge, understand?”

Hal bolted for the door, then stopped, turning slowly back into the room. “It would be best if you stayed here,” he told Ginger. “I’ll let you know when you can return to your room.”

She nodded. “All right.”

“The lab guys’ll call when they finish.” He strode into the darkness to the sound of steady rain. I closed the door behind him, feeling uncomfortable, not knowing what to say. Ginger Watkins was a stranger I knew far too much about. “Warm enough?”

I asked awkwardly. “I am now.” She paused. “I might as well call Homer and get it over with.”

“Why call him at all? You can afford to ignore your soon-tobe ex-father-in-law.”

She picked up the phone. “Ignoring him is the worst thing you can do to Homer.” She dialed the desk to charge the call to her room number, but the desk didn’t answer.

“Dial it direct,” I told her, and she did.

“You called?” she asked. From across the room I could hear a renewal of his verbal barrage. “What do you want?” She interrupted him bluntly, dealing with rudeness in kind.

There was a long pause while she listened. I watched her. Her hair had dried. Honey-blond waves framed her face. She paced back and forth, tugging on a phone cord that didn’t give her quite enough leash. “I’m not going to change my mind, Homer,” she said at last. “I’ve finally seen through the fog well enough to know what’s going on. ” Again there was a pause. “When I wanted to do something about it, he couldn’t be bothered.

Now it’s too late. I don’t care if he’s upset. I’m getting out.”

She waited. “That’s not true, and you know it. What I do won’t make a bit of difference, one way or the other. Besides, why should I care who wins?” His answer to that question was brief, and she stiffened. “I’ve found jobs before. I’ll find one again.” She slammed the phone down, eyes blazing. “That bastard,” she muttered.

The phone rang again, and she angrily snatched it off the hook. “Hello!” Sheepishly, she handed me the receiver. “It’s for you,” she said. The desk had a message for me from Maxwell Cole. He would be in Room 143. He wanted to talk to me. I put the phone down and turned to Ginger. “Are you all right?” The phone call had genuinely disturbed her.

“I’m fine,” she answered without conviction. She walked across the room and stared blindly out the darkened window like a lost, lonely child in need of comforting.

“He threatened to pull your job?”

“It’s no idle threat,” she returned. “He can do it.”

I stood near her, wanting to put an arm around her shoulder and tell her everything would be all right, to give her some of my world-famous Beaumont Bromides. Determinedly she wiped away a tear. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to cry.”

“You have plenty of reason,” I offered.

She looked up at me with a faint smile. “I guess I do. I was thinking about Sig.”

“What about him?”

“He gave me back my self-respect,” she answered. “Nothing’s going to change that.

I’ll resign if I have to, work as a waitress or a salesclerk, but nobody can take away what Sig Larson gave me.” She paused tremulously. “I can’t believe he’s dead.“

Abandoning her attempt to stave off tears, she fell helplessly into my arms, sobbing uncontrollably against my chest. I held her and let her cry, hoping no one was outside my window. Ginger Watkins was, after all, still very much a married lady with a husband who was a well-known statewide political can didate. This would provoke a terrific scandal if it ever hit the press. - I wondered briefly how I had fallen into such a mess. As her sobs subsided, I decided what the hell. Lie back and enjoy it.

Chapter 4

ONCE Ginger regained her composure, I suggested we order dinner from Room Service.

It was close to nine. My three-meal-a-day system was going into withdrawal. I ordered two steaks, medium-rare. “Some wine?”

She shook her head. “I don’t drink.”

I ordered two bottles of Perrier. When in Rome, and all that. With her emotional outburst quelled, we waded toward dinner through a mire of meaningless chitchat.

“Where are you from?” I asked. “Centralia. My dad runs the Union 76 station down there.”

It was a long way from small-town girl to big-time politics. She readily followed my thoughts. “Good looks help,” she said with a smile. “Add some stupidity, and this is what you get.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was pregnant when we got married. Homer offered to buy me off, send me to Sweden for an abortion. Darrell only married me because his father was dead set against it. I was a first and last gesture of independence.” Her directness was unsettling.

I was relieved when Room Service knocked on the door.

Our waiter was a young, local kid with a mouthful of braces and a winning smile.

He wore a cutaway coat with a white towel draped casually over one arm. He spread the small round table with a linen cloth and served us with the arch panache of a British butler.

“That kid will go places,” I said to Ginger after he bowed his way out of the room.

“At least he seems to enjoy what he’s doing,” she responded. I poured two glasses of Perrier and handed her one. “You don’t?” I asked. “I was ready to,” she began, “but then after Sig-” She broke off, unable to continue.

“What about Sig?”

“He saved my life,” she said. “It’s that simple.”

“What did he do? Pull you out of a burning car?” Ginger studied me in silence for a long time. “Something like that,” she said quietly. “He got me to quit drinking.”

“Drinking?” I’m sure I sounded incredulous.

She picked up the empty Perrier bottle and examined it. “I used to drink vodka, Wolfschmidts, on the rocks.”

I grimaced. “We’re not talking one drink before dinner.”

“I almost died, Mr. Beaumont.”

“Beau,” I corrected. “My friends call me Beau.”

“Beau,” she added. “As long as I drank myself into oblivion every night, it didn’t matter if Darrell had a steady girl friend down in Olympia when the legislature was in session, or that he was screwing around with some secretary after work. If I drank hard enough and long enough, I could almost forget. Not forgive, just forget. “Sig was like a father to me. Never laid a glove on me, as far as sex is concerned. He just kept telling me I deserved better.”