Injustice for All (23 page)

Back to questions, always questions. The consensus was that, whoever he was, he wasn’t a regular inhabitant of the downtown area. This wasn’t your usual drunken brawl over a half-consumed bottle of Big Red. Fights over booze are generally harmless-a little gratuitous bloodshed among friends. This was deliberately malicious. And deadly.

We hit the streets, talking to known gang leaders and toughs. The patrolmen in what the department calls the David Sector of downtown Seattle know most of the street kids by name. They guided us to the various groups, pointing out kids who would talk and kids who liked to throw their weight around. All of them could have gotten gasoline; none of them had cars.

To quote one, a scrawny-looking kid named Spike who wore a black leather vest over a hairless bare chest, “Nobody knew nothin’,” although he hinted darkly that there might be a club down at Franklin High with some allegedly vicious initiation rites.

Peters and I drove to Franklin High School in Rainier Valley. The principal, a tall black former Marine, sounded more like a drill sergeant than an educator. He admitted he had some tough kids in his school, but none who would go around setting fire to sleeping drunks, he’d stake his reputation on it. I was inclined to believe him.

Driving back to the department, Peters asked me what I thought. “He seems to know what’s going on with those kids,” I told him. “Bullshit,” Peters replied. “Nobody ever knows what’s going on with a bunch of kids.”

We agreed to disagree. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

I found a note from Henry Wu on my desk. “See me.”

Hank sat with his feet propped on his desk reading a copy of the International News.

“What have you got?”

He put down the paper, a wide smile spreading under his impeccable mustache. “I think I’ve found her, Beau, in the Stadium Apartments out in Rainier Valley. You know where that is, out on Martin Luther King Way?” “I think so.”

“My source says she lives with her aunt and uncle and some cousins out there. Your interpreter’s gone?”

“Yesterday,” I said.

I must have sounded ungrateful. Hank bristled. “Look, I moved heaven and earth to get this far. Nobody rushes a grapevine. ” “I know. Sorry. It’s just that Ernie had to go home.” Hank appeared somewhat mollified. “So what do you suggest?” I asked.

“Is there anybody on the force who speaks H mong?”

“Even if there was, I wouldn’t advise your taking them along, not if you want her to talk.”

“What should I do then, go by myself?”

“That guy who left on the bus-En-de c. My source recognized the name, knew who he was. He’s evidently widely respected in the Seattle H mong community. It wasn’t until I mentioned him that I started getting to first base. My suggestion is that you do whatever it takes to get him back down here.”

If you call in an expert, you have to be prepared to take his advice. Henry Wu was the expert. “Thanks, Hank. I’ll see what I can do.”

I went back to my desk. Peters looked up as I sat down. “What gives?” “Hank’s got a line on the notel maid from Orcas,” I answered. I picked up the phone, ready to call Ernie.

Peters scowled. “Look, Beau, we’re already on a case. Two and a half by actual count, if that guy at Harborview is still alive.”

I felt like he’d stepped on my toes. “Don’t tell me what to do,” I snapped. I couldn’t very well call Ernie right then, not with Peters peering over my shoulder. We spent the rest of the afternoon circling each other like a squabbling old married couple.

By five, we still weren’t ready to bury the hatchet.

“You having dinner with Ames?” Peters asked as we waited uneasily for the Public Safety Building’s snaillike elevator. I hadn’t told him Ames had returned to The Dalles. I didn’t tell him then. “Naw, he’s busy,” I replied noncommittally. If Peters was fishing for an invitation to dinner, I didn’t bite. We parted company in the lobby, and I walked home to the Royal Crest. I called Ernie right away.

“I think we’ve found Blia,” I said, once he answered the phone. “Could you come down tomorrow if I had a float plane pick you up and take you back?” “It won’t work,” he said. “I’ve got a motor home to overhaul. The Hansens are leaving for Arizona Saturday. I’ve got that iob to do and another due by Friday.”

“Nobody else can do it?” I insisted.

“I’m a one-man shop. Without me, nothing happens.”

I couldn’t very well argue the point. “Call me as soon as you see your way clear,”

I told him.

“Sure thing,” he replied. “Glad to.”

Disappointed, I hung up. Outside it was raining a steady fall drizzle. I put on a waterproof jacket and walked to the golden arches at Sixth and Westlake. I picked up a Big Mac and an order of fries to go. Peters would have pitched a fit if he’d glimpsed my evening menu.

Back at the house, I set the table with my good dishes and dined in solitary splendor.

Bachelors are allowed their small eccentricities. After dinner I settled into my old-fashioned recliner and let my mind wander. Maybe the guy who sent us to Franklin had been playing some game of his own, creating a wild-goose chase among the predominantly minority kids there. I was smart enough to recognize that the suggestion played on our own prejudices. Maybe our bumkilling fanatic was to be found at the other end of the spectrum, concealed among the well-heeled kids of Bellevue or the North End.

It was a thought that merited further consideration. Meantime, all we could do was keep looking for that rarest of all birds, the eyewitness. The discipline of focusing on one issue at a time pushed Ginger and Sig and Mona and Wilson further and further into the background. I had to leave them alone until Ernie could return to Seattle.

For the time being, inconsequential as they might seem, three dead transients took precedence. Harborview Hospital had called the department to say that Mr. Smith was no more. My interview with him had been his very last opportunity to give us any help.

I fell asleep in the chair and didn’t wake up until morning. That’s something else bachelors can get away with. I’m not sure the good outweighs the bad.

Chapter 29

MY back was broken when I woke up. In my youth I could sleep all night in a recliner and not have it bother me the next day. Maybe I’m getting old. I was in the bathroom, my face slathered with shaving cream, when the phone rang. I hurried to answer it, Colgate Instant Shave smearing into the holes of the mouthpiece.

“Did you know?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

“Know what?”

“That Ginger was-“Tom Lander’s voice cracked. I waited while he got hold of himself.

“I knew,” I said grin-ly, silently cursing Homer and Darrell Watkins and Hal Huggins and J. P. Beaumont for not having broken the news to Tom earlier.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to read it in the paper” I didn’t have an answer. I had known he wasn’t told, but I had shut the knowledge out of my mind.

“Was it Wilson?” he continued doggedly.

“That’s what Hal Huggins thinks,” I countered. “What do you think?” he demanded.

“I don’t know.” It was an honest answer.

“You could have told me.”

“I expected Homer or Darrell would do that.”

“They didn’t.”

I felt like I owed him something, but not enough to lapse into idle speculation about thawing chickens and hungry cats and extra keys. “Look, Tom, I’m following up on some leads. I’ll be in touch if I find anything out, okay?”

“Why should I believe you?”

“No reason,” I answered. “Because I asked.”

“All right,” he agreed reluctantly. “But was she really drunk, or was that just part of the story?”

“Her blood-alcohol count showed she had been drinking, enough to be drunk.” “Oh,” he said, disappointment thick in his voice. “Why, Tom? What does it matter?”

“It’s personal,” he replied and hung up.

I went to the bathroom and finished shaving, thinking about Maxwell Cole. I couldn’t help wondering how he had gotten his information, particularly since Huggins was so sure it hadn’t come through his department. I decided to pay a call on Max, for old time’s sake. I called the P.1. He wasn’t in and wasn’t expected before ten.

I checked the phone book. Bingo. Maxwell Cole. It gave a Queen Anne phone number but no address. I dialed. He sounded groggy.

“Hello, Max. This is Beaumont. I want to talk to you.”

“To me? How come?”

“Just a couple of questions. Can I come over?”

“I guess.”

“Good. What’s the address?”

He gave me a number on Bigelow North, an old-fashioned street strewn with fallen chestnuts and mounds of moldering leaves. The house was an eighteen-nineties gingerbread type set among aging trees and crowned with leaded glass gable windows. It surprised me. I had always figured Max for the swinging hot tub and cocktails type. This hardly fit that image. I pulled up and parked. Before I could get out of the car, Max blustered out the front door and down the walk. He heaved himself into the Porsche. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“You invited me, remember?”

“I was asleep. Let’s go someplace for coffee.” We drove-to an upstairs coffee-and-croissant place on top of Queen Anne Hill. “So what do you want?” Max asked, once we settled at a table.

“I want to know where you got your information on Ginger Watkins. ” Wariness crept over his flabby face. “Why do you want to know?” “I do, that’s all.”

“My sources are confidential.”

“You’d be forced to tell, under oath.”

“There won’t be a trial. Wilson’s dead.”

“Did Wilson tell you about Ginger? Were you in touch with him after that day on Orcas?”

Max shook his head. “Don’t try to trick me, J. P. Why do you want to know? Huggins says the case is closed. He’s satisfied Wilson did it. ” “Who set up the meeting on Orcas? Was it Wilson?” Max nodded.

“What did he say?”

“That something big was going to break, that it would be announced during the parole board retreat. He thought it should go in the special feature I was doing on him.”

“Did he say what this `something big’ was?” “He didn’t. I thought it would be about the Victim/Witness Protection Program. That’s what he was working on, but nobody’s mentioned it since.

He must have had his wires crossed.”

“Did you ever publish it? The feature, I mean?” Max looked stunned to think that I had missed a word of his deathless prose. “I used some of it in the column after Wilson died, but not much. I was still pissed at him for dragging me all the way to Orcas and then missing the interview.”

“Was it Pomeroy?” I asked in a feint-and-thrust maneuver designed to throw him off guard. It didn’t work.

“I’m not talking,” Max returned stubbornly. “I already told you that.” I wasn’t able to get any more out of him. We finished coffee, and I took him home.

I turned up at the department around ten. Peters, glancing up from a stack of papers, glared at me. “What’d you do? Forget to set your alarm?” I didn’t answer. I sat down at my desk, hoping to reshuffle my priorities and get the two John Does and Teresa Smith back on top of the desk. Don Wilson, the wild card, refused to go away.

“I talked to Hal,” I said to Peters as I passed his desk. “Old Man Scott swears up and down Wilson was dead two to three days at most. If that’s true, how come he floated to the surface? That usually takes five days to a week.” “Current,” Peters offered helpfully. “The current could have washed him up on shore without him necessarily floating to the surface.”

“I wish Baker could take a look at him.” Dr. Howard Baker is King County’s crackerjack medical examiner. Nothing gets by him. Dr. Baker is no coroner, but then King County isn’t Benton County, either. “Why the hell couldn’t Wilson have died inside King County? It would simplify my life.”

“Wish in one hand, ‘shit in the other, and see which hand gets full first. ” Peters’

comment was philosophical. I love it when he lectures me in parables.

Just then Peters’ phone rang. He listened briefly, then slammed down the receiver and jumped to his feet. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve gotta go.” “Where?”

“Manny and A1 are down in Pioneer Square. They may have a lead in the transient case.”

That effectively put the cap on Ginger and Sig and Mona and Wilson. I followed Peters through the fifth-floor maze and out of the building. Pioneer Square is only a few blocks from the department, down the hill, off James.

As the name implies it’s an old neighborhood made up of stately old buildings whose insides have been gutted and brought up to code. Gentrification has brought new tenants-law firms, trendy shoppes, and tiny espresso bars. The only glitch is that the new tenants haven’t quite convinced the old ones, the bums, that they don’t live there anymore.

The merchants and the bums are constantly at war to see who controls the turf. Peters and I walked down the hill. Manny and Al were in the Elliott Bay Bookstore, downstairs in the book-lined espresso bar. With them was a young woman in tennis shoes and a ponytail. She might have been any well-built teenager poured into a tank top and tightly fitting jeans, nipples protruding under the knit material. She looked like a teenager until you saw her close up. Her face was still attractive, but it showed signs of excessive wear. Periodically she popped a bubble with a wad of gum, but she kept a nervous watch on a flashily dressed black man two tables away. He sat with both arms folded across his chest, silently observing the proceedings. “So nothing happened,” she was saying as Peters and I approached the table. “It washed off. He never lit the match, but I told Lawrence I’ll bet it’s the same guy. When I heard it on the news, I told him.” She nodded toward the man I assumed to be Lawrence.

“He said I could tell.”

Al motioned us into two empty chairs while Manny spoke earnestly to the girl. “These are Detectives Peters and Beaumont,” he explained. “They’re working the case with us. Would you be willing to do a composite drawing, Sandra?”

She glanced questioningly toward Lawrence. He nodded. Evidently, anything that damaged the merchandise was bad for business. It didn’t make sense to let someone set fire to the stable.