Injustice for All (26 page)

“That’s not like him,” I said contritely, as though both Ames and I had been remiss.

“Have you tried in the last few minutes?” “Ah left word that he should join us.”

As if on cue, the maitre d’ hurried to our table. “Excuse me, Miss Borden. There’s a gentleman outside who says his name is Mr. Ames. Should I show him in?”

“Oh, by all means. Do have him come in.”

There was a flurry of activity around our table as a third place was set. Ames followed the maitre d’ uncertainly, as though not sure what to expect. I stood to introduce them. It was comical to see. Ames fell into those violet eyes and never knew what hit him.

“Ah’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ames,” Cody drawled. “Ah’ve been doin’ my very best to find you all day long.”

“I’m sorry to be so difficult,” Ames apologized. “I’ve been out in Kirkland helping a friend of ours. I was actually c” Ames paused and cleared his throat. “Interviewing baby-sitters. He has to have one by Monday, you know.” Colleen nodded seriously, as though she understood perfectly. “And then,” Ames continued, Colleen’s undivided attention making him babble, “once we got the girls registered for school, we had to take them shopping for clothes, shoes, lunch pails, bedding, everything.” I burst out laughing. The very idea of Ralph Ames, attorney extraordinaire, interviewing nannies and dragging tykes through Nordstroms and The Bon on a full-scale shopping marathon struck my funnybone, especially since he was so dead serious about it. Colleen took offense at my laughter. That moment sealed Ralph Ames’ fate.

“Mr. Beaumont, Ah think it’s perfectly wonderful that Mr. Ames has been helpin’ his friend, and Ah don’t see any reason for you to be laughin’ at him.”

Ames turned an interesting shade of red and took a long sip of the Southern Comfort that Colleen had ordered for him. By the time we were into the main course-three pheasants instead of two-Colleen Borden knew as much about Peters’ custody fight as confidentiality would allow. Then, just when I thought we were never going back to Armour Life Insurance Company, Colleen delicately laid down her fork, turned her violet-eyed charm full on Ames, and said softly, “Supposin’ we get down to business.”

Cody Borden was the consummate iron fist in a velvet glove. “To begin with, Ah’ve talked to Hal Huggins. He’s a nice man, but Ah don’t believe he’s ever been involved in an insurance case of this magnitude. ” She blinked a long blink with her very long eyelashes. “You see,” she drawled, “we’re talkin’ about three million dollars altogether.”

“Insurance fraud!” Ames exclaimed. “A buy/sell agreement funded with life insurance.

Why didn’t I think of that?” Ames came on-line without missing a beat.

Colleen smiled at him. “That’s right, sweetie. Five hundred thousand apiece, with a five hundred thousand accidental-death benefit. ” Ames’ accountant mentality took over. He whistled. “That would be plenty to get them out of the woods. When would the claim be paid?” “Well, now,” Colleen murmured, “that all depends, doesn’t it? Two to three weeks if everythin’s in order. Much longer than that if there’s a problem.’- “Three weeks would be in time to ward off the sheriff’s sale.” Colleen nodded. “These policies are all well beyond the contestable period. We’ll be payin’ the claims, regardless. Ah just want to be sure in my own mind that we’re not payin’ good money to a murderer.”

She removed a sheaf of papers from a slender briefcase, handing them to Ames rather than me. Swiftly he skimmed through them. “It’s essentially a buy/sell arrangement,”

he explained to me a few minutes later, “with all proceeds going to the surviving partners. “

“And the surviving partners are?” I asked.

“Why, Dan-ell Watkins and his daddy, of course,” Colleen answered sweetly. “Have you talked to Hal Huggins about this?” I demanded. “He’s got it stuck in his craw that somebody named Wilson did it. But in talkin’ to him, Ah kept comin’ up with your name, Mr. Beaumont. And then, when Ah started looking into the Belltown Terrace situation, Ah saw your name again.” She smiled. “Seemed like too much of a coincidence to me, wouldn’t you say?..

Ames had been studying the papers throughout this exchange. He looked around as though waking from a long sleep. “If both surviving beneficiaries were implicated in the deaths of the other partners, what would happen?” Colleen smiled again. “Why, sweetie, if someone proves that, the proceeds go to the insured’s next of kin.”

Dinner wasn’t over. I believe we had dessert and coffee, but I bowed out of the conversation.

I sat there thinking about Mona Larson’s brother from Idaho and Sig Larson’s three kids and Ginger Watkins’ father, Tom Lander. Maybe Hal Huggins was buying the Don Wilson story, but I wasn’t. Cody’s idea made perfect sense. Darrell and Homer could knock off the others, frame Wilson, and use the three million to bail themselves out of the hole. Greed for motive rather than revenge.

I made up my mind on the spot that, if Hal Huggins wouldn’t do something about it officially, then I would unofficially. I left the table with Ames and Colleen still huddled over a sheaf of papers. I had the distinct impression, however, that they wouldn’t stick to business forever.

Chapter 33

HAL Huggins didn’t answer either at home or at the office when I got back from the Westin. Why should he? After all, it was Friday night. As far as Hal was concerned, he had solved three murders that week. He was probably out celebrating.

I tried again the next morning, as soon as I woke up. Woke him, too. “What’s going on?” he muttered, half asleep.

“Did you talk to Colleen Borden?”

“That dingey broad? Yes, I talked to her. Goddamned insurance companies are all alike-do anything to avoid paying a claim. All they want to do is take your money; then, as soon as somebody dies-“

“Hal,” I interrupted, “did you listen to her? I think she’s onto something. “

“Look here, Beau,” Huggins bristled. “I’m telling you once and for all. Wilson did it. We’ve got motive, opportunity, witnesses that place him near the scene, fingerprints on a confession. What the hell do you want?” “I want to nail the guilty party.”

“You know, Beau, I keep wondering why you’re so involved. I heard you were up nosing around Wilson’s house the other day. This isn’t your case, remember?”

“Are you going to investigate Colleen Borden’s allegations or not?” “The case is closed as far as my office is concerned. ” “My mind’s made up, don’t confuse me with the facts. Didn’t you tell me that once? Does it have anything to do with the fact that Tuesday is election day and Darrell Watkins is a major political candidate?

Did the sheriff tell you to stifle?” “Go fuck yourself,” Huggins replied, hanging up. I got Ernie Rogers’ home number from the Directory Assistance. “It’s Saturday.

What time are you coming over?” I asked, once I got him on the phone.

Ernie sounded surprised. “I didn’t think you still needed me. I thought the case was closed. That’s what the paper said.”

“It may be closed there,” I returned grimy. “It isn’t here. How long will it take you to get to Seattle?”

“I’ll check the ferry schedule and call you back.”

“Screw the ferry schedule. Charter a float plane. I’ll pay for it. Get here as soon as you can. Have him land at the Lake Union dock. I’ll pick you up.” He called back a little while later to say that the soonest he could arrive would be one o’clock.

It was almost ten. I had three hours to do what I needed to do.

I had kept one of Don Wilson’s pictures. I needed to assemble a few others for a rogue’s gallery. While I was at it, I decided to kill two birds with one stone.

Directory Assistance gave me Darrell Watkins’ campaign headquarters. A quavery-voiced old lady answered the phone. “Do you have access to Mr. Watkins’ calendar?” I asked.

“Certainly,” she responded. “It’s right here on the wall above my head. That way we all know what’s going on at all times. Of course, he’s canceled everything now that his wife c ” Her voice trailed off. “I know. I was wondering about some appearances during the last couple of weeks.” I was playing liar’s poker and doing my best to sound casual, unhurried. “I’m writing an article about Mr. Watkins. My records show he was in Vancouver and Longview on the eighteenth, and Chehalis, Centralia, and Olympia on the nineteenth. Is that correct?”

“I don’t know where you got that,” she snorted. “He was scheduled to be in Bellingham and Everett on the eighteenth and nineteenth.”

There was a catch of excitement in my throat. Everett is a short hop from Anacortes and the ferry to Orcas.

“Is that all you wanted?” she demanded impatiently. “Do you have any brochures with his picture?”

“Certainly. We could send you a whole packet. Are you interested in doorbelling?”

“No. All I need is one brochure. Can I pick it up?” “Our campaign headquarters is at the corner of Denny and First North.” “Good,” I said. “I’ll be right over.”

Getting a picture of Homer Watkins proved somewhat more difficult. Not impossible.

I finally managed to dredge one out of a newspaper file. It was several years old and dated from Homer’s tenure as president of the Washington Athletic Club. It was good enough for my purposes. I stopped by the department and sifted through the collection of pictures we keep on hand to build montages for witnesses to use when they’re trying to identify a suspect. You can’t just hand them a picture and say, “Is this the one?”

You have to give them a batch of pictures and say, “Do you see anyone you recognize?”

Ernie was true to his word. The float plane pulled up to the dock on Lake Union right at one. The pilot said he’d have lunch and then come back to the plane. Ernie had left his wheel chair at home. Assisted by a steel crutch, he hopped from the plane to the Porsche. Once inside, Ernie and I took off for Rainier Valley.

The Porsche created quite a stir among some kids playing a spirited game of soccer in the parking lot of the Stadium Apartments, a low-income housing complex on Martin Luther King Way. From the way he had put the Porsche back together, it was clear Ernie Rogers was a top-drawer mechanic, but his skill with language dumbfounded me.

The kids broke up their game and admiringly surrounded the car, giving us a thumbs-up greeting. Within moments Ernie was speaking to them in a language I had never heard before. They responded by enthusiastically directing us to a building near the back of the complex. People with two good legs never notice stairways. We were directed to a set of dingy stairs thick with the stale odor of boiled rice, rancid cooking oil, and old fish. Emie turned around, sat down, handed me his crutch, then made his way up the steps on his butt without a word of complaint. We located the correct apartment number and knocked on a flimsy, hollow door. It opened slowly, revealing an old woman, gray-haired and tiny, who peered cautiously up at us. Ernie spoke to her rapidly but softly in the same musical language he had used on the children outside. Her face brightened, and she favored him with a benign smile. A slight inclination of her head motioned us into the room. It was empty except for one derelict chair and a floor covering of woven mats. I had the feeling that, moments before we entered, the room had teemed with people. Now it contained only two, the old woman and a venerable old man with white hair and a twisted driftwood walking stick. He sat regally on the only chair-a cane-backed wooden one that leaned slightly to one side. He nodded to Ernie, and spoke to the old woman who disappeared and returned with a folding chair for Ernie. The old man spoke again, addressing Ernie, who turned to me.

“He wants to know if Blia is in trouble.”

“No,” I answered. “We’re looking for the man who stole her keys. ” The old man studied me closely as Ernie translated. “The hotel didn’t believe her when she said someone stole them.”

“I do,” I told him. When Ernie translated, the old man nodded sagely. “He wants to know what you want with Blia.”

I reached into my coat pocket and removed the packet of pictures. I handed them directly to the old man. “I want to show her these. One of those men may have been the one who stole her keys. Maybe she’ll recognize him.” The old man examined the pictures minutely in the dim light of the curtained window, then he spoke quickly to the old woman who shuffled from the room. Moments later she returned, leading. a shy young woman with waist-length jet-black hair. The younger woman seemed reluctant, but the old woman prodded her forward. When Blia saw Ernie, her face brightened. She moved forward more willingly.

The woman led Blia to the old man, who handed her the pictures. “Ask her if she saw any of those men at Rosario the day she lost her keys.” Ernie translated. The girl walked to the curtained window and studied the pictures. I held my breath as she leafed through them one by one. It was possible she had seen uothing, would recognize no one. Suddenly she stopped. She handed one of them back to Ernie, who passed it to me. The face in the picture was that of Homer Watkins. I’m sure my face betrayed the impact the picture had on me.

I had expected it to be-Darrell Watkins, wanted it to be him so badly I could taste it. There are very good reasons why neither doctors nor detectives should work on cases too close to home. It warps perspective. I looked up. Everyone in the room was staring at me. “Ask her when she saw him,” I said to Ernie.

He translated for her, then turned to me with Blia’s long response. “She was cleaning her last room. Someone had checked in and then changed his mind. The desk wanted the room recleaned because they thought they could rent it again. When she came out of the room, he was standing by her cart. A few minutes later she realized her keys were missing.”

“Can she remember exactly what time it was?” “Late. After dark. Around seven o’clock.”

Blia hadn’t moved from her place near the window. She watched me warily, gauging my reactions to each translation.

“Tell her thank you,” I said. “And tell her there’s a reward. Someone will be in touch with her next week to arrange it. He will be authorized to pay her five thousand dollars, but she may have to testify in court.” Ernie looked at me quickly before he translated. He spoke for a long time. Blia’s face changed several times, mirroring surprise, joy, doubt, and, finally, after the old man spoke sternly, agreement. “She’ll testify,” Ernie said. “If you need it.”