Injustice for All (27 page)

The old woman showed us out of the apartment. “Five thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Ernie said as he bumped his way down the stairs. “Where’d it come from?”

“Beats me,” I replied. We were both quiet after that until we were in the car and halfway back downtown. “Whose picture?” Ernie asked. “Not the guy I expected,” I said.

“You can’t tell me who, though?”

“No, I’d better not.” He accepted my refusal good-naturedly. I felt obliged to explain.

“If word leaks out before we’re ready on this one-” “Forget it,” he said. “It’s no big deal.”

We stopped at the Doghouse for coffee before I took him back to the plane. Once the float plane was airborne above Lake Union, I went home. There was no sense in calling Huggins. His mind was made up. And there was no sense im calling Peters. His hands were full. I called the Westin and was told Mr. Ames had changed his mind. He hadn’t checked out, after all. I left a message saying that I would need him in Seattle during the week and that he shouldn’t leave without checking with me first. I had a feeling Ames’ virtue was no longer intact.

I settled into my recliner. I’m not one of the trendy types who sits in a half-lotus position to do his thinking. My legs would stick permanently. A recliner and a steaming cup of strong coffee are all I need to get the creative juices flowing.

The ball was definitely back in my court. What I had to do more than anything was think it through. There was far too much at stake to go off half-cocked.

Homer. Blia Vang had fingered Homer. He had been at Rosario that Friday afternoon, and no one had known it. So he had gotten the keys and then let Wilson into Ginger’s room to get the calendar? That didn’t make sense, but that was the way it looked.

I tried to put myself back in that Friday afternoon, to remember all the events in the exact order in which they had occurred. It can be done. It’s a process very much like a self-induced hypnotic trance. Or a time machine. The parole board meeting got out at four. Ginger and Sig were supposed to meet at five, but Darrell called and held Ginger up, made her late. By the time she reached the rendezvous, Sig Larson was dead. Homer Watkins and Don Wilson, an unholy alliance. Something Blia Vang had said jumped out at me.

Someone had rented a room at Rosario and then changed his mind. Who? And what about Darrell Watkins’ campaign appearances in Everett and Bellingham? The thought had no more than crossed my mind when I was out of my chair, emptying my cup in the sink and shrugging my way into the shoulder holster. Either Homer and Darrell were in it together, or Darrell was next on the list.

Chapter 34

THE Porsche loves to get on the freeway and go. I headed north to Everett, driving directly to the offices of the Everett Herald. It’s a small-town paper. The receptionist, a bored teenager, was happy to have some company. I flashed my badge at her, and she bustled around, finding me what I needed-all papers from the two-week period prior t
þ October eighteenth. I located the information I wanted, eventually. Buried among wedding announcements, Pop Warner football scores, and pre-holiday church bazaars was an article detailing Darrell Watkins’ campaign swing through Bellingham and Everett.

He was to address the Bellingham Rotary and Jaycees on Friday afternoon and a League of Women Voters convention at the Everett Holiday Inn Friday evening. Saturday morning he was scheduled to be the keynote speaker at a Merchant’s Fair breakfast.

Thanking the receptionist for her help, I drove to the Holiday Inn. I didn’t mess around with the desk clerk. I asked to speak directly to the manager. He was an eager Young Turk, fresh out of school with a degree in hotel management. His nametag pegged him as Mr. Young, which seemed entirely appropriate.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, after minutely examining my identification.

“I’d like to see your guest register for the night of October eighteenth.“

“This is, of course, highly irregular.”

“Mr. Young,” I said firmly, “I’m attempting to prevent another homicide. There’s not much time.”

“Can’t this wait until Monday when I could check with my superiors in Seattle?”

“No. Someone else could be dead by then.” Youth can often be intimidated by a steady, middle-aged stare. It worked like a charm.

“Oh, all right. I don’t see how it could hurt.”

There were lots of registration slips. Many of the women had registered separately, even though they were staying in the same room-a variation on the female penchant for separate checks. I thumbed through them carefully. I was close to the bottom before I found the one I wanted, a slip that read Darrell Watkins. I jotted down the license number of the car, an ‘81 Audi. Mr. Young had stood peering over my shoulder the whole time. “Did you find what you needed?” he asked.

“Yes. Can you make me a copy of this?” I showed him the slip. “This is nuts. I shouldn’t have shown it to you in the first place without a court order. Now you want me to make you a copy?” “By the time I can get a court order,” I said, “the killer may strike again. The score is four to nothing right now. The killer’s winning. ” He made me a copy. “One more question,” I said as he handed me the paper. “Who on your catering staff handled the League of Women Voters convention?” “That would have been Sue Carleton.”

“Is she here?”

He sighed, exasperated. “She’s upstairs.”

Sue Carleton turned out to be a heavyset dame in her middle years. I had a feeling she had come up through the ranks-without a degree in hotel management but with a healthy regard for and an easy ability to work with other people. She had a pleasant manner and a sparkling sense of humor. “What can I do for you, Detective Beaumont?”

she asked. “I wanted to talk to you about the League of Women Voters.” “They were awful.” She smiled. “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians. I almost lost my mind.”

“I wanted to ask you about one of the speakers, Darrell Watkins. ” “That jerk. He was late. I had to pay my people overtime because they didn’t finish on time.”

“What happened?”

“He was supposed to speak at the beginning of the program. He didn’t show up until nine when they were almost finished. They let him give his whole speech anyway. I was livid.” .

I stood. “That’s all I needed to know. Did he offer any explanation?” “Car trouble, I think. Does this help?”

“You’d better believe it. Thanks.”

Galloping out of the Holiday Inn, I sped north to Anacortes, hoping I’d hit the ferry schedule right. No such luck. A ferry was just pulling away from the dock as I drove up to the ticket booth. There was nothing to do but cool my heels and wait for the next one.

It was possible Darrell could have been on Orcas with Homer at the time Ginger’s room was broken into and still have made it back to Everett by nine. If, that is, he had better luck with the ferries than I did. Once on Orcas, I drove straight to Rosario without notifying Huggins. I wanted to get in, verify the information, and get back out-without arousing attention.

It was Saturday evening. A laughing crowd was grouped around the massive fireplace in the Moran Room, and a clutch of people stood in front of the desk, waiting to register. The overtaxed desk clerk was far too busy to help me right then.

I went into the Vista Lounge. Barney was at his station. He glanced up and waved as I walked past. I had no more than taken a seat on a stool at the end of the bar when he brought me a McNaughton’s and water. “That’s pretty good,” I said as he set the drink in front of me.

He grinned. “I don’t do much, but I’m good at what I do.”

Someone signaled for a beer. Barney drew one from the tap, delivered it, then came back to me. “So what’s up? You get your car back all right?” I nodded. “Ernie did a great job. I’m up here looking for some answers,” I told him.

“What kind?”

“I need to see the guest register for the eighteenth. Quietly,” I added.

“Unofficially?” I nodded, and he grinned. “I might be able to help. Did you see the lady at the desk?”

“Just a glimpse. She was busy.”

“We’re engaged,” he said proudly. “Tell me what you want. She’ll get it for you.”

Another customer summoned him. When he returned, he stood in front of me, vigorously polishing the bar. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

“At least one room was rented twice that day. Someone checked in, changed his mind, and checked back out. I need a copy of any registration slips on rooms that were rented twice that day.”

He gave me a sly wink. “Looking for somebody sneaking around, eh?” He glanced at my glass. “You want another’?”

“No. I’d better switch to coffee. It’s a long drive.”

“You’re not staying over? We’ve got rooms.”

I shook my head. I drank a couple of cups of coffee and ate a hamburger while I waited.

It was almost an hour before Barney’s fiancee delivered the goods. There were three rooms that had been rented twice on the eighteenth. Using a lighted hurricane lamp from one of the tables, I studied the copies Barney gave me. Five of the six names didn’t ring any bells. Three of them had actually spent the night. The other two were probably respectably married people sneaking an illicit afternoon without their lawfully wedded husbands and wives.

The last name stopped me cold. Don Lacy. The address was in Burien. I wrote it down, 12823 S. 124th. The clincher was that the car was a 1981 Audi, the same make and model listed on Darrell Watkins’ guest registration at the Holiday Inn. Naturally the license numbers didn’t match. What a surprise! Don Lacy and Darrell Watkins had to be one and the same. I left the lounge and walked to the last wing of the hotel where Ginger’s original room had been. The room registered to Lacy was right next door to Ginger’s. When Darrell had been talking to her, pleading with her not to divorce him, he had been directly on the the other side of a narrow wallboard partition, not calling long-distance from somewhere on the mainland. Hurrying back to my car, I barely had time to catch the last ferry to Anacortes. I sat by one of the huge windows, staring at glass that reflected the bright lights inside the boat rather than the midnight water outside. My mind jumped to a dozen different conclusions.

Wilson, Homer, and Darrell all had to be involved together. Somehow. All three of them had been at Orcas that afternoon. Funny how both Darrell and Homer had neglected to mention it. The question remained, Were they in it together, or was one covering for the other?

I wanted to be the one to find the answers. I owed Ginger that much, but I wasn’t working with a full contingent of soldiers. I didn’t have all the resources of Seattle P.D. standing behind me, backing me up. I suppose I could have called Huggins and insisted he reopen the case, but I didn’t. Pride, I guess. I wanted to nail the case down with a fistful of incontrovertible evidence before I called for reinforcements.

My mother used to say, “Pride goeth before a fall.” It’s true. By the time I reached Anacortes, I had a game plan mapped out in my mind. It was almost two in the morning when I hit Seattle. I drove straight through town and took the Sea-Tac exit to Burien.

The address on S. 124th street wasn’t hard to find. A silver Audi was parked in the driveway. I drove home.

Once in the house, I went searching for the phone book. I looked under Lacy, Darlene, 12823 S. 124th Street. That answered a lot of questions. I put the phone book away and went to bed.

Ames woke me Sunday morning. According to my count, that was two Sundays in a row.

He wondered if I would care to join Cody and him for brunch at the Westin. Ames sounded smug. He couldn’t quite conceal his lack of disappointment when I said no. Ames had never struck me as much of a ladies man. He was proud of what he regarded as a personal conquest. I wasn’t the kind of guy to tell him that he had been duck soup for someone like Colleen Borden, and she was far too much of a lady to tell him herself. I left his delusions of adequacy intact.

“Too much to do, Ames, sorry. But I’ll want to talk to you later today or tomorrow about some of the reward money.”

“Okay,” he said. “But if you don’t reach me in my room, you might try Cody’s.”

“Right,” I said.

I waited until ten o’clock before I called Janice Morraine at home. She’s a criminalist in Seattle’s Washington State Patrol Crime Lab. Over the months; she and I had become friends. I couldn’t call the crime lab directly to ask for help. I didn’t have an official case number. “How are you at handwriting analysis?”

“So-so,” she answered.

“How about trading breakfast for an off-the-record opinion.” She laughed. “Smooth talker,” she said.

We went to an omelet house at the bottom of East Madison, right on Lake Washington.

There, amid the early-afternoon Sunday brunch crowd, she smoked one cigarette after another and compared the two signatures from copies of the guest-registration forms.

She studied them in silence for several long minutes, leaving me to sip my coffee and stare at the top of her head bent over the papers in total concentration. At last she looked up at me. “You know I’m not the final word,” she said. I nodded.

“But in my opinion, they were signed by the same person.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Is this the Darrell Watkins?” she asked, pointing at his signature. I nodded again.

“If this is something bad, you’d better not just take my word for it,” she warned.

“I won’t.”

“And we haven’t had this conversation?” - “How did you guess? Now, what do you want to eat?”