Ring In the Dead (7 page)

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Detectives Watkins and Powell and I went straight back to the department and looked up Frederick Beman. There were two Frederick Bemans listed. The composite sketch was surprisingly close to the younger one's Department of Licensing photo. His driving record included three DUIs. He'd had a pickup once, but that had been totaled during one of the DUI incidents. The DMV showed no current vehicles listed in his name, although there were several listed for his father, Frederick Beman, Sr., who owned a horse ranch somewhere outside Walla Walla.

“Looks like we're going to Walla Walla,” Larry Powell said.

“When?” I asked.

“Right now.”

I glanced at my watch. It was after four in the afternoon. “How are we going to do that?”

“We're going to drive,” Larry said. “We'll take turns. You go check out a car. Make sure it has a full tank of gas. I'll clear it with the captain.”

That's exactly what I did. While the guys at Motor Pool were gassing up the car, I called Karen and told her I wouldn't be home. Since she was stuck there alone with a toddler and a colicky baby, she was not happy to hear that I was off on a cross-­state adventure, but there wasn't much she could do about it. Captain Tompkins wasn't thrilled, either, especially with having three members of his Homicide Unit tied up in what he termed a “wild-­goose chase,” but he relented finally, too. Larry convinced him that this was basically my lead, but that I was too green to chase after it alone. So off we went, all three of us.

Walla Walla is a long way from Seattle—­two hundred and fifty miles, give or take. With me sitting in the backseat, I'm sure ­people who saw us thought I was a crook being hauled off to jail somewhere. We took turns driving. By the time we got into Walla Walla, it was too late to do much of anything but get a room and wait for morning. We opted for one room with two double beds. Not the best arrangement, but bunking with Watty beat sleeping on the floor or out in the car. The next morning, over coffee, we were all complaining about how everyone else snored, so I guess it was pretty even-­Steven on that score.

After breakfast we found our way to Beman Arabians. There was a main house and several immense barns with an office complex at the near end of one of them. There were also a number of outbuildings that looked as though they were occupied by workers of one stripe or another. When we asked for Fred Beman, we were directed to the office, where we found a handsome, white-­haired, older gentleman seated behind a messy desk. When he stood up and stepped out from behind the desk to greet us, he looked for the all the world as if he had simply emerged, cowboy boots and all, from one of those old Gene Autry movies I loved so much when I was a kid. One look at him was enough to tell us that this might be Fred Beman, but not the one we wanted.

Larry Powell held up his badge. “We're looking for Fred Beman, a younger Fred Beman.”

The old man stared at the badge for a moment, then looked back at Larry. “That would be Fred Junior, my son. What's he done now?”

“We're actually interested in a friend of his,” Larry said. “A friend from Seattle.”

Beman shook his head. “Don't know nothin' about any of those. When Freddie came skedaddlin' back home this summer and begged me to give him another chance, I figured he was in some kind of hot water or other. He's out back shovelin' shit. I told him if he wanted to get back in my good graces and into the family business, he'd be startin' from the bottom.”

With that Fred Senior led the way out of his office and into the barn. It was pungent with the smell of horses and hay. We found Fred Junior in one of the stalls, pitchfork in hand. He must have taken after his mother because he didn't look anything like his dad. He didn't smell like his dad, either. His father carried a thick cloud of Old Spice with him wherever he went. The air around Junior reeked of perspiration flavored with something else—­vodka most likely. Anyone who thinks vodka doesn't smell hasn't spent any time around a serious drunk. Fred Junior may not have been driving at the moment, but he was most definitely still drinking.

“Someone to see you, Freddie,” the old man said, then he turned on the worn heels of his cowboy boots and walked away. It was clear from his posture that whatever problem we represented was his son's problem, and he would have to deal with it on his own.

Fred Junior leaned on the handle of the pitchfork. “What's this about?”

I held up my badge. “It's about your friend Benjamin,” I said.

A wary look crossed Fred's face. I had learned at the academy that an assailant with a knife can cut down a guy with a gun before there's time to pull the trigger. I calculated that the wicked metal tines on the long-­handled pitchfork could poke holes in my guts faster than any handheld knife. I was glad I had Watty and Larry Powell there for backup if need be. The problem was, I wanted this guy alive and talking, far more than I wanted him dead.

“What about him?” Fred said.

“He's been telling us some interesting stories,” I said casually. “He told us you shot a woman a few weeks ago—­shot her in cold blood in the parking lot of the Doghouse Restaurant in Seattle.”

The only light in the barn came from the open stall doors along the side of the building and from a few grimy windows up near the roof. Still, even in the relative gloom of the barn, I saw the color drain from his face. The muscles in his jaw clenched.

“I never,” he said. “I was there, but I never shot her. I told him, ‘Hey, man. I've got the money. Let's just pay the woman.' But Benjy's crazy. He picked up the gun and fired away.”

“Maybe you'd like to put down that pitchfork and give us a statement,” I suggested.

For a long moment, nobody moved while Fred Junior stood there and considered what he would do. It was quiet enough in the barn that you could have heard a pin drop. Somewhere within hearing distance a fly buzzed.

Finally Fred spoke again. “Can you get me a deal?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I can't promise any deals,” I said, “but if you'll help us, I'll do what I can to help you.”

It was lame, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances, and it probably wouldn't have worked if Fred Beman hadn't been ready to turn himself in. He didn't need a deal. All you had to do was look at him to see that his conscience was eating him alive. He had run home to Daddy after what happened at the Doghouse. He was half dead from a combination of too much booze and too little sleep. I could tell from the haunted look in his eyes that wherever he went and no matter how much he tried to drink himself into oblivion, Fred could find no escape. Lulu McCaffey in her black uniform and little white apron was still lying there on the hot, dirty pavement, as dead as could be.

“Put down the pitchfork, please,” I said quietly. “Place your hands on your head.”

There was another long pause. I hadn't drawn my weapon, but I had heard the subtle snap of leather as both Larry and Watty drew theirs. As I said, it was deathly quiet in that barn. I think we were all holding our breaths. When Fred finally moved, it was only to lean over and carefully lower the pitchfork to the floor. Without a word, Watty stepped forward and cuffed him. I read him his rights. By then, Fred was crying his eyes out.

“I couldn't believe it when it happened,” he sobbed. “It was just supposed to be fun. He shot her down like she was an animal or something.”

We were cops from out of town and were a long way outside our jurisdiction. We also hadn't reported our arrival to any of the local authorities. As a consequence, we needed to get out of Dodge. And since Fred seemed willing enough to talk, we wanted that to happen before he got all lawyered up. Fortunately, Larry Powell had planned ahead. He had brought a battery-­powered cassette tape recorder with him. Once the four of us were settled in the car with me riding in back with Fred, we turned on Larry's recorder, read Fred Beman his rights again, and announced into the tape who all was present in the vehicle. Then we began the long drive back to Seattle, listening to his story as we went.

It turned out that skipping out on checks in restaurants was Benjamin Smith's hobby. He did it all the time, whether he had money in his pocket to pay for his dinner or not. He traveled around town on bus passes. That's why he often timed his dine-­and-­dash events to happen during rush hour when there were plenty of ­people out and about and lots of buses on the streets. That's how he managed to disappear so readily—­by blending in with the crowd.

Gradually, when Fred got a grip on himself, we had him go over the story again, and recount exactly what had happened in the Doghouse parking lot. His story matched Pickles's in every detail, including the fact that none of the three of them—­Lulu, Benjamin, or Fred—­had seen Pickles Gurkey in the parking lot prior to the moment when he had attempted to intervene in the fight between Lulu and Benjamin. They had stopped their altercation long enough to see him standing there, holding a drawn weapon, and announcing he was a cop. Then he had simply dropped the gun, staggered backward, and fallen against the building.

“I don't know if the guy was drunk or what,” Fred continued. “Benjy reached down and picked up the gun. The woman had stopped yelling by then because she was all worried about the guy who had just fallen over. I think she realized at the last moment that Benjy had a gun, but by then it was too late for her to get away. As soon as Benjy shot her, he wiped the gun off with his shirt, put it in the guy's hand, and then dropped it in his lap. The guy on the ground was so out of it, I doubt he had any idea what had just happened. After that, we took off, ran like hell over to Denny, and hopped a bus up to Capitol Hill. Benjy said not to worry, that he was sure both the woman and the cop were dead. Benjy was convinced ­people would think the cop had done it and that no one would ever find us, but you have,” he finished. “You did.”

“It turns out Medic 1 showed up in time, and Detective Gurkey didn't die,” I told him. “In fact, he's the whole reason we're here today. He's being charged with murder in the death of Lulu McCaffey. He's about to go down for what you did. Our job is to make sure that doesn't happen.”

“You still don't understand,” Fred insisted. “I'm telling you, I didn't do it. I'm not the one who shot her. Benjy did.”

“And then what?”

“And then I had to get out of Seattle. I called my dad and asked if I could come home. Again. He said he'd give me a place to stay and food to eat, but I had to work for it, just like his other hands. And that's what I did.”

I looked at my watch. Watty glanced in the rearview mirror and caught me doing it. “Don't worry,” he said. “We'll be there in time.”

We drove straight back to Seattle. We dropped by Seattle PD long enough to put Fred Beman in an interrogation room, and then we headed for the Hargrove Hotel. In case Benjamin Smith made a run for it, we stationed two uniformed officers at First and Madison. Watty was parked in a car facing northbound at First and Columbia. Larry Powell and I waited inside the scuzzy lobby of the Hargrave, seated on a pair of swaybacked, cracked leather chairs. The clerk seemed distinctly unhappy to see us. As the moments ticked by, I worried that he might have spilled the beans and Benjamin Smith had already skipped town.

Instead, Benjy—­I liked thinking of him that way—­showed up right on time, at twenty minutes to three, sauntering along, swinging his lunch pail like he didn't have a care in the world. It was Wednesday. There was no telling if he'd stopped at Bakeman's on his way home. As soon as he pushed open the brass and glass door and started for the elevator, I stood up to head him off.

“Mr. Smith,” I said, barring his way and holding my badge up to his face. “Detective Beaumont with Seattle PD. If you don't mind, I'd like to have a word.”

I was deliberately in his face, and the man did exactly what I hoped he'd do. He took a swing at me with the lunch pail. Since that's what I was expecting, I blocked it easily. When you need an excuse to take someone into custody, there's nothing like resisting in front of a collection of witnesses to give you a warrantless reason to lock some guy up in a jail cell for the next few hours. On the way to Benjy's interrogation room, I made sure he got a look at Fred, anxious and despairing, sitting in his.

“What's he doing here?” Benjy asked, nodding in Fred's direction.

“What do you think he's doing?” I said. “Mr. Beman is singing like a bird. How do you think we found you?”

M
EL CAME IN
about then, smiling and waving her freshly manicured, scarlet nails in my face as she kissed me hello. “What were you reading?” she asked, looking down at the scatter of yellowing onionskin paper I had dropped onto the carpet in front of the window seat. I had let the pages fall as I read them. After I had finished reading, I had simply let them be as I sat there recalling that long-­ago history.

“It's something Pickles Gurkey wrote before he died,” I explained.

“Your old partner?”

I nodded. “His widow, Anna, died a few weeks ago. His daughter, Anne Marie, was cleaning out her mother's house and found this. She dropped it off because she thought I'd want to read it.”

“Did you?” Mel asked. “Read it, I mean.”

I nodded again.

“May I?”

“Sure,” I said. “Help yourself.”

So Mel gathered up the pages, settled comfortably on the window seat next to me, and started to read. The storm had long since ended. The clouds had rolled eastward. Outside the sky was a fragile blue, and so was the water out in the sound, but it was getting on toward evening.

I waited quietly until Mel finished reading. Fortunately she's a very fast reader.

“So what happened?” she asked, straightening the sheets of paper and handing them back to me in a neat stack.