Ring In the Dead (8 page)

“We found the bad guys eventually,” I said. “The one who turned state's evidence got off with two years for involuntary manslaughter. The shooter, Benjamin Smith, got fifteen years at Monroe for second-­degree homicide, which ended up turning into a life sentence.”

“How did that happen?”

“Benjy was an arrogant asshole. That's why he thought it was great fun to dodge out of restaurants without paying his bills. As far as he was concerned, the whole thing was nothing but a lark. Unfortunately for him, prison has a way of cutting arrogance down to size. Another inmate stuck a shiv into him. He died ten months into his fifteen-­year sentence.”

“The other guy at the restaurant shooting?” Mel asked.

“Fred Beman served his sentence, straightened out his life, and now he's back home in Walla Walla helping his father run his horse farm.”

“What about Pickles?”

“I was there in the courtroom the day the prosecutor dropped all charges against him. He turned around, grabbed my hand, shook it like crazy, and said, ‘Thanks, Beau. Thanks a lot.' ”

“What about the Jonas bit. Did he ever call you that again?” Mel asked.

“Never. Not once. We worked together for the next five years, and he never called me anything but Beau.”

Mel frowned, looking at the papers in her hand.

“Isn't Pickles the guy who ended up dying of another heart attack?” Mel asked.

“Right,” I said. “That was Pickles. The second one was five years later.”

“So if you saved him from a murder charge, I don't get why his family blamed you when he died of a second heart attack that long after the first.”

“They thought he was working to make it up to me—­that he owed me somehow—­for keeping him out of jail, but it turns out, that wasn't it at all. It was the case.”

“What case?”

“The Woodfield case, the one we got called out on that day.”

“The old guy who killed his wife and then turned the gun on himself?”

“That's the one. From that day on, I remember whenever we'd go somewhere for lunch or dinner, Pickles would spend most of the time sitting there doing arithmetic on paper napkins or in his notebook, trying to figure out if Anna would be better off if he died while he was still on the job so she'd get a lump sum payment or if she'd end up with more money if she was the joint survivor on his pension.”

“Which one would have been better?” Mel asked.

“Pickles opted to work,” I said with a shrug. “Anna probably got a little more money when he died, twenty or thirty thousand more is all. The problem is, she spent the rest of her life mad at him for choosing to work instead of choosing to stay home with her. To her dying day she was convinced that was all my fault.”

“Sounds like they both got the short end of the stick,” Mel observed.

I looked at her. Mel was beautiful. She loved me, and I loved her. Yes, Pickles Gurkey may have thought he owed me something for saving his bacon on that murder charge, but it turned out that, as of today, I owed him for something even more important.

“Let's not make the same mistake Pickles did,” I said. “Whatever time we have,, let's not miss it. Let's spend it together.”

Mel smiled back at me and held out her hand. “Deal,” she said.

We shook on it.

“So what are we doing for New Year's Eve?” she asked. “Are we going out or staying home?”

I glanced at my watch. The afternoon had disappeared on me. It was almost five o'clock.

“Going out,” I said. “Let's go put on our Sunday-­go-­to-­meeting clothes and see what El Gaucho is serving for their blue plate special.”

“They don't have a blue plate special,” Mel pointed out. “They never have.”

“Right,” I said. “And it doesn't matter if they do or don't because if there's one lesson Pickles Gurkey taught me today, it's this: Don't worry about the money. Spend the time.”

Hours later, when it came time for midnight, we were standing on the balcony of our penthouse when the first volley of fireworks went off from the top of the Space Needle. Mel was holding her flute of real champagne. I had my glass of faux.

On the balcony below ours, someone had turned up their sound system, and “Auld Lang Syne” was blasting out of their speakers at full volume, loud enough to cover the rock and roll coming at us from Seattle Center.

Mel reached over and clinked her glass gently into mine. “Happy New Year,” she said.

I nodded. “Thank you,” I said. “And to you, and to time spent together.”

The fireworks were still blasting skyward when the song from the unit below ended in the familiar refrain, “We'll take a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne.”

Maybe I'm just getting sentimental, but a lump caught in my throat. I wiped a stray tear from my eye.

Mel shot me a concerned look. “What?” she asked. “What's going on?”

“Just remembering,” I said. Then I raised my glass again. “Here's to Pickles Gurkey,” I said. “May he rest in peace.”

 

Next from J. A. Jance:

When memories of J. P. Beaumont's past—

from his early days on the force at Seattle PD

and then, even earlier, to his days in Vietnam—

bombard him, he is reminded of ­people and events

he hasn't thought of in years. But tugging on those long-­

ago threads leads to present-­day murders,

and soon Beau must face the fact that some bodies

from the Second Watch just won't stay buried.

Here is a sneak preview of

SECOND WATCH

Coming soon in hardcover

from William Morrow

An Imprint of Harper­CollinsPublishers

 

PROLOGUE

W
E LEFT THE
P
-­2 LEVEL
of the parking lot at Belltown Terrace ten minutes later than we should have. With Mel Soames at the wheel of her Cayman and with me belted into the passenger seat, we roared out of the garage, down the alley between John and Cedar, and then up Cedar to Second Avenue.

Second is one of those rare Seattle thoroughfares where, if you drive just at or even slightly below the speed limit, you can sail through one green light after another, from the Denny Regrade all the way to the International District. I love Mel dearly, but the problem with her is that she doesn't believe in driving “just under” any speed limit, ever. That's not her style, and certainly not on this cool September morning as we headed for the Swedish Orthopedic Institute, one of the many medical facilities located in a neighborhood Seattle natives routinely call Pill Hill.

Mel was uncharacteristically silent as she drove hell-­bent for election through downtown Seattle, zipping through intersections just as the lights changed from yellow to red. I checked to be sure my seat belt was securely fastened and kept my backseat-­ driving tendencies securely in check. Mel does not respond well to backseat driving.

“Are you okay?” she asked when the red light at Cherry finally brought her to a stop.

The truth is, I wasn't okay. I've been a cop all my adult life. I've been in gunfights and knife fights and even the occasional fistfight. There have been numerous times over the years when I've had my butt hauled off to an ER to be stitched up or worse. What all those inadvertent, spur-­of-­the-­moment ER trips had in common, however, was a total lack of anticipation. Whatever happened happened, and I was on the gurney and on my way. Since I had no way of knowing what was coming, I didn't have any time to be scared to death and filled with dread before the fact. After, maybe, but not before.

This time was different, because this time I had a very good idea of what was coming. Mel was driving me to a scheduled check-­in appointment at the Swedish Orthopedic Institute surgical unit Mel and I have come to refer to as the “bone squad.” This morning at eight
A.M
. I was due to meet up with my orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Merritt Auld, and undergo dual knee-­replacement surgery. Yes, dual—­as in two knees at the same time.

I had been assured over and over that this so-­called elective surgery was “no big deal,” but the truth is, I had seen the videos. Mel and I had watched them together. I had the distinct impression that Dr. Auld would be more or less amputating both my legs and then bolting them back together with some spare metal parts in between. Let's just say I was petrified.

“I'm fine,” I said.

“You are not fine,” Mel muttered, “and neither am I.” Then she slammed her foot on the gas, swung us into a whiplash left turn, and we charged up Cherry. Given her mood, I didn't comment on her speed or the layer of rubber she had left on the pavement behind us.

I had gimped along for a very long time without admitting to anyone, most of all myself, that my knees were giving me hell. And once I had finally confessed the reality of the situation, Mel had set about moving heaven and earth to see that I did something about it. This morning we were both faced with a heaping helping of “watch out what you ask for.”

“You could opt to just do one, you know,” she said.

But I knew better, and so did she. When the doctor had asked me which knee was my good knee, I had told him truthfully that they were both bad. The videos had stressed that the success of the surgery was entirely dependent on doing the required post­surgery physical therapy. Since neither of my knees would stand up to doing the necessary PT for the other, Dr. Auld had reluctantly agreed to give me a twofer.

“We'll get through this,” I said.

She looked at me and bit her lip.

“Do you want me to drop you at the front door?”

That was a strategy we had used a lot of late. She would drop me off or pick me up from front doors while she hoofed it to and from parking garages.

“No,” I said. “I'd rather walk.”

I didn't add “with you,” because I didn't have to. She knew it. She also knew that by the time we made it from the parking garage to the building, we would have had to stop to rest three times and my forehead would be beaded with sweat.

“Thank you,” she said.

While I eased my body out of the passenger seat and straightened into an upright position, she hopped out and grabbed the athletic bag with my stuff in it out of the trunk. Then she came toward me, looking up at me, smiling.

And the thought of losing that smile was what scared me the most. What if I didn't wake back up? Those kinds of things weren't supposed to happen during routine surgeries, but they did. Occasionally there were unexpected complications and the patient died. What if this was one of those times, and this was the last time I would see Mel or hold her hand? What if this was the end of all of it? There were so many things I wanted to say about how much I loved her and how much she meant to me and how, if I didn't make it, I wanted her to be happy for the rest of her life. But did any of those words come out of my mouth? No. Not one.

“It's going to be okay,” she said calmly, as though she had heard the storm of misgivings that was circling around in my head. She squeezed my hand and away we went, limping along, the hare patiently keeping pace with the lumbering tortoise.

I don't remember a lot about the check-­in process. I do remember there was a line, and my knees made waiting in line a peculiar kind of hell. Mel offered to stand in line for me, but of course I turned her down. She started to argue, but thought better of it. Instead, she took my gym bag and sat in one of the chairs banked against the wall while I answered all the smiling clerk's inane questions and signed the countless forms. Then, after Mel and I waited another ten minutes, a scrubs-­clad nurse came to summon us and take us “back.”

What followed was the change into the dreaded backless gown; the weigh-­in; the blood draw; the blood pressure, temperature, and pulse checks. Mel hung around for all of that. And she was still there when they stuck me on a bed to await the arrival of my anesthesiologist, who came waltzing into the bustling room with a phony smile plastered on his beaming face. He seemed to be having the time of his life. After introducing himself, he asked my name and my date of birth, and then he delivered an incredibly lame stand-­up comic routine about sending me off to never-­never land.

Gee, thanks, and how would you like a punch in the nose?

After a second wait of who knows how long, they rolled me into another room. This time Dr. Auld was there, and so were a lot of other ­people. Again they wanted my name and date of birth. It occurred to me that my name and date of birth hadn't changed in the hour and a half during which I had told four other ­people the same, but that's evidently part of the program now. Or maybe they do it just for the annoyance factor.

At that point, however, Dr. Auld hauled out a Sharpie and drew a bright blue letter on each of my knees—­
R
and
L
.

“That's just so we'll keep them straight,” he assured me with a jovial smile.

Maybe he expected me to laugh. I didn't. The quip reminded me too much of the kinds of stale toasts delivered by hungover best men at countless wedding receptions, and it was about that funny, too. I guess I just wasn't up to seeing any humor in the situation.

Neither was Mel. I glanced in her direction and saw the icy blue-­eyed stare my lovely wife had leveled in the good doctor's direction. Fortunately, Dr. Auld didn't notice.

“Well,” he said. “Shall we do this?”

As they started to roll me away, Mel leaned down and kissed me good-­bye. “Good luck,” she whispered in my ear. “Don't be long. I'll be right here waiting.”

I looked into Mel's eyes and was surprised to see two tears well up and then make matching tracks down her surprisingly pale cheeks. Melissa Soames is not the crybaby type. I wanted to reach up and comfort her and tell her not to worry, but the anesthesiologist had given me something to “take the edge off,” and it was certainly working. Before I could say anything at all, Mel was gone, disappearing from view behind my merry band of scrubs-­attired escorts as they wheeled me into a waiting elevator.

I closed my eyes then and tried to remember exactly how Mel looked in that moment before the doors slid shut between us. All I could think of as the elevator sank into what felt like the bowels of the earth was how very much I loved her and how much I wanted to believe that when I woke up, she really would be there, waiting.