Stand Down

 

Stand Down

A
J
.
P
.
B
EAUMONT
N
O
VELLA

J. A. JANCE

 

Dedication

For Audrey and Celeste

 

Contents

 

Stand Down

A
S THE MACHINE
spat out the last drops of coffee that Monday morning, a tiny whiff of hairspray wafted down the hallway from Mel's bathroom and mingled with the aroma of freshly ground beans and the distinctive fragrance of Hoppe's #9 gun-­cleaning solvent. While she was down the hall getting ready to go to work, I was in the kitchen cleaning our weapons—­her standard-­issue Smith & Wesson and her backup Glock, along with my own Glock as well.

It's what I did these Monday mornings—­clean our weapons—­while she got ready to go to work in Bellingham and while I got ready to do whatever it is I do these days. I don't suppose the architect who designed our penthouse condo imagined that our granite countertop would often double as a gun-­cleaning workshop, but then again, where else would I do this necessary, lifesaving task—­the living room? It only takes once to learn how completely a tiny piece of pistol innards can disappear into the hidden reaches of a plush living-­room carpet. And cleaning her weapons every Monday morning was my small contribution toward keeping her safe.

The hairspray told me that within a minute or so, my wife, Mel, would emerge from her bathroom dressed, made up, properly coiffed, and ready to go out into the world as the city of Bellingham's newly hired police chief.

While I was married to my first wife, Karen, we'd shared a single bathroom, with a single washbasin and a combination tub and shower. By the time Anne Corley, my second wife, came into my life, however briefly, I still had a single bathroom, but it contained two washbasins, and a tub/shower combo. Shortly after Mel Soames and I tied the knot, it became clear that even a deluxe bathroom, one with two basins, a tub, and a stand-­alone shower, simply wouldn't cut it.

Mel had solved the problem by collecting her lotions and potions and decamping to the far end of the hallway and turning the guest bedroom, bathroom, and closet into her private domain. At the time, since we were both working the same shifts for the same outfit, having separate bathrooms worked for us. Now things had changed. She had a relatively new job. As for me? I was struggling with the uncomfortable realities of being newly and quite unwillingly retired.

Mel came down the hall, looking very official in her spiffy police chief's uniform and a pair of sensible, low-­heeled pumps.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” I told her. I knew she had a meeting with the Bellingham mayor, the city manager, and city council that morning, and I also knew she was dreading it. “Girls in uniform always turn me on.”

She stopped and glared at me. “Don't lie,” she said. “You know I look like hell.”

The truth is, and much to my surprise, she did look like hell. There were dark shadows under her eyes that even deftly applied makeup didn't quite cover. I had spent the night lying next to her in bed as she had tossed and turned her way through the hours. During my years in law enforcement, including twenty or so at Seattle P.D., I had never once entertained the idea of climbing the treacherous career ladder from being an ordinary cop to becoming one of the brass. Mel was different. She had been on the cop-­to-­brass path in a previous jurisdiction when those plans had been derailed by a complicated divorce. That detour had brought her to Washington State, where we had met.

Second chances don't come along all that often. This time one had. Earlier the previous fall, Mel had been offered her dream job as chief of police in Bellingham, Washington, a small city some ninety miles north of Seattle. The moment the job was offered, I knew she wanted to take it, so I supported her in that decision. I had, however, tried to warn her that making the transition from being part of a team of investigators to being top dog in a new department wouldn't be an easy one. It turns out I was right.

Previously, Mel and I had both worked for the Washington State Attorney General, Ross Connors, on his Special Homicide Investigation Team or, as we had been perversely proud to call it, the S.H.I.T. squad. Ross had been the best boss either of us ever had, bar none. He had expected his ­people to deliver excellent results while, at the same time, giving his teams of investigators an amazing amount of autonomy. Ross was a political animal, but politics stopped at the door to his office.

I knew even before Mel sat down at her desk that she would find herself in a political quagmire and probably with a dearth of support from the rank and file. Unfortunately, that was proving to be the case. Mel's second-­in-­command, Assistant Chief Austin Manson, evidently thought the chief's job should have been his for the asking, and he hadn't been happy when she was chosen over him. From what she'd said, I had gleaned that Manson was a much-­divorced kind of guy with a rancorous and still-­ongoing child-­custody battle in his background, along with a few anger-­management issues besides. Mel had spent the whole weekend distant and preoccupied. I suspected Manson was the root of the problem, but she hadn't been willing to discuss it. I hadn't brought it up, and neither had she.

Now, even without being Mirandized, I understood that in this dicey situation, anything I said could and would be held against me. Besides, handing out a dose of “I told you so,” bright and early in the morning, is never a good way to start a new day or week. I couldn't come right out and tell Mel that she should just bust Austin Manson back to the gang and get it over with. And I sure as hell didn't see myself in the role of Sir Galahad, riding in on my white charger to intervene on her behalf, so that morning, I took the line of least resistance.

“Coffee's ready,” I said noncommittally, shoving her newly cleaned weapons across the counter. Once she had stowed them in their appropriate holsters, I handed over Mel's favorite mug, loaded with fresh coffee. “This should do the trick.”

Mel gave me the benefit of a small, rueful smile. “Thanks,” she said, taking a tentative sip. “Coffee is just what the doctor ordered.”

That hint of a smile was enough to make me hope that, as far as dealing with women is concerned, maybe I was getting older and wiser.

“What's on your agenda today?” she asked. She had left piles of unfinished paperwork on the dining-­room table before we'd gone to bed the night before. She gathered it into a single stack and shoved it into an open briefcase. The stack was bulky enough that closing the case was a bit of a struggle.

“Late this morning, I'm scheduled to drive up to Arlington to meet with the contractor and take a look at the final estimate.”

Two and a half months into her new job, Mel was still spending four nights a week at a dreary Execu-­Stay Hotel in Bellingham. Once she accepted the job, we had decided that, although we didn't want to give up our penthouse in downtown Seattle, we'd find someplace nearer to her workplace as a second home. As spouse-­in-­chief, I had been tasked with finding us suitable digs in the Bellingham area that would allow us to stay there when she was working and come and go from Seattle as often as we wished.

Initially, Mel had voted for another condo. I was looking for something else. After decades of high-­rise living, I was ready for a pied-­à-­terre with . . . well . . . a little actual terre. I wanted a covered patio where, rain or shine, I could walk outside and barbecue steaks for dinner without messing up the kitchen. I also wanted a place where, if the grandkids came to visit, we could put up a volleyball net or fly model airplanes.

My first few meetings with Helen Tate, the Realtor, hadn't gone well. She had evidently checked up on the value of our home in Seattle on the Web, and I could see the dollar signs swimming in her eyes the first time she showed up to take me looking at properties. She had been somewhat dismayed when I fell in love with a vintage-­but-­dilapidated three-­bedroom midcentury modern. Located in the Bayside area of Fairhaven, with a spectacular, cliffside view, it was listed as a “fixer-­upper.” With plenty of sixty-­year-­old plumbing issues, lots of dry rot, and a sagging roof, not to mention a collection of more recent but steamy dual-­paned windows that had long since lost their seals, the place should have been listed as a tear-­down. There was only one problem with that—­I wanted it.

The original owner, a widower, had recently been carted off to an Alzheimer's' facility. His son, who lived out of state, simply wanted to dispose of the place with the least possible amount of effort and fuss.

The thing is, I could tell that underneath all the filth and trash, the house had good bones. The spectacular view of the bay, the interior courtyard, and the expansive windows all beckoned to me. There was so much glass that, once the fogged windows were replaced, we'd be able to see right through the house from back to front. You can get those kinds of views in high-­rise condos occasionally, but finding them in a house was unusual.

Even so, I hoped it would be possible for Mel to see past the neglect to the house's buried charm. Something about the old place felt familiar and inviting and made me want to bring the derelict back from the dead. That stormy day in February, when Mel agreed to meet Helen and me at the house during her lunch break, both the Realtor and I held our collective breaths as Mel, dressed in her uniform and heels, wandered thoughtfully from room to room.

“I see what you mean,” Mel said at last, picking her way through yet another minefield of debris as she returned to the living room. “The place does have good bones, but it's going to take a lot of work. Are you sure you're up to it?”

I nodded.

“What happens to all this stuff?” Mel asked, gesturing at the piles of junk surrounding her.

“The owner's son lives out of town. He doesn't want any of it, and he doesn't want to have to deal with it, either,” Helen explained. “He's ready to be done with it.”

“We'd be buying the place as is, contents and all, no contingencies,” I added. “That means whatever is left here, we'd have to haul away, and whatever's broken, we'd have to fix. I've already called Jim Hunt to see if he'd be willing to come take a look and give us some suggestions.”

Mel eyed me speculatively. “Jim Hunt, as in the guy who designed both your bachelor pads?”

I nodded, guilty as charged. After Karen divorced me, I had moved into a unit at the Royal Crest in downtown Seattle with little more than the clothes on my back and the one piece of furniture that Karen had allowed me to take—­my recliner. One of the secretaries at the department had referred me to Jim, and he had done a complete job of creating a livable condo from a barren shell, up to and including linens and pots and pans. Our only disagreement was over the recliner. He wanted it gone, but I was adamant. The recliner was mine, and I was keeping it. In the years since it had been recovered more than once.

Mel wandered over to the spot where a baby grand piano peeked out from under a mountain of magazines and newspapers. “You say everything stays, even this?” she asked, pausing long enough to open the dust-­laden lid and play a scale. Even I could hear that the piano was hopelessly out of tune.

Helen nodded. “That, too,” the Realtor said helpfully.

“All right, then,” Mel said. “I'm headed back to work. As long as the piano is included, you've got my go-­ahead to make an offer. When you talk to Jim, see if he knows of a good piano guy who could haul this poor old thing out of here, refinish it, and tune it up. Obviously, it can't stay here if the place is about to turn into a construction zone.”

Talk about an assumed close! I learned all about those back in my youth, when I was selling Fuller Brush to earn my way through school. We were trained not to say, “Do you want this brush?” but, rather, “How do you want to pay for this, cash or check?” That was long enough ago that credit cards still weren't an option. It was also typical behavior for Mel Soames. When I asked her to marry me, she hadn't come right out, and said, “Yes.” Instead, her response had been more on the order of, “Well, okay. When?”

I don't think that was the reaction the Realtor expected. She was still standing in an openmouthed daze, as Mel walked out of the house, closing the door behind her.

“You're buying it, then?” Helen asked. “Just like that?”

“It's looking good.”

I waited for Jim to arrive before making a formal offer. He's a tall, good-­looking, narrow guy—­maybe even skinny. He's about my age but fared better in the knee lottery than I did since his are still original equipment. He has an enviable head of silvery hair combined with the good looks of an aging movie star. He's also gay and attempting to cut down on his smoking, but in the thirty years we've known one another, neither of those issues—­smoking or sexual orientation—­have impacted our friendship. He goes his way; I go mine. And he thinks Mel is terrific.

Jim showed up a while later in his shiny white Mercedes C230 and spent the better part of two hours prowling the place before rendering his verdict. “I think we could make do with this,” he told me, “but, if you want my help, there's one condition.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“The only way I'm tackling this job is if you agree to get rid of that damned recliner. Finally.”

When I called Mel to report Jim's single demand, she had jumped at it.

“If he can get you to let go of that ugly old thing, then make an offer on the house and tell me where to sign. I'm there.”

And so we did. Once the deal was finalized, the former owner's son and a grandson had dropped by long enough to gather up several boxes of clothing and a few mementoes, then they drove away without so much as a backward glance, leaving behind seven decades' worth of accumulated trash and a houseful of dead and dying furniture and mountains of out-­of-­date foodstuffs. Some of the canned goods had exploded, leaving behind the distinctive aroma of decay, which would only disappear once we'd stripped the wallboard down to the studs.