Long Time Gone Part 29

"I know," I said. "I'm well aware of that."

"...took his d.a.m.ned time about sending someone over. By the time he and his detectives showed up-search warrant in hand because ours was out of date-Brad and I had already located three different people who had heard the sounds of an altercation between a man and a woman coming from Dillon's apartment around six P.M."

"Heard it but didn't report it," I interjected.

Mel nodded. "That's right. Lots of student-style apartments around there, so maybe noisy arguments are a regular occurrence. When Kramer showed up and realized Brad and I were the ones on the scene, I thought he was going to have a coronary on the spot. He ordered us to leave. Ordered!" Mel repeated derisively. "On the grounds that we were operating outside our jurisdiction! Who the h.e.l.l does he think he is?"

"He's someone who's used to throwing his weight around."

"In that case, Dillon's e-mail may sound good enough for us to believe Heather wasn't involved, and it's probably good enough for the prosecutor's office, but I doubt it'll convince Kramer. He knows that you and Ron are good friends, and he's going to go after this like a pit bull. All that means is we're going to have to find proof. Or Heather's attorney will."

I liked the fact that having met Paul Kramer only once or twice, Mel already had his number.

"Any ideas?" I asked.

"Brad picked up a bunch of security videotapes. There's a company down in Olympia that owns several dozen convenience stores. We need to go through those. If Molly and Dillon both had cell phones, we need to check those out. If there were calls made during the time in question, we may be able to get a physical location."

Heather appeared at the end of the hallway. "You need Dillon's phone?" she asked. "If you do, I have it. One of the medics gave it to me when we were in the ambulance. He said it was in the way."

She turned and went back down the hallway. When she returned with the phone, she handed it over to me. The phone wasn't the least bit like mine. I had to put on my reading gla.s.ses in hopes of sorting out how it worked, but the phone was as dead as could be. I remembered then that Dillon had told Heather it had lost its charge. Until we found a cord that fit it, the phone would stay dead.

"I'm so sorry to hear about Dillon," Mel said to Heather. "Please accept my condolences."

Mel's words were uttered with such sincerity that Heather was taken aback. I don't think she had expected sympathy from Mel. Nothing she said discounted the supposed "puppy love" aspects of the loss Heather was feeling. Grief was grief, and Heather nodded gratefully. "Thank you," she said.

"I know you're going through a very difficult time," Mel continued, "and you may be too tired to go into any of this right now, but Beau asked me over so I could get a jump on the interview process. Lots of people and jurisdictions are involved in these cases. In order to close them, all the investigators are going to need answers to questions-answers that you alone may be able to provide."

"I know," Heather said.

"I'm hoping that, if we do a good enough job initially, you may not have to go through this ordeal over and over, but in order to make it official, I'll need to record it."

"Yes," Heather said. "I understand."

While Mel set up her recording equipment, I refreshed our coffees and brought some for Heather as well.

Because of my close a.s.sociation with the Peters family and with Heather in particular, I kept my mouth shut during the interview process. I couldn't have added anything. Mel asked her probing questions in a way that was firm but not at all patronizing. She asked about Molly and about Molly's relationship to Heather and to Dillon as well. She went over everything about the day of Rosemary's murder in minute detail, pulling out every smidgen of Heather's remembrance of that day and the days since.

I stuck with it for a long time, but I have to confess as we neared the two-hour mark and the third tape, I was fading. I had drifted off in the recliner when the phone awakened me.

"Sorry about this, Mr. Beaumont," Fred Tomkins said, "but I've got me three men down here in the lobby-three policemen-who say they need to come see you right away. I tried to tell 'em it was way too early for them to go up, but..."

I hadn't a doubt in the world that Kramer would be one of the three. "That's okay," I told Fred. "Send them up."

Mel looked at me questioningly. "Kramer?" she asked.

"The doorman didn't say, but he'd be my first guess. This should be interesting."

I opened the door as Kramer reached for the bell. "Imagine meeting you here," I said. "You're turning into a regular."

"I'm looking for a witness named Heather Peters," he said. "I understand she left Harborview Hospital with you last night."

"She's here," I said. "But she's busy at the moment. Mel Soames is in the process of interviewing her."

Kramer practically levitated off the floor. "I told that b.i.t.c.h last night. This is the city of Seattle. She's got no jurisdiction here, and neither do you. What happened last night was clearly inside the city limits. I demand that you turn her over to me immediately."

Calling Mel Soames a b.i.t.c.h didn't go over well with me, but I managed to keep my voice steady and my temper under control.

"You can demand until the cows come home, Kramer, but it's not going to do any good. What happened on Queen Anne Hill last night is tied in with the Rosemary Peters homicide in Tacoma last week. Because of the possibility that it was an officer-involved domestic-violence case, state law makes s.h.i.t the lead investigative agency. I'm sure Mel Soames will be happy to share a transcript of the Heather Peters interview with you once it's available. She'll share any other information she's gathered as well, but in the meantime I'm afraid you'll have to wait."

"I don't want a transcript," Kramer growled. "And I don't want to wait. We want to talk to the girl now. As a friend of the family, you should know better than to have any involvement in the interview process. It's a clear conflict of interest."

"I'm not involved," I returned. "In fact, I haven't said a word. You'll be able to tell that as soon as you see the transcript."

Kramer's complexion had gone from red to purple. "You're interfering with my investigation, Beaumont, and I won't stand for it."

"And you're interfering with ours," I returned.

"I intend to lodge a formal complaint."

"Be my guest," I said. "I'm sure Ross Connors will be more than happy to discuss the situation with you on Monday once he gets to his office, but until then I'd say you're out of luck."

With that, I closed the door in Kramer's face. Slammed it is more likely. Had he ever had the good fortune to support himself by selling goods door-to-door, Captain Kramer might have had the foresight to stick his toe in the door. But he didn't. When I turned back into the room, Mel Soames was standing behind me in the hallway, grinning. Heather, on the other hand, was wide-eyed and ashen.

Mel went back over to her. "How are you?" she asked, trying to take Heather's focus off Kramer.

"Tired," Heather admitted.

"Hungry?"

"That, too, I guess."

"Well," Mel said, "that makes two of us, and since Beau here just had the time of his life tormenting poor Captain Kramer, I'm guessing he'll be more than happy to take us to breakfast. Right?"

She was right, of course. I had tormented Kramer for no other reason than the fact that I could. And I had enjoyed the h.e.l.l out of it. "As soon as I know for sure they're gone," I said.

I called downstairs a few minutes later to be sure Kramer and the two detectives had taken themselves away. Heather had forgotten her coat-my old jacket-when she bolted out of the hospital waiting room. Once again, she left my apartment wearing another of my jackets, one that came almost to her knees.

The three of us had breakfast at the Five-Spot. I was grateful we didn't run into Marty Woodman. The old man had been kind enough to put me in touch with Wink Winkler. I didn't want to have to try to explain to him how that connection had resulted in Wink's death. As we finished breakfast, Amy came by to pick up Heather.

The girl looked up warily as the door swung open. Amy hurried into the room, scanning the restaurant before she caught sight of where we were sitting. She stopped next to her stepdaughter.

"Oh, Heather," Amy said. "I'm so, so sorry."

Heather leaped up and threw herself into Amy's arms. "Me, too," she said.

And it really didn't matter what they were sorry about-whether it was Dillon or Molly or Rosemary or all of the above. What mattered most was that they were together holding and comforting each other. The night before, Heather hadn't been ready to accept comfort from anyone, most especially from her family. But this morning, whatever stresses had been eating away at the fabric of Ron and Amy's family had melted into the background and were no longer strong enough to keep the family estranged. I could only hope that I had played some small part in making that happen.

"What now?" Mel asked me a few minutes later, after Amy and Heather had taken their leave. "Did you ever talk to Wink Winkler's son?"

The way she asked the question made me feel defensive. After all, I hadn't exactly been lying around on the job. I was also smart enough to realize that general crankiness is a natural outgrowth of being too tired.

"Ran out of time," I said.

"If you want to track him down this morning, I'd be glad to go along."

I really wanted to go back to Belltown Terrace and put in a few hours in the sack instead of the recliner, but manly pride wouldn't allow me to admit such a thing, not with Mel Soames, bright as a new penny, sitting there smiling at me.

"I don't have his address info," I said, more than half hoping that would dissuade her, but it didn't. Within seconds she pulled her phone out of her purse and was jotting down Bill Winkler's home address over on Magnolia as well as the corporate address for Emerald City Security on the far side of Boeing Field.

We drove to the address on Magnolia and found ourselves in front of a neat brick bungalow. A more than middle-aged woman answered the door. "Bill's not here," Mrs. William Winkler III told us in answer to our inquiry. "He doesn't usually go in to work on Sat.u.r.days, but today something came up."

"That would be at the Columbia City address?" Mel asked.

"Yes," Mrs. Winkler said. "It's an old warehouse. Not much to look at, but when it comes to rent, the price is right."

"Have you set a time for Wink's services?" I asked.

"There won't be any. Once the body is released, we'll have it cremated and then Bill will scatter the ashes. It's Bill's father, after all," she added after a pause, "so it's his decision."

We left the Winklers' house and returned to Mel's Beemer. I would have been happier being driven around in leather-interior luxury had it not been for Mel's unfortunate tendency to drive like a bat out of h.e.l.l. No wonder she could make it from Bellevue to Belltown Terrace in nothing flat, but I know better than to backseat drive. I just held on for dear life and kept my mouth shut.

"She sounded a little defensive about the 'no services' bit," Mel said once we were inside the 740.

"We know Wink and his son have been estranged for years," I replied. "If you're p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l at the guy, I don't suppose you're interested in forking over big bucks for a major send-off to plant him."

"No," Mel agreed, "I suppose not."

We wheeled across the Magnolia Bridge and through downtown Seattle at a speed that should have required flashing lights and sirens. Fortunately it was still early enough on Sat.u.r.day morning that there wasn't a lot of traffic. I was glad when we turned off onto South Myrtle, a short street nestled between Boeing Field and the Duwamish Waterway.

Surrounded by a chain-link fence, Emerald City Security sat at the far end of the dead-end street. The gate was wide open. Two vehicles sat next to the run-down, grubby-looking building. One was a white van with the Emerald City logo prominently displayed on either side. The second one was an unmarked Crown Vic that screamed Seattle PD.

"d.a.m.n!" I muttered.

"What?"

"I'd be willing to bet money that Kramer's here," I said.

"Great," Mel replied. "The more the merrier."

She parked on the far side of the van. The back gates of the van were open. As we walked past the back b.u.mper, we saw that the vehicle was loaded almost window-high with stacks of wood.

"Laminate flooring," Mel announced. "I'd call that a pretty high-cla.s.s floor covering for a dump like this."

"Especially if you're renting," I said.

The front door was standing open to allow for the pa.s.sage of an extension cord. A portable saw with a pile of damp sawdust next to it stood just outside. We were stepping up to the door when we heard the sound of voices.

"You've got no right to come charging in here like this without so much as a by-your-leave," someone was saying.

"I just came by to talk to you," Paul Kramer said. "I wanted to go over some phone records with you. I knocked, but you must not have heard-" He stopped. "Wait a minute. What's that?"

"What's what?"

"There on the floor."

"Paint," Bill Winkler answered. "Red paint. One of my guys spilled it earlier this week. I decided covering it over would be easier than cleaning it up."

"It doesn't look like paint to me," Kramer said. "It looks more like blood-a lot of it. I think you'd better come with me, Mr. Winkler. I'd say we have far more to discuss than phone records."

"Like h.e.l.l!" Bill Winkler responded. I heard a dull thud-the kind of noise you hear on a football field when one player crashes into another, only I doubted anyone here was wearing protective padding. I looked at Mel. She was already reaching for her phone.

Inside, the sounds of a desperate struggle continued. We both had our backup weapons-lightweight Glocks that were fine up close but would be useless from a distance. That meant for our guns to be useful we had to be inside the building, but neither of us was wearing a vest. Mel's was probably in her trunk. Mine was at home.

"Go," she told me in an urgent whisper. "Once you're inside, you go left. I'll go right as soon as I'm off the phone."

I stepped through the door and into the warehouse just as a m.u.f.fled gunshot ended the struggle. Only half the cavernous room was lit by the feeble glow of hanging fluorescent shop lights. Thankful for the dim lighting, I dodged forward between ranks of mostly empty metal shelving. Finally I was close enough that I could see the outline of a man standing still, breathing heavily, and looking down. I could also see the outline of the gun in his hand.

I caught a flash of movement off to my right as Mel Soames darted through the door and then disappeared behind a tall wooden counter. "Drop it!" she shouted. "We've got the place surrounded. Put down your weapon and get down on the floor, facedown."

Surrounded? I knew she was bluffing. Mel knew she was bluffing. All we could hope was that Bill Winkler had no idea.

But he must have. "h.e.l.l, no!" he exclaimed. With that he turned and set off at a dead run for the far side of the building, where only now I could see the outline of another door. He reached it, pulled it open, and then stood behind it, using it for cover as he sprayed the interior of the building with a barrage of automatic gunfire.

For a moment, after the door banged shut, I stood where I was. "Kramer," I shouted. "It's Beaumont. Can you hear me? Are you all right?"

His response was more groan than anything else. "Go get him. Don't let him get away."

I turned and sprinted toward the door. Mel was there waiting. "Here," she said, and thrust a set of keys into my hand.

"They're from his van," she said. "I saw them and took them when I was making the call. Without your vest, we'll be better off in vehicles."

"Right," I said. And away we went.

CHAPTER 23.

AS WE EXITED THE BUILDING, the first of several squad cars came streaming through the gate. Those guys had weapons and vests and they were all a h.e.l.l of a lot younger than either Mel or me. While the young Turks went sprinting off toward the back of the building, Mel and I hurried back inside, with Mel redialing 911 and calling for medics as we went.

We found Paul Kramer lying faceup on the concrete floor. He looked so pallid in the yellow-tinged glow of the fluorescent lights that at first I was afraid he was already dead, but when we reached him, he was still breathing.

"Thank G.o.d!" I exclaimed.

He had been wearing a vest. Unfortunately, a single bullet had sliced through the edge at the bottom of the vest and veered into his ample gut. He was doing his best to maintain some kind of pressure on the b.l.o.o.d.y wound, but he was losing it and slipping into unconsciousness. I moved his hand aside and put my own in place of his. Kramer was a pain in the a.s.s, but I had never wished him this kind of ill.