Long Time Gone Part 5

"I'm sure everything will be fine," I told Tracy, trying to sound more rea.s.suring than I felt. "No doubt your father has some perfectly reasonable explanation for where he went and what he was doing so late on Friday evening."

Tracy looked at me pleadingly. "Do you really think so, Uncle Beau?" she asked. "Or are you just saying that to make me feel better?"

For an instant a terrible thought crossed my mind. Was Tracy as innocent as she seemed, or was her trip to see me a preemptive strike designed to point suspicion in her father's direction and away from her? The thought was there, but looking into her guileless blue eyes, I banished it as quickly as it came.

"Would you believe a little of both?" I asked.

She gave me a faint smile. "I'd believe it," she said. Unfolding her legs, Tracy reached for her jacket. "I'd better be going," she said.

I glanced outside. Far below, streetlights and headlights glowed in golden halos through the falling snow. I looked down at the stoplight at First and Broad. While I watched, a vehicle stopped on the steep incline west of First began to slip backward. The first vehicle slid until it bashed into a second one that had been coming up the street behind it. The second car spun like a slow-motion top before ending up sitting astraddle the opposite lane. Just then a westbound car came through the green light. The driver slammed on his brakes and then skidded down the hill until he T-boned the pa.s.senger side of the second vehicle.

There's nothing like Seattle in the snow. It can be an incredibly entertaining spectator sport as long as you're not out in it.

"No," I declared, turning away from the window. "You're not going anywhere in this weather. You can sleep in the spare room. We'll figure out how to get you home in the morning."

"But what about...?"

"Your parents?" I asked.

Tracy nodded.

"I'll call and let them know you're here. I'll tell them you came by because you were upset about Rosemary's death and needed to talk."

"They're still going to be p.i.s.sed at me," she said.

"No, I don't think so," I told her. "They have so much on their plates right now, I doubt they'll even notice."

I gave Tracy one of my T-shirts to sleep in and a robe to wear. After she headed for bed, I called her house. No answer. That wasn't a big surprise. It was late. Knowing what Ron and Amy were going through, I should have expected they'd turn off their phone. I left a message saying Tracy was with me and that I'd bring her home in the morning. I hit the sack then, too, but I didn't sleep.

Ron Peters's marriage was in trouble and he had been having serious difficulties with his ex-wife. I knew nothing about any of it, and yet I was supposedly his best friend. So what kind of friend did that make me?

Not so hot, I concluded. And not nearly as good a friend as I thought I was.

CHAPTER 5.

I AWAKENED THE NEXT MORNING to the unwelcome news that there were five to seven inches of snow in the Denny Regrade area of downtown Seattle where I live, with more than twice that on the East-side and at higher elevations. What followed was a droning recitation of school closures. Many offices and businesses were suggesting that unessential workers stay home.

Which am I? I wondered. Essential or not?

Scrambling out of bed, I pulled on some clothing and then went to make coffee. I stood in the kitchen and looked out onto a beautiful winter wonderland where the streets were practically deserted. With the exception of a chained-up bus or two and a couple of speeding SUVs, no one else seemed to be out and about.

When the phone rang I knew it would be Ron, and I was right. "What the h.e.l.l was Tracy thinking, taking off like that in the middle of the night? Where is she?"

"In the other room and still asleep, if the phone didn't wake her, that is," I said.

"Wake her up," Ron told me. "I want to talk to her."

"I told her you wouldn't be mad."

"Well, you were wrong," he grumbled. "I am mad. With everything else going to h.e.l.l around here, the last thing I needed was for her to go AWOL."

"She was scared," I said.

"Of what?"

"She's afraid you did it."

"Did what?"

"She's afraid you're responsible for Rosemary's death."

This stopped Ron cold. "Tracy thinks I killed her mother?" he asked after a long pause.

"Evidently," I responded.

It was one thing for homicide detectives from Tacoma to hint around that they suspected Ron Peters of being a killer. Ron already understood that, as far as the investigation was concerned, he, as the ex-husband, was bound to be a prime suspect. I understood that, too. It was quite another thing for him to realize that his own daughter was drawing that same conclusion. The realization did nothing to improve Ron's frame of mind.

"Let her sleep then," he said finally. "She isn't going to school today anyway, but when she wakes up, tell her from me that since she got herself down to your place, she can jolly well get herself home."

"That's not going to work," I said. "The snow acc.u.mulation wasn't that bad when she got here, but she showed up dressed in a jogging suit and tennis shoes. She can't walk home in that outfit in several inches of snow. I'd be glad to give her a ride, but I put off changing to winter tires too long, which makes my 928 pretty much worthless for driving in snow."

"Okay," Ron said. "I guess you'd better wake Tracy up after all. Amy's outside now, putting chains on the Volvo. I'll ask her to stop by your place before she goes to work."

"You're not going in today?" I asked.

"As of yesterday I'm on bereavement leave," he answered. His tone was grim.

We both knew that would change. If and when Ron became an acknowledged suspect in the homicide investigation, bereavement leave would become a thing of the past. Paid administrative leave would be more like it-if he was lucky. Unpaid if he wasn't.

"And it's just as well," he added. "I guess I need to start planning Rosemary's funeral. She's been estranged from her family for years, so there's n.o.body else to do it. But with no way of knowing when the body will be released...Wait a sec. There's another call coming in. Gotta go."

Expecting to waken Tracy, I ventured as far as the guest-room door. Before I could knock, I heard a toilet flush and the shower come on. With my houseguest already up and about, I returned to the kitchen and poured another cup of coffee.

The showers in my condo are equipped with demand heaters, which means you can shower until h.e.l.l freezes over without ever running out of hot water. Tracy, being a typical teenager, was nonetheless prepared to try exhausting the inexhaustible supply of hot water. The shower was still running sometime later when the phone rang again. This time Amy Peters was calling from the security phone on the first level of the parking garage.

"Tracy's still in the shower," I told her.

"That's okay," she returned. "I wanted to talk to you. Can I come up for a minute?"

"Sure," I said and buzzed her into the elevator lobby.

After a car accident had left Ron Peters paralyzed from the waist down, he was pretty much lying in a bed of pain and wallowing in self-pity until Amy Fitzgerald walked into his hospital room and into his life. She was there to do physical therapy, but it turned out she performed mental therapy as well.

In the years I had known her, I had never seen Amy Peters upset. She has always struck me as someone with a permanently positive att.i.tude, and she's mostly unflappable. When she stepped off the elevator that morning, though, I could see she was flapped. Clearly she'd been crying, and she wasn't over it yet. Was it possible she was this upset over Rosemary's death?

No, I reasoned silently. More likely she and Ron have had some kind of quarrel.

"Amy," I said aloud. "What's wrong?"

She looked around. "Where's Tracy?"

"Still in the shower."

"Thank G.o.d!" She spoke in an urgent whisper and then took a deep breath. "While I was putting the chains on my car, I got grease on my hands and needed a towel. Ron usually keeps a supply of washrags in the back of his Camry. I opened the trunk and-" Amy stopped speaking. Her face crumpled, letting loose a fresh spate of tears.

"And what?" I demanded.

"There was dried blood inside Ron's trunk, Beau. Lots of it. Like somebody or something bled out in there."

I felt like I was in free fall with no parachute. Tracy's concerns were one thing. Incriminating bloodstains were something else. "Are you sure about that?"

She nodded. "Yes, I'm sure. I've worked in hospitals all my adult life, Beau. I know dried blood when I see it. What should I do?"

"You have to report it," I said at once. "It's as simple as that."

"But I can't," she wailed. "How can I? Ron's my husband, Beau. I love him. I can't be the one to turn him in."

"Then I'll have to do it," I said. "I'm a sworn police officer-an officer of the court. I don't have a choice. Do you have an attorney? Ron should have someone there with him when the detectives arrive."

"The only attorney we have right now is the guy who was representing us in the custody case against Rosemary. It turns out he was the next best thing to useless."

Amy and I had been standing in the elevator lobby talking. Tracy came out to where we were. Her light brown hair was still damp from the shower, and she was wearing the jogging suit and tennis shoes she had worn the night before.

"Mom!" she said. "What are you doing here?"

Amy Peters wiped away her tears. Then, with extraordinary effort, she somehow marshaled a semblance of composure onto her face. "Dad sent me to pick you up," she said calmly.

No wonder men never know what to expect from women. They can change courses like that in a matter of seconds and never miss a beat. And girls can do the same thing. I couldn't tell if Tracy bought into her stepmother's "everything's okay" act. If not, she certainly pretended to.

"How mad is he?" Tracy asked.

Amy shrugged. "Medium."

Tracy stood for a moment, looking back and forth between Amy and me. I imagine Tracy was expecting a bawling-out. When one wasn't forthcoming, Tracy tackled the issue head-on. "Aren't you going to ask me why I did it?"

"I'm sure you had a good reason," Amy said. Then she added, "Come on. Let's go. I'm already late for work."

As the elevator doors closed behind them, I went back into my condo, shut the door, and went straight to the telephone. I picked up the receiver and then stood staring at it as though I'd never encountered one before-as though the telephone were some alien instrument I had no idea how to operate.

Never before in my life have I faced such a clear division between friendship and duty. What I had told Amy was true. As an officer of the court I had no alternative. I had to report what she had told me about the dried blood in the trunk of Ron's car. But as his friend, I wanted him to have some kind of qualified legal representation available the next time an investigating officer rang his doorbell, search warrant in hand.

Friendship won out. I dialed Ralph Ames's home number in West Seattle. "Glad to hear you're in town," I said when he answered.

"I'm not," he returned. "With all this snow on the ground, why aren't I down in Scottsdale playing golf?"

"There's no explaining some people," I told him.

"This doesn't sound like a social call," Ralph said. "Is something wrong?"

My words may have been normal enough, but my voice must have been off. Ralph Ames is better at reading subtext than almost anybody I know.

"I think Ron Peters may be in trouble." It was a gross understatement, and Ralph picked up on it immediately.

"What kind of trouble?" he asked.

"His former wife died over the weekend," I told him. "She was murdered. Ron found out about it yesterday. He and Rosemary had been involved in a custody dispute that had turned ugly. He admitted to having said some things that might have been interpreted as threatening."

"That's troublesome," Ralph said. "But those things happen all the time in disputed custody cases."

"But there's more," I added. "And it gets worse. Amy stopped by here just a few minutes ago. This morning she was looking for something in the trunk of Ron's car and came across what she's sure is dried blood. Lots of dried blood."

"Has anybody questioned him about this or taken him into custody?" Ralph asked.

"Not officially. He said the Tacoma PD cops who came to do the next-of-kin notification yesterday afternoon asked him a lot of questions. They'll be asking more as soon as I tell them about the blood."

"And you are going to tell them?"

"Of course I'm going to tell them," I said. "I've got to. And it's going to put me in a h.e.l.l of a bind. A homicide involving officer-related domestic violence? The case will come straight to Special Homicide. It's official state law. I wouldn't be surprised if it doesn't end up being a.s.signed to Squad B."

"a.s.signed to Squad B, but not to you personally, right?"

"Right," I said.

"What do you want me to do?" Ralph asked.

"Call Ron up. Tell him a little birdie suggested you stop by. Or tell him straight out that I asked you to touch bases with him. Tell him I wanted him to have an attorney waiting in the wings in case one was needed. And believe me, one will be needed. I'm guessing someone will show up at his place with a search warrant within the next couple of hours."

"You're going to call in the report right now?" Ralph asked.

"As soon as I'm off the phone with you."

And that's what I did-called my office. When Harry I. Ball answered the main number, I knew Barbara Galvin hadn't made it in.

"I suppose you're calling to tell me you're s...o...b..und," Harry observed once he knew who was calling. "That little 'Porsh' of yours may be cute as all get-out, but it isn't worth beans in the snow. If a few more people around here had four-wheel drive, I wouldn't be here holding down the fort all by myself."

The truth is, with proper tires, the 928's weight distribution makes it an excellent vehicle in snow, but Harry wouldn't have listened. I'm used to him taking jabs at the Porsche, which he consistently calls my "little foreign jobbie" and consistently misp.r.o.nounces. For a change I didn't rise to Harry's bait.

"I am s...o...b..und," I agreed. "But I'm calling about Ron Peters."

"I heard about that a few minutes ago," Harry interjected. "Since he's second in command of Internal Affairs at Seattle PD, the case is going to be a regular hot potato. I'm a.s.signing Mel Soames and Brad Norton to handle it. You and Peters used to be partners, right?"

"Right."