Long Time Gone Part 7

The first was from Ralph Ames. "Hey, Beau," he said. "Sorry to say I struck out. I called Ron and let him know what the deal was. I offered to come over and be there to back him up, but he said thanks but no thanks. If he isn't interested in my help, there's not much I can do. I wanted to let you know that I tried."

The second call followed Ralph's by a matter of minutes. It was from my colleague, Melissa Soames. "Hey, J.P.," she said. "This is Mel. According to Harry, we need to talk. Give me a call ASAP."

The third message came from Tracy Peters. She was crying. "Uncle Beau? Mom's not here, and I can't reach her. I don't know what to do. Two people, a man and a woman, showed up a little while ago with a search warrant for Dad's car. When they left, they took him with them, and they didn't say where they were going. Now there's a big tow truck down in the driveway. Some guy is loading Dad's Camry onto it right now. Please call me back or else come by. We need you."

The call had come in a good two hours earlier.

I immediately tried calling back, but there was no answer. This was hardly a surprise. No doubt Ron Peters's home and his family were in the midst of a full media onslaught. If they were smart, they would be hunkered down inside, not answering phones or doorbells. I stuffed the phone back in my pocket, ducked my chin into my chest, and ran up the hill.

Amazingly enough, I didn't slip and fall on my b.u.t.t, and I didn't have a heart attack or collapse before I hit Second Avenue, either, but it was close. I was still panting when I staggered up to the lobby at Belltown Terrace. Jerome opened the door to let me in.

"Hey, man," he said. "What's with you? You been running that four-minute mile again?"

"More like ten," I gasped. "But I need a car or a cab. With either four-wheel drive and snow tires or chains, I don't care which. And I need it now."

"A good doorman is like a Boy Scout. We're always prepared," he said with a grin. "I have a friend who drives a cab, and he and I have an arrangement. He came to work today with his cab all decked out in chains. I've got his cell number right here, and I've been calling him all day long whenever any of my people need help. I'll give him a call."

"Please," I said. "I don't know how long I'm going to need him, but tell him I'll make it worth his while."

"He's been pretty busy today," Jerome said. "As you can well imagine. So why don't you go upstairs and wait. I'll call you just as soon as Mohammad Ibrahim shows up."

"Thanks," I said. "I'll do that."

While I was upstairs waiting for the cab, I switched on the TV. On KOMO a special early edition of the evening news was dishing out wall-to-wall weather. "The Counterbalance on Queen Anne Avenue is closed to all vehicular traffic, while kids, taking advantage of their snow day, turn it into a place for sledding. Reporter Megan Forester has a live report."

Years ago, Seattle used to have a working trolley system, not just the current tourist-attraction-type outfit that runs back and forth along the waterfront without really making much of a contribution to ma.s.s transportation. Like similar trolleys in San Francisco, the old system required a counterbalance in order for cars to make it up and down the steepest part of Queen Anne Hill. The working trolleys are long gone, but on Queen Anne the word "counterbalance" persists, and it is, as the name implies, very steep. Letting kids use it for sledding seemed like a recipe for disaster. I was surprised the city hadn't put a stop to it based solely on liability concerns.

Kamikaze sledders weren't my problem. Queen Anne Hill was. If the main drag up and down the hill was closed, Mohammad Ibrahim might have a tough time getting me anywhere near Ron and Amy's place. When Jerome called upstairs to tell me the cab had arrived, I rode down in the elevator expecting that the driver would be a newly arrived immigrant from some Middle Eastern country and that communication might be difficult.

It turned out Mr. Ibrahim wasn't exactly a newly landed immigrant. He had been driving cabs in Seattle for some time, but he hadn't gotten around to changing the name on his driver's license photo ID, where he was still listed as James L. Jackson, and the old country he hailed from was actually west Texas.

"You tell me where y'all want to go," he said in a thick Texas drawl, "and I'll be getting you there."

I expected he'd drive like a madman. He didn't. Instead of tackling Queen Anne Hill straight on, he took a circuitous route that eased us up the flanks of the hill, the same way a highway zigzags back and forth climbing a mountain. When we reached Ron and Amy's street, however, we weren't the first to arrive. Not everybody in local television land was focused on the weather. Two television cam-vans were parked out front.

"Park here," I told Mr. Ibrahim. "If you don't mind, I'd like you to wait here with the meter running." I reached into my wallet and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. "This isn't on the meter, by the way," I added. "And there's more where that came from if you're still here when I get back."

"Where y'all gonna be?" he asked.

"That house up there," I said, pointing.

"The one with all the cameras outside?"

I didn't want to think about what Harry I. Ball would do if one of the television cameras happened to catch an image of me wandering up to Ron and Amy's front door. He would be p.i.s.sed. So would Ross Connors.

"That's right," I said. "And since they're out front, I'm going to try going in the back."

Mohammad took the proffered bill and stuck it in his pocket. Then he leaned back in his seat. "Well, good luck to you, mister," he said. "I don't know what you're up to, but it should be fun. I'll be right here waiting whenever y'all get done."

Lame as it may sound now, I did have a plan. I knew that Tracy had managed to sneak out of the house the night before without anyone being the wiser, and she had told me that Heather often pulled the same stunt. I took that to mean that there had to be some way for the girls to come and go without being noticed. Hoping to stumble on their secret route, I went in through the front yard two houses up the street. After leaving a very obvious trail in the snow behind me and falling once or twice, I finally clambered over the last fence and landed in Ron and Amy's snow-clad but familiar backyard.

I was standing there reconnoitering when the back patio door slid open, and Molly Wright, Amy's older sister, stepped out onto the snow-covered deck. "I don't know who the h.e.l.l you think you are, pal," she said, "but you'd better get your a.s.s out of here before I call the cops."

I was astounded at Molly Wright's appearance. The last time I saw her, the woman had been dressed to the nines. She had definitely gone downhill since then. Out of the heady atmosphere of the public limelight and dealing with financial and marital issues, Molly had put on weight-lots of it. The tight sweats she wore made her look more like an overstuffed sausage than a fashion diva. Her hair flew in all directions like a fright wig, and her puffy white face was devoid of makeup.

"I am a cop, Molly," I told her. "It's me, J. P. Beaumont. Tracy called and asked me to come help out."

She studied me narrowly for a moment or two. "Oh, that's right," she said. "Beaumont. I remember you. Weren't you the designated drunk at Ron and Amy's wedding?"

The wedding reception hadn't been one of my finest hours. As Molly had so kindly reminded me, I had in fact tied one on at Ron and Amy's reception. In the process I had ended up injuring three of my fingers and had come away with no recollection of how or why it had happened. That humiliating incident-of being hurt and not remembering why-had been the so-called tipping point in my beginning to sober up. It's something I talk about in the privacy of AA meetings on occasion, but I resented the h.e.l.l out of having somebody outside the program feel free to bring it up. If this was Ron and Amy's star boarder's typical MO, no wonder Tracy wasn't fond of her stepauntie.

I could have said "I seem to remember you weighed about a hundred pounds less back then than you do now." But I didn't. My mother raised me to have better manners than that. Just because someone is rude first doesn't mean you have to be rude back.

"Yup," I admitted. "That was me, all right. Thank you so much for remembering. And, in case you're interested, I've been pretty much sober ever since. Now is Tracy here or not?"

At first I thought Molly Wright was going to tell me to get lost, and slam the door in my face. Finally she shrugged and emitted a resigned sigh. "Tracy's here, but Amy's not." She stood aside and reluctantly motioned me inside.

"Tracy's the one I came to see," I told her. "Where is she?"

"Upstairs in the family room with her brother, watching TV."

"Good," I said. "Don't bother showing me. I know the way."

CHAPTER 7.

AS SOON AS LITTLE Jared saw me in the doorway, he launched himself off the couch and clobbered me in the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. "Uncle Beau!" he exclaimed as I struggled to catch my breath. "Are you here to help my daddy? That's what Tracy said-that you'd come help."

My eyes stopped watering as I wrapped Jared in a tight bear hug and then shifted him onto my hip. "I don't know how much I can help," I said. "But I'll do what I can. How's your sister doing?"

Tracy was sitting on the couch with a box of tissues in her lap and a pile of used Kleenex on the cushion beside her. She looked at me bleakly and shook her head. "Not very well," she said.

"You should have seen it," Jared continued excitedly. "It was just like Cops on TV. They came and put handcuffs on him and everything. Did they take him to jail, do you think? Will they let him out so he can come back home? I want him here. I don't want him to sleep over."

Jared's five-year-old version of the unfolding family tragedy reminded me of Bonnie Jean's remembrances of that long-ago murder, and it wrenched my heart. This was far more serious than a simple sleepover. Thank G.o.d it wasn't up to me to tell him so. That tough job would fall to Amy.

Tracy cleared away the wad of used tissues so Jared and I could sit down beside her on the couch. "Where's your mom?" I asked.

"As he was leaving, Dad told me to call Mom and have her get in touch with Ralph Ames. I called her and she called back a little later to say she was meeting him. She didn't say where."

"How long ago was that?" I asked.

"A long time," Tracy said. "Hours."

I was delighted to hear that Ron had come to his senses as far as calling Ralph Ames was concerned. As for where Mel and Brad had taken him for questioning? My best guess was that they would conduct their interview in the Squad B conference room. They sure as h.e.l.l couldn't question the second in command of the Seattle PD Internal Affairs Division in a cop shop interview room in downtown Seattle.

"That's good news," I said. "About your mom contacting Ralph, that is. He's about the best there is."

The front door slammed. "Tracy?" Heather called. "Where are you?"

"Up here," Tracy called down. "In the family room."

Heather was still talking as she pounded up the stairs. "Do you know the front yard is full of reporters? What are they doing out there? Why doesn't Mom make them leave?" She rounded the corner and stopped just inside the doorway. "Where's Dad? Some jerk outside told me they'd arrested him. I told him he was a stupid liar."

I looked at Heather Peters and could barely believe my eyes. Her long blond tresses had been bobbed off. Her natural golden blond had been replaced by a hideously incandescent shade of red. Her shirt ended a good six inches above the dropped waistband of a pair of faded ragtag jeans. Something brilliant winked out at me from her belly b.u.t.ton. And she had a nose ring, an honest-to-G.o.d nose ring! For all I knew, she probably had a tattoo as well. It just wasn't visible. What the h.e.l.l had happened to my sweet little Heather?

Behind her, hanging back in the doorway as if unsure of his welcome, stood a scruffy teenage boy. His hair was dyed the same appalling shade of red as Heather's, and he wore a matching nose ring. Maybe this was how kids showed the world they were going steady these days-matching hair color and nose rings. In that moment the idea of letting a girl wear a cla.s.s ring or a letterman's sweater seemed incredibly old-fashioned and quaint. I was grateful the kid was wearing a knee-length T-shirt. If he had a bauble in his belly b.u.t.ton, I didn't want to see it.

I remembered Tracy saying Heather had a steady boyfriend. And I remembered her mentioning that their parents didn't like him. No wonder. I couldn't recall the kid's name, and we hadn't yet been introduced, but I didn't like him either. His appearance didn't make for a favorable first impression. I've had plenty of sensitivity training over the years, complete with talks about not judging people by appearances. That's fine when appearance issues aren't ones that come by choice, but defacing your body by adding optional accessories changes the whole equation.

"It's possible your dad isn't actually under arrest," I said, answering in Tracy's stead. "But they did take him in for questioning."

Heather came over to the couch and gave me a hug. "Hi, Uncle Beau," she said, plopping down on the couch and snuggling up next to me. "I didn't know you were here. I didn't see your car."

I would have appreciated the hug more if it hadn't been accompanied by the distinctively sweetish odor of marijuana smoke. It clung to her clothes and hair. My heart constricted. What had become of my Heather Peters? Halfheartedly returning her hug, I somehow didn't mention that the reason she hadn't seen my car was that I had snuck in the back way in order to avoid the very reporters she had just brazened her way through.

"But this is, like, so stupid," Heather continued. "They think Daddy killed my mother? He wouldn't do something like that, never in a million years. Can't you make them understand that?"

If Heather was grieving about the death of her biological mother, it wasn't apparent in her demeanor. High or not, her main concern was for her father. So was mine.

"I'll do my best," I said.

Jared turned to me, his eyes wide. "They think Daddy killed Mom?"

"No, Jared," Heather answered. "Not Mom, my mother. You don't even know her."

Jared looked mystified. "We don't have the same mother?" he asked.

Obviously, all of this was unwelcome news to poor little Jared. His innocent question meant Amy Peters would have even more difficult explaining to do.

"Oh," Heather added as an afterthought. She tilted her head in the direction of the boy lingering in the doorway. "By the way, this is Dillon, my boyfriend. And this is my Uncle Beau. He's a cop, too. Like my dad."

Dillon nodded at me and shambled a few steps into the room. His hands were buried in pockets that hung so low on his hips he could barely reach them. He sank into an easy chair across from the couch. Heather immediately abandoned me in favor of perching on the arm of Dillon's chair.

"Where's Mom, still at work?"

Tracy answered. "She found an attorney for Dad. Remember Mr. Ames?"

Heather nodded.

"She and Mr. Ames went to be with Daddy while they're questioning him."

"Just like on TV," Jared marveled.

"This isn't like on TV," I corrected. "It's a lot more serious than that."

"But you and Mr. Ames will be able to get him out, won't you?" Heather asked. Her blue eyes searched my face. I tried to glimpse her pupils, to ascertain whether or not she was using. From across the room, I couldn't tell, and she certainly sounded lucid enough.

"That's the problem," I said. "Your mother's homicide is being treated as a possible case of officer-related domestic violence. By law, that has to be investigated by the attorney general's Special Homicide Investigation Team, which happens to be where I work."

Tracy brightened. "Good," she said. "That means you'll be working on Daddy's case then."

I shook my head. "No, it means exactly the opposite. Since your father and I are friends, my involvement in the investigation would const.i.tute a conflict of interest. I've been ordered to stay out of it completely. I came by here today, against my boss's direct orders, because we're friends and because Tracy called and asked for my help. But after this-until this case is settled-I'm going to have to keep my distance."

"They seemed mean," Jared put in.

"Who seemed mean?" I asked.

"The man and woman who took Daddy away."

"They're not mean, Jared," I told him. "I know Mel Soames and Brad Norton. They're both nice people. They were just doing their job."

Molly Wright appeared in the doorway just then. "I'm about to start dinner," she said. "Who all's staying?"

"Not me," Dillon said.

"I'm not staying, either," I answered.

"And I'm not hungry," Tracy said.

Shaking her head, Molly stalked back down the stairs the way she had come. I stood up. "I have to go," I told them. "Don't talk to the reporters if you can help it."

"Not even to tell them they're stupid?" Heather asked.

"Not even. Especially not to tell them that. Their job is to find out every detail of your father's life. The more you antagonize them, the worse it's going to be."

"Are you going to talk to them?" Jared asked.

"No, I'm not, and I'm not going out the front way, either. I'm going out the back door and over your neighbors' fences, the same way I got here." I gave Heather a meaningful look. "I have it on good authority that there's a lot of that going on these days-sneaking in and out."

Heather knew I had nailed her. She had the good grace to blush slightly and to drop her gaze.

"For the time being, it might be a good idea to cut that out," I added. "Your mom has enough going on right now without having to worry about her kids coming and going at all kinds of unG.o.dly hours."

Heather nodded. "Okay," she said. "I'll be good."

I glanced questioningly at Tracy.

"Me, too," she said.

"Good," I said, and I was on my way.

I felt a bit silly retracing my snowy backyard route. Fortunately, it gets dark early in Seattle in the winter. I don't think any of the neighbors noticed, and Mohammad was waiting in the cab right where I'd left him.