Part 4 (1/2)

But when Sue died, she was just a cop-an ordinary foot soldier-and hardly anybody noticed. Besides, she was the victim, not the perp. When a police chief is the one pulling the trigger, though, everybody pays attention-even the state legislature. They got busy down in the state capitol and have been drafting a slew of new laws that will require uniform policies and procedures for reported cases of police-related domestic violence. And if one of those cases results in a fatality, it's automatically kicked upstairs to the attorney general's office, where his Special Homicide Investigation Team becomes the lead investigating agency.

Ron and I were close friends. That meant I wouldn't be one of the investigators working the case, but I'd still be part of the investigation. I'd be one of the witnesses my colleagues would be questioning, and the fact that Ron had come straight from the next-of-kin notification to talk to me wouldn't look good for either one of us.

Now instead of one disaster-bound case, I was dealing with two.

It was enough to make me wonder why I'd even bothered to come back home from Hawaii. Bored as I was, I should have known when I was well off and stayed there.

CHAPTER 4.

FOR SOME STRANGE REASON, after that, my heart wasn't into a.n.a.lyzing Fred MacKinzie's taped interviews. Instead, I called Lars Jenssen-my stepgrandfather and AA sponsor-at Queen Anne Gardens, the a.s.sisted-living facility where he and my grandmother, Beverly, have taken up residence.

”Hey, Lars,” I said, once he'd adjusted his hearing aid so he could talk on the phone. ”It's Monday. Want me to come pick you up and bring you down the hill for the meeting?”

On Monday nights Lars and I usually grab a bite to eat and then attend the AA meeting that's held at the old Rendezvous Restaurant on Second Avenue. And since Lars no longer drives (he's ninety-three, so that's a good thing!), I pick him up and drop him off. Lars has been sober for so long that I'm not sure he actually needs to go to meetings anymore, but he gets a kick out of being the oldest guy there-in terms of age rather than sobriety. As for Beverly? She let me know once that she appreciates having him out from underfoot occasionally, too. That way she can spend time hanging out with some of the other ”girls.”

But on this particular evening, Lars turned me down. ”No,” he said. ”I t'ink I'll stay home tonight.” His Norwegian accent tends to be thicker on the telephone than it is in person. ”The missus isn't feeling too good. I need to stick around and keep an eye on her.”

Beverly Piedmont Jenssen is a sprightly ninety-one. ”Nothing serious, I hope,” I said.

”Oh, no. She's yust a bit under the weather.”

Lars, a retired fisherman, loves his fish-baked, deep-fried, grilled, sauteed, stewed, and chowdered. On Monday nights when he's out with me, we usually stop off at Ivar's for clams. I can take fish or leave it. And on this occasion, leave it is what I did, opting for Mexican food instead, something Lars won't eat.

Pulling on a leather jacket, I braved the weather and hoofed it up Second to Mama's Mexican Kitchen. The after-dinner meeting was short. Only about eight guys showed up, all of them regulars. The people in attendance were far more interested in talking about the weather than they were in the Big Book or the drunkalogue, and rightfully so. By the time we came back out onto the street, it was snowing. And sticking.

Back at Belltown Terrace, the night doorman was among the missing, so I buzzed myself into the building with the keypad. Then I went upstairs and turned on the gas log. I checked the phone for messages, hoping to hear how things were going for Ron at home. All evening long I had been wondering how Heather and Tracy had handled the disturbing news of their mother's murder, but my light wasn't blinking. There was no message from them, and none from Harry I. Ball, either.

I wondered briefly if I should call Harry at home and tell him what had happened, but I got over it. Harry would find out about the case through regular channels soon enough.

You're better off letting the wheels of bureaucracy grind away at their own pace on this one, I told myself. No sense borrowing trouble.

And trouble was coming. As soon as news of Rosemary Peters's death hit the media, I'd be in it up to my eyeb.a.l.l.s. For one thing, the fact that Ron and I were former partners was a long-established fact. Unearthing our friends.h.i.+p wouldn't be difficult for anybody. I hated to think what someone like Maxwell Cole, an old fraternity brother and my longtime nemesis, who was a columnist down at the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, would make of the fact that Ron had stopped by my condo to tell me about his former wife's death before he went home to tell his two daughters. With a little imagination combined with journalistic license, Max would probably turn that visit, along with my presence on the Special Homicide Investigation Team, into the second coming of Conspiracy Theory.

After a several-hours-long hiatus, I forced myself to return to the VCR. I watched all three of the Sister Mary Katherine tapes in order. Carefully, in a nonthreatening fas.h.i.+on, Fred encouraged her to delve more deeply into the forgotten memories of that awful day that had clearly become pivotal in Bonnie Jean Dunleavy's childhood. It was a fascinating and eerie process. By the time the third tape ended, I felt as though I had been standing on the kitchen chair beside that traumatized and frightened little girl as she witnessed a vicious stabbing and murder. If I hadn't been convinced beforehand, the clincher would have come during that last tape when Bonnie Jean revealed that when she had returned from her hiding place, she had discovered the body was gone and the blood washed away.

With my notebook open and a pencil handy, I went through the tapes again, jotting down questions and comments as I watched.

How much hand-eye coordination does it take to play jacks or hop-scotch? BJ has to be five or maybe six. Doubt kids younger than that could do either. So we're talking about 1950 or, at the very latest, 1951.

She's evidently not in school. It could be because it's summertime (sunny) or that she isn't going to school yet. If they were living in Was.h.i.+ngton State, when did schools around here start offering half-day kindergarten? Need to check school records to see if I can find her listed.

Need to take a look at the photos she still has, the ones in the boxes her foster mother kept for her.

Need details about the perpetrators' vehicle. What make and model?

Need to check old DMV and driver's license records for possible addresses on her parents.

What happened after the murder? There must have been an investigation. Did detectives ever take a statement from Bonnie Jean? If not, why not?

It was interesting to realize that I was treating this as an unsolved case simply because it was unresolved from Sister Mary Katherine's point of view. More than half a century had pa.s.sed since the murder. It was likely that the two people responsible for Mimi's death had long since been brought to justice. Hopefully they had paid for their vicious crime either through execution or by serving long prison stays. Verification of that would, I hoped, put a stop to Sister Mary Katherine's haunting nightmares. And, with any kind of luck, it would also short-circuit my own potential problem with the attorney general and the archbishop's right-hand man.

I was so involved in watching the videos and taking notes that I completely lost track of time. Since my body was still functioning on Honolulu time, I was astonished to realize it was close to midnight. I was on my way to bed when the phone rang. I picked up, expecting the caller to be Ron Peters. Instead, it was his daughter Tracy.

”Uncle Beau?” she asked. ”I'm downstairs. Can I come up?”

I buzzed her into the building. Despite the long elevator ride, when she greeted me, her light brown hair and her purple-and-gold Franklin High School jogging suit were both dotted with not quite melted snowflakes. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed.

”Tracy!” I exclaimed. ”Come in. What on earth are you doing here?”

Overheated and still out of breath, she stripped off the damp jacket and dropped cross-legged onto the window seat. ”You heard what happened?” she asked.

”Your dad stopped by and told me on his way home,” I said. ”I'm sorry, Tracy, so very sorry.”

”I'm not,” she returned hotly. ”Sorry, I mean. She never was much of a mother.”

By any standard, this was an unarguably true statement. Still, it was a hurtful admission for a teenager to have to make, and there were tears in Tracy's eyes as she said it.

”Your mother was a troubled woman,” I countered, trying to make the poor girl feel better. ”I'm sure she did the best she could.”

”Her best was pretty d.a.m.ned lame.”

While Tracy leaned back against the window, I hovered uncertainly near the front door. Now the hurt and anger in Tracy's voice prodded me into action. ”Can I get you something?” I asked. ”A soda, maybe, or hot chocolate?”

”Hot chocolate would be nice. I remember how, when we were kids and came upstairs to visit, you always had marshmallows to put in our hot chocolate. Big ones, too. Not those puny little ones that taste like cardboard.”

”I remember all right,” I said. ”But no marshmallows today. Sorry. When you and Heather stopped dropping by on a regular basis, that last bag of marshmallows turned to solid rock. If I had known you were coming...”

A few minutes later, when I returned from the kitchen, Tracy was staring outside at the falling snow. It was coming down steadily-the flakes as big as feathers whirling in the city lights. I handed her a mug of hot chocolate and then sat down beside her.

”Do your folks know you're here?”

”No.”

”How did you get out without their knowing about it?” I asked.

”Through a door in the furnace room,” she answered. Tracy glanced up at me through lowered eyelashes. Catching what must have been a clear flash of disapproval on my face, she bristled. ”Heather's always sneaking in and out that way and getting away with it. Why shouldn't I? After all, I'm older than she is.”

Sneaking in and out of the house hadn't been part of my teenage years. I doubt it was for many kids back then. For one thing, my mother would have killed me. But things are different now. My own kids had straightened me out on that score while they were still in junior high.

”Heather sneaks out, too?” I asked.

”All the time,” she answered. ”To see Dillon.”

”Who's he?”

”Her boyfriend-Dillon. He's a jerk. Mom and Dad don't like him either. Since they won't let her hang out with him, he comes by when they're at work, or else she sneaks out to see him late at night, after they're asleep.”